The Fugitive Colours (Genevieve Planché Book 2), page 18
Thomas shakes his head, sending me a reproving look. He does not want to be further drawn in.
But our host, slouched in the chair, is already explaining himself.
“It’s what I told you at supper – I am always seeking the deep-toned brilliance of the ancients. I became obsessed with colour in Venice when I studied the paintings of Titian, Tintorello and others. The knowledge I gained from apprenticing to Thomas Hudson and from reading every book on colour preparation just didn’t suffice. I wanted those colours – God alone knows how much! I even bought a couple of pictures from the Renaissance period and I tried to analyse them, scraping from the canvas. That taught me a little, not much. Those artists are like the damn alchemists, everything a secret, nothing written down. So I began to conduct my own experiments. Is that not the point of the scientific method, Mr. Sturbridge? Didn’t Francis Bacon say we must learn from personal observation?”
Thomas regards him with compassion for the first time. “Yes, that’s what Bacon believed,” he says quietly.
“I used carmine reds, despite everyone’s saying I shouldn’t. It was the mix of carmine that gave flesh the tone I craved. It was what made my portraits special. But now, I know it’s the carmines that fade. It’s the same with the bitumen in the blacks. It’s cracking. Then there are the pine resins I purchased in Venice. In certain mixes, they give the results I need. But they are at fault too. There are also problems with the mixes using certain oils. Time is the enemy. When the picture is new, everyone is happy, no one more so than me. But four or five years later…”
“I wish I could help you,” says Thomas.
“Are you sure that it’s really impossible?” asks Reynolds, almost begging. “No one would know. We could arrange total secrecy. I’d pay you very well. I’ll not use the defective colours in new portraits. And I’d like to fix my past mistakes. I’m known to be a picture restorer. When I take a painting back, I’d address the problem with the new colours you create with me. They’d be colours just as beautiful, but they’d be stable. I could sleep at night knowing there’d be no fading, cracking or bubbling in my paintings.”
“I understand that you have heard of my work with creating blue, but what makes you think I can be helpful with these other colours?” asks Thomas.
Reynolds sits taller in his chair. “But I’ve seen your work! I knew it had to be you. In your house, your wife displayed a still life showing brilliant shades I’d never ever seen in my life. I knew two things right away, that she is a talented artist in her own right and that you had to have been her colourist.”
The gloom and humiliation encircling my heart dissolve. Joshua Reynolds was not pretending to favour my work so he could get hold of my husband? The leading artist in England actually believes I have talent.
But then I realise Thomas is looking at me.
His eyes are afire with accusation, his lips tremble with anger.
“If you’d let me explain,” I say.
Thomas strides away from me and toward the door of the studio, saying, “Mr. Reynolds, I cannot be of assistance to you.”
“Mr. Sturbridge, please don’t make a decision tonight,” says Joshua Reynolds, running after him. “Send me your reply in one week, after thinking about it. Mrs. Sturbridge, can you not discuss this with your husband? Use your influence?”
My cheeks burning, I say nothing.
“It’s not just fear of my rivals’ glee that is behind my asking this,” says Reynolds. “My portrait business supports my sister and other family members, loyal servants and many students. I don’t know what would happen to all of them.”
Thomas tells him, with reluctance, that a final answer will be forthcoming in one week, and he pulls open the door to leave, not even looking in my direction.
The walk through the gallery and house to the street and our waiting carriage is the longest imaginable.
Once Lawrence has slammed the carriage door and we are alone, I say, “I did not display the painting from The Hague for Mr. Reynolds to see. You must allow me to explain.”
I tell Thomas about being late back from the Tower Menagerie and Caroline taking it upon herself to hang my pictures in the workshop.
“This story strains belief,” says Thomas when I’ve finished.
I feel as if I’ve been slapped in the face.
“You are accusing me of lying?”
“If it was an honest mistake, an act well intended, why didn’t you tell me that Reynolds saw the painting that shows my colours?” he demands.
