The Other Side Of Silence E-Book

Dodie Bishop

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Against a backdrop of murder and intrigue at the dissolute court of King Charles II, can Susannah and Raphael save their friend and find each other along the way?

After a three-year absence mired in anxiety and trapped by her lack of speech, portrait miniaturist Susannah Gresham gathers her courage and returns to Whitehall Palace and her godfather, the king. Encountering Florentine jeweller Raphael Rossi, who appears to her just another court libertine, she is surprised when he finds his way unbidden into her thoughts.

With help from the Duchess of Richmond, Raphael has set out to win her heart. When Susannah’s closest friend Sam Carter is sentenced to death for a murder he did not commit, Susannah and Raphael must race against time to uncover the real killer.

But nothing is as it seems, for Sam has dangerous enemies who are determined to see him die... and will go to any lengths to achieve their goal.

Leseprobe

The Other Side of Silence

SILENCE AND SHADOWS BOOK 1

DODIE BISHOP

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Author’s Note

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 Dodie Bishop

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Fading Street Services

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For my sons, Chris and Alex, who always believed I could.

If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.

George Eliot, Middlemarch.

ChapterOne

SUSANNAH

Might it be possible? Sitting at the battered walnut desk in my Henrietta Street bedchamber surrounded by so much that is familiar and dear to me, I begin to hope. Can I not draw strength from it, somehow? The bed with its sage green velvet drapes. My first good watercolours lovingly framed upon the walls. Papa’s small portrait of Mama. My gaze halts there, wishing she was with me still, so none of it would have happened.

From the window, the sky is a sharp winter blue above the only London home I have ever known. My fingers trace the constellation of nicks and scratches on the desktop, familiar with them as with keys to play a tune. Placed in the centre is a book bound in fine brown calfskin with intricate gilded tracery at each of its corners. On the frontispiece I have already written Susannah Gresham. A coal shifts on the fire, startling me from my musings. I open the book, but still I hesitate. Why? I dip my pen with a sigh, staring at the blank page, its very blankness seeming a reproof. How can it feel such a huge thing to make this first tiny stroke? Have I the courage? I make a mark. The ink blots, but I have begun.

Diary: November 25, 1675

I write this journal because I am about to move back into my life and wish to record it so perhaps my journey may be eased by seeing evidence of the steps I manage each day. All forward ones I pray. I refuse to countenance failure when there has already been too much. For I am trapped and must find a way to escape. And, yes, I do laugh at myself because of it occasionally, albeit in a mocking sort of way. For how can I not when my predicament is entirely of my own making?

I must admit here that I am quite cravenly afraid, for this day is not one I saw coming. Or not yet. Nowhere near yet, in truth. But is it not better this way when I would have hidden from it if I could? I gasp a breath and straighten my back. Today I shall steel myself to return to Whitehall Palace again for the first time in three years and present myself to my godfather, the King.

Papa has shown him some of my new miniatures – another step back to who I was – and they have pleased him, so he has commissions for me. A slight narrowing of his eyes told Papa – who is his friend of many years – he had seen through my ruse. Few do. For whom would not believe themselves a little younger or comelier or indeed more manly. Many have come to Henrietta Street to view their finished miniature and left with maybe a greater sense of self-worth if not heightened vanity. All this while I imprisoned myself here.

The church bells sound in St Paul’s in Bedford Street and now, God help me, it is time to leave.

Returned at last to my bedchamber, I compose myself before taking up my pen to write by candlelight. I must note first that I am truly proud of myself for only I know what this day cost me.

It began with a musical performance in the Banqueting House. Ranks of fluted marble columns soared. Rubens’ exquisite, panelled ceiling dazzled. Heavy glittering chandeliers plunged, luminous with candles. I tried at least to appreciate the beauty of it all again, but it was difficult. I walked in on my father’s arm, assailed by a miasma of perfume and raucous voices, wishing myself invisible though perhaps James and Catherine’s flamboyant dress meant I was to no little extent. Papa squeezed my arm with his to reassure me while I tried to maintain my usual detached expression, despite my loathing of any enforced time in the company of my stepmother and her son. Though it was not that, was it? I was not detached, of course, but rather sick with anxiety to be at the palace again. I must bring truth to this or what purpose will it serve?

I found the performance of Carissimi’s Jephte heartbreakingly beautiful, though the constant chatter from the audience was unsettling. It was a reminder of what I most disliked about the court. The shallowness of it all. I saw the King seated at the front before the dais between his brother and his son, all three splendid in scarlet satin and gold lace. His head often tipped towards Monmouth, discussing the performance I hoped, for had he not commanded it? His brother’s eyes were closed though, his chin threatening to fall to his chest until his duchess touched his arm, for he is known to lack Charles’s eclectic tastes and would far rather be racing him on horseback at Newmarket.

In truth, I was much relieved when it was over, and I could attend the King at the privy apartments close beside the river. Though I approached the closet where I might swop my mantua for a painter’s smock with some caution, knocking and opening the door but a crack to make sure it was unoccupied. Last time I had done so only to be confronted by the sight of a naked male posterior thrusting between a lady’s thighs upon the sofa. I shuddered at the recollection, thankful that on this occasion it was empty, allowing me to change and collect my painter’s box and easel needed for my work.

How thin and pale was my reflection in the mirror … as Catherine never failed to point out to me. I blinked back tears, needing my mother just as much then as I had ever done. I could scarce believe it three years since her death and for each one, I have hidden away. Can I admit here how much it has been in anger? I must, of course. And how much I now despise myself for it.

