The Painter's Apprentice (12 page)

‘He’ll be all right, you know,’ he said. ‘I truly believe he is going to a life that will make him happy.’ His brow was furrowed
and his eyes anxious as he studied her.

‘Don’t let the twins get him too drunk before he boards the ship.’

‘I won’t. And I will return tomorrow.’ Noah’s warm cheek brushed against hers before he, too, clambered into the boat.

Emmanuel cast off to cries of ‘Farewell, God keep you!’

John reached out to Beth, his fingers rough and callused from gardening. ‘You still have one b-b-brother at Merryfields,’
he said.

Beth lifted his hand to her cheek. ‘And I thank God for you, John.’

Emmanuel pulled hard on the oars, stirring up the olive green water to release its brackish scent. The
clunk
of the oars in the rowlocks echoed back to them over the water and the boat spun away into the centre of the river.

The twins waved and cheered.

Anxious not to miss a moment of her last sight of him, Beth stared unblinkingly at Kit’s dark head and pale face as he looked
back over his shoulder, a hand raised in farewell. John and Beth stood arm in arm beside their silent mother and father, watching
the boat grow smaller and smaller, accompanied by the diminishing wails of Cecily’s weeping.

On Christmas morning Beth awoke to see grey fog and drizzle running down the window. The damp mist permeated the house, creeping
in through the casements and causing the fires to smoke and the guests to huddle together, coughing.

Almost all the inhabitants of Merryfields braved the weather to walk to the church for the morning service, enduring the usual
curious glances of the congregation. Nelly Byrne took off her shoes to show the squire her red Christmas stockings and Poor
Joan wept unrestrainedly at the thought of the baby Jesus lying cold in a manger.

The parson gave a rousing sermon against the ills of popish practices, which set heads nodding in agreement, Johannes said
Amen loudly enough for the congregation to turn and look at him. The parson ended the service with a call for peace and goodwill
to all men.

Back at Merryfields, William, John and Noah dragged in the yule log and worked the bellows to fan the flame until the sodden
wood stopped steaming and there was a cheerful blaze.

Susannah and Beth decorated the table with garlands of ivy and sprigs of berried holly and lit a week’s supply of candles
to dispel the gloom.

The centrepiece of the dinner was a great baron of beef sent as a Christmas gift by Princess Anne, surrounded by several roast
fowl and buttered root vegetables.

Afterwards, Joseph and Emmanuel carried in a vast plum pudding with great ceremony, while Peg watched with a smile on her
face and her hands on her hips, ready to spoon it into bowls. If there was more flour and suet and fewer raisins that usual
in the pudding, no one seemed to notice. Spiced ale simmered on the fire, filling the great hall with the warm and comforting
aroma of cinnamon, cloves and orange. The guests enjoyed their festive dinner but, for the family, nothing could make up for
the empty place at the table where Kit usually sat.

Noah presented gifts to all the family and boxes of sweetmeats for the guests.

Beth unwrapped the roll of paper that he gave her, all tied up with a red ribbon and a sprig of mistletoe. She spread out
the paper on the table and saw that it was a carefully worked pen and ink drawing of a church.

‘I thought you might like this,’ Noah said. ‘It’s St James Garlickhythe. I made a copy of my working drawing to show you how
I’ve designed the new steeple.’ His brown eyes were slightly anxious as Beth remained silent.

‘This is the church that you say people call Wren’s Lantern,’ she said at last.

Noah smiled. ‘You remembered! The steeple is to be in white Portland stone and it will dazzle in the sunlight so that people
cannot help but look at it.’

‘It’s so beautiful, Noah.’ She studied the intricate ascending tiers all set upon columns, reaching up for the heavens. ‘Your
line work is extremely fine.’

He grinned. ‘I had to work on it by candlelight after the day’s work was finished and was fearful that I’d make a mistake,
especially as I know your own artistic standards are so high.’

‘So that’s what you’ve been doing every evening!’ she said. ‘I thought you were avoiding me after I spoke sharply to you about
your work on the royal nursery.’

‘Not at all.’

‘So how are the works progressing at Richmond?’ asked Beth.

‘I’ve finished the survey. It was no easy task as the palace fell into disrepair under the Commonwealth. Once I’ve drawn up
the plans they can be presented to the King.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I can tell by your expression that you still disapprove
of my involvement.’

‘I’m afraid I do.’

