Henry
London, 1665
Henry has been dreaming of the theatre. In his dreams, he smells the peculiar scent of the footlights they use at the Fortune – a unique blend of beeswax and whale fat which produces less smoke than tallow. Emilia showed him once, sneaking him across the stage to inspect the bright guttering flames. Her beautiful face, illuminated by the lights, belonged in a Titian or a Raphael. It could not be real. And yet it was. He wanted to reach out and touch her. Instead, he passed his hand across the flame to impress her and make her laugh. When they returned to the workroom, he showed her how to capture the dancing flames on the timber set pieces, painting sparks like gunpowder rockets, fiery explosions of delight over the piazza for a carnival scene in which Arabella’s character disguised herself as a man to discover her lover’s true intentions. He dreams of sets: painted waves shifting back and forth, moved by unseen hands; lightning splitting the sky. Pigment runs like blood, soaking through the timber. Emilia’s hands twist together. She is a lone figure on the stage, trapped in a situation not of her making, and Henry longs to go to her, but his feet won’t move. He is stuck to the floor, tethered to the earth, while she is an angel, belonging to a heavenly realm. She could ask anyone for help and it would come; the gods could not fail to be moved by her face, her laugh, her spirit. Henry watches in panic as Emilia rises above the stage, elevated by invisible ropes, pulled towards eternal paradise. Only when she has almost reached the roof does he find himself unstuck at last and he races forward, leaps onto the stage. Panting, he squints up into the bright spotlight, reaching for her. But there’s nothing there, no Emilia, just that light like a merciless sun, bathing him in empty warmth.
‘Henry.’
George’s voice. Henry’s head is throbbing, his mouth is dry. He opens his eyes and the workshop swims. The curtains are open, strips of morning light painting the easels and benches. George wears his usual serious, patient expression. He’s holding the bellows they use to stoke the fire and his face is smudged.
‘What are you doing?’ Henry says. He lifts his head, peeling his cheek off his arm.
George blinks. ‘Reviving the fire. Lavinia’s sick. She won’t get up. She told me to keep the fires burning. The others are still asleep.’
‘Why are you awake?’
‘I had an idea for the duchess’s portrait. A way of painting the pearls the way we capture eyes, using the same light source.’
‘It’s too early for shop talk, George.’
George’s lips form a smile. ‘You asked, sir.’
Henry sighs, runs his hand through his hair. What day is it? He has lost track of time. All his thoughts are reserved for the woman who haunts his dreams and his nightmares. During the day, he goes about his work quietly, obeying Mary’s instructions, making sure the boys aren’t acting up. He helps the master finish the tiny details in his series of Beauties – a small kindness Lely allows. He doesn’t drink at the tavern but goes home early, at a respectable hour, passing the drunks, the sailors, the bawdy women who call out to him. In his home studio, he is surrounded by Emilia’s visage. He has drawn her over and over, painted her in various poses. He feels he knows her down to the freckles dusting her nose and cheeks. But of course, there’s more to discover. He knows her body, but it’s her mind he longs to wander through. He wants to see the world the way she sees it, lose himself in her visions and observations. Last night, he fell asleep before he could leave for home. He was working on a present to give Emilia for the opening night of Love’s Fool tomorrow evening; Lely’s store of inks is better than those he has at home. The initial sketches are rough, but he has time tonight to work on them. They are sketches of the performance, snatches he has glimpsed when he ducked in to visit or watch rehearsals. Emilia will be able to look back on her work even as the sets are painted over, reworked for other performances. Her legacy will be recorded, set down in pen and ink forever.
He hopes the gift will please her. Perhaps she will think of him when she shows the sketches to solicit work from other theatres. He tries not to let himself think too often of her softness, the warm feeling of peace and contentment he experienced when they lay together. It’s too hard to face the prospect that he may never know that feeling again. For now, it’s enough to love her from afar, to think of making her happy. He will see her again tomorrow. It’s enough for now.
Watching George struggle with the bellows, he goes to squat beside the boy. He takes the handles and pumps air into the fire, and soon the flames are crackling, sending heat into the room.