The King’s rooms were more lavish than when last I saw them as was one of his long-standing mistresses whom I am to paint. Though I had heard tell of his spectacular silver furniture, I was not quite prepared for its startling presence or indeed its abundance. I gazed at a console table embossed with tulips and scrolling acanthus leaves, his crowned cypher chased at its centre. On either side were matching candelabra stands, with a mirror above to reflect the light. Jesu. This lavish place felt … outlandish. I took a deep breath in air heavy with a cloyingly sweet floral perfume, though its taste was bitter on my tongue.

Lady Castlemaine, Duchess of Cleveland, was to be painted sitting beside her son whom on reaching thirteen years, had been made Duke of Southampton by his father the King. How vexed my stepmother is that, though her first husband was a Villiers, he was but a distant kinsman to this one. Our lives might have been very different now should he have had closer connections. My poor papa would surely have escaped her clutches as a means of getting to court. My heart pounds with indignation for all the good it does.

After watching me begin my work and praising both his mistress and his son for their poise as sitters, the King turned to me. ‘Why, Susannah, do you no longer speak? We remember you had plenty to say for yourself the last time you were here. What can have brought about such a reversal?’

I shook my head and looked to my brush, horrified by his sudden interest. This was why I had stayed away. These were questions I had no answers for. I chew my lip as I write. If any man has the look and stature of a King, it is he. Everything about his person exudes power and entitlement. He terrified me.

He sighed his vexation. ‘What then if we should command it of you?’

Why in the name of Jesu had I gone there when I knew he would challenge me? Not brave, merely reckless. I put down my brush, lifting the notebook I kept tied on a girdle at my waist, and with trembling fingers scrawled, ‘Your Majesty. I cannot. It is not in my control.’

‘But your father tells me you have had no injury or illness to bring about such an enduring deficiency.’

I clenched my jaw and scribbled, ‘I cannot explain it, Sire.’ How abjectly feeble, as I knew how very much he despised such weakness. When his eyes narrowed, I feared his temper was about to erupt. I had witnessed it once as a girl and never forgotten it. Papa, and others often at court, tell me it is now a more regular occurrence. The line between his fierce brows deepened, like an arrow pointing to his mighty nose. I held my breath, my stomach clenching at the prospect of his rage now directed at me.

Then, he smiled and shook his head, tweaking my cheek with his big fingers. ‘A woman’s mind is ever a mystery for want of male reason, if nothing else … and we wouldn’t have it different. We shall leave you to your task.’ With a nod to Castlemaine and Southampton, he left the chamber trailed by his usual retinue. They seemed very little changed in the years I had been away. I pretended not to hear the sniggers from some fine examples of male reason as they passed by.

After breathing deeply for some moments to gather myself, I looked to my work again, standing resolutely at my easel until I had sufficient completed in watercolour to copy with enamel onto precious metal in Papa’s studio. Castlemaine’s cream satin and crimson mantua contrasted well with her son’s indigo velvet and would be helpful to the portrait’s colour balance. She was gracious when I told her we were done. Her boy had fallen asleep, his chin down upon his chest, and she woke him with impatient hands before coming to look at my work.

‘You will make much of my fine white skin.’ She touched her face more gently than she had her son.

I knew she thought of her younger rival, the Duchess of Richmond, whose face bore some ravages of smallpox, though without leaving her sufficiently disfigured to deter the King’s affections. They all seemed so jaded for such activities. I shuddered at the thought of all that flesh released from its bejewelled encasements. Though such indulgent abandon befitted those rooms entirely.

Back in the Henrietta Street studio, soothed by aromas of hot metal and firing enamel, I became myself again, my racing heart slowing, and my breathing eased. Rows of worktables and shelves of metal oxides. Jars of powdered glass in vibrant colours beside flagons of amber oil. And key to it all, the kiln where we performed our alchemy. Everyone was busy and no one looked up at my arrival. Good.

Assessing my composition placed down on my table, I was surprised at its fluency despite my unease while painting it. Then, using my lens, I began applying my first colour paste – prepared by Papa’s assistant, Edmund, without need to ask – to the gleaming gold disc. I sighed my relief. Yes, this studio had become my refuge. Too much so, I knew. It had become my hiding place. And, finally, my prison. Had I not withdrawn within myself, too, by not speaking?

The more I had thought of my predicament the more it alarmed me, for it would rob me of my life if I allowed it. So eventually, when one fear sufficiently outweighed the other, I went outside. I sighed again, knowing it was now time to address my silence, which meant confronting the why of it, and with some honesty at last.

When the longcase clock chimed four, echoed as always by the bells of St Paul’s in Bedford Street, I put away my work and took off my smock before running downstairs to the receiving hall and tugging the bell pull to summon my maidservant. I hastily wrote on my pad, telling her I would go in her stead to Whitehall to fetch Penny home. She was visiting her friend whose parents had rooms off Wood Yard far from the King’s where I had been earlier. I am truly determined to make myself go out whenever I can and here was another opportunity. I hope the more I do so the easier it will become, though it is far from that yet.

Bess had Papa’s town coach sent round and I hurried to it in light already fading into evening, though the street was still lively with traffic. Coal smoke rose from every chimney to shroud the twilight and taint the air with its acrid odour. Inside, I pulled a rug over my knees for even through my fur-lined cloak, the air was chill.