He sighed. ‘It’s not my intention but I appear to have displeased you ever since I arrived, haven’t I? First because I didn’t
understand how dedicated you are to your painting, and then because I carried the letter which resulted in Kit leaving Merryfields
and now because I’m drawing up plans for the royal nursery.’

‘Your arrival at Merryfields was like a stone dropped from a great height into a millpond,’ said Beth. ‘And the ripples have
spread far and wide.’ She looked again at the carefully made drawing. ‘But I shall treasure this.’

He gave her an uncertain smile.

‘And I have something for you.’ She handed him a small parcel.

Noah unwrapped the present and his face lit up when he found an apple-wood box to hold his pens and drawing instruments. Beth
had painted the lid with an image of Merryfields surrounded by a garland of entwined honeysuckle and roses.

‘I’ve never painted Merryfields before,’ she said, ‘but I’ve combined your love of architecture with my love for botanical
art in this painting in the hope that you won’t forget us when you return to Virginia.’ She had spent many hours painting
the box, in an attempt to relieve her guilt for her previous coolness towards him.

He ran his finger over the silky-smooth lid of the box. ‘I’ll never forget you,’ he said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek,
‘and I’ll treasure this box always.’

She smelt the slight smokiness of the fire in his hair and the clean, comforting, male scent of his skin.

‘I miss my own family today,’ he said quietly.

‘What will they be doing now?’

‘Father will be bringing in the yule log and Mother and my sisters, Maryanne, Abigail and Kate will be busy in the kitchen.’
He smiled. ‘Mother will insist on giving the servants a day’s holiday. The whole house will smell of baking and egg-nog and
cinnamon. There will be candles in the windows and in the afternoon our good neighbours, the Sharpes, will visit with their
daughters Hannah and Amy.’ He stared into the fire, lost in thought.

‘Your poor father will be outnumbered by all the womenfolk,’ said Beth. She glanced at Kit’s empty chair. ‘I wonder what Kit
is doing now? Imagine having only ship’s biscuits for your Christmas dinner!’

‘I expect they will be washed down with a swig of rum and there are sure to be other passengers who will sing a round of Christmas
carols with him.’

‘And by next Christmas you will be back at home.’

Noah reached for Beth’s hand. ‘And then I’ll be missing you. I mean I’ll be missing all of you.’

Johannes brought mugs of hot spiced ale and sat beside them. He picked up Noah’s drawing to study it closely. ‘You are a careful
draughtsman, Noah.’

‘That is praise indeed, coming from Johannes.’ Beth smiled.

Johannes ran a hand through his thick blond hair. ‘Am I such a hard taskmaster?’

‘Oh yes!’ said Beth. ‘But I wouldn’t have it any other way. You have made me delve deep inside myself to find out what I am
capable of.’

He gripped her wrist with his big hand. ‘And you must never forget that you are always capable of more!’

They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching John roasting chestnuts, while Cecily danced about blowing on her
fingers as she peeled off the hot skins.

Clarence Smith stood up in front of the fireplace and began to sing ‘I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In’.

One by one the others moved into a circle around the fire and joined in. Joseph brought out his penny whistle and Old Silas
accompanied him on his fiddle as the party worked through their entire repertoire of carols.

Noah joined in the singing with his clear tenor voice. Beth smiled to herself as she noticed how his thumb unconsciously stroked
the lid of the painted pen box she had made for him. She felt a surprising tenderness growing in her feelings towards him.
Perhaps he wasn’t as arrogant as she’d previously thought? Johannes wiped a tear from his cheek and Beth reached out to him.
He drew a deep breath, hugging her to his chest.

‘Ach, Beth, Christmas brings back memories of such happy times. I remember my Annelies …’ His face twisted with emotion. ‘I
will return to the studio, I think. Work is the only cure for what ails me.’

Beth watched him go, her heart aching that she could not take away his pain. Sighing, she was overcome again by melancholy
because Kit was no longer with them and because the following Christmastide Noah, too, would be gone.

Later, after supper had been cleared away and the family and guests had gone yawning off to bed, Susannah asked Beth to accompany
her on evening rounds.

Afterwards, in the corridor, Susannah sighed. ‘We always used to do the evening round together when you were little, Beth.
We had so many guests then. Your father and I had such dreams for Merryfields.’

‘But you have realised those dreams in every way,’ said Beth,
‘except for the fact that you can’t bring yourselves to turn away an impoverished guest who needs you.’ She yawned. ‘I’m ready
for bed myself. It’s been a lovely Christmas, in spite of missing Kit.’

