The Fugitive Colours (Genevieve Planché Book 2), page 6
The next Reynolds portrait shows a triumph of a very different kind. A commander of the British army – a general, I suppose – stands triumphant astride a rock, unsmiling and wigged, his finger pointed. He wears the brilliant scarlet uniform and long sword of a warrior of the British Isles. Behind him stretches a barren, rocky plain with a deep blue sky arching overhead, as if this were plucked from a dream. I wonder if the commander in the portrait is shown on a plain he conquered in North America. The destruction of “New France”.
“Ah, at last,” says Edmund Burke. “Joshua has returned.”
Yes, I recognise the host of tonight’s gathering from Hogarth’s Christmas party. Dark-haired and rather short, Joshua Reynolds could not be called handsome with the same stout frame, puffy cheeks and stubby nose as his sister. But he is an attractive man nonetheless. He moves with confidence and seems in the best of moods, smiling and joking with his guests.
Soon enough, he reaches me. I am nervous, but more than anything else, I am curious. Will Reynolds share with me the reason for my presence?
“Mrs. Sturbridge, I am so happy to see you again,” he says, after executing a graceful bow. “I understand from my sister that Mr. Sturbridge is not in town? That is a shame, I was looking forward to meeting him.”
I take this as a courtesy on Reynolds’ part and say, “I am certain he would enjoy meeting you as well. My husband does not return to London for another two weeks. Then, I am happy to say, he will reside in London at least a month.”
“At least a month?” Reynolds says. “How nice. Yes, how nice.”
I introduce him to Caroline, who cannot control her nerves. A stricken smile stretches across her face. Reynolds takes a few minutes to ask her about her silk design pursuits – Frances must have told him of our business – and listens to her halting responses with keen interest. I begin to see how Joshua Reynolds is able to put his subjects at ease when they pose for portraits. This close to him, I see nature has not blessed him. His round cheeks bear faint smallpox scars and his upper lip is scarred. But there is something so engaging about him.
Turning to me, Reynolds says, “I applaud you on the success of your business, Mrs. Sturbridge. I do recall that when I met you in the company of Mr. Hogarth, you expressed a strong interest in a career in art.”
So that night is going to be mentioned.
“Yes, I did,” I say as steadily as possible. At least he’s recounting what happened in a way that puts me in a favourable light. Reynolds could accurately say that he met me when I begged Hogarth for his attention and was spurned.
“Of course my thoughts turn to Hogarth,” says Reynolds. “Our late esteemed friend was not receiving company the past few years, his health was sinking, and well, his brush was not busy.” He smiles sadly and shrugs. “That Christmas party was one of our only meetings, Mrs. Sturbridge.”
I am taken aback. Wasn’t their acquaintanceship closer?
Reynolds continues, “But also, I had a letter from my good friend, James Boswell, in Naples. He’s met the most remarkable young woman, a Swiss paintress named Angelica Kaufmann, travelling with her father, who is an artist. They paint in Venice and Rome. She has the highest goals for herself, to be a portrait painter of the first calibre. She managed to persuade David Garrick to sit for her in Naples. Boswell says she has developed excellent draftsmanship and can convey facial expression. And she is only twenty-three! She reminded me of you, Mrs. Sturbridge. Reading this letter made me want to see you again.”
My heart is pounding, fast and quick, as hope, so long suppressed, flutters. My hope for a career of canvas and oil paint. Joshua Reynolds is speaking of such a possibility, not with mockery but approval. It flits through my mind that he knows nothing first-hand of my draftsmanship or talent. But I have no further opportunity to mull over the difference between Angelica Kaufmann and me. Reynolds has linked his arm with mine to introduce me to his guests, leading me from group to group. He’s acting as if I am his guest of honour. Caroline follows close behind, trying her best to conquer her shyness as she too is introduced.
We meet Mr. Samuel Johnson, an author and bibliophile, a tall, heavy-set man with a fierce expression that softens into attentive politeness at our introduction. He was the friend that Joshua Reynolds sought to cheer up in his studio, according to Frances Reynolds. We meet more authors, a playwright, two actors and another lawyer besides Edmund Burke.
