The Beauties, page 1
Praise for The Beauties
‘The Beauties is simultaneously a beautifully structured portrait of the intrigue and treachery of life in the court of Charles II and a deeply empathetic study of the sacrifices the women at its centre must make to survive.’
James Bradley OAM, author of The Resurrectionist
‘In The Beauties Lauren Chater has inhaled the spirit of the age and breathed it onto every shimmering page. A beautifully evocative must read.’
Nicole Alexander, bestselling author of The Bark Cutters
‘The Beauties is intelligent, beguiling and absorbing… Chater’s writing is a feast, rich and detailed, drawing us into the world of theatre, art and court in sixteenth-century London and Delft, where women strive against social limitations to create and develop their talents, and to find love and security.’
Robyn Cadwallader, award-winning author of The Fire and the Rose
‘Power. Ambition. Passion…. Lauren Chater’s The Beauties explores the many facets of beauty – and those who covet it, curse it, and long to create it – while capturing the grit and vibrancy of seventeenth-century London in rich and sweeping brushstrokes. Delicious and addictive!’
Kell Woods, author of After the Forest
Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.
Join our mailing list to get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster.
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.
For Lily
‘Lely on animated canvas stole
the sleepy eye that spoke the melted soul.’
Alexander Pope
1
Emilia
West Sussex, 1662
She should move faster. Soon these corridors will be crowded with servants stoking fires, preparing breakfast and lugging buckets of water in from the pump. Emilia Lennox is expected to be dressed and seated in the great hall of Walden House by eight. Lady Agnes, her mother-in-law, won’t tolerate any disruption to the routine she has imposed on the household. Emilia increases her pace. She could visit the gallery during the day, but it’s not the same. There’s something magical about being alone with the paintings, communing with them in the near-dark. Robert’s grandfather had assembled the collection. Before he took possession of Walden House, the artworks – including some masterpieces by Van der Weyden and Bandinelli – were languishing in a damp storeroom, their brilliance smothered by layers of cloth. The former earl, possessing little knowledge of art, had purchased the bulk of the paintings through a series of art dealers, hoping to please his young wife. When she died, he ordered them taken down and hidden away. His son recognised them for what they were – glimpses into countless lives and places, portals to other worlds. Emilia is their custodian now. It has taken years of wasted canvas, ruined parchment and frustrated tears for her to understand how important they are to her. Now, when she goes to her studio in the old folly tower, she will be ready. She will not doubt her abilities or give in to distraction. Her inner critic will be silent, keeping its opinions to itself.
She hurries up the grand staircase, flinching at the cold. The threat of autumn is balanced by the promise of red leaves and bare branches and ripe plums. She pictures the plums nestled in a porcelain bowl. Five – no, seven. Odd numbers look more interesting on the page. She’s never painted fruit before but perhaps she is ready. She will sketch them in silver chalk before applying a wash of carmine mixed with umber. The plum’s skin is tight and rubbery. If you caress it with your thumb, it leaves a bluish bruise. How to capture this? What colour comes closest to such a bold shade?
Hidden in her dresser is a small pot of precious lapis lazuli which she’s been saving for months. She ordered it on a whim, even though the cost was exorbitant. It arrived along with brushes and other pigments, wrapped in brown paper and sealed with a lump of wax bearing the tradesman’s mark. A letter tucked inside the parcel provided a detailed description of each item and a short recipe for use. Addressing her as ‘my lady’, the supplier had thanked Emilia for her patronage and invited her to visit his workshop in person, should she ever find herself in London. I have many items which might interest you, he had written. I can source anything Your Ladyship requires. Emilia pictured herself entering the workshop, greeting the man at his counter, filling a basket with supplies. Then she crumpled the note and threw it in the fire. She could no sooner travel to London to buy art materials than leap out the window and fly. Even if she could convince Robert’s family to allow her to leave, a tradesman’s shop run by a stranger was no place for a woman. Someone would need to accompany her. Who could be trusted with such a mission? Sir John’s valet? One of the workers from the estate? She could not ask Robert. He was hardly ever home and knew nothing of her artmaking.
Passing a window, she hears the plaintive call of a nightingale. Its loneliness pricks her heart. Robert has spent more time away from home this year than ever before. He often stays in Suffolk or Kent with friends, fellow soldiers who fought to drive back the Roundheads at Dunbar. The men engage in day-long drinking sessions and lose themselves hunting in the forest. According to Robert, they share stories of their fallen comrades. Once, fuelled by grief and wine, they burned down an abandoned cottage. Robert doesn’t want to expose her to that kind of violence, so she must stay behind.
Lady Agnes and Sir John are here, but they’re Robert’s parents, not hers. After seven years of marriage, she still feels like a guest in their house, albeit one who has been given permission to roam. If she was a mother, things might be different. But Robert is seldom at home. So far, nothing has come of their efforts. Robert seemed understanding when they were first married. Over time, his patience has worn thin. Emilia suspects he blames her for their failure to conceive. She has come to dread their awkward couplings. He once remarked to her, in front of his parents, that barrenness was God’s punishment for a woman’s lack of faith. Hoping to prove him wrong, Emilia increased her prayers. It hasn’t helped.