“I don’t know,” I stammer. “I didn’t think it was important. I certainly didn’t think he was looking for someone to correct his colour mistakes.”
“Oh, no? There were signs along the way that he had an ulterior motive for forging an acquaintanceship.”
“You think I manipulated you for my own gain, Thomas?” I whisper.
“I don’t know what to think. Once before you did something immoral – something illegal, to be clear – in order to advance yourself as an artist. That was taking a position as a porcelain artist in Derby to steal my formula. You’ve sworn that such a thing could never happen again, that it was a mistake. Yet here we are, Genevieve. Here we are. I am being pressured to do something else that would help you. Can you deny that you’d very much like me to become Joshua Reynolds’ private colourist so that he will assist you in your art ambitions?”
“I would never want you to do anything that would place you in any jeopardy, you must know that,” I say, horrified.
“All I know is that if I do it and am discovered, I’m the one who goes to prison, not you.”
“Do you not think I am in prison right now?” I cry. “I feel guilty every minute. I work as hard as I can at keeping the design workshop afloat because it was my actions that led to your kidnapping, that deprived you of a proper livelihood.”
Thomas laughs. “Ah yes, your workshop, glorifying the conquests of the British in luckless places around the whole world, whether it be the Caribbean or India, with little flowers. You are making pretty something that is very, very ugly.”
I fumble for the handle to the carriage door. I have no serious wish to hurl myself onto the street, but this so distresses me, I almost can’t bear to sit next to him. The accusations about hurting Thomas’ career, as ugly as they are, are no worse than the things I’ve said to myself. But attacking my silk design business?
I manage to say, “If this is your opinion of me, then why would you live off the money of the business, eat at the table of someone so loathsome?”
“Why indeed,” he mutters.
This is not happening, this cannot be happening.
Here, in this carriage, owned by John Montagu, Earl of Sandwich, on the streets leading from Leicester Fields to Spitalfields, my marriage is shattering.
My fingers slip off the handle. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I say, “You know, Thomas, you must know how much I love you.”
An agonisingly long silence ensues. When Thomas speaks, his voice is as cold as the North Sea.
“I know what you told me in this carriage a minute ago. You feel guilty. As to whether that is the same as love…”
I say nothing more for the rest of the carriage ride. When we reach Fournier Street and step out of the carriage, Lawrence detects that something terrible has happened.
“Mrs. Sturbridge, are you well?” he asks.
I can only nod, unable to speak. Inside the house, Thomas silently gathers his things to sleep in the parlour. He will not share my bed tonight.
Through everything I have endured in the last six years, I’ve been able to hold onto one fact that I was supremely sure could never change: my love for Thomas and his love for me. For the first time, I confront the distinct possibility that it could change.
After yet another near-sleepless night, I rise to find Thomas gathering clothes. “I’ll remain at the Earl of Sandwich’s house for the next week,” he informs me. “I, unfortunately, said I’d have an answer for Mr. Reynolds in a week’s time. I’ll keep my word on that. I will be back next Friday to communicate with him.”
“Oh, Thomas, no, please don’t go away from me,” I say.
He holds up a hand to stop me from saying another word. “It’s not only what we said last night. I need to do something, finish something, it’s very important. I can’t say more about it now.”
Pierre runs into the room at that moment. As I cannot bear to quarrel in front of our child, I pick him up, planting kisses, embracing him. I hope he doesn’t feel my body quivering, for it is impossible to keep from crying when Thomas hurries downstairs as if his desire to distance himself from my physical presence outweighs his love for Pierre.
I do not say goodbye to Thomas. The coldness in his eyes, the disappointment and disillusion freeze my tongue.
Instead, I sit at the workshop table, hands folded, listening to the noises of the street, knowing that among them is the clattering of hooves belonging to Lawrence’s carriage, speeding my husband west and away from me.
