The Painter's Apprentice (15 page)

Morning came at last. Beth, dry-eyed now, lay flat on her back with her hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling while
Cecily slept beside her. The night had been never ending as she went over and over in her mind how she might have prevented
such a tragedy.

Emmanuel and Joseph had come running when she blew her whistle, closely followed by her father and mother. Emmanuel had caught
hold of Johannes’s legs and lifted him up to take the pressure off his neck but his body was already cold.

Now, Beth sat up, suddenly filled with a terrible anger at Johannes. She hugged her knees so tightly that her fingernails
bit into her skin.
How could he have done this to her?
He was so much more than her painting master, he was her friend. She had relied on him absolutely and loved him like a father.
Surely he’d known how much she cared for him and how she would grieve if he killed himself?

Cecily stirred and stretched. ‘Did you sleep at all?’ she murmured, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

‘A little.’ Beth’s mouth felt as if it was full of sand.

Cecily reached up to stroke Beth’s cheek. ‘Did Johannes seem so very miserable to you?’

Beth shook her head. ‘I never imagined he would do such a thing.’ Anguish squeezed her heart again. ‘It’s all my fault! I
knew him best of all and should have guessed what he was planning.’

Cecily leaned her head against her sister’s knee. ‘But how
could
you have known? Perhaps you should be happy for Johannes because all his unhappiness has gone away now?’

Beth couldn’t bear to go into the studio that morning. Misery engulfed her at the thought of Johannes being made ready for
his coffin and she set off to find her brother in the garden.

John had left his work turning over the vegetable plot and begun to dig a deep trench in a sunny patch of the garden by the
honeysuckle arch.

‘Johannes liked to sit on the b-b-bench here with you,’ he said. ‘I think he’d like to be at rest h-h-here. Father has agreed
to it.’

Beth hugged her brother, while a picture flashed through her mind of all the happy, lazy summer afternoons she’d spent with
Johannes on the bench with their sketchbooks, the scent of honeysuckle in the air.

‘I h-h-hate to see you so sad,’ said John, kissing the top of her head.

Beth was struck all at once how he’d grown up since Kit had left them. ‘Thank you for thinking of it.’ She shivered. Since
he took his own life Johannes would have to be buried in unconsecrated ground but perhaps he’d find peace in this place.

A shout from the orchard made them turn to see a figure hurrying towards them waving his feathered hat in the air.

‘Noah!’ A flicker of unexpected pleasure caught Beth by surprise.

‘It’s cold to be in the garden today,’ said Noah as he kissed Beth’s cheek. ‘Isn’t that trench too deep for planting potatoes,
John?’ He
clapped John on the arm. ‘I may not be a gardener but I do know that nothing grows if you bury it that far down! The smile
faded from his face as he studied theirs. ‘What is it? What have I said?’

Beth swallowed while she fought the urge to weep again. ‘It’s Johannes,’ she said. ‘We’re burying Johannes.’

Stinging sleet carried over the garden wall on a vicious north wind needled the family and guests as they huddled together
in the garden to lay Johannes to rest the following day.

William conducted the service and Clarence Smith gave a dignified eulogy, accompanied by the mournful cries of the rooks in
the elm tree.

Beth, frozen in misery, stood between Noah and John, gazing down into the grave. John’s hand, rough and callused from gardening,
reached for hers.

Then William nodded at Beth and she scattered a handful of earth on to the coffin followed by a posy of snowdrops and the
tightly rolled sketch of herself and the small painting of Annelies that she had found in his room. She was determined he
wouldn’t go lonely into eternity.

It began to snow in earnest, a thin white blanket already covering the coffin as Noah guided her back to the great hall where
Peg served mulled ale and freshly made Dutch biscuits to the mourners. Johannes had been well liked and there were many reminiscences
about his kind nature.

At last everyone drifted away to their various duties and pursuits, leaving only Beth and a white-faced Noah.

‘I’m more sorry than I can say,’ he said. ‘And I feel I must bear a part of the blame for his passing.’

