Palace of Spies (18 page)

I again thought over Mr. Tinderflint’s badly explained absence and how it coincided with the arrival of the anonymous letter that had so angered Her Royal Highness. Could he have sent it?

And what on God’s good green earth did any of this have to do with the mysterious business between Francesca and Robert? Was Robert in Tinderflint’s pay as well? Or was he on the other side, whichever side that might be? Such things happened in plays and epic poems. It would be horribly romantic, two spies from opposite sides falling in love. Olivia would devour such a tale in a single sitting.

But what of Mr. Peele? Was he another useful person? Did he pore over the letters I sent, looking for coded messages in the fall of the cards and the arrangement of the tables? On the other hand, if Mr. Tinderflint, Lord Tierney, Mr. Taggart, was a secret Jacobite, this might explain the hold Mr. Peele seemed to have on him. Jacobites, even titled ones, had been marched through the streets and beheaded as recently as five months ago. They had had their estates taken away and were forced into exile. Some were transported to wildernesses like Virginia.

The end result of all this profound and deeply uncomfortable pondering was that I did not immediately see Matthew Reade standing in the shade of one of the Thames’s many willow groves. It is a further tribute to his own introspection at the time that he did not see me, even as I pulled up short to stare.

Mr. Reade stood on the bank, clutching a portfolio tied with black ribbon. He looked down at the sluggish waters, his fine-boned face drawn tight by both fury and despair. He hadn’t even bothered to tie his hair back, and the dramatic dark red locks tumbled around his shoulders, getting caught by the freshening breeze and whipping across his tightly clenched jaw.

I could have turned away. I had plenty of worries of my own, but there was something in his stance, alone at the riverbank, that would not let me leave.

“Good morning,” I called, unable to think of anything more original.

He jumped and whirled, and for a moment, I saw the whole of his anger plain on his face. The force and heat of it were enough to make me draw back a step.

“It’s . . . Lady Francesca.” Then I added feebly, “Not contemplating a dramatic ending, I hope?”

He recognized me then and managed a rueful grin. “Not seriously,” he said. “But maybe I should be.” This last he said to the portfolio in his hands, which—I could see as I drew closer—was filled with stacked pages.

“Last time you were wrestling papers. Now you’re going to drown them. I think, sir, you’ve picked the wrong apprenticeship.”

“How odd. I was just thinking the same thing.”

His tone was soft and bitter, and something twisted in me to hear it. The sketch I’d taken from the other papers was truly lovely. I couldn’t believe these would be less so.

“May I see?” I asked.

Mr. Reade looked at me for a long, quiet space, his sharp face drawn and grave. I don’t know what answer he saw in my own expression, but he did pass me the portfolio.

It was, naturally enough for an artist’s ’prentice, filled with sketches. They were landscapes mostly, or fragments of them—a single tree or flower might be rendered from multiple angles on the page. There were bits and pieces of rooms as well: a window latch, the inside of a clock, a barred door. But most remarkable were the portraits. I had never seen drawings where the people seemed so alive, and so very true to their originals. Here were Molly Lepell and Sophy Howe, the one laughing, the other peering out from behind a fan. Another sketch portrayed Mary Bellenden kicking up her skirts as she descended the stairs. The study of Mr. Walpole had all his suavity—and showed no mercy for his girth. Another drawing showed the Prince of Wales looking down over his wife’s shoulder as she played at cards. It was an intimate, human view of the pair, without the posed pomp I’d seen in the portraits of kings that hung in the palace galleries.

“Astonishing,” I breathed. Mr. Reade was quiet, and it occurred to me he was trying to decide whether I meant this. “I’ve never seen anything like these.”

“I have, and better.” He closed the portfolio and lifted it out of my hands. “Much better.”

“Where?”

“In pictures from Amsterdam,” he said. “They have painters among them . . . Their art is in bringing things to life simply, elegantly. Showing the fall of sunlight, shadows against earth. People as they are, as the eye and the heart see them. Life as it truly exists. Not gods and artificial allegories.”

“I take it you’ve had your fill of the cherubs?”

“Oh, I’m not permitted to touch the cherubs. I’m good only for grinding paints and making my bow. I make a very good bow, you know.”

