Her lips skim the back of the lady’s hand to more shrieks and applause. Many allow themselves to be stolen from several times over—kisses trifles jewelry coin surrendered for the fun of it. The pair are sensational.
Did I tell you I wrote you a poem?
Did you? Is it in the bag?
Maria searches for it amid their booty; it is not there, and Frances is gone again, at the other end of the room, enthralled by the attentions of a gaudy matron dripping in frills and filigree. The woman’s thick form almost bursts from her dress and she chuckles exuberantly as she pretends to read Frances’s palm.
Maria’s ferocious daggers of jealousy. She remembers this incident,
it happened just as it is happening now: the other woman offers Frances a drink that looks like milk but gives off a nefarious green tinge. Maria wills Frances to refuse it, but she does not.
Mesmerized, they toast each other like lovers, and Frances tastes the mysterious liquid with the trepidation of a child taking an adult’s medicine. Whatever is in that glass, it causes Frances to lean toward the wench and whisper into her ear. They share a secret moment of understanding, a connection.
Maria is helpless, watches them, horrified. What a row there was afterward.
Did you see the lady made of light?
Is it part of the poem you wrote?
Oh, here it is.
Oh, there you are. I have been looking for you.
Maria has found her, is glad.
Now Frances is in the library bay window at home, her writing board on her knees, has been here the entire morning.
I am writing a poem for you.
Maria suspected as much but is nonetheless flattered. It is June; the smell of cut grass tells her so.
Please may I see it?
Frances holds out the paper and Maria attempts to take it once, twice; she cannot, it dissolves at the touch.
Here it is. It says everything.
Maria tries again carefully but the sheet eludes her—a wisp.
Frances is radiant. Like a lady made of light.
Maybe Maria can make out the words from here? No. The words slip over one another, little black fish swimming about.
What does it say? (It is her poem, Frances has written it for her.)
Everything I ever wanted to tell you.
Maria feels the edges of the world beginning to break apart and she guesses, or remembers, why it is imperative—
She is pleading with Frances to read it to her but her voice is muffled, will not be summoned. Everything is in it, she said. The room becomes as broad as a valley, the bookcases as tall as a forest; they are being swallowed by the sun. If only Frances would read it aloud, then she could memorize it, take it with her. Her begging is inaudible even to herself.
You read it, Maria.
I cannot. The words are moving. The paper does not like to be held.
And she tries once more, grabbing at space. The sun is getting brighter, draining the room of lines and depth. She is trying to shout, but the sounds take no form. She thinks,
I must not frighten Frances, she seems to have forgotten she is dead, and I ought not remind her.
Read me some of it, Frances, because . . . because—
Frances is puzzled: Maria is rejecting it, something is amiss. Her face is impossible to see as the daylight blazes in.
Now—you might not have the chance again!
Maria reaches for her, has the parting perception that Frances is annoyed with her.
Just a few lines, Frances.
She is thinking it only, mentally imploring the fading vision.
Mrs. Plett draws back the curtains and opens the shutters, the window, then another, and another, letting in fresh air.
My Lady?
The countess is deep in the middle of the mattress, a mess of bedding and auburn hair, asleep. Coward also, curled at the end.
Mrs. Plett moves closer to her; firmly, My Lady?
Her breathing is regular, undisturbed.
Making no progress with the sleeping woman, Mrs. Plett shoos off the black pug instead, who sneezes at the indignity.
My Lady?
The housekeeper cannot suffer it. She picks up one of the hard pillows and wallops it back down.
Maria!
Maria stirs not immediately, is groggy.
What is it, Mrs. Plett?
She is here.
Maria knows that if she ignores her housekeeper, she will tire soon and leave her alone. Failed efforts to make her get up have become integral to their routine. The maidservants do not have the willpower to challenge the countess; only the housekeeper has enough authority to bully her for her own good. Already the tendrils of dreams ensnare Maria, pulling her back down (can still find out what is in that poem) but something Mrs. Plett said peals like a bell.
Who is?
The Paintress.
Oh, nonsense.
You can tell her so yourself, My Lady.
