Tracy Chevalier - Burning Bright

By the time they reached Henry VII’s Lady Chapel at the other end of the Abbey, and Maggie triumphantly announced, ‘Queen Elizabeth,’ Jem had stopped listening to her altogether and openly gaped. He had never imagined a place could be so ornate.

‘Oh, Jem, look at that ceiling,’ Maisie breathed, gazing up at the fan vaulting, carved of stone so delicate it looked like lace spun by spiders, touched in several places with gold leaf.

Jem was not studying the ceiling, however, but the rows of carved seats for members of the royal court along both sides of the chapel. Over each seat was an eight-foot-high ornamental tower of patinated oak filigree. The towers were of such a complicated interlocking pattern that it would not have been a surprise to hear carvers had gone mad working on them. Here at last was wood worked in a way the Kellaways would never see the likes of in Dorsetshire, or Wiltshire, or Hampshire, or anywhere in England other than in Westminster Abbey. Jem and Thomas Kellaway gazed in awe at the carving, like men who make sundials seeing a mechanical clock for the first time.

Jem lost track of Maggie until she rushed up to him. ‘Come here!’ she hissed, and dragged him away from the Lady Chapel to the centre of the Abbey and the Chapel of Edward the Confessor. ‘Look!’ she whispered, nodding in the direction of one of the tombs surrounding Edward’s massive shrine.

Mr Blake was standing alongside it, staring at the bronze effigy of a woman that lay along the top of it. He was sketching in a small sand-coloured notebook, never looking down at the paper and pencil, but keeping his eyes fastened on the statue’s impassive face.

Maggie put a finger to her lips, then took a quiet step towards Mr Blake, Jem following reluctantly. Slowly and steadily they rounded on him from behind. He was so concentrated on drawing that he noticed nothing. As the children got closer, they discovered that he was singing under his breath, very soft and high, more like the whining of a mosquito than of a man. Now and then his lips moved to form a word but it was hard to catch what he might be saying.

Maggie giggled. Jem shook his head at her. They were close enough now that they were able to peek around Mr Blake at his sketch. When they saw what he was drawing, Jem flinched, and Maggie openly gasped. Though the statue on the tomb was dressed in ceremonial robes, Mr Blake had drawn her naked.

He did not turn around, but continued to draw and to sing, though he must have known now that they were just behind him.

Jem grabbed Maggie’s elbow and pulled her away. When they had left the chapel and were out of earshot, Maggie burst out laughing. ‘Fancy undressing a statue!’

Jem’s irritation outweighed his impulse to laugh too. He was suddenly weary of Maggie – of her harsh, barking laughter, her sharp comments, her studied worldliness. He longed for someone quiet and simple, who wouldn’t pass judgement on him and on Mr Blake.

‘Shouldn’t you be with your family?’ he said abruptly.

Maggie shrugged. ‘They’ll just be at the pub. I can find ’em later.’

‘I’m going back to mine.’ Immediately he regretted his tone, as he saw hurt flash through her eyes before she hid it with hard indifference.

‘Suit yourself.’ She shrugged and turned away.

‘Wait, Maggie,’ Jem called as she slipped out of a side entrance he had not noticed before. As when he first met her, the moment she was gone, he wished she was back again. He felt eyes on him then, and looked across the aisle and through the door to Edward’s Chapel. Mr Blake was gazing at him, pen poised above his notebook.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.