Joshua Reynolds could not be more personable or more high-spirited. These people seem to be all good friends of his. But a different side to my host emerges as we approach a trio standing near the fireplace. I’ve not noticed them before now, though they are certainly striking. They are more elaborately dressed than the other guests, sporting white wigs and layers of face paint.
One of the two women has the face of an angel. She smiles sweetly as we approach and gives a fluttering wave.
I can feel Joshua’s arm tense as he says in a low voice, “Mrs. Sturbridge, I’d like you to meet Miss Kitty Fisher.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” says Miss Fisher. Now that I am closer to her, I wouldn’t call her an angel exactly. While young, no more than twenty-four, I’d wager, she has the air of a worldly woman. Her smile is practised, her eyes are cool. Or perhaps, it is due to their unusual colour, a shade somewhere between blue and green. Her silk gown is the height of sophistication, a round, laced neckline, a tight waist and billowing sleeves hanging over a bell-shaped skirt. Such a dress is costly, and so is the diamond necklace resting on her creamy bosom. Although her greeting is polite enough, Miss Fisher follows it by looking away and biting her lip as if she were trying to keep from laughing. I’m not sure what to make of her.
Joshua gestures toward the man at Miss Fisher’s side.
“May I present Hervé Gaynard.”
Just as she is the best-dressed woman at Reynolds’ gathering, he is the best-dressed man. Certainly, he presents a different picture than the slightly dishevelled writers and lawyers I’ve met so far. He wears a neatly coiled white wig and embroidered silver jacket and waistcoat. Jewelled shoes sparkle on his feet. Lacy white cuffs hang at least three inches from his sleeves. His brown eyes, deep set in a long, lightly lined face, spark with interest while he looks me up and down. A smile deepens. He and Miss Fisher exchange a glance. It is a flicker, but I take note of it. Something definitely amuses them.
The man steps forward and takes my hand. To my dismay, he then pulls my hand to his lips for a courtly kiss. I inhale violet powder, a scent I last encountered at a reception for Sèvres Porcelain.
He says, “How delightful to meet you, Mrs. Sturbridge.” There is no mistaking his origin now.
“You are French, sir?” I blurt.
He says, “I claim that honour, yes.”
Miss Fisher says, “Now that the tiresome war is over, our friends from France can come and visit us in London again.”
I can’t help but wonder how these “friends” feel about the portrait on the gallery wall not far from where we stand, showing the British commander who helped rip New France away from the French.
Joshua Reynolds interjects, “But this is more than a visit to London, isn’t it, Hervé? I thought you had a stake in the Drury Theatre?”
“I do,” he replies. “The theatre is one of my business interests. I must look after them. My stay in London began in February of this year and could continue… indefinitely.”
My host pivots to the third member of the trio. “May I present Mademoiselle Duvall.” The woman, rail-thin and wearing a rather severe deep-grey dress and a dark gold necklace, is closer to Hervé Gaynard’s age than Miss Fisher’s. Her snow-white wig makes an arresting contrast with her large dark eyes and thick black eyelashes. Those eyes are now fixed on me in a stare even cooler than Miss Fisher’s.
“You hold a grudge against the French?” asks Mademoiselle Duvall in a voice not much louder than a whisper.
“That would be impossible,” I say. “I am from a Huguenot family. My mother’s family left France for London seventy-five years ago.”
“And what of your father’s family?” asks Mademoiselle Duvall haughtily.
“They left France when my father was a child,” I say.
“So, it seems you are one of us,” says Hervé Gaynard.
How would I respond if Joshua Reynolds weren’t standing next to me? One of us? I am not one of them, and they know it. Yet the last thing I want is to cause another scene. I doubt that Reynolds would understand the two centuries of division between Catholics and Protestants in France. And now, after England defeats France in war, the Catholics trickle over here? I’d not expected that.
I wish we could move on, but Joshua Reynolds has his feet planted firmly before Miss Kitty Fisher. Which I suppose is none too surprising. But it is Hervé Gaynard who dominates the conversation.