Maria finds she is awake, narrows her eyes against the daylight, leans on one elbow.
Why would she turn up so early in the morning, unannounced?
The housekeeper stands to her full height, reaches the limit of her patience.
My Lady, it is almost three o’clock in the afternoon, and I would hardly describe the visit as impromptu.
The countess heaves herself up, gathers her thoughts.
Shall I bring tea to the drawing room and send Rachel to dress you?
The younger woman nods, and when Mrs. Plett has left, she steels herself to resist the comfort of her bed, rises. She finds she can remember her dreams most clearly in the dim seconds between
sleeping and waking, can carry the figments with her by clinging fast, repeating them in her mind . . . occasionally they survive the scorch of day and it is as though Frances has just left the room. And sometimes the images collapse like sandcastles.
Maria pours cold water from a jug into a basin, splashes her face. The Paintress is here, is she, Coward? And after Maria had given up hope. The dog watches his mistress with expressive eyes. Yet she finds she is not pleased, not pleased at all. She splashes again and dries herself with a towel. The glass tells her she is aging.
While she waits, Angelica Kauffman examines the paintings in the drawing room. Antiquities, mediocrities, noticeably nothing contemporary (someone told her once the earl keeps the best for himself). The room is clean, elegant, fine, but old-fashioned and smallish. The Turkish carpet is beautiful but in need of repair, the furniture shabby, the stucco embellishments could do with touch-ups—opulence gone to seed.
The countess is dressed and wigged, though her bearing is sluggish, crumpled, unmade, shawl trailing, cameo askew. Coward follows, her little soldier. She sees the luggage as she passes through the hallway, greets the guest with a loose handshake, invites her to take tea.
Angelica is a beauty. Her hair is up in a turban of sorts, her mantua has sashes and accents of the pseudo-oriental in white and green. She is brown-eyed and slender, and her English retains hints of her European roots.
Your Ladyship looks well.
Thank you, Miss Kauffman, that is generous of you. Maria serves her, asks about her journey.
Long, Your Ladyship. I have come straight from London.
So far? You must have left early.
I did, it was still dark.
Maria lifts her own teacup and sips. She is nauseous, at sea, and
this exotic creature perturbs her. She asks, Do you have business in the area, Miss Kauffman?
No, Your Ladyship.
Have you turned into the itinerant artist? Perchance this is a midway point on a longer journey up-country?
No, Your Ladyship. Angelica frowns.
Then, Miss Kauffman, may I ask what has brought you here?
I came to see you, Your Ladyship.
Maria chinks the cup into the saucer. How sick she has become of society; how long it has been since she had visitors. She wonders if she will ever find it appealing again. Already this encounter is draining her.
Very conscientious of you, Miss Kauffman. And were the roads agreeable?
Dry.
Good. Wet roads are inconvenient.
The countess rises, a glance out at the garden, flattens her wig absentmindedly. The artist, hungry after traveling, takes dainty bites from her biscuit. Coward, the spoiled baby, snuffles for scraps.
What is the news in London, Miss Kauffman?
One topic dominates the rest: the American colonies are saying they want independence. From what I understand, the Loyalists are greatly outnumbered by the Patriots, who would declare the colonies a republic—are prepared to go to war for it against their king. They would risk mob rule, and even make alliances with France and Spain to shore up their cause.
How boring . . . To underline the point, Maria yawns and then adds, Do the Americans know that France and Spain are still monarchies?
I should not think it has escaped their attention, Your Ladyship.
Maria can see the delicate spine of the artist revealed by the sunken neckline at the back of her outfit, reminding her of a bird.
What is your view, Miss Kauffman? Ought the king to surrender the colonies to the American people, and save everyone a costly war?
Angelica sighs and answers, I have no interest in politics. One cannot be both an artistic and a political being—not the kind of artistic being I am, anyway.
She eats the meager offering, while the countess circles the room and asks if she has had enough.
Angelica replies she has eaten plenty . . . and hopes she did not arrive at an inopportune time.
When I get headaches I sleep most of the day.
I am sorry to hear you are unwell, Your Ladyship.
