BONE HOUSE (10 page)

“You saw nothing?”

He shakes his head no.

“Did you ask about?”

“Aye, and they thought I was well mad,” he says, lifting a heavy iron cauldron onto a hook over the fire. Just then Mary enters carrying a pail of water.

“Samuell, they need you in the yard,” she says. Samuell nods and slips out the back.

“You were right,” she says to me. “ ’Twas but a tale.”

“And you’ve heard nothing since?” I ask. She shakes her head no.

“Perhaps it was no more than a practical joke,” I say.

“A poor excuse for poking fun, if you ask me, at the expense of the dead,” she says, pouring water from the pail into the cauldron over the fire.

“Who knows where rumors come from?” I reply. The great-bellied woman claimed that there were fairies in the forest: that they came to us in the dead of night and whispered half-truths in our ears. Perhaps she was right.

I rise and cross to the door, peering out to see if the painter has arrived. Mary gives me a piercing look. “He is later than usual,” she says knowingly. I tell her of the miniature, and of my master’s commission. She looks at me askance.

“Why, ’tis morbid beyond belief. And you agreed?” she says, raising her eyebrows in a skeptical arch.

“I had no choice,” I say, not entirely truthfully. “It was my master’s wish.”

“And if he asked you to lie upon his bed, I suppose you’d grant him that as well?”

“I could not see the harm. He is lonely, and misses her terribly.”

“Like half the village,” she says, with a nod to the other room. “ ’Tis his own fault. He need not be alone. There are many who’d have him, with his wealth and good looks.” She turns and throws me an irreverent grin. “Let’s have a look at it then,” she adds. I remove the frame from beneath my skirts and open it. For once Mary is serious, her eyes poring over the tiny painting.

“This is a fine thing indeed,” she says with awe, cradling the tiny frame in her callused palm.

“Do you see the likeness?” I ask.

“If this is all he has to work from, then he will have a job to do,” she says doubtfully.

“It isn’t all,” I say, reaching for the portrait and closing the frame.

“I forgot,” she says with a teasing smile. “He will have you as well, and all your fine words.”

She returns to the other room, and I sit upon the stool to
wait. Once again I open the frame to study the face within. The woman is indeed beautiful: more so, perhaps, than Dora, but without the same allure. The mouth is very like, especially in the fullness of the lips, and the eyes are of a similar type, but they are not a match. I will be hard-pressed to explain the differences.

The door opens suddenly and he is there, standing behind Mary, who ushers him in and then returns to the other room with a wink. The painter removes his hat and smiles apologetically. “Forgive me,” he says. “I was delayed.”

His politeness takes me by surprise and I am at a loss for words. He steps forward, indicating the portrait in my hands.

“Who is this?” he asks. I rise and hand it to him.

“I found it in her cottage,” I explain. “I think it is her mother, for there is some resemblance.”

He studies it intently for a moment, turns the frame over and peers at the signature, then shakes his head in disbelief. “This painter: I was apprenticed to him for some years before he died. He is from my country and was among the first to do this sort of work,” he says. “You did not tell me your friend was Flemish.”

“I didn’t know,” I say. Dora spoke only rarely of her past, and in the most general terms.

“The woman too,” he says, indicating the miniature.

“You know her?”

He shakes his head no. “But I have seen her likeness before. My teacher had another portrait of her, a full-size one, hidden among some old canvases in his studio. When I asked him who she was, he told me only that the portrait had not pleased her husband, and that in the end his commission had been withheld. I thought it strange at the time, for the portrait was exceptionally well-rendered, and the woman herself very beautiful.” He cradles the miniature in the palm of his hand and I feel a sudden stab of envy that I am not the one he speaks of.

“Perhaps there was something between them,” I suggest.

“Perhaps,” says the painter. “He was a married man, but his
real devotion was to his work. Until that time I had no reason to suspect otherwise. Some time later I looked for the portrait and it had disappeared. I never knew whether he destroyed it, or removed it to some other place.”

We both stare at the woman in the frame. “She is indeed very beautiful,” I say.

“The woman’s family must have been wealthy for such a painting to be done.”

I think of the money hidden in the cottage: perhaps Dora had not earned it as I’d thought. But something in me resists the idea of her former life, for in my mind it feels as if she did not come across the water to us, but rather sprang straight from the sea.

“I know nothing of her family,” I say. “She never spoke of them.” The strangeness of this strikes me for the first time, for she herself had somehow disavowed her former life.

“She has a son?” he asks.

I nod. “In the village.”

“May I see him?” he asks. I pause, think of Long Boy and his glassy stare. But now he sleeps. There can be little harm in seeing him now.

“Come with me,” I tell him.