“I’ve been to Spitalfields, what a thriving little neighbourhood,” says Gaynard patronisingly. “The silk business has been good to the Huguenots.”
Miss Fisher says, “I adore silk,” and runs her finger down her billowing sleeve in a slow caress.
Joshua’s eyes follow that finger.
Gaynard says, “Most people have no idea what goes into the making of silk. Mrs. Sturbridge is the exception, I am sure.” He inclines his wigged head in my direction. “I’ve seen the creation of it, the genesis. My father was from Paris, but Mama was a Piedmontese. It’s one of the few places in the world they raise silkworms outside of China. Mama took me to one of those special farms. It’s not anyone who can see the secret of the silkworm, who is allowed the privilege of seeing it with their own eyes. But I was permitted. Mama was a charming woman.”
Smiling to himself, Gaynard removes a small round box from his upper coat pocket, taps the lid, opens it and takes a pinch of tobacco between two fingers, sniffing it quickly.
“Oh, Hervé, please,” pouts Miss Fisher. “Tell us the secret. You know I hate something being kept from me.”
“Yes, do tell, I’m most interested,” says Joshua, genuinely curious.
Gaynard hands the snuffbox to Mademoiselle Duvall. He must intend for her to hold it while he speaks, an unchivalrous act, but I suspect that despite his show of manners, he’s not the most chivalrous man. To my shock, Mademoiselle Duvall takes a pinch of tobacco and sniffs it herself. Her necklace resting on her flat bosom quivers from the quick, controlled snort. I recognise the jewellery from books as a very old design. A family heirloom, no doubt. For a split second, I imagine the Spitalfields church fathers witnessing all this, it would confirm all their worst opinions of the depraved French.
Gaynard, with a hand lightly resting on his right hip, begins his story. “The worm does not know its future is to adorn the bodies of human beings. It knows only one thing, that it wants to become a moth. It is blind, it can do only one thing. It eats the leaves of the mulberry to prepare itself, as the worms have known how to do for many, many centuries. It spins and spins and spins a tiny cocoon of beautiful threads – a precious house for it to, to…” He pauses, turning to Mademoiselle Duvall. “What is the word, to change into something else completely?”
“Transform,” his companion says in a louder voice, her black eyes glowing as if the word holds special meaning.
“Yes. The worm means to transform within its house of threads once all is ready. After days of spinning, maybe three, maybe ten, it rests to prepare for the final moment when it will turn into a moth. And that is when the farmworkers, who have been watching closely the whole time, they pick up the sleeping moth in its house of threads and drop it in the boiling hot water with the other sleeping worms. They keep the threads that will be silk, that is all that matters. I saw the cauldrons of water the workers dropped the worms in. All those little worms they boil alive before they are able to transform. After the workers brought out the threads, my mother let me climb a ladder so I could look in the cauldron to see for myself. All those fat, white, dead worms, floating in the water.”
I suppress a shudder, not at the story itself but at Monsieur Gaynard’s evident glee at the fate of the worms: boiled alive. Joshua Reynolds and Kitty Fisher both look aghast, while Mademoiselle Duvall merely raises an eyebrow. The teller of the tale, Hervé Gaynard, is watching for my reaction, not theirs.
“I was right about Mrs. Sturbridge, she knew the details of the life and death of the silkworm before I opened my mouth,” he says.
“People have tried to raise the worms in Spitalfields and Chelsea,” I say. “If we could have a go at it first-hand, I’m sure we’d find a way to prevent the creatures’ suffering. But we haven’t succeeded, the worms don’t thrive. Perhaps it’s the white mulberry trees here, or else England is simply too cold. So, we must import and accept the tradition of silk cultivation. No choice.”
“Ah, yes,” says Gaynard. “You Huguenots are so very… practical.”
To my relief, Joshua Reynolds changes the subject to David Garrick, recently returned from Italy but unable to join tonight’s gathering. Reynolds and Gaynard share a joke about the actor. Miss Kitty Fisher laughs in delight, while Mademoiselle Duvall eyes me thoughtfully.