Susannah kissed her cheek. ‘He will always be in our hearts, won’t he?’

Beth nodded, swallowing back her sadness. ‘Goodnight Mama.’

‘Good night, sweetheart. Sweet dreams.’

January 1688

Muttering to himself, Johannes walked twice around the studio table, his boots squeaking. Snatching up the Persian carpet,
he shook it vigorously sending a cold draught and a shower of dust towards where Beth was working at her easel. Once he’d
arranged the carpet on the table he paced over to the little storeroom and gathered various items into his arms, slamming
the door behind him. He clattered the candlestick against the edge of the china jug and dropped an apple, which rolled across
the floor. The lute slid down from its resting place against the globe and crashed to the table.

Beth sighed and put down her paintbrush. ‘Is there something I can do to help, Johannes?’

‘This still life does not attract the eye.’

She squinted at the arrangement: he was right. She moved the lute and rearranged the linen backdrop, then repositioned the
globe, turning it slowly upon its axis until her attention was caught by Virginia. She tried to imagine what it was like in
that faraway country, a place of fearsome savages who wore feathered head dresses and
covered their semi-naked bodies in warpaint. Noah had mentioned the wonderful plants there, exotic ferns and great shrubs
covered in blossoms so highly perfumed they made your senses swim. Momentarily she felt a powerful longing to see it for herself;
to record them all.

‘Perhaps some flowers?’ she ventured. ‘Although there is little in the garden at present.’

‘Ach! I will not waste my time on a still life that does not inspire me.’ With a groan of despair, he snatched up the pewter
candlestick and dashed it to the floor in a flash of temper.

Gasping, Beth looked up from her own painting, her eyes wide.

He stared at her. ‘Stop!’ he shouted as she started to speak. ‘Don’t move!’ He picked up a stick of charcoal and started to
sketch her.

‘Johannes?’

‘Shh! Keep still!’

A little while later, he stepped back from the easel and studied his sketch through narrowed eyes. ‘
Yes
,’ he breathed. He dropped the charcoal and dragged the Persian carpet off the table, sending the apple rolling to the floor
again. Placing the carpet at her feet, he carefully arranged the folds of her homespun painting skirt as carefully as if it
were the finest French silk damask.

He stood back to survey the scene then darted forward to hang a mirror with a decorative frame on the wall behind her. He
closed one of the shutters so that the remaining light fell from the window directly on to her face. Tipping her chin up with
his finger, he turned her face a fraction to the left. After a moment he nodded decisively. ‘That will do.’

Standing at his easel, he selected a fine brush and dipped it in the pot of thin terracotta paint that Beth had prepared earlier
for him. He was ready to start.

Beth sat as still as she could, wondering if she could continue with her own work while Johannes painted her. He soon disabused
her of that notion, shouting at her when she attempted to look down at her
easel. Resigned, she stared back at him, allowing her vision to go misty while she let her thoughts wander.

Noah’s drawing of St James Garlickhythe was pinned up on the studio wall and she let her gaze rest on it, touched that he
would take the time and trouble to reproduce it for her. She pictured for a moment the happy family scene that he had described
to her of his home in Virginia and took comfort from the thought that Kit would be welcome there.

She continued to daydream until she was jolted out of her reverie by a scratching at the door. It swung open and Orpheus ambled
in. He sniffed at the apple, still lying under the table, then lowered himself down on to the carpet at Beth’s feet.

‘Hey, dog!’ Johannes waved his arms at the offending creature.

Orpheus ignored him totally, sighed heavily and closed his eyes to sleep.

Beth met Johannes’s affronted glare and burst out laughing.

‘Perhaps the dog adds to the composition,’ he said, his lips curving in a reluctant smile.

‘May I move my head and shoulders while you draw him?’ asked Beth. ‘I have terrible pins and needles.’

‘But don’t move your feet.’

Orpheus let out a deep, rumbling snore.

Much later, Beth twitched her fingers and stretched her arms. ‘It’s growing dark,’ she said. ‘Shall I light the lamps, Johannes?’

He nodded. ‘The useful light has gone.’

‘Is it going well?’

‘I think so.’ He ran his paint-encrusted hands through his thatch of untidy hair. ‘I shall call your portrait
The Painter’s Apprentice
. That will make people look at it twice!’