“I had noticed.”

“Had you really?”

I wish to remark here that it is entirely unfair for any man to be able to put so much into a serious look as Matthew Reade did. My cheeks began to heat, and as we were in the shade, I had no hope he would attribute my coloring to the warming sun. But there was more to my sudden awkwardness than the warmth of his look. Something was not right here. Something recently seen or done was leaving me restless, but I could not think what.

“An apprenticeship is not forever,” I said, by way of changing the subject. Apprentices signed on to serve a master for a set length of time. At the end of that, they were free to go their way as journeymen. I reflected it must be a fine thing to see where the door out of one’s troubles waited.

“No, not forever.” Matthew sighed. “I do thank the good lord for that.”

“What will you do when your articles are fulfilled?”

“Travel. Study. I’ll go to Amsterdam, of course, and Florence, and Rome if I can. I’ll work with whoever will teach me. Learn the new styles and how to bring real life to the canvas.”

“But art is supposed to enlighten, isn’t it? Not just reflect? It’s to show us the best of the present modeled in the best of the past.”

He shot me a look of pure surprise and was silent again, again seeming to try to discern if my words were sincere. I fought back my impatience. I’d already seen enough of court life to understand such hesitations.

“That’s not the past on that ceiling.” He ran a thumb restlessly over the black ribbon of his portfolio. “It’s not even true allegory. It’s flattery dressed up in a lot of flowing robes and gilding.”

“And cherubs,” I added.

“Oh, God in Heaven, don’t remind me of the cherubs.”

He was so overtly despairing, I had to laugh. Not a coquette’s showy laugh, but my own. It felt wonderful. Especially when Matthew smiled and returned a low chuckle. He glanced at me again, a thoughtful look this time. It occurred to me that there were many things I would forsake if I might be allowed a little more time to be contemplated by Matthew Reade. This was improper and indecorous, and I regretted it not one bit.

“Will my lady . . . would you care to sit awhile?” He gestured toward the riverbank.

I was fully aware I should say no. I had my own business to attend to. If I truly meant to unknot the riddle that was Lady Francesca, I needed to keep my rendezvous in the Wilderness. At the same time, I wanted desperately to have just a moment of friendship and simple country sunlight. But even this presented its difficulties. I looked at the damp and muddy grass and thought of my pale muslin skirts.

Matthew saw my dilemma at once. With a great show, he doffed his plain coat, spread it out over the offending ground, and made a deep bow. I returned a solemn curtsy and arranged myself on the slope.

“So, what of you, Lady Francesca?” he asked as he settled down beside me.

“I’m sorry?”

“Have you picked out your husband yet?”

All my pleasant feelings went up in a single puff of smoke, and I turned on him. “What makes you think I’m hunting a husband?”

“Oh, don’t.” Matthew waved the heat in my words away as if it were nothing at all. “Of course you are husband hunting. It’s the only reason to come to court as a young woman, unless—”

“Unless
what
?”

“Unless you’re seeking influence.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.” I faced the river. I should not stay here. I should leave at once. I had an assignation to keep. And I hoped I was sitting on his only good coat and that it was becoming stained beyond retrieval.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew said, sounding genuinely surprised. “I’d thought you’d prefer honesty.”

“You’re not being honest. You’re being contemptible.” The truth was, I had no idea why his words hurt so much. The assumptions were natural. In fact, they were the most obvious ones to make. Still, I did not want him to think so little of me.

“But you must be keeping an eye out for a husband,” Matthew persisted.

“Why must I?”

“Because you have to get married. Otherwise—”

“I think you’d better stop now. You’re not making yourself sound any better.”

He did stop, and we sat together, silent and awkward, watching the dragonflies skimming over the waters. The sun had risen high enough that it touched the back of my neck with an uncomfortable warmth. I needed to go. I truly did have to meet Robert. I didn’t move. I could not bear to leave this particular conversation in such a shambles.

“I do not have my eye on any man,” I said to the reeds and the dragonflies. “I have my reasons to be here, but they don’t involve looking for a rich husband, or any kind of husband at all. I just . . .”

“Just what?”

“I just want to survive,” I whispered. “I just want to be free.”