Beth swallowed and met his gaze

Noah bit his lip. ‘I can see that you do blame me.’

Beth took pity on his misery and shook her head. ‘There is no
point in placing blame, not now. I will just miss him so. He gave a framework to my days and I don’t know how to fill the
space he leaves behind.’ The pain of his loss pressed behind her breastbone so sharply that, for a moment, it hurt to breathe.

‘You should not forget that you gave his life purpose at a time he suffered from a great sorrow.’ Briefly, Noah rested his
hand on her shoulder.

She closed her eyes for a moment, wishing she could fall into a deep and forgetful sleep. ‘He could be a stern master but
we had some very happy times.’

‘Then those are what you must remember.’ He glanced out of the window as flakes of snow pattered against the glass. ‘Beth,
I can delay no longer. I came only to make a brief visit on my way to Richmond Palace yesterday.’

‘I’ll walk you down to the river.’

He glanced again at the snow but didn’t attempt to dissuade her. They fetched their cloaks and Noah tucked Beth’s arm firmly
into the crook of his elbow as they walked through the garden.

Before they entered the orchard Beth hesitated, her hand resting on the snow-covered moss on the old gate, remembering her
fear the last time she had passed this way.

‘Shall I lead on?’ asked Noah, as if sensing her reluctance.

Almost unconsciously Beth stopped by the tree where she had found Johannes. She shivered and looked away.

‘Is this the place?’

She nodded.

Noah touched the gnarled bark of the trunk, now dusted with snow. ‘Do you see here,’ he asked. ‘Look at the lichen growing
upon the branches.’

Beth took a closer look. The frosted lichen grew like clusters of crisp little grey-green stars, each one perfect and beautiful.
The textured bark held a myriad of colours when you looked closely: silver, umber, burnt sienna and verdigris. Fleetingly,
she wondered
if, perhaps one day, she might make a painting of it. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said.

‘You see,’ said Noah, ‘there is always good in a bad situation, if you look for it.’

The boatman waited for Noah at the landing stage, his collar hunched up around his neck and his hat pulled low against the
snowflakes that fell down from the leaden sky.

Noah kissed Beth goodbye, the slight roughness of his chin grazing her cold cheek.

‘May I come again, perhaps in a week or two?’

She nodded and her heart lifted, just a little.

Sadness engulfed her as the boat drew away to the centre of the river. Arms folded against the cold, she waited until it had
disappeared from sight before returning with dragging steps to the house.

Some days later Beth stood in the gallery, her finger on the latch, bracing herself to enter the studio for the first time
since she’d found Johannes hanging from the apple tree. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. Grey, early morning light
illuminated the room as she stepped inside. The quietness pressed down upon her like the weight of water and she stood still,
straining her ears for the echo of Johannes’s voice. But there was nothing.

The studio was just as she had left it. She crossed to where her cloth-draped portrait rested upon the easel, hesitated for
a moment and then threw back the muslin.

She drew in her breath sharply, clasping her hands over her breast. Seeing Johannes’s last work carried with it a poignancy
that almost made her cry out. He had lovingly painted every line and brush stroke with meticulous care and she suffered again
the tragedy of his loss as a rapier-sharp blow.

The portrait showed her sitting at her easel with all the trappings of a painter’s profession spread around her, the shadowy
recesses of
the room forming a frame for the shaft of clear sunlight that fell on to her like a waterfall from the tall windows.

But it was her own face that had her mesmerised. Her mouth was slightly open, her lips glistening as if she were about to
speak. There was a hint of mischief in her blue eyes and a smudge of paint on the luminous skin of her cheek. Red-gold curls
lay tumbled on her shoulders, drawing the eye to the way her paint-spattered dress was closely moulded to follow the curves
of her slender body.

Was that portrait how Johannes saw her? It was like her and yet not like the self she saw reflected back from her mirror.
This was a Beth who looked as if her life was bursting with the expectation of exciting possibilities; the personification
of the Beth she wished to be.