We walk in silence, the frozen soil hard beneath our soles. As we approach the cottage I grow uneasy, but when we enter I am relieved to find that he is fast asleep. I should not have worried; it is late and he is but a child. His giant frame seems to stretch endlessly across the bed, and I watch as the painter takes in his size, for I have given him no warning of this fact.

“How old is he?” he asks.

“Eleven,” I reply. “He is big . . . for his age.”

“For any age,” murmurs the painter, moving closer to the bed. “Still, he has the face of a child,” he says softly. After a few moments he takes out the miniature and compares the sleeping figure of the boy with the portrait.

“Which of them did she more closely resemble?” he asks in hushed tones. It is not an easy question: she was so much herself.

“The boy,” I say finally, for he is flesh and blood, and the other is no more than pigment, though I do not say this to the painter.

“What of the shape of her face?” he asks.

“Similar to his,” I say. “But broader in the cheeks.” He nods.

“And the mouth?”

“More like the portrait.” He studies it anew.

“And the eyes?” he says, after a moment. I hesitate: this is perhaps the most difficult, for our eyes define us more than any other feature.

“They are similar to both but not a match,” I say finally.

“May I keep this?” he asks, indicating the miniature. “Only until the portrait is complete,” he adds. I hesitate. It is not mine to lend, but I have already taken liberties, and Long Boy is unlikely to miss it in his current condition.

“If you wish,” I reply. He nods and stows it in his pocket. As I watch him, a thought occurs to me, and I move closer to the bedside. “There is something else,” I say. “A diary, written in her tongue.”

The painter raises an eyebrow.

“The boy keeps it hidden with him.”

The painter too steps forward and we both stand over the sleeping figure. “On his person?”

“Beneath the bedclothes.”

He watches as I kneel down and delicately slip my hands beneath the blankets. The boy stirs, and I freeze, but after a moment he is still and I continue my search. Slowly, methodically, I work my way around his body, moving from his head down to his feet, but I find nothing.

“It was here the other day,” I say, exasperated.

“Perhaps he has hidden it elsewhere.” We both turn and look around the room. At once the painter’s eyes light upon the small wooden chest. He crosses over to it, instinctively running his
hands along the side until his fingers release the hidden catch. The lid springs open, and he steps back, his hands falling to his sides.

“How did you know to open it?” I ask.

“I have seen its type before,” he says slowly, as if the memory eludes him. I step forward and reach inside, but the volume is not there. I close the box and we continue searching the room in silence. At length, we are forced to admit defeat, but not before my eyes come to rest on the spot beneath the floor where the money lies hidden. It is the only remaining hiding place—but I do not reveal its existence to the painter, for I cannot know if he is worthy of my trust. The thought unsettles me, and as I turn to him, the boy coughs in his sleep.

“You’d best go,” I say.

“Do you return now to the Great House?” he asks. I shake my head no.

“I must stay. To tend the boy.”

He nods, and his relief is evident. A gaping silence opens up between us, spreading like a fog across the room.

“Until tomorrow then,” he says finally, and slips out the door.

I wait several seconds after he has gone, then quickly kneel and lift the wooden plank, reaching down into the hole. But inside my hands find only the skull-shaped sack of coins. And once again, I feel that Dora has slipped away.

T
he following morning I take my mistress her breakfast and I am shocked by the sight of her. The emetic Lucius administered yesterday has left her greatly weakened, her pallor is pasty, and when she turns to me, I can see that her eyes have difficulty focusing. I stand frozen in the doorway for a moment.

“Who is there?” she calls out to the darkness, for her curtains remain drawn from the night.

“It is only me, mum,” I announce, and enter the room, placing the tray on the table by the window. I open the curtains, allowing the morning light to flood the room, but when I turn back to her, she has lowered her eyes to the bedcover in front of her. She gestures awkwardly toward the curtain with one arm.

“No light. I cannot face the light today.”

“Yes, mum.” I close the curtains once again, leaving only a crack of light to split the room.

“That is better,” she says. “But it is no use, standing over by the window. I can see almost nothing of you there,” she says with creeping irritation.

“Forgive me, mum,” I say, and move to the side of her bed. She slowly turns her head to face me. “Will you take breakfast?” I ask. She nods and I pour her a cup of warm ale and place it in her hands. I draw a chair to her bedside and perch upon it while she drinks. She slurps it noisily and with obvious thirst.

“I woke some time ago,” she says, “but I could not find the bell.”

“I’m sorry. It is here beside you, on the table.” She turns and looks, surprised to see the bell in its usual place, then shakes her head as if it has appeared by magic.

“You must rest today,” I say.

“It is only that wretched antimony,” she says with a wave of her hand, referring to Lucius and his cure. “He gave me overmuch. But I shall remain in bed. I gather Edward requires you in the library today.”

I nod uneasily, unsure how to respond. What has he told her?