At last, Reynolds gestures that we must move on. Gaynard bows again, this time flourishing with his hand as he rises and takes a step backward. Why is he behaving as if this Leicester Fields gallery were the receiving room of Versailles? I must fight to hide my irritation, for he is a guest here, as am I.
Joshua ushers me toward his next cluster of guests, Caroline in our wake. What a strange trio of people. They seem strongly connected to one another, but I can’t fathom the nature of their ties. Gaynard is old enough to be Miss Fisher’s father, but there isn’t anything paternal about him. Perhaps she is an actress – he has interests in the theatre. Her name is familiar, though I can’t place it. As for Mademoiselle Duvall, she and Gaynard clearly have a rapport. But what is an unmarried Frenchwoman of noble family even doing in London? I can’t fathom it.
I glance over my shoulder and catch Miss Fisher whispering excitedly in Gaynard’s ear while she stares at me and Caroline with those aquamarine eyes.
Fortunately, the next group of guests is blandly polite without mysterious undercurrents. The wife of a pamphlet publisher has a soft voice, and Joshua takes a silver trumpet from his pocket and holds it to his ear, leaning toward her. Despite his being somewhere in his thirties, Joshua has a hearing deficiency. I note that he didn’t use his trumpet while listening to Gaynard’s long story. Could it be vanity? He wouldn’t want to appear decrepit in front of the delectable Miss Fisher. It makes me feel more warmly toward him. Joshua Reynolds, despite his famous accomplishments, is a human with flaws, like the rest of us.
The last guests whom Joshua Reynolds wishes to introduce me to are none other than Henry Hoppinger, skulking in a corner of the gallery, and his friend, Sam.
“Henry, you shall be pleased to meet Mrs. Sturbridge and Miss Mowbray, for they are artists, just like you and Sam,” says Joshua. What a relief. I’m fairly sure he doesn’t know I threw wine in the face of a fellow guest.
His face wiped dry, Hoppinger says something of bare courtesy through clenched teeth. But Joshua Reynolds isn’t really listening to him anyway. Our host regards me with a new energy, a smile playing, and pulls me away for a private conversation.
“Your grandfather, Pierre Billiou, he was an artist, wasn’t he? Quite a good portraitist, and I had heard he was a source for Hogarth on Spitalfields when Hogarth was working on his series about the apprentices, Industry and Idleness.”
“Yes,” I say, pleased that he knows of my grandfather. “It was a long time ago, and I did not have an opportunity to meet Mr. Hogarth at that time, but Grandfather told me all about it later. He made some introductions in Spitalfields and took Mr. Hogarth to see a master weaver’s workshop so he could witness the apprentices up close.”
“And I’m told that your grandfather painted the people of the silk weaving industry as well, made his own studies?” asks Joshua.
How astounding that Joshua even knows this. “Yes, Grandfather did a series at the same time. I think he found his contact with Mr. Hogarth inspiring.”
“Do you have the series in your possession? I’d like very much to see it.”
I can’t speak for a moment, I’m too overcome.
“Of course, Mr. Reynolds,” I finally manage to choke out. “For you to take an interest, well, my grandfather would be honoured. It’s just eight paintings, but yes, I have them in my keeping.”
“I do not know when I can come to your house, for I have many appointments,” he says. “But may I look into a time and communicate with you further?”
I assure him nothing would please me more.
“Fine art must be seen and supported, no matter whose brush it comes from,” says Joshua Reynolds with a meaningful press of my hand. And then he begs my forgiveness but says he must attend to his other guests and slips away.
I’m left reeling as I absorb this latest turn of events. Joshua Reynolds is interested in my grandfather’s work? And could be interested in my work?
Jane Burke strikes up a new conversation with Caroline, and I’m glad of the moment it provides to gather myself. I no longer feel the pressure to exchange pleasantries as I consider what the patronage of Joshua Reynolds could mean.
“Mrs. Sturbridge, if I may?”
A man’s voice behind me interrupts my excited train of thought, and I turn reluctantly to find the friend of Henry Hoppinger, who I know only as “Sam”. He is alone.