‘Oh, Johannes,’ she whispered in anguish, ‘why did you have to leave me?’

It was then that she saw the letter, wedged under the bottom of the canvas, where it rested on the easel. Sealed with a blob
of red wax, it bore her name with the words
The Painter’s Apprentice
underneath. Her heart lurched as she snatched it up, sliding her finger under the seal to prise it free. She unfolded the
paper, which was covered in Johannes’s writing, the thick black ink splattered and blotched in places.

Beth choked back a sob. So Johannes hadn’t forgotten her! If only she’d given in to curiosity that afternoon and peeped at
the portrait then she would have found the note and maybe had time to save him.

But it did no good to think like that. What was done was done.

March 1688

The studio was so cold that Beth’s bones ached; in spite of wearing an old pair of gloves with the fingers cut off, she could
barely grip her paintbrush. The insides of the windows were decorated with a delicate tracery of frost flowers, which she
would have found beautiful if she hadn’t been so miserable.

Day after day she had set up a new floral arrangement but as soon as she started to work nothing went right. The charcoal
was too thick and left smudges behind, spoiling the clarity of the watercolour. She ground up a new batch of umber, carefully
washing away any lumps of pigment, then ground the powder again, rinsing away the impurities, but a small grain still left
a thick smear on the paper.

She cleaned the studio from the tops of the picture frames down to the wide elm floorboards, scrubbing away the last vestiges
of paint splashes that decorated the floor around Johannes’s easel. But when she had made everything gleam and she could procrastinate
no more, the virgin sheet of paper on her easel appeared too pristine to risk sullying with her own clumsy daubs.

The truth of it was that she had lost the excitement for her painting that had burned within her over the past years and she
was frightened. Johannes had always been on hand to encourage her, always making her look at her work with a fresh eye and
never accepting anything but her best. Now she stood listlessly by the window watching the wind teasing the trees while she
tried, and failed, to summon up her old enthusiasm. All colour had faded from her life, reducing it to shades of grey.

Glancing across the room, her eyes were drawn again to her portrait. Somehow, the picture seemed to radiate light, even in
the gloom. She shuddered slightly, her sadness over Johannes’s death settling around her like a cloak. His teaching and his
friendship had filled the past four years. How could she ever close the gaping chasm he had left in her life?

She dropped her paintbrush on the table and hunched over with her fists tucked under her armpits for warmth. Her stomach churned
with a gnawing emptiness as she watched her breath mist the air. Every moment felt as if she were waiting for Johannes and
she kept glancing over her shoulder, expecting to see him standing at his easel. She missed him. She missed his untidy hair
and his paint-grimed fingernails. She missed his quiet presence as he worked beside her and his acerbic comments when she
failed to follow his instructions. She even missed the fusty, unwashed smell of his clothes. More than anything she missed
the occasional shout of laughter and the wide smile on his homely face when he offered her a rare morsel of praise.

Sighing, she reached into her pocket and drew out again the letter that Noah had brought her, the thick paper creased from
reading and rereading it. Bishop Compton’s handwriting, however, was bold and clear.

Beth glanced out of the window again. Merryfields was her home and she loved it with every fibre of her being but perhaps
now she had begun to comprehend why Kit had wanted to leave. The high brick wall that surrounded the lovely gardens allowed
only a limited view to the outside. All at once she was filled with a great curiosity to see more of it. Besides, Johannes
had told her to look beyond her own small world.

She made up her mind. Closing the studio door firmly behind her, she hurried downstairs.

Susannah, as usual, was in the apothecary.

Old Silas had come in from the garden and he leaned over the counter, dropping earth from his boots and nodding vigorously
as Susannah explained how to use the embrocation she had dispensed for him.

When Susannah took the cork from the bottle the air was at once filled with the eye-smarting odour of grated horseradish,
crushed mint, mustard seed and oil of bitter almonds. ‘I mixed up a new batch for you as soon as I saw the first signs of
spring,’ she said. ‘It’s the same every year, Silas. You must take the digging gently until your body has accustomed itself
to the work.’