‘Because I’m not a boy?’

‘Just so.’

‘I had better prove my worth as an apprentice then. Shall I mix some more paints for you?

‘Don’t disturb the arrangement on the table!’

‘Of course not.’ She collected a piece of chalk from the little storeroom and carefully drew around the porphyry grinding
slab to mark its position on the wooden table, before moving it to the free space at one end.

Arms crossed over his chest, Johannes stood watching her in silence as she tied a handkerchief over her mouth and nose against
the poisonous dust and began to work the white lead on the grinding slab, breaking it down into a fine powder.

A little while later Beth shook out her aching wrists and carefully scraped the white powder into a jar. She wiped the slab
with a cloth, rinsing it out in the basin of water, before finally untying the handkerchief from her face. Sliding the slab
back into its former position, she aligned it exactly with the chalk lines.

She glanced up at Johannes to seek his approval that she had left all as he wished but saw that he sat in his chair with his
eyes closed. Poor man; he was exhausted after his concentrated efforts.

A week later Beth carried a plate of bread and cheese in one hand and a lighted candle in the other. She was anxious again
about Johannes. He had missed supper and his mood had deteriorated significantly over the past week. It was plain to see from
the deep shadows under his eyes that he wasn’t sleeping well. Taciturn and unresponsive as he was, she had failed miserably
to encourage him out of his despondent mood and hoped desperately he wasn’t going to slip into one of his prolonged fits of
despair.

In the studio, Johannes had set candles on tall stands on either side of his easel, casting a flickering light as he bent
over a large canvas, painting furiously and muttering under his breath.

Her portrait had been put aside and this new canvas was covered
with sweeping lines of under-painting, some smudged and blurred and others fine and delicate. The scene depicted was a battle.
Ranks of infantrymen were ranged as far as the eye could see, glimpsed through whirling smoke from fires and muskets. Beth
caught her breath as she saw men fighting hand to hand, their faces twisted in expressions of hate and terror as they stepped
on the bodies of the slain. A young drummer boy, mouth open in a silent scream, still beat his drum. A terrified horse reared
up at the right of the canvas, its eyes rolling and teeth bared. Sickness rose in the back of Beth’s throat as she looked
at the blood-soaked rider, slumped sideways, his head almost severed from his body. A pregnant woman, her hair wild and her
clothing half ripped from her body, lay on the ground with her torn skirts exposing bleeding thighs. Soldiers in the French
colours leered at her naked breasts as they buttoned their breeches.

Shivering, Beth turned to Johannes, too shocked by the horrific scene to speak.

‘The Battle of Cassel,’ he said, in a voice so quiet she could barely hear him. ‘I still hear the screams in my head. I smell
the fear and the gunpowder and feel the dust slippery with blood beneath my feet.’

‘It’s a dramatic and epic canvas and the composition of the drawing is excellent,’ said Beth carefully, ‘but …’

‘It’s not pretty enough for you?’

‘That doesn’t concern me. But working on this canvas,
living
it, will make you melancholy.’

Melancholy?
Is that how you call this, this,
agony
that I feel in my heart? I cannot sleep without bad dreams. I remember …’ He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it
sticking up in untidy points. ‘Those bloody papist bastards! The memories are burned into me. But I think to myself, perhaps
if I paint this terrible vision, maybe then I will forget and the dreams will stop and I may sleep again.’

‘Johannes, you will make yourself ill if you don’t sleep or eat. I’ll ask Mama to make you a sleeping draught.’

‘Sleep!’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘Ask her for hemlock.’ He covered his eyes with his palms. ‘Then I will sleep and never
wake up.’

Alarm made her voice sharp. ‘Don’t say that, Johannes! Eat your supper and go to bed. I’ll fetch you the sleeping draught
now.’

He hunched his shoulders and turned his back upon her to stare at the battle scene again.

Beth felt a constriction in the pit of her stomach as she recognised that Johannes had once more started to slide down the
slope into despair. She didn’t think that poppy syrup was going to cure all that ailed him.

Ten minutes later she returned to the studio to find that he hadn’t moved. She touched him gently on the shoulder. ‘Enough,
Johannes! Time for bed.’ He looked up at her, his eyes dark with sorrow; her heart clenched at his pain. ‘I’ve brought you
the sleeping draught in a cup of hot milk and I promise you that tonight you will sleep like a baby.’ She blew out the candles
so that the harrowing canvas disappeared into the dark.