I fear that Jean and Caroline’s arrival for work will strain my nerves to the breaking point, but instead, it is a relief. I thrust everything from my mind that is unrelated to the workshop – Joshua Reynolds’ shocking confession, Thomas’ anger and distrust – and focus on our designs and the next set of flowers to paint.
We exchange ideas and opinions on the next direction, the atmosphere free of the rancour that usually sours Jean and Caroline’s dealings with each other.
But inevitably, Thomas’ criticism of the design business creeps into my thoughts. His view of our work has come as a complete shock.
I say, “Do you think that the flowers we choose, their place of origin, says something unpleasant about our business?”
“Whatever do you mean?” asks Jean, dumbfounded.
“Britain might be perceived as taking advantage of these faraway places,” I say.
Caroline says, “We’re hardly responsible for what armies and navies do.”
“Or the British East India Company,” chimes in Jean.
Caroline says earnestly, “We are trying to bring beauty to the world. How can that ever possibly be judged unpleasant?”
“Well said!” Jean thumps the table with his hand. I tense, expecting Caroline to recoil from Jean’s gusto-fueled admiration. But Caroline bows her head so low that her chin touches her breastbone and then makes a funny little gesture with her right hand as if she were tipping an invisible hat.
I laugh a little – I would probably laugh harder if my marriage weren’t threatening to collapse – and wait for Jean to react.
Now it’s his turn to do something I’ve never seen before. Jean blushes.
A knock on the door interrupts this interesting moment. George peeks in, a letter in his hand. It’s another message from Nicolas Carteret.
What does the man want from me now?
I break the seal to read it:
“Mrs. Sturbridge, in light of the designs you have sent, it’s of the utmost importance that we meet to discuss the changes that will need to be made in our work agreement. Come to my house no later than two o’clock today.”
Caroline, who read the letter along with me, breathes, “Oh, no.”
Jean insists that it’s just Carteret’s rude and arrogant style. “Those designs were very fine – no one can doubt it,” he says. “I don’t think this is necessarily bad news.”
I am too drained to feel either fear or hope. Finally, I say, “Well, it seems I should ready myself for a walk to White Lion Street.”
Downstairs, George is missing, but only because Daphne sent him to the market. I don’t want to wait. Now that I know this new ordeal is before me, I can’t bear the thought of sitting in the house. I must be moving.
The air is cold and dry, as dry as Joshua Reynolds’ prize champagne. Perhaps that’s why the smoke is in retreat, clinging to the roofs and building corners, instead of stretching out to blind and choke me.
I stride toward Brick Lane. How long ago was it that I walked to Monsieur Carteret’s with my book of Le Grenade flower designs? I don’t think it was even a month.
I turn off Brick Lane, though it is well before the turn to White Lion Street. I’m not going to continue to Nicolas Carteret’s house. If I were to knock on the door, follow a servant upstairs, take a seat opposite that gleaming desk, as big as a ship poised to sail off to the West Indies, and face criticism or implicit threats from the master weaver, I’d not be able to hold my tongue.
But what about the workshop? What about my livelihood? What about Pierre, Thomas, Caroline, Jean, Daphne, George and Sophie?
In a rather detached spirit, I wait for the realisation of my many, many responsibilities to take hold and send me back in the right direction, toward Nicolas Carteret’s house.
It doesn’t happen. My feet take me out of Spitalfields as if I weren’t the one controlling my movements. I walk for one hour, then two. For some of it, I keep to The Strand, which is crowded with other Londoners. Yes, it’s cold, but my brisk walking has worked me up to a point that I’m comfortable under my cloak. And I’m grateful the temperature has plunged to the point of freezing, for it means my shoes are never stuck in mud. The London streets are flat and hard, some stretches are even newly paved to speed my journey. I pass an endless string of taverns and shops before I pause, take a breath and turn north for Bloomsbury.
