The Queen's Sorrow (7 page)

How did he live those years of unspoken love for his best friend’s wife? There was no art to it. He worked hard and was away a lot, eventually, with his work. He lived from breath to breath, and hard at his heels were the doubts, the fears: what did she feel for him, and what did she know – or suspect – of what he felt for her? In one breath, he’d dread that his longing was an open wound; but in the next, he’d be congratulating himself on his subterfuge. Each and every heartbeat trapped him between a craving to see her and a desperation to avoid her. He loathed himself – of course he did – but sometimes there was also something like pride, because sometimes the secret that he carried inside himself as a stone was, instead, a gem.

And Gil. How had he felt about him? Well, he’d felt all things, over the years, and often all at once. He felt close to him, his boyhood soul mate, in their shared love for this woman with the hard-folded arms and cool eyes. He felt distant from him, too, though, as the husband of his beloved, which was who he’d become. He pitied Gil his treacherous best friend. And he resented him, of course he did. But he’d never wished him dead. No, he’d never done that.

In the early days, to keep himself going, Rafael allowed himself the luxury of imagining that he and Leonor might
just once allude to their feelings for each other being deeper than they should be. For a time, he thought that’d be enough, but that was before he caught sight of her in the grove and witnessed the hunger in her kissing. From then on, for a while, nothing was enough and he stopped at nothing in his exploration of the life that they might have had together. Getting into bed, he’d find himself thinking about whom they might have entertained that evening, if they’d been married, and what they might have remarked to each other when alone again. And longing to see the look in her eyes as she reached around to unfasten her hair, last thing.

At the end of his second week, Rafael arrived home for supper one afternoon with Antonio to find the house being packed up. Just inside the main door, three men were taking down a tapestry: two of them up on ladders, the third supervising from below, and all three absorbed in a tense exchange of what sounded like suggestions and recriminations. Rafael might have assumed that the huge, heavy hanging was being removed for cleaning or repair – although no tapestry in the Kitson household looked old enough to require cleaning or repair – had he not noticed the packing cases around the hallway. Some were fastened and stacked, others still open. In one lay household plate: platters and jugs, the silverware for which England was famed. In another, cushions of a shimmering fabric. Towering over the cases, resting against the wall, was a dismantled bedframe, the posts carved with fruits and painted red, green
and gold; and on the floor he spotted – just as he was about to trip over it – a rolled-up rug.

One of the men glanced down, eyes rheumy with a cold, as if wondering whether he had to pack the two Spaniards as well. At this point, the pale woman appeared, hurrying as if she’d been looking for them: a purposeful approach. ‘Mr Prado? Mr Gomez?’ Some kind of announcement was going to be made, it seemed, and, to judge from her expression, one that would give her pleasure. She spoke, indicating the boxes, then herself, a touch of her fingertips to her breastbone. Rafael missed it, and looked to Antonio for translation. Antonio looked dazed, still catching up with her. ‘She’s the house –’ He frowned, and then it came to him: ‘She’s the housekeeper?’

She was. A skeleton staff was staying behind, of which she was the backbone, the housekeeper. Later, Rafael would learn that the Kitsons lived for most of the year at their manor in the countryside and, like many of their friends, had only been at their townhouse to witness the splendour of the royal newlyweds’ entrance into London and the elaborate pageants held in the streets to celebrate it. They’d ended up having to be patient. The wedding had taken place at Winchester Cathedral just days after the prince had come ashore at Southampton, but the royal couple’s progress to London thereafter had been leisurely, taking almost a month.

Now, though, in the first week of September, festivities over, the Kitsons were heading back to their manor. In Spain, the land was for peasants: that was the unanimous view of Rafael’s fellow countrymen. Something, then, that he had in common with the English: the dislike of towns and cities, the preference for open expanse and woods.

