The Painter's Apprentice (33 page)

After a near-sleepless night, Beth left Cecily in bed and arrived early at Fulham Palace, intending to bury herself in her
work. Even at eight in the morning the sun bore mercilessly down on the top of her aching head. In the Dovehouse Court, Lizzie
Skelton and the other laundresses were desultorily hanging out the wet sheets, which flapped in a wind as hot as the open
door of a bread oven. Dust whirled in eddies, landing in gritty deposits on the clean linen.

The heat in the studio was stifling so Beth opened the windows to let out the flies that repeatedly banged their heads against
the glass. It was no cooler inside even with the windows open.

Beth sat before her easel and studied the lovely crimson and white York and Lancaster rose she intended to paint but the velvety
petals had become tipped with the brown of decay overnight. She rested her chin on her hand and stared at the spoiled bloom
through a mist of tears. Only yesterday she had been so happy. She touched a finger to her mouth, bruised from Harry’s assault
on her, and shuddered in disgust.

During the long morning, Beth had to use every ounce of self-discipline to keep on working. The heat and the breeze caused
the paint to dry instantly she touched brush to paper, making it hard to lay down even washes of colour. At dinnertime she
threw down her paintbrush with relief.

In the great hall Judith waved at her and Beth slipped on to the bench to join her friend.

‘You’re quiet today,’ Judith said, after a while.

‘It’s so hot. Everything feels as if it’s too much trouble.’

‘The weather must break soon, surely?’ Judith wiped perspiration off her top lip. ‘It makes everyone short-tempered. Nicholas
…’ She sighed.

‘What?’

‘He’s so anxious all the time. He doesn’t sleep and he’s sure the world is about to fall down around our ears. He’s heard
that the army in Ireland has been entirely purged of Protestants now.’

‘I suppose the King is preparing for if the Prince of Orange comes.’

‘The King’s army numbers more than thirty-four thousand men in the three kingdoms now. Can you imagine that?’ Judith’s broad
brow furrowed. ‘What if the Prince of Orange hasn’t enough men to help us? The Dutch army will arrive tired and seasick even
before they march, while the King’s army will be fighting fit, rested and well fed.’

Beth picked at her plate of salad greens. Nothing seemed to matter to her now, not when Noah had betrayed her.

‘Beth? Did you hear me?’

‘Sorry, Judith. The Prince of Orange is a seasoned soldier. I cannot imagine he would come to help us if he wasn’t confident
that his army would win.’

That evening, Beth left the palace early to be sure to avoid meeting Noah. It would be far too painful for both of them and
serve no useful purpose. She dragged her feet along the river path through
the sweltering sunshine and waited listlessly for a boat. When she arrived back at Lady Arabella’s house, Cecily still lay
in bed and turned her face to the wall when Beth tried to persuade her to come down for supper.

Beth said little when Lady Arabella quizzed her about Cecily, only that she’d slipped into the river by mistake. Any hint
of a possible elopement would ruin her sister for ever.

After supper Beth sat with an unread book on her knee, staring out of the parlour window while she counted the ways in which
she missed Noah.

‘Cecily appears to have retired to bed in a fit of pique,’ said Lady Arabella. ‘She fancied herself in love with that Harry
de Montford, I suppose. I never was so taken in by a young man! Unless, of course, I count Noah.’ She stared intently at Beth,
a half-smile upon her painted lips. ‘Cecily told me that Noah also made you false promises, Beth?

Beth stared at her book, unable to speak.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ continued Lady Arabella, ‘he is a Leyton, after all. I would, however, strongly advise you to
put a smile on your face if you intend to find yourself a more suitable husband. No man likes a sour-faced woman.’

Beth resisted saying that she wondered then that Lady Arabella was on her fourth husband.

That evening Cecily grew feverish and worsened over the following days.

Beth sat beside her and carried up trays of soup, which she never touched.

On the fifth day Cecily’s temperature and racking cough gave Beth real cause for anxiety. It wasn’t only that Cecily was obviously
unwell but, apart from the occasional, ‘Please’, ‘Thank you’, or murmured, ‘You’re so kind to me, Beth’, she barely spoke
or ate.

During the night Cecily moaned and muttered and Beth couldn’t bring her to proper consciousness. Thoroughly frightened, she
hurried to the twins’ bedroom and shook Samuel awake.

‘Sam, I’m worried about Cecily. She’s burning with fever.’

Samuel dragged on his dressing gown and came to look at her. ‘I’ll send one of the servants to fetch Dr Latymer right away,’
he said.

Samuel returned to sit with Beth while they were waiting. He glanced anxiously at Beth as Cecily’s breathing rasped in her
throat as she tossed and turned. ‘She’s very hot,’ he said.

‘This might never have happened if Joshua hadn’t told Harry that Cecily and I had large dowries,’ said Beth.

Samuel shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘It was only one of Josh’s jokes.’

It seemed an age until Dr Latymer limped into the sickroom. He felt Cecily’s forehead and looked down her throat. Then he
listened to her chest, looking grave. ‘It’s an inflammation of the lungs.’

‘Is it serious?’

He nodded. ‘She’s dangerously hot. We must bring down her temperature or she’ll convulse.’ He took a phial of birch-bark medicine
from his bag and dripped a dose on to Cecily’s tongue. ‘You must give her five drops of this every three hours.’

During the small hours of the night the heat of Cecily’s fever grew so intense that Beth was unable to reduce her temperature,
despite continual sponging with cool water. She became so frightened that she pulled back the sheet and soaked Cecily’s nightshift,
hoping that as her body heat evaporated the water it would take away the fever.