‘What do you think about fate, George?’
George looks at him blankly. ‘Fate, sir?’
‘Some say that our destinies are predetermined, laid out before we are even born. Nothing we do can alter the course of fate. But what if we could? What if one has a change of heart?’
George looks sceptical. ‘That doesn’t seem likely. My father doesn’t change his mind once he’s decided to cut into a piece of cloth. He says people should know their own minds and think carefully about what they want. Are you finished?’ He indicates the bellows. Henry, distracted, has stopped pumping. ‘I should go to the master’s workroom and make sure the fires there are warm.’
‘Of course.’ Henry hands the bellows to the boy and watches him leave. Without him, the comfortable stillness of the room wraps itself around Henry like a blanket, the only sounds the crackling fire nearby and the distant calls of the city waking up and the boy’s words repeating in his head. People should know their own minds. What if he went to the king himself and offered his services? He could paint portraits for next to nothing. He doesn’t need the money. There is enough family wealth to sustain him in this life, if he sets aside his pride and takes it. The king might see the value of having a painter by his side, one who does not require payment but whose portraits are almost as good as Lely’s. The master will be sorry to lose him, but he will understand once he meets Emilia. It could work; then he and Emilia could be together. He could petition the king for an audience or ask to speak to the Duchess of York. He wants to meet with her anyway, to ask for the reasons behind her commission of the Beauties. Why these women, at this time? He could send her a letter now, beg her for some time.
He rolls up the sketches he has been working on, places them in his satchel and walks to the master’s studio to retrieve a piece of parchment fit for a duchess’s eyes. On his way past the maid’s room, he hears groaning. Poking his head inside, he sees Lavinia perched on the side of her bed, hunched over a basin. She raises her flushed face. Her eyes are glazed, her cheeks swollen but she does her best to smile at him.
‘You’re not well, Lavinia,’ he says.
Her smile slips. ‘My head feels as if someone’s stuck a knife into it. I’ll be all right soon. I just need to sit here a bit longer.’
He glances around the narrow room. ‘Go back to bed.’
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘What about the boys? They need breakfast.’
‘I’ll go to the market now and find something suitable. A pie, a loaf of bread.’
Lavinia opens her mouth to argue but changes her mind. Her skin is grey, sweat dripping from her hairline. ‘Thank you, sir.’
The market is quieter than usual. Henry visits the stall where Mary sometimes sends him to collect baked stuff, as if he is the same age as George or Jacob, an errand boy waiting to do her bidding. Today, the stall is empty. He buys two loaves of bread from a neighbouring seller.
‘Where is Grace?’ he asks.
The woman shrugs and sticks out her hand for the money. Henry hands it over, then walks briskly back to the studio. The boys are awake now, thundering around upstairs, dressing themselves then filing into the small parlour where they eat their meals. Henry divides the loaf into pieces and finds a pat of butter to serve with it. No sounds of sickness come from Lavinia’s room and he assumes she has fallen asleep.
Mary arrives as he is clearing away the boy’s plates.
‘Lavinia’s sick,’ he says, as she raises her eyebrows.
‘My husband Cuthbert is ill, too. He’s taken to his bed. I told him he’d have to fend for himself. I can’t miss a day’s work.’
‘The master is breaking his fast now. I took him a tray of eggs and bread. Some pottage.’
‘Luckily I’ve already eaten,’ Mary says. ‘I don’t trust your cooking.’
Henry doesn’t react to her taunt.
‘You look tired,’ she observes.
‘I’m having trouble sleeping.’
‘I can guess why.’
Henry says nothing.
Mary’s voice takes on a strident tone. ‘You ought to be more level-headed. You are wading through dangerous waters, Henry. Are you in love with that woman the king is so desperate to get his hands on?’ Henry avoids her eyes, and Mary lets out a little huff before continuing. ‘She’s beautiful, I grant you, but you shouldn’t trust beauty. Others will always want her. Who are you? Just an artist. Stop delaying. Paint the portrait or you’ll never amount to anything. You won’t even find work sketching portraits down at the docks.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry if that isn’t what you wish to hear. I speak my mind. I always have. Others may not like it but perhaps they are blessed with more choices than you or I.’