“I am greatly relieved he has agreed,” she says with a sigh. “I have never had a proper portrait of him. My husband did not wish to be reminded of his deformity. Nor have it recorded for posterity.” Her voice takes on a brittleness as the past rushes over her. She looks away toward the window, moistens her drying lips, appears to forget that I am there.

I did not know my master’s father, only of his fearsome reputation. By all accounts he was a cold-hearted man. It was said that when my master was born his mother burst into tears at the sight of him, and that his father took one look at him and left the room. He was not expected to live and was put out to a wet nurse for the first three years of life, his family never anticipating his return. When he finally did, it was rumored his father could scarcely tolerate his presence, and that he never once laid a hand upon the boy, neither in fondness nor in anger.

My mistress sighs and plucks at the bedclothes. “Of course, my husband himself was of a delicate constitution,” she says with a wandering look. “His heart was fatally weakened in a riding accident when he was young, and after that he was forced to lead a retiring life.”

I look at her askance, for this version of him does not accord with the others I have heard.

“A large family would have proved too much for him, you see. Particularly after the shock of Edward’s birth. I would have liked
another child, a daughter perhaps, but his physicians warned me that the stress of even . . . normal conjugal life would prove too great a risk.”

Her bluntness startles me, and I look away in embarrassment, but she appears not to notice. I rise and fill her cup.

“But he is dead now,” she continues. “And I am mistress. And a portrait can be rendered to suit one’s tastes, provided the painter is compliant.” She takes a sip of ale. “Though I fear this one is not,” she adds. “I have written to my cousin, the earl, to say that I find the painter’s attitude peculiar for someone of his station, though I took pains to conceal my displeasure, as I did not wish to give offense. He is an earl, after all, and may yet be of use to us. But I do find his painter most unpleasant. It is a wonder you can tolerate his presence all day long.”

She looks at me then, and I smile and keep my silence, for I cannot believe that she would approve of my involvement, and yet she appears to.

“I know Edward is uneasy at the idea of a portrait: it must be a great comfort to him to have you read while he sits,” she continues. “And I am certain I shall be well pleased with the result. The painter may be arrogant but he is not without talent, if I am to believe my cousin.”

I smile again, this time with relief, and wonder if Edward’s falsehoods to his mother come as easily as my own.

“At any rate, do not trouble yourself over my welfare,” she continues. “Cook has promised to attend me, and Lucius will look in on me later this morning, though if he tries to administer any more of that wretched antimony, I shall have him forcibly removed.” She squints at me then, scrutinizing my dress, a simple one of china blue muslin with a deep, square neckline. “Take pains to keep your throat covered,” she says, indicating my bare neckline. “Or you shall lose your voice.”

“Yes, mum,” I reply. And willingly I take my leave.

*        *        *

I hurry along to the library and when I arrive the painter is already there. He has a sheaf of paper before him and has been making sketches. The miniature lies open on a table to one side, within his view. When I enter he stops sketching and stands, greeting me with a polite nod. Once again his manner is formal, and I feel myself stiffen in response. His eyes flicker briefly across my dress—the plunging neckline, the gathered waist—and I realize in an instant that I have dressed on his behalf, a fact which embarrasses me now that I am here. He has drawn a chair up next to where he works and indicates that I should be seated.

“Today you shall watch,” he says. “And shape my lines with your memory.”

I stand frozen for a moment, my mind a blank, remember his caustic remarks about my master being unequal to the task.

He nods again at the chair, awaiting me. “May we begin?” he asks pointedly.

“Yes, of course,” I stammer, and take my seat next to him

“I’ve made some sketches based on what we saw last night,” he explains in an efficient tone. “I should like first of all to render the outline of her face. Once we have achieved this, we will find it easier to continue.” He spreads out three sheets in front of me, upon which he has made three sketches. I recognize at once the boy’s face on one of them and marvel at his memory. The other two are variations on the first.

“You said the cheekbones were wider, though I was not sure if you meant this,” he indicates the second, “or this. Or perhaps something different altogether.” I study the drawings for a time.

“It is more like this one,” I say finally, pointing to the third. “But the forehead should be broader as well.” He picks up his charcoal and begins to sketch anew, this time incorporating the changes I’ve suggested.

“Like this?” he asks. I hesitate.

“I believe so, yes.” In truth I am not certain.

“Once we add the features it will become clearer,” he says,
sensing my doubt. “The eyes you said are similar to the boy’s. I take this to mean that they are large and fairly round and deeply set, like so.” He sketches while I watch, and suddenly the boy’s eyes are there, staring out at me from the page.

“Hers were not so round,” I say slowly. “And her eyebrows were heavier.” He adjusts the sketch and the transformation begins. At length I see the shadow of her eyes appear before me.

“Like this?” he asks.