The first evening after the Kitsons’ departure, he arrived back alone. Antonio was using the departure as an excuse for his own absence – as he saw it, he no longer needed to play the part of the guest. Not that he’d ever really done so. Rafael took it to mean the contrary, considering himself obliged to show support for the pale woman who’d been left almost alone to cater for them. He knocked on the door – wielded the leopard’s head – and was disappointed to hear that one of the dogs remained in residence. The pale woman opened the door, dodging the animal; the boy, too, was behind her. The woman wasn’t quite so pale – flushed and somehow scented – and Rafael guessed she’d been cooking. He wanted to apologise for having interrupted her, but didn’t know how. She looked behind him. ‘Mr Gomez?’

‘No.’ He didn’t know how to say more.

She shrugged, seemed happy enough to give up on him, and stepped aside to let Rafael in. He noticed the bunch of keys on her belt: all the house keys, he presumed. She said something that sounded concerned and, frowning, touched his cloak. Said it again: ‘Drenched.’
Drenched
. Then something else, faster, and a mime of eating, a pointing towards the Hall.

Having hung up his cloak, he went along to the Hall and, self-consciously, took a place at the single table alongside the others: the porter who’d let him through the gate; a man who he was fairly sure was one of the grooms; and a quite elderly man whom he’d seen around but had no idea what he did. And the dog, of course. The old man was talking to the others – dog included – and didn’t let up when the pale woman began bringing in the dishes. Rafael rose to go and help her, but she shook her head and then he saw that she had the child
in tow as helper. When an array of dishes was on the table, she helped the boy on to the bench and took her place beside him. After Grace, the old man resumed his chat and the others took him up on it, although the child kept quiet. Clearly, mealtime silence was only for when the whole household was in residence. Perhaps they were catching up on a day spent mostly alone.

Eventually, Rafael felt he should say something. ‘Very good,’ he said to the woman, indicating the spread, even though it was yet more meat – poultry of various types – served as usual with the jellies which he guessed were made from berries of some kind, whatever kinds they had in England. She frowned and shook her head, and he understood her to mean it wasn’t her doing – this food had been left by the cook for them. But to this, he smiled back his own dismissal: the food was well presented and that would have been her doing; there was still plenty that she’d done. And this time, albeit with a small show of reluctance, she allowed it, bowing her head. To follow the meats, she fetched a bowl of something sweet, causing much excitement among his fellow diners. Usually there wasn’t anything sweet, just the soft, wet cheeses. This was a sweetened, fruited cream with the unmistakable, delectable flavour of strawberries.

When the table had finally been cleared, Rafael wondered what he should do. Usually, he’d go to his room and work on his design, but surely it would be rude to walk away openly from this small gathering. The woman indicated that he should join them on cushions around the fireplace – in which no fire was lit – and so he did, only to find to his embarrassment that both the porter and the groom were excusing
themselves. The old man took a heap of cushions and lay back immediately for a sleep, and the dog muscled in. The woman seemed to have produced from nowhere an article of clothing to adapt or repair, and her little boy began working on another, unpicking stitches for her. Rafael felt profoundly awkward: he had nothing with him, nothing to do. Pretend to doze, perhaps; perhaps he should do that. He had a cold and was conscious, in the silence, of his snuffling. But then the woman spoke to him: ‘Spain, England,’ and she drew a horizontal line in the air with her index finger. ‘How many days?’ She laid the fabric in her lap and held up both hands to display her fingers: ‘Five, six, seven …?’

‘Five,’ he said. ‘Five days.’

She looked appreciative of the answer – that he
had
answered – but then didn’t seem to know what to make of it, didn’t seem to know if a five-day sea-journey was long or short, or indeed longer or shorter than she might’ve guessed. There was nothing to say.

He indicated her son: ‘Four, five years?’

‘Four.’

So, he’d been right; and of course, because Francisco was almost four. ‘Big,’ he said, careful to sound impressed.

