The Painter's Apprentice (19 page)

Discomfited, Beth turned again to Edmund Latymer who was watching Cecily’s every move on the other side of the table. Cecily
was entirely oblivious to him, as she twirled her fan to attract Harry’s attention. ‘My father is a doctor, too,’ she said.

‘How interesting!’ Dr Latymer turned his attention back to her. And where does he practise?’

‘At our family home, near to Richmond village.’ The doctor’s grey eyes were kind, she thought. ‘He takes in guests who suffer
from melancholy and helps them to overcome their sorrows.’

‘And is he successful at that?’

‘Usually. But some of the guests never go back to their families, if indeed, they have one.’

‘Doesn’t that make your home an unhappy place to be?’ Dr Latymer’s expression was concerned.

‘On the contrary! They become part of our larger family and are protected from the outside world. You see, some of them have
been cast out by their relations and if we didn’t offer them a home they might otherwise be sent to Bedlam.’

Dr Latymer considered this. ‘Are there never …’ he shrugged, ‘upsets?’

‘Sometimes.’ Beth at once pictured Johannes’s attack on Noah.

‘You come from an exceptional family, Miss Ambrose.’

Why, Edmund Latymer’s face wasn’t unremarkable at all when he smiled.

April arrived with a flurry of showers interspersed with brilliant sunshine. Beth’s daily boat trip between Chelsea and Fulham
in all weathers often meant that she arrived at her destination cold and wet but on this sunny morning the wind across the
wide stretch of river didn’t pinch at her cheeks with icy fingers. Lambs skipped in the meadows beside the river and the trees
were clothed in soft new greenery.

When Beth arrived at the studio she felt that the day was full of promise and her fingers were itching to take up her paintbrush
and set to work. She found a letter from her mother resting on her easel; she guessed that Noah must have brought it the previous
night on his return from Richmond. Sorry to have missed him, she opened it with eager fingers, and read that Father had a
head cold but sent his love and that Mistress Fanshawe had called at Merryfields, bringing news of their neighbours, the Beauchamps,
dyed in the wool Royalists and Catholics.

Beth smiled to herself as she folded the letter again. It was hardly unexpected that Joseph and Sara were to marry; somehow
it had always been understood, right from when they were children, that they belonged together.

A few hours later, Beth sniffed the air as the scent of roasting pork drifted in through the open window. Her stomach grumbled
with hunger as she put the finishing touches to her study of a bunch of grape hyacinths, each tiny azure bell delicately shaded
with violet. She swished the brush in a pot of water and wiped it dry on her apron.

Chattering voices and leisurely footsteps echoed along the corridor. Beth had already learned enough of the palace routine
to know that members of the household were making their way towards the great hall for their dinner and she set off to join
them. She knew several of them well enough by now to smile and pass the time of day.

A little while later one of the Bishop’s hunting dogs sniffed around Beth’s feet looking for crumbs while she ate her roast
pork. A sudden a wave of homesickness washed over her as she wondered if Orpheus missed her.

She was finishing her apple pie, her homesickness magically forgotten while she ate the crisp pastry and thick, yellow cream,
when George London appeared at her elbow.

‘Miss Ambrose, there’s a tulip you might want to see. It’s an oddity.’

Hastily, Beth swallowed her last mouthful of pie. ‘Indeed I should like to see it. Shall I come now?’

A slow smile spread across George London’s weather-beaten face. ‘Finish your dinner first. Come and find me down in the garden
when you’re ready.’

After she had finished her second slice of pie, Beth hurried outside. The gravel glistened with rain from a recent shower
but the sun was out again and a fresh breeze stirred the treetops. Beth followed the path to the walled garden where several
men were industriously digging and hoeing the neat rows of vegetables, while two gardener’s boys stretched a long piece of
twine between them to mark a straight row in which to plant seeds. Beth spied George London turning over a great heap of manure
from the stables.

He stopped work as he saw her approaching. ‘Busy time in the vegetable garden.’

She wrinkled her nose at the acrid fumes emanating from the manure. ‘My brother John will be sowing his carrot seeds now.’

‘Let me show you the strange tulip I found,’ said George London, planting his spade into the dung heap. ‘It’s near the dove
house.’

