The Painter's Apprentice (2 page)

The following morning Beth eased herself out of bed, careful not to allow in a draught of freezing air under the sheet, which
would disturb her sister. Father rarely allowed fires in the bedrooms any more, except in the case of sickness. Cecily still
slept, her mass of black hair tumbled on the pillow; Beth was determined to escape without being followed.

Shivering violently in the penetrating cold, she slipped on a clean chemise and hurriedly stepped into her favourite blue
petticoat with the embroidered hem. Cecily stirred as Beth lifted the lid of the chest to take out her bodice and skirt. Holding
her breath, she waited until Cecily sighed and burrowed back into her nest of blankets.

Beth laced her bodice and slipped the chain of her silver whistle over her head. She twisted up her hair, securing it with
a tortoiseshell comb. Shoes in hand, she made her escape.

Gales of laughter were coming from her brothers’ bedchamber as she pushed the door open. Kit and John, still in their nightshirts,
were propped up against the pillows while Noah, fully dressed, lounged on the end of the bed.

‘I see you are already awake and in bad company, Noah,’ said Beth.

John wiped tears of laughter off his face. ‘N-N-Noah was telling us about his voyage to England. One of the s-s-sailors had
a parrot and he’d trained it to say all m-m-manner of things.’

‘Most of them unfit for a lady’s ears, I’m sorry to say,’ said Noah with a warning glance.

‘How long was the journey from Virginia?’ asked Beth, settling herself on to the other corner of the bed.

‘Six weeks. I didn’t enjoy the first week very much but after that I found my sea legs. I travelled with an acquaintance,
Harry de Montford, whose father is a landowner near Jamestown and he always had a merry tale to tell or some mischief to get
up to. Then there were other passengers who would play a game of cards with us. And, of course, I had the care of the trees
to keep me busy.’

‘Trees?’ asked Beth.

‘The roots had to be kept damp in sacking and the leaves misted with fresh water every day. It was a constant difficulty to
guard the barrel of water to prevent the sailors helping themselves. Fresh water was always in short supply on the ship.’

‘But why did you bring t-t-trees to England?’ asked John, his weather-beaten face puzzled. ‘We have p-p-plenty of trees here.’

‘Our clergyman charged me with bringing specimens native to Virginia, but unknown in England, safely into the care of Henry
Compton, your Bishop of London.’

‘For the gardens at Fulham Palace?’ said Beth. ‘The Bishop has a great collection of exotic trees and plants, I believe.’

‘Indeed he has. The Bishop has been of great help to me,’ said Noah. ‘He was pleased with my tender care of his specimens;
in return he furnished me with letters of introduction and invited me to reside in Fulham Palace. I’ve had the good fortune
to secure the
opportunity of working with Sir Christopher Wren on the construction of several churches which are being rebuilt in the city.’

‘But you intend to return to Virginia?’

‘Next autumn.’

Kit sighed. ‘I would so like to travel to the New World. I’m tired of living in a village and tired of Merryfields.’

‘How c-c-can you say that!’ said John.

‘Do you really wish to travel, Kit?’ asked Noah, giving his cousin a searching look.

Kit shrugged. ‘Father will never allow it. I am to be a doctor and in due course take his place here at Merryfields.’

John’s stomach let out a growl of hunger and everyone laughed.

‘Time for you lazy boys to rise from your bed!’ said Beth, pulling the pillow away from behind him. ‘And I shall take Noah
to find some breakfast.’

Beth led Noah along the gallery, stopping to show him the solar with the minstrels’ gallery overlooking the great hall.

‘These old houses are full of fascination for me,’ he said, running his hands over the carved oak balustrading while he peered
down at the great hall below. ‘We have nothing as old as this in Virginia.’

‘When we were children, Kit and I used to peep down from the gallery at the grown-ups eating their dinner. Phoebe, our nurse,
used to scold us back to the nursery but Mama and Father never really minded.’ Beth took Noah’s arm and turned him to look
at the paintings that lined the panelled gallery walls. ‘What do you think of these?’

Noah studied them in more detail. ‘Magnificent!’ he said. ‘Dutch?’

‘Yes. And no.’ Beth smiled. ‘They were painted by a Dutchman here in England. Take a closer look.’ She paused beside the portrait
of an elegant woman dressed in green damask, standing with her face turned to catch the light of a window.

Noah’s face broke into a smile. ‘Why, it’s Aunt Susannah!’