Beth listened out for the church clock, counting out the lonely hours until she could drip another dose of medicine on to
Cecily’s tongue. Exhausted and frightened, she rested her head in her hands while Cecily’s breath came in painful gasps and
wheezes.

She must have dozed for a moment but was woken when Cecily went into such a paroxysm of coughing that she stopped breathing
entirely for a second or two, causing Beth to experience the utmost
terror. Supporting her sister in her arms, Beth willed her to breathe while she longed for her mama.

It was past four in the morning when she heard footsteps on the stairs and she burst into tears of relief when she saw Dr
Latymer open the door.

‘She’s failing and I don’t know what to do.’

Dr Latymer made a steaming bowl of friar’s balsam and tenderly supported Cecily against his chest, while Beth prayed the inhalation
would ease her breathing.

‘You’re worn out,’ he said. ‘Close your eyes for a while and I’ll watch over her.’

‘You’re very kind, Doctor.’

Beth slept in the chair for an hour. When she woke she stared into the dim light for a moment, wondering where she was. The
room was quiet. She couldn’t hear Cecily’s tortured breathing any more. Sudden terror made jump to her feet. ‘Cecily?

‘Shh! She’s sleeping,’ whispered Dr Latymer. ‘The fever has broken.’

Tears of release flowed down Beth’s face and the doctor patted her back and lent her a handkerchief. Beth confessed to him
the whole sorry tale of Cecily’s near-drowning.

‘It was obvious that poor Cecily was very taken with that scoundrel, de Montford. A sensitive girl such as she would take
it very hard when he rejected her after raising her hopes so. The loss of a first love is very painful.’

‘I blame myself for not sending her home to Merryfields.’ Beth wrung her hands, wondering if her own spirits would ever recover
from the loss of Noah’s love.

Cecily lay back on the pillow and stared at nothing for two days.

‘I’ll ask Lady Arabella to instruct her cook to make some beef tea,’ Dr Latymer said, worry etched around his eyes. ‘And you
should go outside for some fresh air. I’ll sit with your sister if you want to go and see how Noah’s wound is healing.’

‘Oh no! I don’t wish to disturb him.’ The thought of seeing Noah again was too painful.

‘From what you say, it was a very nasty wound to his face and could fester. Bring him here if you’d like me to look at it.’

Secure in the knowledge that Cecily was in safe hands, Beth returned to Fulham.

Judith’s round face broke into a wide smile when she saw her. ‘Where have you been?’

‘My sister had a fever. Did Noah come to see you?’

‘I bandaged his cheek for him.’ Judith shivered. ‘What a horrible wound! He said he fell off a horse and sliced it on a flint
but I haven’t seen him since.’

Beth went to find young Jem, the porter’s boy, and asked him to run up to Noah’s room and tell him that she had arrived. A
pulse throbbed in her throat while she waited, wondering how she could face him with any equanimity, but when Jem returned
he was alone.

‘Not there, miss,’ he said. ‘His room’s empty and he wasn’t at dinner yesterday, neither.’

Beth went into the palace again. Hesitating for only a moment, she knocked on the library door.

Bishop Compton opened the door himself. ‘Ah, Miss Ambrose! Come in, come in!’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you but I wondered if you’d seen Noah?’

‘Not since yesterday when he came to say goodbye. He’s returned to Virginia.’

Beth stifled a cry and her knees began to tremble.

The Bishop reached out to steady her. ‘Miss Ambrose, are you unwell?’

She drew a deep breath. ‘I knew that he was going, of course,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘But my sister has
been ill
and I haven’t seen him for a few days. I thought he’d still be here.’

‘You’ve just missed him,’ said the Bishop sympathetically.

Stumbling out of the library, she hurried through the quadrangle into the garden, fighting back the storm of tears that threatened
to engulf her. How could she bear it? She darted through the rose garden, catching her skirt on the thorns, before breaking
into a run along the avenue of pleached limes.

Lizzie Skelton stood on the path in front of her. ‘Hey!’ she called.

Beth ran around her and didn’t stop until she reached the walled kitchen garden where she leaned her forearms against the
sun-warmed bricks and sobbed. All she could think of was that she would never see Noah again. She brushed away a bee that
landed on her wrist.

‘Hey!’

Beth turned to see Lizzie walking towards her and hastily wiped her eyes.

‘Didn’t you hear me calling you?’ Lizzie stuck her chin out at Beth. ‘It’s all your fault!’

‘What’s my fault?’ The air was heavy with the drowsy buzzing of the bees as they flew from the lavender bushes and in and
out of the skeps lodged in the wall alcoves.

Lizzie stood with her hands on her hips. ‘I told you to keep clear of Noah, didn’t I? I had a chance with him until you spoiled
it for me. And now he’s gone.’

Beth tried to sidestep Lizzie but found her path blocked again.

‘Don’t need your sort around here.’ Lizzie’s face was ugly with spite. ‘What really gets my goat, apart from you stealing
Noah, is that the Bishop pays you more in a month than I earn in a year. And for what? Messing about making stupid pictures
of flowers! I ask you, what use is that?’ She licked her full lips and smiled. ‘Still, I got rid of them, right enough, didn’t
I?’

Beth stared at her. ‘So it
was
you?’ Shock and outrage made her tremble.

‘None other! You shoulda seen it!’ Lizzie cackled with laughter. ‘Covered the whole lot of ’em with red paint. Does that make
me an artist, too?’ She plucked a stalk of grass and minced about pretending to use it as a brush to paint imaginary pictures
in the air.

A terrible anger grew in Beth’s breast, building up like the pressure of steam in a covered pan, and then erupted, obscuring
her vision with a scarlet haze. She grasped hold of the girl’s black hair and slapped her laughing face.