“It is very like,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. It is as if he raises her from the dead in my presence, and the fact unnerves me slightly. He stops and I feel his gaze upon me, but I find it hard to tear my eyes away from those on the page. When I do he is staring at me so intently that I blush and look away.

“You are certain?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Good.”

We continue like this for a time: him questioning me closely, probing and pushing me toward a response. Twice he starts anew, believing he cannot correct his errors, and each time my heart quickens with regret to see him tear the sheet and throw it to the floor, as if I am losing her all over again. But he is tireless, re-creating her time and again, adjusting, altering, shifting. Eventually he stops and reaches for the cloth to wipe the charcoal from his hands.

“We will stop here,” he says. “Sometimes if you look too long upon a thing, it becomes difficult to see. Tomorrow the errors will be more apparent.” I nod, feel a pang of disappointment that we will not complete the likeness now, but he is right, as I can feel that I am beginning to lose my focus.

“Perhaps we could have a drink?” he asks.

“Yes, of course,” I say, rising to my feet. I slip out the door and once outside I feel the sweat trickle down my sides—my face feels hot and my throat dry. I hurry along to the kitchen and am relieved to see that only Cook is present, for I do not wish to con
front the jibes of Alice, Rafe, or Lydia. But even Cook is curious as to my prolonged presence in the library.

“You’ve been long up there,” she says.

“The master wishes me to assist with the portrait,” I say. She raises an eyebrow.

“Take care he does not steal your soul,” she says. I pause and smile at her. Cook is old-fashioned in her thinking, believes that portraits have the power to diminish one’s essence.

“You need not worry,” I tell her with a laugh. “It is not me he paints.” She looks right at me.

“Aye,” she says. “I know.”

Back in the library I pour a glass of wine for us both. Now that we are no longer working, I suddenly feel as if I am trespassing in my master’s place. And too, when the painter and I do not speak of
her,
the awkwardness between us returns just as quickly as it did the previous evening. It is as if she is a bridge between us all—my master, the painter, and myself—joining us together in her absence. We drink in silence for a minute, until the quiet becomes oppressive. Then the painter stands and crosses to the window.

“Why did you leave your country?” I ask.

“I had no choice,” he says, turning back to face me. “Had I remained, I would have almost certainly been killed.” He says this easily, as if the fact of it does not unsettle him. There have been many killed on the Continent for their beliefs these past few years, and it is said that the streets of London are lined with those fleeing religious persecution in their homelands.

“So you did not wish to leave?” I ask.

“I would have preferred a choice,” he replies. “Perhaps I might have left anyway. There are many opportunities here for someone of my profession.”

“Where did you learn to paint?”

“My father was a cobbler. From the age of seven I worked as
his assistant. I was clever with my fingers and before long I could stitch a sole in half his time. Then, when I was eleven, my parents were both killed in a fire. I was sent to an orphanage, where I remained some months, until I was taken on as an apprentice by a goldsmith. It was he who taught me the art of limning, and how to use a brush and pen. After a year, he sent me to a distant relative, the portrait painter I spoke of. I remained with him for five years, until he died when I was seventeen. By then I was skilled enough to make my own way.”

“I am sorry about your family,” I say. He turns back to the frozen glass in front of him.

“It was a long time ago,” he says quietly. I think of Long Boy, also an orphan at the age of eleven. Where will he be in twenty years’ time?

“You were fortunate to learn a trade,” I say.

“It was not luck but fate,” he says without hesitating. “As a child, I was sensitive to light. Sunlight nearly blinded me with its brightness, and colors were so strong as to be almost overwhelming. As I grew older, it became easier. I became more tolerant, and I learned to make use of my eyes and their sensitivity, until eventually it seemed less of a burden than a gift.”

He turns and fixes his gaze on me, and I cannot help but wonder what he sees. He envies my master his devotion, but I envy him his conviction. Like Dora, he is certain of his place within the world. I have never known such certainty, and I cannot help but wonder for what purpose I was constructed. The painter notices my distraction.

“What is it?” he asks.

Before I can reply my master knocks and enters, his face brimming with expectancy. “How goes your task?” he asks.

“We’ve made much progress today,” says the painter, and looks toward me for confirmation. I smile and nod, though in truth I do not share his confidence.

“Excellent,” says my master, and he shifts back and forth a little nervously. “Might it be possible . . . for me to see?”

“We are not ready,” says the painter quickly. “That is, the painting is not ready.” I cannot help but look at him, but he avoids my eyes.

“Yes, of course,” says my master almost deferentially. “Forgive my interruption. I am pleased at the news.” And with that he bows to us both, and departs. Once he is gone I smile at the ease with which the painter handles him.

“Do you always treat your patrons in such a way?” He shrugs, the corners of his mouth turning up in that same half-smile.

“I treat everyone the same,” he says. “Is this not right?” And then he looks at me intently. And I wonder whether I would have him treat me any differently from the rest.