They walked around the side of the palace and into the outer court, bounded on two sides by the curve of the moat and on another
by the stables. A great noise of hammering came from the forge; Beth saw the blacksmith through the open door, a great giant
of a man all glistening with sweat amidst swirling smoke and steam.

‘Nicholas Tanner,’ said George London. ‘Strong as an ox, that one.’

A brick dove house with a tiled roof was set in the middle of the court with two stone urns at its base, each filled with
a blaze of red and white tulips.

‘Have a look at the urn on the left,’ said George London, ‘and see what you can find. It’s a curiosity.’

A flutter of doves arose from the dove house as she approached. Beth bent to study the flowers, which had elongated heads,
very different to the rounded Tradescant tulip. There was an elegant curve to the tips of the white petals and Beth noticed
that the red stripes were uneven, almost blotched in places. Some of the petals were shaded with a delicate green and the
strap-like leaves had misshapen, jagged edges as if a naughty child had hacked at them with scissors. ‘The irregular colouring
makes them very unusual,’ she ventured.

‘That’s true. There’s a great interest at present in flowers with uneven stripes but look again and tell me what you see.’

Beth stared at the flower-filled urn and suddenly noticed something. ‘It’s this one!’ she said triumphantly. ‘How very odd!’

George London cut through the stem of one of the tulips with his pocket knife and handed it to her.

‘I’ve never seen such a thing,’ she said. She ran a finger over the leaf, which sported a red and white stripe down its length.

‘I’ve only seen it twice in all the time I’ve been a gardener.’

‘Thank you so much for finding it for me.’

But George London had already touched his hat and set off back towards the vegetable garden.

Carefully, Beth carried her prize back to the studio and arranged it on a piece of white linen. Hurriedly she laid out her
paints and mixing bowl determined to make good progress on the painting before the extraordinary tulip began to wilt.

Beth was chatting to George London one day as she finished her dinner, a tasty chicken and leek tart, when Noah slipped on
to the bench beside her.

‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ she said.

‘I’ve been at Whitehall this morning and heard some news. I came straight here to tell Bishop Compton. The King has issued
the Declaration of Indulgence again.’

Beth frowned. ‘I thought there was such an outcry last time that nothing happened?’

‘Nevertheless, all the clergymen have been instructed by the King to read it out in their pulpits next month.’

George London’s jaw clenched in anger. ‘It’s simply another step towards the papists taking over the Church of England. Once
there’s no requirement to affirm the oath for the established church, we’ll have Roman Catholics in positions of control in
the army and the navy and the universities. The King will not rest until he’s turned us all into Catholics.’

‘But he can’t do that, can he?’ said Beth. ‘It’s against the law. The Test Act forbids it.’

George shrugged. ‘The King is determined to have the final word and disregards whatever laws Parliament makes, if they don’t
suit him. When you think of the King’s cousin, Louis, and the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes and the resulting religious
persecution I am fearful for what may happen.’

‘We all knew that King Charles had Catholic leanings,’ said Beth, ‘but he was always careful never to impose them on the people.’

Noah smiled ruefully. ‘After his father was sent to the scaffold I suppose he was particularly cautious but King James is
a very different kettle of fish from his brother.’

Then, a buxom girl with creamy skin and black hair sauntered up to them. ‘Afternoon, Noah and George,’ she said, regarding
Noah with a sleepy smile. ‘Are you going to introduce me to your little friend?’

‘Hello, Lizzie. This is Miss Beth Ambrose, lately come to the palace,’ said Noah. ‘Beth, this is Miss Lizzie Skelton, the
beekeeper’s daughter. She works in the palace laundry.’

George stood up. ‘Since I have some seedlings to transplant I’ll leave you two ladies to become acquainted.’ He headed off
towards the garden.

‘I must go to my chamber. I have some drawings to finish,’ said Noah, pushing back his chair. ‘See you both later.’

Beth saw Lizzie’s appraising glance as she watched Noah hurrying away. ‘You’re that painter girl, aren’t you?’ Lizzie said,
stretching rudely across Beth to pick up an apple from the fruit bowl, her immodest neckline exposing far more of her charms
than was seemly.

Beth nodded.