‘I knows that, see! But when the sun comes out and the shoots start growing, well,’ he turned and winked at Beth, ‘well, then
the sap starts arising in Old Silas too, and I’m a-filled with the joys of spring and just has to be a-digging from sunrise
to sunset.’ He sniffed at the bottle of embrocation and his bushy white eyebrows shot up. ‘If I don’t keep digging, them weeds
will grow as big as trees and Merryfields will be lost in a thicket.’

Susannah smiled. ‘But if you work your back too hard you’ll end up taking to your bed.’

‘Let John do some of the heavy digging,’ suggested Beth. ‘And you can supervise him.’

The old man’s face broke into a toothless grin. He nodded to Susannah and shuffled off back to the garden.

‘Mama?’ said Beth. She took the Bishop’s letter out of her pocket. ‘May we visit Fulham Palace? I know John would like to
see the plants the Bishop has collected and you would be interested in the herb garden.’ She glanced out of the window, ‘And
I would so enjoy a change of scene; to put the sadness behind me a little.’

Susannah sighed. ‘I’m still heartsick about Kit’s departure. Perhaps a visit to see the Bishop’s garden would do me good,
too.’

Early morning mist swirled over the river, touching them with cold, damp fingers and leaving droplets of moisture like diamonds
clinging to their hair and clothes. Emmanuel and Joseph, wraith-like silhouettes at the front of the boat, pulled steadily
on the oars propelling them through the vaporous air towards Fulham.

Beth shivered, huddled into her cloak. Her mother and John sat silently beside her, their features pale and indistinct in
the ghostly haze. All sound was muffled, as if a great goose down pillow had drifted down from the heavens and was now suspended
above them. A warning shout made them look up as a boat travelling in the opposite direction suddenly loomed out of the fog
and skimmed past.

Emmanuel and Joseph shipped the oars to catch their breath and take a sip of ale from the flask wedged between their feet.

After a while a brisk breeze began to blow the mist away and soon a number of boats became visible on the water. By the time
they reached Fulham Palace, a watery sun was shining.

Joseph jumped on to the landing stage. ‘I’ll find someone to tell
His Grace we’re here.’ He set off along a gravelled path through an avenue of elms.

John helped Beth and Susannah to disembark. They waited on the landing stage, watching the passing boats.

Before long the wooden jetty began to shudder beneath their feet and they saw Bishop Compton striding towards them.

‘How delightful to see you again, Mistress Ambrose,’ he said, offering his hand to Susannah.

‘As you can see, we took you at your word and have arrived unannounced, Your Grace.’

‘There’s no need for formality to look at a garden, is there? I am usually out here from dawn to dusk. Such a lot to do at
this time of year, isn’t there, John?’

John flushed. ‘C-c-certainly there is, sir! I am v-v-very much looking forward s-s-seeing all the exotics you have here.’

‘Plenty of those and I do like to show them off. What a shame pride is such a sin!’ He shook his head sorrowfully but his
eyes were merry as he greeted Beth. ‘And I see you have followed my advice and are wearing good, strong shoes.’

‘I know how muddy the garden can be at Merryfields after the rain.’

‘I knew you were a sensible girl.’

Beth smiled, amused as much by his easy manner as by the streak of dirt on his cheek and his homespun gardening trousers,
all caked with mud. He rubbed his hands together. ‘We’ll take some dinner before we tour the gardens.’

The path led through a water meadow into a lightly wooded copse and then to a wooden bridge over a moat.

‘This is the best time of year to see the moat, when the crocuses and wild flowers bloom,’ said the Bishop. ‘The water always
stinks in the summer heat, in spite of the sluice to the river.’

The palace was a fine red brick building set in open ground, planted all around with young saplings. As they walked through
an
archway lined with great oak gates, the porter burst out of his gatehouse, still chewing his dinner and wiping his mouth with
a napkin.

‘It’s all right, Walter!’ The Bishop clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Some friends of mine have come to visit the gardens.’