‘And if you look at the painted view out of the window you’ll see that it’s the garden at Merryfields.’

He leaned closer to study the delicate brushwork of the lace on Susannah’s gown. ‘Who is the artist?’

‘Johannes van de Vyver. Would you like to meet him?’

‘Most certainly!’

‘Come with me, then.’

Further along the gallery Beth opened a door. She watched Noah’s face, hoping that he would like her most favourite place
in all of Merryfields.

Three tall windows with diamond-paned glass flooded the room with light, even on such a grey and misty day. The walls, ceiling
and beams were whitewashed to reflect light to every corner and the air was heavy with linseed oil and turpentine. A paint-stained
work table was cluttered with earthenware pots of brushes, a half-stretched canvas, a wine-red grinding slab of speckled porphyry
and neatly folded cleaning rags. One wall was covered with marvellously lifelike botanical paintings and larger canvases of
landscapes and interiors in the Dutch fashion were propped up against the walls.

A great bear of a man, untidily dressed and with ragged blond hair, stood before an extravagantly large canvas on an easel
by the window. He had an ancient piece of sacking tied around his waist, encrusted with multicoloured daubs of paint. The
tip of his tongue protruded through his lips as he worked.

Noah moved forward but Beth caught him by his sleeve and put her fingers to her lips.

After a moment the painter sighed and wiped his brush on his apron, adding a new rose madder stripe.

‘Johannes?’ whispered Beth.

The big man started. ‘Ach, Beth! I tell you before not to creep up on me!’ He pulled a piece of muslin carefully over the
canvas, hiding it from view.

‘Forgive me, Johannes, but I wanted to introduce you to Noah, lately come from Virginia. He is an architect.’

Johannes offered his hand, noticed that it was smeared with ultramarine paint and wiped it on his breeches. ‘Everyone was
talking about you at supper last night.’ His English was good, although he spoke with a Dutch accent.

Noah bowed. ‘I’ve been admiring your work displayed along the gallery, sir. I, too, like to draw but I recognise real skill
when I see it.’

Johannes shook his head. ‘My efforts are never enough.’

‘Johannes is as hard a taskmaster to himself as he is to others,’ said Beth, smiling fondly at him.

‘May I see?’ Noah moved towards the canvas but the artist folded his sturdy arms and blocked the way.

‘No one sees my work until it is finished!’ He glanced at Beth with a half-smile. ‘Except for Beth, if she has worked hard.’

Noah glanced around the studio, taking in a still life set up on a side table with a lute, a glass decanter and a Delft fruit
bowl of apples all carefully arranged on a richly patterned Persian carpet. He noticed a smaller, uncovered canvas rested
on another easel and stepped up to take a closer look.

Beth watched his face intently while he studied the watercolour painting. It depicted a deep mauve hellebore, the petals delicately
veined in purple with lime green stamens to the centre. A drop of dew shimmered on the stem as if stirred by the draught from
the window.

‘This is beautiful!’ he said, reaching out to stroke the velvety petals before drawing his hand back. ‘It’s so lifelike it
makes me want to touch it.’

Beth let out a small sigh. ‘It’s mine.’

‘Johannes painted it for you?’

Johannes gave a shout of laughter. ‘My pupil still has much to learn but this little daub doesn’t disgrace her too badly.’
He pulled Beth to his broad chest and hugged her. ‘Perhaps I’ll make a painter of you yet, my little chicken!’

‘This is your work?’ Noah asked Beth, his eyebrows raised.

Beth nodded and felt her cheeks warm. ‘I’ve been Johannes’s pupil for nearly four years now.’

‘It’s a pity she isn’t a boy or I’d have taken her on as an apprentice,’ said Johannes, dropping a kiss on to the top of her
head as he released her. ‘As it is, she’ll probably waste my efforts by marrying and having a houseful of babies.’

‘I expect you’re right,’ said Noah. He smiled kindly at Beth. ‘Still, many women with artistic tendencies do enjoy dabbling
with their paints again when the children are grown.’ He turned away from Beth’s hellebore to study one of Johannes’ landscapes.

Rage boiled up in Beth’s breast. ‘I do not
dabble
with my paints. And I’ll not waste the skills that I have by taking a husband and spending the rest of my life waiting upon
his whims,’ she retorted.

Noah glanced back at her. ‘Really? I’ll wager you’ll change your mind within a year or two.’