She leaves the room and a few moments later he hears her in the workshop. He does his best to dispel her bitterness. Loading his palette with pigment, he goes into Lely’s workshop.
The master artist is so absorbed in his canvas he ignores Henry at first, but Henry is too experienced in Lely’s ways to take offence. The master is working today on a portrait of the Duchess of Orléans, painting the pearl baubles in her ears. He dabs the paint onto the woman’s lobes, the pale opalescent sheen reminding Henry of Emilia’s hair. He would love to buy her such jewels but she probably wouldn’t accept them. She would prefer something she could use; something practical, like the folio of set designs he is compiling. His heart warms as he thinks of seeing her. How many hours until he has an excuse to be in her company?
A sudden hammering at the front door makes him look up.
Jacob appears moments later, accompanied by a broad-shouldered figure.
‘A visitor for you, Mr Greenhill. He wouldn’t wait.’
Hugh Bancroft, frowning, steps into the light. ‘Good day, Mr Greenhill.’
Henry’s body grows cold. Hugh Bancroft is too big and ungainly to be in the studio, his looming bulk and sour face a stark contrast to the elegant paintings and carefully curated statues.
The master looks up, frowning at this intruder’s unwelcome presence.
‘Let’s talk outside,’ Henry suggests.
He steers the king’s agent into the courtyard. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ He already knows how the man will answer.
Bancroft’s smile is tinged with malice. ‘I’ve come for a painting.’
Sweat dampens Henry’s back. ‘It isn’t ready.’
‘I’ll take it as is.’
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. I can’t let you have an inferior portrait. The guild’s charter says—’
‘I don’t care about the guild.’ Hugh Bancroft’s eyes are merciless. ‘Go and fetch the portrait for me – the king wants it now.’
‘Why the hurry? The king said he would wait.’
‘He’s grown tired of waiting. He exchanged some words with Madam Lennox a few days ago and he is now impatient for her company. If you give me the portrait straight away, I will tell His Majesty there is no trouble here. The future of the studio is assured.’
Henry excuses himself and returns to the workshop. He needs a moment to think. He can’t give the man something which doesn’t exist. If he could find Emilia now, warn her, she could flee London and take refuge somewhere. But he can’t get a message to her while the king’s agent is standing in the courtyard, blocking his path. The workshop is noisy, the boys at their easels, laughing, arguing, competing for space. Henry barely hears them. When Mary seizes his arm and drags him into the hallway, he is roused from his anxiety.
‘You are a fool, Henry Greenhill.’ She shakes him then ushers him into the storage room where they set the canvases to dry. ‘If the studio fails on account of your idiocy, then I am in trouble too.’
‘Let me go,’ he says, trying to prise her fingers from his arm. ‘There’s someone waiting for me.’
‘I know.’ She releases him, and he stumbles. ‘And I knew this day would come. I was prepared for it, because I feared you would not be.’ Mary pulls a sheet from a canvas. ‘Did you think you were the only one capable of painting Madam Lennox?’
Henry stares at the portrait in front of him. It’s Emilia, in all her fragile beauty, her quiet strength. He could have painted it himself. For a moment, he wonders if he did. ‘When did you paint this?’
Mary sniffs. ‘I’ve been working on it for weeks, while you’ve been mooning around like a lovesick bull. Give the portrait to Mr Bancroft and let’s be done with this.’
‘I can’t do that to Emilia. Once Bancroft has the painting—’
‘Henry, you’ve no choice. Don’t you understand?’ In the silence, he hears coughing, the splatter of vomit in a bowl. Lavinia in the room next door.
Mary’s look softens. ‘I’m not entirely heartless. I too am a woman struggling to live and succeed. But, Henry, you can’t help her if you’ve no future prospects. The guild will throw you out. All you can do right now, at this moment, is allow me to save you.’