The Foundling Hospital is bustling and busy this afternoon. At the gatehouse, they smilingly wave me on to see the exhibit. I don’t expect to speak to Mrs. Stillington. I admit to a twinge of disappointment that the exhibition room is empty of people. But then, I tell myself, this is the time when many people drink afternoon tea.
In the exhibition room, I make my way to the portrait of the young silk thrower. By looking at the fine brush strokes used for the subject’s long, dark brown hair, the composition chosen in placing the figure within the weaver’s room, I feel an echo of Grandfather. Of course, it’s not in the same category as a Joshua Reynolds’ portrait in colour and expressiveness, nor does it have the satirical bite of a William Hogarth. But I don’t care. This is the only way I can think of to spend time with Pierre Billiou.
“Mrs. Sturbridge!”
Mrs. Stillington hurries across the room to greet me. “What a marvellous coincidence, that you should appear just as I’m arranging a purchase.”
“Someone has bought a painting?” I barely recognise my own voice, that of an excited young girl.
“Yes,” she says, turning to look over her shoulder. “In fact, the patron’s coming through now.”
Sam Baldwin, a grin lighting up his face, strides through the doorway. “I am so pleased,” he says. “I had no idea you were coming.”
“It wasn’t planned,” I say. “Thank you so much for what you’ve done – the purchase.”
With a final few pleasantries, Mrs. Stillington eases away. By that time, Sam’s smile fades. “Your face – your eyes – you look as if you’ve been…” He reaches for my hand. I’m encased in a warm grasp, surprisingly strong. “You’re ice-cold, Mrs. Sturbridge. Did you walk a long distance?”
“I walked here from my house in Spitalfields.”
“Why on earth?”
I tell Sam I wanted to be in the same room as my grandfather’s paintings.
“You were close to him then?”
“He raised me,” I say simply. “My father died before I could remember him, my mother, when I was a girl. Grandfather was… my whole world for many, many years.”
Sam leads me to the couch in the middle of the room, saying I require rest after such a long walk in the cold. “I envy you,” he says, sitting beside me. “My father and I do not get on. My grandparents are long dead.”
I say, “I think that I’m drawn here because he would get exasperated with me, sometimes angry, but no matter what happened, Grandfather would always forgive me.” I can hear myself babble but don’t wish to stop. “How he would worry! He’d talk about me with Daphne, our housekeeper. And sometimes with those canaries of his, those prize birds, I could hear him talking over his problems with me.” I laugh a little. “Do you know, both birds died within six months of his passing?”
My voice thickens, and Sam slips a handkerchief into my lap, a snow-white embroidered one.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, dabbing my eyes. “You’ve done something quite wonderful in buying a painting, and your reward is my blubbering on your shoulder.”
He is quiet, and though I should feel embarrassed by my outburst, it is quite a relief to be able to talk to someone about my feelings. We sit in silence for a few minutes as he kindly waits for me to gather myself.
“I could see straight away that you were distressed about something,” Sam says. “Is it to do with Joshua Reynolds?”
I nod. “Yes. His motives are not what I thought.”
“I’ve been concerned that something like this might happen. I’m very sorry.”
We sit in silence for a moment. There’s no question but his support is a consolation.
Sam says in a low voice, “I would like to know why you’d ever require forgiveness, Mrs. Sturbridge. You seem to me to be someone very much worthy of admiration.”
I clutch his handkerchief, struggling to ward off more tears.
“You’re mistaken about that, Mr. Baldwin. I’ve made some serious mistakes in my life, I’ve paid for them, and I continue to pay for them.”
His voice drops even lower to a husky whisper as he says, “And what of your husband? I am sure he admires you.”
I turn away from Sam Baldwin on the couch, for I find myself unable to look him in the eye. “My husband is the one who is admirable. You could ask anyone who knows him. He’s brilliant, upstanding and highly, highly ethical.”
I feel Sam’s hand on my shoulder. His touch is gentle. “Mrs. Sturbridge?”
I turn. His dark eyes are full of longing.
“If your husband does not admire you, he is the very opposite of wise.”