Maria riffles through her correspondence, opens two letters with an ivory blade, scans them, ignores the rest. She leans back in her chair, head in hand, lifts her feet onto the ottoman, and closes her eyes for a few minutes. Eventually she rouses herself: Miss Kauffman, may I ask how long you intend to be with us? Naturally, you are welcome to stay as long as you like.
Though I came at your urging, I do not wish to impose, Your Ladyship. I will remain only for as long as is necessary.
One month? Two?
No, not nearly so long. A few days at most. I have commitments in London.
Of course you do. While you are here, you must make yourself at home. You will want to settle in, explore the house and grounds, recover your strength. I will send a message when I need you.
Mrs. Plett enters at just the right moment, announces the blue room is ready.
Maria, anxious to go back to bed, gives her instructions briskly.
Mrs. Plett, the day has been tiring for Miss Kauffman. Would you please show her there now? And arrange for the item to be taken out of storage and brought to her?
Yes, My Lady.
I shall leave it in your capable hands.
The countess bids Angelica good afternoon and stalks away.
Angelica follows Mrs. Plett through the house, up the expanse of staircase, allowing her hand to follow the curve of the banister, to the other wing and a beautiful guestroom in cerulean and gold brocade. The housekeeper leaves momentarily, returning with a footman carrying a canvas wrapped in gauze. She directs him to place it on the rosewood table and to leave.
Mrs. Plett lifts the canvas easily, removes the cover, and gives the unfinished painting to the artist.
I took the greatest care of it, Miss Kauffman. I had to hide it.
Angelica examines the portrait, holds it toward the light.
The face has some resemblance to the sitter (oval, aquiline nose, high forehead), though more work is required to bring it to life. The outline of the body is in place (flat and formless neoclassical garb), and some color has been blocked into the background while other areas remain bare. Hardly more than a beginning of a painting—a false start. Angelica thought she had made more progress than this; recalls a portrait on the verge of completion, is disappointed by its feebleness. Then again, she is often disappointed by her own work. What is conceived of as sublime, an ideal, loses much in its execution and is eroded further still by criticism from her colleagues until at the end, the work can seem trite, trivial, even to herself.
Miss Kauffman, may I be permitted to speak in confidence?
Angelica inclines her head.
It was unfortunate, what happened. Believe me when I say Her Ladyship has suffered terribly since and has many regrets.
Each of us is human and deficient, Mrs. Plett. I have not come to settle a score.
Your consenting to come at all is appreciated. I know you have many demands on your time.
As we are speaking in confidence, I am emboldened to say Her Ladyship is melancholy.
Yes, she is.
Then she is lucky to have you, Mrs. Plett. We need our friends most when we are bereft.
Angelica Kauffman is in a residence that reminds her of a mausoleum, and she imagines herself its roaming ghost. She wanders from room to remote room, initially to discover its paintings, taking a lit candelabrum with her as the end of the day closes in. Ancestral portraits; other mismatched or uncared-for pieces bought but never appreciated; a handful of jewels from the Flemish and Dutch schools (her experienced eye picks out the ones made by copyists). She chooses one or two she might make sketches of, includes a composition of a maid sitting alone in a room with her back to the viewer. No face. But why?
She finds she is drawn to the vacancy, the stillness, the decrepitude of the place, the sounds of her heels reverberating along corridors. The ballroom, the dining room, the impressive library where Angelica lingers, running her finger along the spines; her gaze meanders along the titles. Unoccupied spaces. Haunted by sadness. It is a grand building, but Angelica has been in grander, and it is the absence of society, of comings and goings, that makes it feel enormous as a cavern, serious as a church. Her artistic mind responds to the atmosphere, gives fictional accounts for it—this is a palace, a forest of briars surrounding it, its occupants put to sleep by an evil spell. When she passes a servant on a wooden step straining to collect the cobwebs with her duster, these fancies blow away.
She strolls through the grounds during the late-afternoon sun, then sunset, then twilight, around the rose garden and an orchard. It occurs to her that she may not be dining with the countess. It occurs to her that she should not have come, that she would like to return to London.