Looking at her boy, she shrugged with her mouth as if considering. She was being modest; the boy
was
tall, and – Rafael saw it – she was pleased he’d noticed. Sad, too, though – Rafael saw this, too – if only for a heartbeat: a fleeting sadness, perhaps at her little boy growing older and leaving his infant years behind. ‘Nicholas,’ she said. Rafael repeated it with obvious approval. ‘My son,’ he said, making a fist over his heart. ‘Three years. Francisco.’

‘Oh!’ Her eyes lit up, and she looked as if she’d like to ask more. Instead, though, a small gesture, and unconsciously, Rafael felt, a reflection of his own: a brief, steadying touch of her own hand to her own heart. Which rather touched him.

‘Rafael,’ he said, tapping his chest.

‘Cecily,’ she reciprocated. This, he hadn’t expected, and suffered a pang of anxiety that he’d pushed her into it. ‘Madam’would’ve been fine. Again she looked expectant and he guessed that he was supposed to repeat it, to try it out, which he did and to which she looked amused although it had sounded all right to him.

After that, he’d felt relaxed enough to excuse himself and go up to his room to fetch paper and charcoal, and for the following couple of hours in Cecily’s company he sketched and half-worked on ideas.

Subsequent evenings, this became the routine, sometimes with him working at the table, sometimes on a letter home. The old man, Richard – and dog, Flynn – would sleep; and Cecily would continue her work on a gown. Fine wool, it usually was: definitely not her own. ‘Frizado,’ she said, once, holding it up for him to see and relishing the texture between her fingertips. Another time, ‘Mockado,’ and another, ‘Grogram.’ Later, every evening, though, she’d put her work aside and then, standing up, standing tall to stretch, she’d reach to the small of her back to release her apron’s bow with a tug. As it dropped away, she’d swoop it up, giving it a shake to release any creases and looping it into a couple of easy, loose folds. Then she’d reach into the linen basket for the little unassuming roll of undyed linen in which were pinned and pocketed her own special needles and threads.

The first time, she’d held up a needle, presented it to him although it was so fine that it vanished in the air between them, and said, ‘From Spain.’ She said it with a depreciating little laugh: there wasn’t a lot they could talk about and this was the best she could do. For his part, he’d tried to look interested. What did interest him was that she’d made the effort to find something they had in common. That was what mattered; not the actual, invisible, though no doubt very good needle. She turned it in the air: ‘Very, very good,’ she assured him, eyebrows raised and head tilted in a parody of earnestness which he then mirrored so that she smiled.

Also in that linen pouch were floss silks of various colours. Her method was to lay them on the dark glossy tabletop to make her selection. The skeins were greens and blues, reds and yellows: the greens from fresh and bud-like to velvety firblues; the blues from palest lunar glow to deepest ultramarine; the reds from cat’s tongue rosiness to alizarin; the yellows from the creaminess of blossom to the confidence of lemons and the darker, greeny-gold of pears. The best needles might well come from Spain, but everyone knew the best embroidery came from England.

Rafael would watch Cecily choosing her colours. She’d feel her way along the range, not touching: fingers walking above the row, rising and falling as if idling on the keys of a virginal. Then – yes – she’d pick one up, pleased to have made the decision but perhaps also a little regretful, Rafael detected, to have committed herself. The selection would be hung over her finger, unregarded, while she made the next few choices, then she’d drape them all in the fold between thumb and forefinger to trail across her palm. That little handful she’d lift into the
light, whatever remained of it, sometimes even leaving the room, presumably in search of what was left of it. The scrutiny involved a slow turning of her hand one way and the other, then a flip so that the skeins could dangle free and light run the length of them. The final test was a single strand concentrated in a tiny loop, like an insect’s wing, which she’d press to the embroidery for consideration against what was already there. From what he could glimpse, her design was of some kind of beast – stylised – prancing or pawing inside a geometric border. Her brilliant colours were so unlike those in which his designs were realised by Antonio. His and Antonio’s colours were incidental: ochre tints in marble and patinas on bronze. And her materials, lax in her lap, were so pliable in comparison to theirs, which needed tackling.