At least she has her art and the masterpieces to keep her company. She chanced upon the gallery one morning shortly after her arrival, when a wrong turn led her not to the dining hall where Lady Agnes was waiting but to the corridor of priceless treasures. Sir John recounted the gallery’s history later that day, although he was more interested in showing her the heraldic plasterwork commemorating each branch of the family and inviting her to admire Walden’s perfectly symmetrical chimneystacks. He was excessively proud of the estate, which had been transferred to the Lennox family sometime during the thirteenth century in recognition of the loyalty they’d shown during a foiled rebellion.
‘Edward was the king then,’ he told her. ‘Or was it Richard? In any case, the rebels were rounded up and taken to the Tower of London where they were… they were…’ He trailed off, seeming suddenly to lose his place. As he gazed at her, Emilia had the uncomfortable impression he did not recognise her. She was about to ask if he needed to sit down when he caught sight of the gardens through the windows and his expression brightened. Hurrying her downstairs, he began praising Walden’s exotic blooms, grown in distant soils and transplanted to the estate’s flowerbeds. ‘None as fair as you, my dear. You are a rose surrounded by common daisies.’
His vociferous praise, coming so soon after his abandoned tale, felt like an obvious attempt to mask his forgetfulness. Emilia chose not to embarrass him. She knew she was fortunate to live here. The artwork alone was worth any amount of discomfort.
Reaching the darkened gallery, she pauses. Her candle casts a beam across the ornate floral runner. The descending quiet seems laden with expectation, as if the paintings have just stopped talking. Emilia breathes in their intoxicating scent of oil paint and varnish. Tell me your secrets, she prays, stepping over the threshold. Give me your approval. Lend me your light.
* * *
Once the final resting place of broken furniture and faded tapestries, the folly tower where Emilia paints now resembles one of those sky-filled eyries favoured by astronomers. Constructed during the last century by Robert’s grandfather, the building was originally intended to be decorative rather than functional. Medieval flourishes in the form of arched doors and flying buttresses add a touch of twelfth-century Gothic grandeur to the exterior. Two large windows lend sufficient light to the sketching easel at the room’s far end and the circular table which holds an arrangement of flowers. Emilia changes the flowers herself, waiting until she is sure they have nothing more to teach her before disposing of them in the little wilderness bordering the drive. Capturing their transformation from vibrant blossoms to withered stalks was one of the first challenges she set herself. It seemed to her a dry but important study, the kind of exercise an artist’s apprentice might be required to complete to his master’s satisfaction before graduating to the fussier elements of flesh and fabric. She returns to the practice often, pleased to note the gradual improvement of her skills.
Her first clumsy attempts were fed to the fire. The next few turned out better. Once, excited by her progress, she invited Lady Agnes to join her after morning prayers. She should have known better. The woman’s scowl as she gazed at the canvas alerted Emilia to her error. Too late, she saw the piece through her visitor’s eyes, its flaws as evident as its merits.
‘A sorry waste of effort. Did you reprimand the serving girl for letting the fire go out in the library
Emilia swore afterwards that she would never reveal her work to anyone before it was ready. She hasn’t shown Robert up to the tower. She dreads seeing her mother-in-law’s expression cross his placid face. Before the marriage banns were read, Robert promised to protect her interests and make her happy. Emilia is certain this does not include the pursuit of hobbies that Lady Agnes considers a regrettable use of energy and resources. Sir John is aware of her artistic pursuits. Emilia had to tell him. When she decided to take up painting, hoping to fill the long hours in which Robert was absent, she had to ask Sir John if knew of any place on the property she could claim for her studio. She couldn’t paint in her bedchamber; at night the fumes would bother her and there was no room for the kinds of materials an artist required – an easel, a pumice stone to smooth roughened canvas, a pig’s bladder to store wet paint.
Sir John’s suggestion of the folly tower turned out to be ideal, even if, when she first mounted the stairs and looked around, she was dismayed to find the place was damp and smelled of mice. A rotting bedframe stood against one wall. Torn books were scattered across the floor. Stained clothing hung on a rusted coat hook and an iron pike gathered dust in a corner. Someone had lived up there once and their essence – slippery, elusive – remained, trapped in all the broken things they’d left behind. A foul smell – not quite as powerful as the urine stink of the mice colony but equally unpleasant – lingered in the abandoned belongings. Emilia was afraid it would persist. Once she’d cleared the clutter, the smell disappeared and she was grateful to have a place to which she could slip away and turn her gaze inwards, sifting through the information she’d absorbed during the morning’s perusal of the gallery.
Tying an apron over her silk dress, she picks up a stick of graphite and settles herself in front of her easel, staring at the flowers in their vase until the petals imprint themselves on her eyelids and she can still see them when she looks away. Observation is the hardest thing to learn. To make the picture in her head match the one on the parchment, she must cast off the things people say she is – a beautiful woman, an exotic flower, an earl’s daughter-in-law, a childless bride. For a few hours, she must find inside herself a space generous enough to accommodate the demands of her consciousness. She must transform fear into courage. Blessed by her favourite artists, how can she possibly fail?