Sam would soon be home from the French court, where he has been these last many months, and I longed for him in a way that almost overwhelmed me for I have known him my whole life. Loved him my whole life, and it felt a part of me was missing without him. ‘Sam.’ My breath misted the air in front of me. Yes, I can speak, though he is the only one to hear me now. And unbroken silence for so long has taken its toll upon me. So, this damnable thing must end, but I shall need his help to do it. Yet I laugh as I write. Why? Because he really should turn his back on me; I am so burdensome to him. He is too honourable to do it, of course.

It had begun when I lost my mother to the sweating sickness – well in the morning, dead by dark. Felled by shock and grief … and then impotent rage at her loss, my voice had truly deserted me for a time. I was twenty. Penny but four. I remember how powerless I felt, and silence gave me a sense of agency when it became something I could control. How glad I was for it, too, when Papa married Catherine Villiers just two months after her death. I used it to hurt then … and do still … so fittingly damaging myself most of all. Can Papa ever forgive me? For I know it must end now. And I must start by talking to him. Might it be that Sam’s prolonged absence has taught me a salutary lesson by opening my eyes to just how much I too need the easy chatter not possible with pencil and paper?

Penny was ready for me at the Foyles’ lodgings. I wrapped her in her own warm cloak and kissed her; she was so happy to see me when she had expected Bess. I smiled at her excitement wishing I could speak to her. What madness that I cannot.

As we crossed that icy court an odd young man came into view, appearing to dress himself as he walked. On hearing our approach, he looked up with such a strange expression on his swarthy face, I was quite unnerved. As I walked away towards King Street and my coach, Penny tugged at my hand.

‘A pretty man.’

I have never felt so brittle, as though one sharp blow would shatter me. I exhale, allowing fatigue to sweep over me for it can never be this arduous again. Can it?

Raphael

James Villiers led them through the crowd, turning heads with his dark and glossy handsomeness. He might have turned mine too, had my inclinations been such and I lacked knowledge of his reputation for violence and absence of scruples. No. Villiers seemed a man best avoided.

Yet many eyes both male and female followed him. Many lips were licked. While there is no doubt he is a very fine fellow, he had the look of a man too much reliant on his foppish clothing to get him noticed and in that he was not alone, of course. Though, as a Florentine not long to these shores, what did I know of English fashion and its artifice? My own clothes were tailored in Florence and sent by my father. Though I did appreciate the current English vogue for high-heeled shoes, which I adopted with deep gratitude. In truth, I know more of an English lady’s clothing than of a gentleman’s, I am somewhat ashamed to admit, with no little experience gained from its removal. I had moved away then, vexed by Villiers strutting; every stride, every arch sideways glance had the look of a performance refined before a looking glass. Although I turned back on hearing the name Susannah murmured through the crowd, intrigued to know who this might be and why her presence should cause such a stir.

Sir Richard Gresham followed behind James with his wife, Lady Catherine, upon one arm – just as polished and gem-encrusted as her son – and a slender girl on the other. So, this was Susannah Gresham. That I had never seen her until then was perhaps unsurprising considering the interest her attendance had provoked. It was her paleness that held my gaze. For I come from a land where such colouring is so rare and eye-catching, heads turn on the street to stare. Pale hair. Pale skin. Though with too little womanly flesh to be thought a beauty at court, she was without artifice in fine blue silk and a simple mantua. Should I not regret her lack of gems for I am here to sell them, after all? Yet she took my breath away.

I could not help but imagine peeling off those layers to expose more of that silky whiteness. But how was I back to such thoughts, as a man of seven and twenty, when I had once foresworn them? Though, Christ help me, I now took what was offered again. Which was plentiful enough. Though I do not know entirely why this should be.

Please do not think me unaware of my own shortcomings. Three elder sisters took care of that. I was only outstanding in my ordinariness and never at any stage in my life have I had sufficient stature. Hence, the heels. Still, I could not be entirely without charm. A warm body rolled in against me then, a small hand caressing my chest and moving slowly southwards.

‘Raphael, my dearest, you must soon away. My husband expects me prompt to supper, so I should begin to dress for it.’

The hand, I am ashamed to say, found no work necessary and not through any effect of her presence beside me. Of course, I soon rolled over her and there my musings on Susannah Gresham should have been abandoned but, to my further shame, they were not. With eyes closed, a woman’s body need not be her own, though I had to disregard some of milady’s fleshly curves beneath my hands. I do occasionally doubt I am quite a gentleman.

Charlotte lay naked atop her bed while I hastily dressed, ready to vacate her rooms so she might summon her maid’s assistance. She looked peevish and impatient as she twirled a strand of auburn hair around her finger. It was not a pretty look. Viewing her dispassionately – and all passion had by now entirely left me – she was a touch too plump, not forgetting she was ten years my senior. Nonetheless, she was generally willing and, indeed, more than a little able. When I smiled at her she returned it, looking quite herself again. I bent to kiss her, cupping her ample breast to let her know I would return another day and left her bedchamber, hastening through her ill-lit parlour with its paltry fire and whiff of mould, out into the freezing, gloomy court.

Away from the grand houses and lodgings, Whitehall Palace more resembled a ramshackle city quarter, and Sir Joshua’s rooms were about as far away from the King’s as was possible. Knighted for making him a generous loan – still outstanding, no doubt – Lady Canford had once caught Charles’s eye. I felt certain he had, along with many others so lodged, now quite forgotten he housed them at all.