‘I will not!’

Johannes put his great hand on her shoulder but she shook it off.

‘Don’t glare at me!’ said Noah, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. ‘I see your red hair makes you quite as fiery-tempered as
my sisters. I had no intention of upsetting you but, you must agree, it is the way of the world for a woman to marry and have
children?’

‘Because that is the way it has always been doesn’t necessarily make it right!’

‘Beth, Beth! Calm yourself,’ said Johannes. ‘It doesn’t matter what other people think. You will continue to make the best
work you can and let nothing prevent you. Your paintings will speak for themselves.’

‘Please, let us not argue since it is plain to see that you do have a considerable gift,’ said Noah.

Appeased by his response, Beth shrugged. ‘Do you need me to prepare any more paints for you, Johannes?’

‘Go and enjoy yourself and I’ll see you later.’ Johannes picked up his paintbrush again.

‘Shall we go, Noah? We have disturbed Johannes enough,’ she said.

The artist lifted a hand to them and turned back to his canvas.

‘Your Johannes has a great deal of talent,’ said Noah once they had left, ‘and, plainly, he cares a great deal for you. How
lucky that you have such an excellent teacher.’

‘Isn’t it? One of my earliest memories is of seeing the sunshine playing on the coloured water in the glass bottles on the
apothecary windowsill and standing on a stool trying to catch the magic of the reflections on a piece of paper. As a small
child I always had a stick of charcoal and a sketchbook in my hand.’

‘I did too! But my father never understood why drawing interested me so.’

‘Neither did mine. I was fortunate to have Johannes to encourage me. After he arrived here I used to creep into the studio
and watch him at work. Seeing one of his paintings grow from a simple outline to something that appeared very real and beautiful
seemed like magic to me. I became consumed with the desire to learn how he made it happen. One morning when I thought he was
still abed, he caught me mixing up some of his pigments and applying them to one of my sketches.’

‘And so he began to teach you?’

Beth laughed and shook her head. ‘I dropped the palette in fright when I heard his roar of fury and I’ve never had such a
scolding before or since! Then he picked up my sketch and looked at it. He didn’t say a word about it but made me clear up
the mess and set me to grinding pigments for him. After a month of this he showed me how to look at a still life; to see how
the colours changed with the light and how the shadows fell. Eventually he let me sit beside him and draw my own still life.
I learned never to disturb him with idle chatter and, in time, a whole new way of looking at the world.’ She dropped her intent
gaze from Noah’s face and her cheeks flushed. ‘But most of all, Johannes made me feel as if what I was doing was
important. As if I was unique and special and my developing talent really mattered. Can you understand that?’

‘It’s true,’ said Noah thoughtfully, ‘that if you feel passion for something it alters your perspective. I cannot look at
any building without seeing what I can learn from it or how I could improve upon it and enrich the lives of those who will
live in it.’ He smiled at her. ‘We are alike in our passion, I think.’

They set off along the gallery again.

‘Johannes is working hard on a seascape now,’ said Beth, ‘and I’m hoping he’ll make good progress before he becomes unwell
again.’

‘Unwell?’

‘Perhaps I didn’t say? Johannes is one of our long-term guests.’

‘A guest?’ Noah caught hold of her arm. ‘You mean he …’

‘Yes.’

‘But is it safe for you to spend so much time with him?’

‘Johannes never hurts anyone but himself. Sometimes he becomes very sad and self-critical. I have known him to weep for days
and once he dragged all his paintings outside and set fire to them.’

‘What a terrible waste!’

‘Father says his humours are out of balance,’ said Beth. ‘But I blame the Catholics.’

Noah smiled. ‘The Catholics are blamed for a lot of things here in England. What did they do to Johannes that was so terrible?’

‘It’s not amusing, Noah! Nine years ago the French murdered his brothers in the Battle of Cassel. They killed more than
eight thousand
of the Dutch and Johannes has never forgiven himself for being the only one of his brothers to survive.’

Noah looked grave. ‘I can see how a man might be stricken with guilt, even though it wasn’t his fault.’

‘And then, to make it all worse, a French soldier ravished his wife.’ Beth sighed, remembering all the times Johannes had
broken down as he relived those terrible events. ‘Later, Annelies and the
babe she carried both died of her injuries. He hates the French, and therefore all Catholics, with a passion.’ She lifted
her chin and clenched her fists. ‘And so do I, for what they did to him.’