Matthew said nothing in answer to this. I ducked my head and wished for a fan. I wanted to be able to hide my blushing cheeks and my prickling eyes. I was being ridiculous, and I knew it. There was no call for so much drama over so small a thing. But my private remonstrance made no difference to my private feeling.

It was Matthew who broke the silence. “I owe you an apology, m’lady.”

“For what?” I asked, attempting to force some levity into my voice, as befitted a flighty little maid of honor, the sort who might be out a-husband-hunting.

“For thinking you might be like the others. You’re nothing of their kind.”

“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment.”

“I meant it as one.”

A fresh warmth, which had nothing to do with embarrassment or even the sun on my neck, blossomed slowly within me. I found myself able to smile. I kept my eyes fixed on the river, however. If I looked at Matthew Reade, I might say something I should not, although I had no idea what on earth that might be.

“How is it you come to be here, Mr. Reade?” I asked the river. “What is it you seek at court?”

“It wasn’t the court I sought. Just training.” He ran his fingers gently across the tall grass stems, studying the play of sun and shadow as they moved. “I worked in my father’s apothecary shop when I was a boy. I learned to grind the herbs and make up the pills, but what I loved most was looking at the handbills that came in with the patent medicines. I learned to trace the capital letters and the fancy script. Father thought this a sign I was fitted out to be a scholar.”

I heard his rueful tone, but I wasn’t watching his face. I was fascinated by his broad hand passing back and forth. His nails were short and clean, his fingers blunt and stained with faint color. There was a sprinkling of fine hair up by his wrist that caught the light as his hand moved in and out of the sun.

“My schoolmaster urged Father to apprentice me to an artist. Probably it had something to do with how there were always more cartoons than letters on my slate.” We both chuckled at this. “So I was with a man named Barber for a while, and then Thornhill bought my articles, and here I am.”

“And yet he doesn’t think much of you,” I ventured, and he grimaced.

“I should be grateful for my luck, I know.” He closed his fist above the grass stems. “Everyone knows Thornhill is the foremost artist of our day. And I would be grateful, if he were interested at all in teaching us.”

“What does interest him?” I asked.

“His grand plans and making the most of the name of Thornhill. He also doesn’t think much of the new styles. He insists that the classical subjects are the only ones fit for great works.” He shook his head. “So we disagree, and I am relegated to grinding paints until I learn to keep my mouth shut.”

I meant to make some witty and consoling reply. But as Matthew talked of his life, a gray cloud settled over me. I could share nothing in return for his confidence. Not a single story of my past. Not a wish, not a hope. Not even my real name.

I stood.

“M’lady, what’s the matter?” asked Matthew, scrambling awkwardly to his feet

“Nothing. Everything. I . . . I shouldn’t be here.” The sun was almost at its zenith. I couldn’t remember when I’d last heard the great clock above the palace gate strike. Had it gone past noon while I was sitting here on Matthew Reade’s coat talking piffle? “I’ll be missed. I should go.”

“I’ll walk with you.” He retrieved his coat and papers. “I must get back anyway.”

“No, no, please don’t.” I couldn’t let him see what would happen next, especially since I had no idea what it would be. He was thinking well of me, and I hated the possibility that I might show myself up to him as just a scheming courtier.

But Matthew mistook the reason I turned so quickly away. “Wait.” He caught my arm. “I understand we cannot be equals, but is there reason we cannot be friends?”

Yes. Yes, there is
. Of course I could not say this. In fact, I was quite sure my mouth would refuse to shape the words.

“Even for just this little while?” We both looked down at his hand where he held my arm. I could feel the warmth of it through the light muslin of my sleeve. “Friends only. Nothing more, I promise. I . . .” He raised his eyes to mine. They were a deep, steel gray, and stunningly clear. I had no doubt he could see right through a lady with those eyes, and if I stood here any longer, he would see through me. “I think you do not have many friends, and I am sorry for it.”

“It is hardly your fault,” I mumbled. My gaze fell once more on his hand, a sight that provided no respite for my mind. I pulled reluctantly away. I felt awkward, heavy. I slumped like a peasant woman, all decorum and deportment gone. Mr. Tinderflint would be appalled.