I stopped a moment in the dismal yard to button my Brandenburg when soft footsteps on the gravel claimed my attention. I looked behind me to see Susannah Gresham approaching, hand in hand with a small girl who appeared her very double. Both were swathed in winter mantles. Her sister, surely? I had not known she had one. I doffed my hat, which I knew from feel had been a little askew and bowed. ‘Signorina.’ She brushed past me without acknowledgment. The little girl looked over her shoulder as they swept by and smiled. It was an enchanting smile and I had little doubt her sister’s would look much the same. I wondered if I should ever see it. And, yes, encountering her in person, I was mortified by the thought of my all too recent base imaginings and more than a little grateful for the shadows in which to hide it.

Returned to my Cheapside house, the contrast these surroundings made with Charlotte’s shabby and faded lodgings was certainly startling, not least for their Florentine décor with all its opulent white Carrara marble and gilded carvings. The fire was heaped high with blazing coals, the drawing room bright with candlelight. My father’s house had been bought as a London investment, and as a place from which to ply our trade with King Charles’s court. We sold him gems. We sold gems and jewellery to all of them and the only obstacle to this most pleasant and lucrative of relationships between a seller and a buyer, was their constant unwillingness to pay. This appeared to operate in direct relationship to their wealth. That is to say, the richest were most reluctant and the poorest most eager, so they may not appear lacking in funds.

Giuseppe, hearing the clatter of my footsteps on the marble stairs, soon arrived with wine and a letter from Papà. He held the silver tray balanced over his shoulder on one hand, the other placed behind his back. His black hair tied neatly at his neck. In the Rossi livery of green and gold, his face shone with his idea of the deference I deserved as my father’s son. He had been my childhood companion and played the part of my obsequious servant … when he remembered it. Or, indeed, wished to. I took off the flowing wig I only wore at court and tossed it onto a chair, smoothing my own hair which now more resembled his. In truth, we had much in common in appearance. The same colouring and slender build, though he was my elder by three years.

‘Wine first, Signore, eh? This letter has a bad feel to her, something cattivo.’ He placed his salver down and crossed himself, blinking as though seeing something invisible to me.

I rolled my eyes and held my hand out for a glass, my thoughts still full of Susannah Gresham. ‘Grazie, Nonna.’ I emptied it rapidly and held it out for him to refresh.

‘Ah, you sense it, too, my dearest padrone?’

‘I sense nothing of the sort. It’s a letter full of orders and complaints just as always. It can wait while I drink to an apparition of beauty.’ I swallowed several large gulps.

‘Ah, please God, a fine vergine this time. Not another old puttana, giving you the cock rot.’

I smiled. ‘A very fine maid, indeed.’ Though not in my imaginings.

He handed me the folded paper displaying my father’s large seal, holding it gingerly by a corner. ‘Signore, if you please. I may be in your employ, but it is your father who remunerates.’

‘Open it and hand it to me.’

‘Pah,’ he said, dropping it into my lap before sitting on a chair beside me, all pretence forgotten. ‘Fuck me sideways, but I shall not. Open it yourself you little shit.’

I laughed at his excellent impression of a London accent and snapped the wax. ‘Sell more.’ I held up a finger. ‘Make them pay sooner.’ Another finger. ‘Less household expense.’ A finger. ‘Find a rich wife.’ Finger. ‘A shipment is on its way.’ Thumb. ‘Gianna is dead … Gianna is dead of smallpox.’ I stood, the letter dropping to the floor. ‘Gianna. Not my Gianna.’ I blinked back quick tears. ‘It can’t be true. La mia bella sorella.’ Giuseppe rose to grasp me in his arms, his face already wet.

‘I told you, this letter è crudele, eh?’

Grief-stricken, I took myself off to the Garter in Blackfriars to find some lively company. It seemed to me a very English way of responding to such a loss. On opening the door into the smoky tavern, I surveyed its dimly lit interior newly decorated in the classical style. Once again, I missed its old incarnation as a bawdy house, though I was never a customer, I had enjoyed the wine and the smiling, buxom girls happy to help me with my English when not occupied elsewhere. That night, I surveyed the men seated at marble-topped tables hoping to locate friends or at least acquaintances.

‘Raphael.’

I turned on my heel.

A large arm waved, attracting my attention. ‘Over here.’

‘Tom.’ I made my way through the throng of pot boys and serving wenches to his table under a night-dark window, but close enough to the fire to feel its heat. I was glad to find him alone, though he had not been so for long judging by the array of tankards in front of the three now empty chairs. Thomas Monkton was Lieutenant of the Yeoman Guardsmen at the palace and the first man to befriend me when I arrived at court past eighteen months since, now. He was dressed in his scarlet uniform, meaning he would be on duty later and, knowing his character, he would not drink more than to quench his thirst beforehand. ‘I’m glad to find you here.’

‘You look mighty dejected. What ails you, lad? Not milady Canford again? She seems a touch more trouble than is warranted, does she not?’

‘It’s my sister, Gianna.’ I bit my lip, blinking back further tears, hoping he would not see it in the gloom. Englishmen seem little impressed with what they judge a weakness.

Thomas leaned closer across the table. ‘Tell me.’

‘Smallpox.’ I shook my head to convey the outcome.

