Rose Tremain - Restoration

"No. Not by embellishment, but by succeeding at what you attempted, Sir Robert, and failed to achieve: the capturing of her essence . I will capture it and the face will be a magnet, drawing all eyes and hearts towards it."

"I wish you luck," I said acidly. "But let me warn you: much of what the King commences he does not finish. The clamour about him is so noisy, so colossal, he cannot for long remain attentive to any one thing. So beware, Finn. You may arrive with your picture and he will not even set eyes upon it."

"But I have my paper…"

"Paper! Do you not know the First Rule of the Cosmos, Finn?"

"What 'First Rule'?"

"That all matter is born of fire and will one day again be consumed by it."

Having delivered myself of this piece of questionable wisdom and before Finn could deny its relevance to the piece of parchment in his hands, I quickly changed the subject.

"Concerning your lodging here," I said, "I suppose the King gave you money for this?"

"No, Sir Robert. As I told you, I have not one farthing…"

"I am to feed you and house you as a favour?"

"As a favour to His Majesty."

"For which I shall be rewarded how?"

"He did not say. But I am a person of modest appetite…"

"Not so, judging from your clothes."

"That is mere outward show…"

"As much as life proves to be. But God sees into your heart, Finn, and would He wish you to be a parasite?"

"I am no parasite. I work hard for the meagre living I make."

"And will do so here. In return for your board, you will concentrate such talent as you have upon my work. I wish to begin some new pictures. You will help me with questions of perspective and light."

"But what of the portrait?"

"My wife is most busy with her music and her attempts to comprehend the work of Dryden. She will not spare you more than an hour a day."

Finn began to protest and, seeing his dismay, I felt my anger abate somewhat. To Meg, when I next saw her, I would tell the story of a poor mendicant who is given a little plot of ground and sees an end to his poverty if he can but till the earth and sew some seed before the beginning of spring. He goes begging for tools – for a plough and a mule and a hoe. He returns with these, but he is too late. He did not see the spring come and yet, when he gets back, it is already there. He had forgotten with what stealth change occurs and time passes.

I found myself in the attic room at the Jovial Rushcutters sooner than I had intended: I lay there that very night.

The day of Finn's arrival passed most disagreeably and I was in such a lather of fury by suppertime that all I could think of was escaping from the house, so I shouted for my horse to be saddled and rode through the slush to the village. On my way, I chanced upon two poor people collecting sticks, of which I shall write more presently.

What so vexed me was Celia's treatment of Finn. Hearing from his thin lips that the King had commissioned him to paint her portrait, her eyes grew bright with joy. She summoned Farthingale and told her the merry tiding (the two of them reading into it excessive hopes for their imminent return to Kew) and they then began to fawn upon the artist, requesting to see his work and professing to find it most marvellous and brilliant and I know not what, and then bringing forth dresses and sashes and headdresses for him to choose from for the picture, the while utterly ignoring me and behaving as if I was of no account in the matter, which, alas, is true.

I observed Celia closely. Her beautiful smile, which I had seen so often given to the King, but scarcely ever to me, was almost constantly upon her lips, thus rendering her most infinitely pretty and sweet. Hers is the kind of sweetness which, once glimpsed, makes my heart tender – as if towards a child – and my manhood cruel – wanting to possess and abuse that very same childlike thing. I saw that Finn was utterly captivated by her. I saw also that Celia knew him to be captivated and did not mind, indeed allowed herself to flirt a little with him. And this last observation created in me a bitter yearning. Why – when she was my wife – could she not behave so charmingly to me?

I sat and watched her until I could endure it no longer, then went to the Music Room and played some foul blasts upon my oboe and kicked over my music stand, then threw the instrument down and went calling for my groom. On my way to the stables, I met Cattlebury who informed me that he had come by two dozen thrushes for supper. I told him curtly that I was not hungry but that he should serve up the wretched birds in a pie "for my wife and her new friend, Mr Finn". By the time they sat down to table (Celia's smile rendered all the more irresistible by the soft candlelight, no doubt) I had already consumed several flagons of ale and was conversing with a roofing man upon the abundance of rats to be found in thatch. "What if they are plague rats?" I asked. "Then death will come by the roof." And the old man nodded. "Widow Cartwright says the plague will come to Norfolk. Round and about springtime."

I went to Meg's bed very late and categorically drunk, after pissing in her fireplace and dousing what small warmth there was in the garrett. Once I held her in my arms, I went to sleep instantly, with my ugly head on her breasts.

When I woke, burdened as I knew I would be with an aching head and the smell of my own foul breath, I found myself alone, it being one of Meg's duties to rise early and sweep the floor of the tavern and air the place before the arrival of the first peasant for his cup of small beer. Ill as I knew myself to be, I rose immediately and went to the low window and looked out for, to my great chagrin, I now remembered that Danseuse had not been stabled the previous night and had spent it tied to a post under the cold stars. In what condition of cold and suffering I would find her, I did not know.

I could see almost nothing from the small window, except that a beastly drizzle was falling, dense like a mist. It is on such inhospitable mornings that the memory of midsummer causes my brain sudden suffering. My Merivel ancestors, haberdashers of Poitou, never endured an English winter. It is their blood, undoubtedly, that has made mine so susceptible to weather.

Meg found me kneeling at the window, and apparently thought I was at prayer, for she said, with a peevish coldness: "Prayer will not save you, Sir Robert."

"I am not praying, Meg," I said, "but scanning the environs in search of my horse."

"Your horse is in the stables," she said curtly, set down a pot of coffee and a dish of apple fritters on a table, and went out, each one of her words and gestures conveying intense displeasure. I remained kneeling, like a penitent. My life is a very muddled occurrence, I remarked to myself.

Finding no forgiveness or yielding in Meg that morning, I had no choice but to set off for home, a little restored by the coffee and fritters and mighty glad that my horse had not perished by my neglect, but my spirits at one with the weather. The thought of returning to be met by Finn in his ludicrous wig was so distasteful to me that I considered riding directly to Bathurst Hall, but found that the memory of Violet's party and the jokes about my ignominious role as cuckold still pained me. Furthermore, I felt no desire whatsoever for Violet, her demeanour and her coarse language now striking me as intolerably vulgar. I could do little, therefore, but return home, planning as I rode to soothe my body with soap and hot water and then to persuade Celia to sing for me alone, contriving some laborious task (such as the stretching of canvases) for Finn and banishing Farthingale to her room.

It was at this moment that I found myself at the place where I had seen the poor people grovelling for kindling. I reined in Danseuse and sat looking about me. There was no stirring anywhere, only the silent rain and the dripping of the trees.