‘Noah told me about you. He’s a fine gentleman,’ said the girl, her sloe-dark eyes gleaming as she looked Beth up and down.
‘I’m going to ask him to show me some of those buildings he keeps talking about. Perhaps he’ll take me to London in a carriage.’

‘I don’t think he has a carriage,’ said Beth, itching to slap the insolent girl’s face.

The girl looked disappointed. ‘Maybe he’ll buy one if he knows I’ll go to London with him. I like the city. Such shops as
you’ve never seen and the theatres and parks!’ She bit into the rosy side of the apple with sharp little teeth and studied
Beth speculatively. ‘Not planning on keeping him for yourself, are you?’

‘Certainly not!’ A scalding blush raced up Beth’s throat and lodged on her cheeks.

‘Aha! Like that, is it?’

‘No! I …’

‘Well, spoils to the victor, then.’ The girl dropped the half-eaten apple on to Beth’s plate and sauntered away, her hips
swinging.

Beth stared at the apple with loathing. Perhaps she’d take a walk in the garden to calm down before she returned to work.

Beth found it strangely difficult to settle to her painting that afternoon. She’d discovered a delightful little heart’s-ease
blooming in the shade of the elm walk and the pretty flowers with their tiny faces should have inspired her but her heart
simply wasn’t in it. She arranged the specimens carefully to show off their leaves and blooms to their best advantage and
sketched them, sighing all the while. The image of Lizzie Skelton’s sleepy eyes making up to Noah insisted on intruding continuously
upon her thoughts, irritating her like a burr chafing under her bodice.

Putting down her sketchbook, she made herself busy preparing a new batch of paints, attacking the pigments with force, as
if hammering and grinding them on to the porphyry slab would dispel the annoying image of Lizzie Skelton’s complacent smile.

A cloud of ochre powder settled all about her, making her cough. Wrists aching, she put down the muller and washed the pigment
off her fingers. As she was drying her hands the studio door opened and with a jolt of pleasure she saw Noah.

‘I’ve finished my drawings,’ he said. ‘It’s still sunny and I’ve brought ginger ale and some sweet custard tarts.’ He held
up a small basket to show her. ‘We’re going on a picnic.’

‘A picnic? It’s only April,’ protested Beth, laughing in delight at the idea.

‘Where’s your spirit of adventure? Wrap up warm and we’ll go down by the moat.’

Passing the fountain in the empty quadrangle, Noah’s booted footsteps echoed from wall to wall as he strode across the cobbles,
Beth hurrying along beside him. ‘I often like to imagine how this might have been in old Queen Bess’s day,’ he said. ‘Can
you picture the commotion when she arrived here with her retinue?’

‘It must have been a marvellous sight,’ said Beth.

‘Of course, the palace wasn’t in such a sorry state of decay in those days. The Bishop says he’d rather spend what money he
has on the gardens and, any other money he can raise, he sends to the building fund for St Paul’s cathedral.’

‘I should love to see St Paul’s. When do you think it will be finished?’

‘Years from now. It’s an expensive undertaking, particularly when you take into account all the other costs of rebuilding
the city after the Great Fire.’

‘Noah, you’re walking too fast!’

He slowed down while Beth caught her breath. ‘Sir Christopher
goes everywhere at such a tremendous pace I have to stride out so as not to be left behind and it’s become a habit. I’ve never
met a man with such energy!’

They made their way through the rose garden and past the bowling green until they came to a gate leading into the pasture
known as the Warren. The coarse grass was flattened underfoot to form a rough path, which led to the moat.

Noah spread out his cloak with a flourish on the grass and Beth arranged her skirts carefully over her ankles, wondering if
he had ever brought Lizzie Skelton on a picnic there. The very thought of Noah taking Lizzie Skelton anywhere troubled her;
she realised with sudden dismay that she was jealous. Unwilling to examine the thought, she pushed it away. After all, Noah
was here with her now and Lizzie was in the laundry.

Noah rummaged in the basket. He took out four custard tarts wrapped in a clean napkin and then eased the cork in the bottle
of ginger ale with his thumbs. ‘The last time I had a bottle of this it exploded,’ he said as the cork shot off with a loud
pop
and flew into the moat.