He gripped my wrist for a moment, giving it a reassuring shake. ‘Sorry to hear it, my friend. She’s the one you were closest to in age?’

‘Five years older. Artemisia and Claudia, many years more. Artemisia is soon to become a grandmother.’ I felt tears brim again when I thought of her two young girls left motherless and my mamma’s grief. Poor Mamma. She was always so close to Gianna. They were very much alike, so quietly, sweetly loving. Though Gianna joined in my teasing with her sisters – who were old enough to know better I had long realised – her heart was never really in it. She would kiss away my tears when they had gone about their business. I would write to Mamma tonight. Though not to Papà. Would he even feel her absence?

‘You have my pity. Shall you return to Florence for her funeral?’

‘I doubt my father will permit it. There’s another gem shipment on its way, and he’ll expect me in the workshop to bring him a quick return. I fear my sister’s laying to rest will be of little importance in the face of trade.’

‘You’ll have no difficulties finding buyers, Raphael. I’m told your designs are very fashionable. And they’re Italian too, which is very much in vogue they say. All those noble lads and their so-called chaperones, debauching themselves around your fine cities. No, there’ll be plenty of buyers, I’m sure.’

I frowned at the defiled cities and the prospect of buyers. For that would not be the problem. ‘It’s finding payers that proves difficult, alas.’

‘Can’t say it surprises me, Raph.’ He waylaid a passing serving wench, seizing her around the waist, swinging her in close. His flashing smile and muscled bulk was enough for her to bite-back the vexed retort there ready on her lips, replacing it with a welcoming grin.

‘What can I get for you two handsome sirs?’

‘A jug of Rhenish for my friend here, and a tankard of small beer for me, my lovely.’

She cocked her head. ‘Small beer, sweetheart? You sure?’

He gestured to his uniform, grinning. ‘Indeed. For I must stay sober to keep the King’s peace.’

She laughed, raucous and gap-toothed, throwing her head back with abandon. ‘God love you, Sir. You be the only one at Whitehall who do, I’ll be bound.’

Susannah: Diary: December 1, 1675

I have found I cannot write every day for often there is nothing to say, or at least nothing I can bring myself to record. Not forward steps. Perhaps even some backwards ones? And I despise myself for it. But today has not been one of those. Today I have been truly happy for the first time in many months.

Sam has returned, thank Jesu, and straightaway came to visit me. I was standing beside the studio window checking my colours when I saw him leave his house to cross the street. My heart soared at the sight of him. He looked wonderful in a lapis blue coat cut in the longer French style, his glossy chestnut hair tied at his neck. He was a candleflame in my darkness. I left my miniature on the sill and clattered down the three flights of stairs to let him in. Then I was in his arms.

He held me away for a moment to plant a kiss upon my forehead. ‘Sukie, forgive me. I’ve abandoned you for far too long.’ He took my arm and led me upstairs and into the first-floor drawing room, where the fire burned fiercely in the marble-porticoed fireplace. All the décor was Catherine’s; nothing of my mother remained. Gilded chairs and couches. Pale floral upholstery. Matching gold-framed wall panelling. Needless to say, I hate it.

When the door was firmly closed behind us, the relief of it left me quite faint. ‘Jesu, Sam. I’ve missed you more than I can say.’ Even though I must keep my voice low, it felt blissful. ‘I think it sent me a little mad, speaking to no one.’ Little? Understated, perhaps? I clutched his hand. ‘But it drove me outside the house at last.’

He pulled me back into his arms. ‘Well, I’m very pleased to hear it. And, how brave of you. I can imagine how difficult it must have been.’

I nodded, sighing. ‘Having no life became too high a price, so I had to.’

‘Sukie, I never expected to be away this long. It all turned out to be so much more complicated than we thought.’

‘I know it wasn’t by choice. Nor is it your fault I’m so disgracefully dependent on you.’ I looked up at him and forced a smile. ‘I hope it was all resolved in the end?’

He nodded. ‘I think the King is content.’

I knew he could tell me little of it. These visits of his to the royal courts of Europe. Painting portrait miniatures proved an excellent cover for the secret discussions with courtiers and diplomats the King required of him. ‘Now I must break my silence, or I fear it will break me.’

He stroked my back. ‘I’m here now, so tell me how I can help?’

‘I shall try to speak to Papa. And the first words I must say are, “forgive me.”’

He grasped my shoulders. ‘You were ill after your mama’s death. Your voice deserted you. It wasn’t your fault.’

‘Sam, I spoke at my grandmother’s and chose to stop again when I returned here. Because I was angry.’ Grandmama and I had needed each other’s comfort, even though it meant abandoning Papa and fleeing with Penny to Hampshire. Had this on top of his grief contributed to Catherine snaring him? It must be so, surely?

‘Christ, you came home to the Villiers.’ He shook his head. ‘You wanted to punish your papa for it – I would have felt the same – so you refused to acknowledge them. I understand all of it.’ He held my face. ‘And I’ll do everything I can to help you have a life again.’

‘I know you will.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Now, come up and see my new work. I’d like your opinion of it.’

‘With pleasure.’

In the studio, he was soon standing before my table holding his chin whilst he scrutinised my miniature for the King.

Finally, he spoke. ‘You really are a sorceress, Susannah. The luminosity. How you do this is beyond me. I saw Castlemaine at court this morning when I brought letters to the King.’ He shook his head. ‘The rest of us try to give the sitter what they hope for … hinting at greater beauty. Fewer years. Yet somehow, it’s always clear it’s been done. You do it and it’s not. How in God’s name do you know just the right amount to leave unchanged for them to not see what has been?’

