brushes and palette in every direction. 'It does not speak to me, my girl! 'But it never lasted very long.
She halted. There were voices, one of them a woman's.
'Do I know him?'
He was looking at a clock, which had stopped.
'A name in the City, not our world. Meyrick. Lord Meyrick.'
It meant nothing. She touched her gown, testing herself.
Tomorrow it would be behind her.
'I think we should go in. 'He took her arm. 'Together.'
The voices were silent now, but she did not notice them, only the long, littered table with its chalks and crayon, pads that still bore Montagu's notes and preparatory scribbles. The canvas, propped where it held the light without reflection. A plain stool, and the harp.
Mark Fellowes was greeting the artist, John Fielding, older than she remembered, but the same almost casual stance, which she had soon learned was to put his subjects at their ease. No mean feat in some of the studios to which Sir Gregory had conducted her. He must have had great faith in her, when she had none.
Lord Meyrick was not what she expected. Tall, with an athlete's body in expensively cut clothes. A bony, hawk- like face. A countryman, perhaps once a soldier.
'With all respect to the late Sir Gregory Montagu, his paintings do not do you justice. 'His voice was low, almost soft. Unlike the hand that took hers and brushed it against his lips.
Lowenna saw the woman who had accompanied him, lounging in one of the tall gilt chairs. Not comfortable enough to encourage sightseers, Montagu had said dryly.
She turned her attention to the canvas. Her own face, gazing out at her, the rest roughly sketched from the painter's imagination. It gave her time. The woman was hardly what she had expected, either, even as a casual companion.
Meyrick was saying, 'I have another fine likeness of you, one of his most explicit, I believe. 'The Rape of Helen'. 'He laughed. 'I felt only envy!'
She said, 'But there was nothing that…'
Mark Fellowes moved the harp slightly.
'While the light is so favourable, I think we should begin.'
Meyrick gave a slight bow.
'Please do. I am all attention. 'To the woman he said, 'Be patient. You need not have come here.'
John Fielding was already stooping over the table, selecting and discarding brushes.
'You will recall where everything is kept, Lowenna.'
Fellowes called, 'I shall be back in a moment, 'and the doors clicked shut.
Lowenna walked behind the screen and looked from the window to the sheltered garden below. All green now, with few flowers, overgrown and uncared for. Like the house. The last time she had stood behind this lovely old Oriental screen, all the leaves had been brown, or scattering in the wind.
She saw the smock draped over a bench and held it to her face. The same one. Even the dried paint where she had wiped her fingers…
She was conscious of urgency, and a determination not to reveal it. The voices were speaking again, but she ignored them, shut them out. It was done.
Her gown folded over the bench, her reticule beside it. She saw herself reflected in the window. The loose smock, the feet bare on the floorboards.
She walked deliberately into the studio, and felt nothing.
Like being guided.
When Fielding spoke, and touched her shoulder, it could have been Montagu.
She was sitting on the stool, and if she reached out she would feel the harpstrings. Like that day when Adam had ridden away, after seeing her. Perhaps wanting her even then. She must not think, where was he now? Shall I always be asking, hoping?
'The hair should be free, looser. You can change it, can't you?'
The soft hands were on her neck, and she could feel the weight of her unbound hair dragging at the smock as it slipped from her shoulders.
'Like this. 'She heard the woman say something, but the hands remained.
Another voice. 'If you're certain, my lord?'
'Very, very certain.'
She could feel his breath on her neck where the hair had been pulled aside, then the smock had fallen and she felt his fingers around her breast. She was on her feet, clutching the robe, attempting to cover herself. A laugh, cracking into a gasp and a curse of pain, and the hand was suddenly gone.
Like madness. Or like being an onlooker.
Mark Fellowes bursting through the double doors, a tray perhaps with glasses splintering on the floor. And Meyrick's hand pressed to his eye, reeling from the blow she could still feel burning through her arm, as if she herself had been struck.
Meyrick was shouting, 'You bitch! I should have known! ' His woman was pulling at him, calling out, laughing or sobbing, it was impossible to tell. 'You can whistle for your bloody money after this!'
Fielding said nothing, standing with one arm across the canvas, as if to protect it.
Mark Fellowes was staring at the doors as they banged together.
'If I had thought for an instantЦ'
She shook her head. Later, every detail would be clear. She walked to the windows again and stared out at the garden, then at her own reflection. It had to be now, or she might break.
'Finish the painting. For me. You will be paid.'
She turned with that new, cold deliberation and returned to the stool and the harp, drew her fingers across the strings, heard the sweet notes in the utter silence. She knew the others were watching her as if unable to move.
She arched her shoulders and felt the smock fall around her ankles.
No fear. His final gift.
12. The Longest Day
'Captain, sir!'
Adam Bolitho opened his eyes, his mind reluctant to respond. It was too early; he had only just fallen asleep. But the shadowy figure beside the chair was real, the midshipman's white patches visible against the cabin's dim backdrop.
'Thank you, Mr. Hotham. Right on time.'
'Morning watch, sir.'
Adam allowed his body to relax, hearing the muffled sounds of the ship around him, the occasional thud of the rudder head.
Four o'clock in the morning. And it would be exactly that: Monteith had been standing the middle watch, and he would make certain that the half-hour glass was turned only when the last grains had run through it. No 'warming the glass 'to shorten the watch for those on deck. He could remember being told to do it himself when he had been like young Hotham.
He rolled over and felt the ship come alive beneath him.
Slow, uneven; the wind had dropped again. He peered aft at the stern windows. Utter darkness, but in a few minutes his mind would be fully awake, and the gloom would be gone.
A visit to the chart room. The latest calculations on the chart. Reality. He felt for his shoes, a foot at a time. No pain. Luke Jago or some mate of his had done a good job of stretching the one that had been too tight.
'Mr. Vincent sends his respects, sir, and do you require some refreshment?'
He felt the deck shudder again, heard the far-off squeal of blocks.
'I think not. It sounds as if Mr. Vincent has other tasks more pressing. You'd better go to him.'