The archway led into a large courtyard, enclosed on all sides by the palace and with a circular pool complete with a splashing
fountain set in the centre. Crossing the courtyard, they entered a small vestibule through a stone arch beneath a clock tower.
A wonderful aroma of roasting beef drifted in the air and Beth felt her stomach growl with hunger in response.

The chatter of voices echoed around the mediaeval beamed and vaulted ceiling of the great hall. A refectory table ran down
the centre of the room and people were already helping themselves to the bread, roast meats and pies set out before them.

After they had finished their dinner the Bishop was not inclined to linger. ‘There’s a bank of Spanish daffodils that’s still
looking very fine and a cloth of gold crocus, which will interest you, John.’

Beth was pleased to note how the Bishop drew John out and spoke to him as one gardener to another.

John became animated as they discussed the best way to propagate roses and his stutter almost disappeared.

The tour of the gardens took a couple of hours, by which time Susannah had several cuttings from the herb garden and the Bishop
had wrapped three oriental jacinths in damp sacking for John. ‘Pot them up as soon as you arrive home and put them on a windowsill,’
he said. ‘I promise you, once they flower you will never forget their perfume. And for you, Miss Ambrose, an aconite and some
crocuses. You shall paint them and let me see them next time we meet.’

Beth took the plants from him, carefully wrapped in a cloth to contain the earth around their roots. ‘I will try to paint
them,’ she said.

‘What’s this? You sound doubtful.’ The Bishop’s kindly eyes bore into her.

‘My tutor Johannes has died and since then I have lost my appetite for painting.’

‘Noah told me the sad news. I understand that Johannes had not been well for some time.’

‘I still feel his loss keenly.’

‘Of course you do! But I’ve seen your special talent. You simply need some time to overcome your natural sadness. And a little
inspiration, perhaps? Come with me, I have something to show you.’

The Bishop set off at speed back to the palace and they all trotted along behind. He opened a door into a passageway and then
another door leading to a library, where he carefully took out a sheaf of papers from a drawer and spread them out on the
table.

Beth drew in her breath sharply. The papers were covered by an explosion of colour: painted orange lilies, striped auriculas,
anemones, purple tulips and more. ‘But these are exquisite!’

‘Alexander Marshal,’ said the Bishop. ‘He and his wife lived at the palace for several years and he painted many of the plants
we grow here.’

‘I should like to meet him.’

‘Alas, he died a few years ago. But your own paintings are quite as good as these, Miss Ambrose.’

Covered in confusion, she shook her head.

‘No false modesty, now! Take another look.’

Beth picked up one of the paintings, a gloriously pink-and-white striped tulip, and took it to the window to study it more
closely. Each careful little brush stroke of carmine and madder and moss green glowed and the rendition was lively. She narrowed
her eyes while she thought about her own work. These paintings were very good but were they really any more proficient than
her own? She looked up to find her mother and the Bishop watching her intently. A tiny bubble of excitement began to fizz
in her stomach. ‘Perhaps it is time for me to try again,’ she said.

‘There are a great number of new species of plants here since Mr
Marshal died,’ said the Bishop. ‘It’s my intention to document all the flowers that grow in the garden and publish this as
a record for gardeners in the known world. If you came to live here at the palace your skill would allow me to achieve that
ambition. What do you think, Mistress Ambrose?’

Susannah was silent for a moment. ‘I believe my daughter has the artistic ability to carry out the task.’

‘She has a talent which should be allowed to flower in the public gaze. What is your opinion, Miss Ambrose?’

‘I’m not sure …’ She looked again at the marvellous painting of the exotic tulip and thought she might be able to paint again
here, away from the place where Johannes’s absence haunted her and with such a variety of different flowers to inspire her.
But would it be too cruel of her to absent herself from Merryfields so soon after Kit’s departure? She glanced again at her
mother, saw the apprehension in her green eyes and made up her mind. ‘Merryfields is my home,’ Beth said, smiling reassuringly
at Susannah, ‘and I have no wish to leave it.’ Carefully, she put the painting back on the table.