I chewed my lip as I wrote, for we were no longer alone, of course, ‘I despise that place. I hated being back there–’

He pulled me tight into his arms. ‘Sukie, my sweet love.’

Penny ran in then, excited to see him as always and especially so after he had been away for so long. We broke apart and he swung her up into his arms, showering her with kisses. ‘How big you’ve grown my poppet and how exceedingly pretty you are.’ He turned to me. ‘She gets more and more like you. No one could ever doubt you’re sisters.’

I closed my eyes for a moment and smiled. ‘Indeed, they could not.’ I wrote. Yet I saw the blue eyes that were not mine and a sweet soul much kinder than my own.

I led him back down to the drawing room and when Penny ran off to fetch her new dolly to show him, I was able to whisper to him again before she returned. How I hate my silence with her. It shames me. ‘The King saw through my trick.’

‘Maybe, for once, your father boasted of your skill to him? Perhaps, to win his patronage for you again?’

‘He wouldn’t. He guards it closely. It’s why my work is so in demand. Sitters must believe I make a true likeness.’ We sat together on the couch beside the window looking down on a bustling Henrietta Street. Carriages jostled. Overladen farmers’ carts headed for the arcades of Covent Garden. Crowds hurried about their business. Ragged boys wove between them at their peril to cross the gloomy street. Cartmen jeered at coachmen and both bellowed at pedestrians, picking their way through the horse dung.

Sam moved to the fire, adding more coals, and poking it vigorously. ‘Will he see it when you do his portrait, or will he choose not to?’

When he was seated beside me again, I whispered, ‘He’ll see it but say I haven’t worked my skills upon his person, knowing I won’t be able to contradict him for he is the King.’ I quickly moved away from his ear when the door burst open, frowning to see not Penny but James Villiers.

His frown quickly mirrored mine. ‘Carter. I heard you’d returned.’ He moved to the fire, holding his hands to it. ‘I note it didn’t take long for you to present yourself here.’

His speech seemed more affected than usual. For Sam’s benefit, no doubt. I felt my lip curl at it.

Sam shrugged. ‘I greatly missed my dear friends and hurried to see them.’

Now seated opposite, James watched us, sullenly. ‘Did you find your miniatures more in favour at the French court?’ He paused for a moment before answering the question himself. ‘But you wouldn’t be back in Henrietta Street had that been so. Perhaps you’ve come for lessons from Susannah?’

Sam laughed without any discernible edge of rancour. How he does so is a wonder to me when the man is such an odious dolt. ‘No one is as good as Susannah, nor quite as expensive.’

I wrote and held up: ‘True.’ Neither Papa nor Sam have need to work for money, so have chosen not to. I, however, take payment from all bar the King. Does he ever pay anyone for anything?

Once again, the door flew open and this time Penny rushed in clutching her doll, the smile instantly leaving her face at the sight of James. Not, indeed, an unusual response to encountering him in this house.

She came to Sam to sit on his lap, holding out her doll to him. ‘I’ve dressed her in her best gown for you to see.’

‘Well, isn’t she a truly wonderous creature?’

James grinned at the unease his presence caused her. ‘Perhaps Carter can make a living painting faces on little girls’ dollies? Then he might spend less time at our table.’

What an insufferable wretch he is. I wrote quickly and held up, ‘At Papa’s table. Where he was welcome long before you. And he has no more need to earn a living than you do.’ Sam’s father is an admiral in the Royal Navy, his disappointment at his son’s failure to follow him into the service was only exceeded by his dismay that a bequest from his mother meant no other profession necessary, either. Yet he has a secret one, intelligencing for the King.

James made a show of looking away in order not to see my words.

Sam ignored him. ‘Susannah, perhaps you’ll join me for dinner tonight? Pascal is pleased to have someone to cook for again at last. It’ll give us a chance to catch up.’

I smiled, nodding.

James laughed. ‘Well, won’t this be a lively evening. I hope you enjoy the sound of your own voice, Carter, and the delightful scratch of a graphite stick on paper.’

Sam smiled at me, with no acknowledgement that James had even spoken. ‘I’ve missed you very much. It will be wonderful to have your company again. To have you all to myself.’

‘I feel the same.’ I wrote.

At a light knock upon the door, James called out, ‘Come.’

Bess entered carrying a heavy tray. Sam set Penny onto the floor and rose to help her, placing it down on the end table. She curtseyed to me but not to James, which visibly irked him.

‘You make a good footman, Carter. Ever thought of taking it up?’

Sam laughed affably, which further irked him. ‘Why have you brought our refreshments, Bess? Isn’t it Robert’s job?’

I was glad Sam laughed at James’s taunt and also that he asked the question I was poised to write.

‘Master James said to, Sir.’ She began to pour the wine with a shaking hand.

James rose and moved to her, placing his hand on her shoulder, making her flinch and spill wine over the table. He scowled. ‘Clumsy cun–’ He glanced at Penny. ‘Chit. I’ve a good mind to thrash you again.’

‘No,’ Penny shrieked.

Once more, the word I was about to write. Instead, I wrote, ‘Again?’

‘Run along now, Bess. I’ll pour for us. You, too, Penny. Bess will find a cordial for you in the kitchens,’ Sam said.