As she is sketching the curved sepal of a striped tulip, she hears hoofbeats floating up from the drive below. Robert returning early. A flicker of irritation at the disruption is followed swiftly by a surge of guilt. Sighing, she takes off her apron and goes to greet him.
But it is not Robert. The stranger has already dismounted by the time she reaches the courtyard. A wide-eyed stableboy clutches the panting horse’s reins. Sir John stands on the man’s left, gesturing at the house and grounds. As Emilia approaches, he is describing the variety of animals roaming the woodlands.
‘Giant stags, sir, dozens of them.’
‘I thought they favoured wetter conditions.’
Sir John’s chin wobbles as he shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid you are quite mistaken. They prefer a dry, shaded wilderness. But they must still have water. You see that hillock there?’ He points. ‘That’s the source of a stream which runs all the way through the property. If Robert were here, I’d ask him to show you. Follow that stream and you’ll have all the deer your heart desires.’
The stranger grins. The skin on his hands and face is heavily freckled. An embroidered gold crest, the Stuart coat of arms, blazes on his dark coat. Reaching into a bag slung across his chest, he produces a coin which he hands to the stableboy. The boy bows and leads the horse away in the direction of the stables. The stranger must be important, Emilia thinks. Deer are precious. But who is he? She hears the stranger ask Sir John what else one might expect to find.
‘Oh, coneys, pheasants, pine martens. But the giant bucks are the star attraction. At last count there were thirty-two. I recorded the number in a little book. The largest buck was a legend in the district. The workers called him Colossus. It took six hours for us to track him through the forest, another two to bring him to his knees. Now the beast’s head hangs in the great hall, greeting Walden’s guests and presiding over our family’s meals.’
‘How interesting,’ the stranger replies. ‘And do you welcome many visitors here? Are the roads busy now that the countryside has been rid of the Parliamentarian rabble?’
Before Sir John has a chance to answer, Emilia steps out of the shadows.
The stranger’s mouth falls open and he blinks several times. ‘And who is this fair beauty?’
Sir John beams. ‘My daughter-in-law, Emilia. Isn’t she a vision? When she was just a child – our families have enjoyed a long association – an artist begged her mother for permission to paint her portrait. He said her hair was the same colour as a frozen waterfall he’d glimpsed on his travels throughout Christendom. We heard a rumour the painting was purchased by someone in the old king’s retinue and displayed on the walls of the palace at Whitehall. Then the war began, and no one knows what became of it. Fortunately for us, we can admire the original. When my son Robert told me he intended to make her his bride, I advised him to hurry lest his older brother swoop in and marry her first. Will was always a fool for a pretty face.’
The stranger, emboldened by Sir John’s praise, runs his eyes up and down her figure appreciatively before bowing his head. ‘Lady Emilia, permit me to present myself. My name is Hugh Bancroft. I am an agent of His Majesty, the King of England.’
Curtseying low, Emilia forces herself to smile. ‘And what brings you to Walden, Mr Bancroft?’
‘I’m here at the king’s request. Sir John has generously offered to host me until my duties are completed. I plan to stay one night, perhaps two, depending on how long it takes.’
‘How long what takes?’
He makes no reply but continues to smile. Experiencing a sudden chill, Emilia glances up, expecting to find the sun has vanished behind a cloud. The bright disc is still there, its rays glancing off Walden’s gleaming gables and chimneystacks. Sir John’s favourite saying resounds in her head. The sun shines on Walden like God smiles upon His blessed flock.
Sir John turns and leads them towards the house, leaving Emilia to fall into step with the king’s man.
‘Your husband is away,’ he observes.
‘He’s visiting some friends in Suffolk.’
‘Is he frequently absent? Does he often leave you alone?’
‘I’m not alone. Sir John is here, and Lady Agnes. All the servants. Some of them fought in the king’s army at Hayward Heath. They hid after the Royalists fell and returned when it was safe to do so.’
‘What about your brother-in-law?’ He glances at her sideways. ‘Will, is it? Is he at home? Does he visit?’
A ribbon of fear unfurls in her stomach. ‘William no longer lives here. We haven’t seen him in years.’
Holding her skirts, she hurries to catch up with Sir John, following him into the entrance hall where the scent of turf, burned a hundred years ago by Lennox ancestors, seems to linger, lending a sweet earthy note to the aromas of beeswax and warm bread rising from the kitchens below. The house is curiously hushed. As Sir John shows the king’s man to the library, Emilia asks a passing serving girl where her mistress might be found. The girl informs her that Lady Agnes has taken to her bed with a headache. Emilia is relieved. Agnes’s blunt, forthright manner would not suit the circumstances; better that Emilia uncover the reason for Hugh Bancroft’s visit without causing offence. Entering the library, she hears Sir John offering to show Bancroft his translated copy of Brant’s Ship of Fools. Bancroft gives the folio a quick glance then asks if he might look around. Sir John is busily engrossed in his book, so it is up to Emilia to offer to accompany him.
‘No need,’ the man replies. ‘I will do nicely on my own.’