I walked to the door, closing it behind them before moving to Sam’s side.

He turned to James. ‘You’ve beaten her? What right have you to lay hands on her?’

‘What right have you to question my actions? You, Sir, are not a member of this household.’

I pointed at my mouth and then at Sam to tell James he spoke for me. Jesu, I wanted to scream oaths at him. Yet I was powerless, trapped in my damnable silence.

‘Bess is Susannah’s maid. She doesn’t serve the family. And in this house servants are not beaten.’

I nodded, vigorously. I am mute. Truly, I must find a way to end this.

‘All servants are thrashed. It keeps ‘em willing. This is Mama’s household, and such decisions are hers. She’ll decide if the chit needs a further dose.’

‘My father’s house.’ I scribbled and thrust it in his face. He smirked at me and walked away.

Looking out from the window, he smiled. ‘Ah, I see her coach approaching. I shall welcome her home. I’m sure she’ll happily give you her decision on the matter.’

Then he strode across the room, and we soon heard his footfalls on the stairs going down.

‘He won’t hurt Bess again, will he?’

Sam moved to the door. ‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t.’

I climbed the stairs back up to the studio as Sam made his way down.

When the doors to Sam’s drawing room closed behind me this evening, I felt I had entered a different world where I was at once my true self again. I could speak with complete freedom, and it was joyous.

If our drawing room was a woman’s – and a silly one’s at that – here was a man’s. A naval man’s. Dark furniture upholstered in hard-wearing brocade. Brass ship’s instruments and wood carvings – mementos of command – upon the mantle and side tables beside heavy brass candelabras. It felt an age since I had last been in there.

We sat close together on a couch before the fire, while I listened to his description of the French court at the Palais du Louvre and all the interesting people he had encountered there. The gossip. The rumours. The mistresses. The affairs.

‘And you tell all this to the King?’ And the rest he could not speak of to me, of course.

‘I do. He believes it gives him a true flavour of the place. He was particularly interested to hear of Louis’s building works out at the Palace of Versailles. I was lucky enough to be shown the plans. It will be truly magnificent.’

‘Jesu. Pray God it doesn’t give him any such notions.’ I frowned. ‘Though I believe he and Prince Rupert have plans for Windsor, even though Papa says the exchequer is in a rather parlous state again.’

‘Too many wretched duchesses.’

We both laughed. ‘Too much swiving before lavishing riches on them, getting children off them and then lavishing more. Riches he doesn’t truly have.’

‘Why, Susannah Gresham. I’m shocked to hear such vulgar speech from his own goddaughter.’ He nudged his shoulder against mine and we laughed again ‘And with monies taken from the public purse at that. There are rumblings in Parliament again, I believe.’

‘So, he’ll prorogue it once more.’

He studied his fingers for a moment. ‘I wonder if his wild extravagance – and Monmouth’s too, thinking of it – comes from those years living with such limited resources in exile? There must have been times when their lives were greatly restricted by the constant need to rely on others’ generosity.’

‘James saw real hardship. His father never truly did.’

He sighed. ‘And, in all honesty, it’s little excuse for the venality now, never mind that William Chiffinch procures actresses or a pretty flower seller or two for him. There’s something base about it all that undermines everything I admire about him.’

We were silent for a while, both lost in thought.

He turned sideways to study me. ‘Stand up. I want to look at you.’

‘No. You’ve already seen me. What’s the matter with you?’

‘Not dressed like this. He touched the damson velvet of my skirts. ‘Not for rather a long time.’

‘Very well.’ I stood, feeling horribly embarrassed, a blush hot on my skin.

‘May I say something to you, Sukie?’

I thought I knew what it would be. ‘Of course.’

‘You look very beautiful, as you always do.’ He stood and held me close. ‘But a little too slender, I’m afraid.’

And there it was. ‘Would you care to add insipid to your assessment. Catherine barely allows a day to pass without reminding me of it.’ I shook my head. “So thin and insipid, Susannah.”’

‘Catherine is a cunt.’

I patted his cheek. ‘I cannot tell you how much I’ve missed hearing you say those words. I often try to imagine them emblazoned across her far too ample bosom when I’m forced to communicate with her.’

He laughed. ‘In truth, I do believe I’d rather not imagine it.’ He pulled me down beside him again, his arm around my shoulders. ‘James was insufferable this afternoon.’

‘He told Bess she’d be dismissed if she reported the beating to me. She knows now not to believe such threats and that she must always come to me if he tries to harm her in any way.’

‘Good. And I don’t like to see the effect he has on Penny, either. It has become noticeably worse since last I saw them together.’

‘He seems to truly enjoy how much he frightens her.’

He squeezed my hand. ‘There is something wrong about him. The stories of him at court.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Well, some of them are hair-raising to say the least.’

‘And Penny has to share her home with him. Though, thank God, he spends more and more time at Whitehall now Buckingham has taken an interest in him. You can imagine just how thrilled it has made his dear mama, bless her.’ I slapped my forehead. ‘No. I mean damn her.’

‘Fuck her.’

We laughed like the children we once were together. I was a girl whose best friend was a boy. Jesu, but I know how to curse, too.

A tap on the door from Sam’s valet, Connor, told us dinner was served and we followed him to the dining-room where the mahogany table was set for two, close beside the fire, the silverware sparkling in bright candlelight. Behind Sam was a portrait of his mother. How alike they are. I know he misses her still. Just one more thing we share. I was silent until the red-haired Irishman had served us and left, closing the door behind him. ‘Pascal has cooked as though every chair is filled.’ There were twelve.

‘I rather feared he might, poor man. He doesn’t enjoy enforced idleness.’ He shook out his napkin. ‘The servants shall eat well tomorrow and then Connor will know where to take the rest. There’ll be many hungry mouths happy to receive it all, I’m sure.’

The large plate before me looked daunting. Though it was but the first of them. Quail with garlic and prunes. ‘He won’t serve more to you tomorrow?’

‘He has rather too high standards for that, which is unfortunate when Papa is used to food onboard ship, of course, and Winchester prepares one for anything, however rancid. What are school fees for, after all. This could feed me for a week.’

I moved the contents around my plate a little, but none had, as yet, found its way to my mouth.

He watched me. ‘Susannah. What do you eat at home?’

I blinked. ‘Well, I generally eat with Penny in the kitchen parlour. I have what she has.’

He blinked, too. ‘But Penny is an eight-year-old child.’

I was suddenly madly enraged by him. ‘God’s blood I know how old she is, Sam. Damn you. You–’ I clenched my jaw so I would say nothing further … particularly something I might regret of which there was plenty to choose from. He meant it well. I knew he did. I took a long breath, my nostrils flaring. ‘Forgive me.’ I reached out to place my hand over his. ‘I’m so grateful to you for this. I don’t know what is wrong with me.’ Just to be there with him. I had prayed for it for so long.

He took my hand and squeezed it, before bringing it up to his lips. ‘You’re unhappy, which is perfectly understandable under the circumstances. But, my Sukie, we’re going to do something about it now. Together. So please eat. If only a few mouthfuls from each plate.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Will you at least try?’

I nodded. How many wretched plates could there be?

In the end it was a perfect evening. After I had eaten enough to satisfy him, we returned to the drawing room with more wine. Later, he walked me across the street to my door with Connor acting as our linkman, carrying a lantern now all the exterior household ones had been extinguished. He stood with me for a moment, holding me in his arms. ‘I’m back now, Sukie, and we will overcome it all, you have my word.’

How had I ever endured without him? And it was so wonderful to talk. I hope because I have after so long, it might ease me back to do so with Papa. I still wish he had never brought the Villiers into our home, but I rather suspect he might have some regrets of his own now.

Raphael

I came to court on the first day of December hoping for another sight of Susannah Gresham. Sadly, she did not attend. That those I asked confirmed they had seen her but once in recent memory, did not fill me with much hope of making her acquaintance. Perhaps I could arrange for her to paint my miniature, but I doubted that would pass my father as an expense of trade. I smiled, picturing his outrage. James Villiers was there though, with his entourage of young men all in his own image. I stood with Tom Monkton just inside the entrance to the Banqueting House, watching.

‘Who do you seek?’

‘No one in particular,’ I lied.

He laughed, knowing it. ‘Well, you’re not impressed with Villiers, that’s plain to see. You should learn to guard your expression more, Raph. He has many friends here.’

My eyes had narrowed involuntarily at his mannered strutting. ‘Then they’ve little taste, so explaining their choice of friend.’ At that moment, I became aware of a small resplendent figure approaching in an indigo gown encrusted with some of my finest pearls. As yet unpaid for. Tom left through the doors behind us to take up his designated position outside.

I bowed low. ‘Your Grace.’

‘Raphael, my dearest.’ She touched the ruby necklace at her throat. ‘This is very fine. Your best yet, I think.’

Frances Stuart, Duchess of Richmond. Her beauty clear in the ghost of her former face beneath cruel ravages of smallpox. Yet she did nothing to conceal the change. Her eyes still sparkled, and the King still favoured her it seemed. I had never heard her complain about her disfigurement, once telling me she was simply glad to live when so many did not. I thought then of Gianna. ‘Thank you, Your Grace. I’m glad it pleases you.’

‘I had hoped to see you here tonight. A little bird tells me a certain gentleman is alarmed by his wife’s indiscreet dallying.’ She tapped my arm with her fan. ‘I think a short sojourn to the country might be prudent, my dear.’

I felt heat on my face, glad my dark skin would make it difficult to detect. ‘I fear I’m unfamiliar with anywhere outside of the capital, Your Grace. Perhaps I might lie low in Cheapside for a while?’

She tilted her head. ‘I fancy it will take a little more than that this time, Raphael.’ She tilted her head the other way, now tapping her lips with her fan. ‘I have some old jewellery at Kew Palace. You may accompany me there on the morrow. Perhaps you might inspect it with a view to resetting?’

I bowed again. ‘Your Grace, it would be my pleasure. You have my gratitude.’ Once again, her patronage came to my rescue. Had she not brought my pieces to court displayed upon her person, my business here would not have prospered quite so quickly or so well. She had been delighted, as had I … and Papà, of course, when the Duchess of Portsmouth and the Countess of Castlemaine – themselves mistresses to the King – vied with her to secure my most valuable pieces, though they did not condescend to deal with me in person, much to my relief.

‘The only benefit of the frigid winters we have had of late is the greater ease of travel with the absence of mud through the winter months. Nothing slows a carriage quite like mud.’

A cold journey together then, though one which might prove useful in prompting payment for all that now adorned her. I smiled and bowed, a final time. ‘Your Grace.’ I watched her walk away, lambent with my pearls.