‘There are some memories one does not wish to keep.’ His face hardened for a moment. ‘Besides, I like to share what I have found. People always want a curiosity to show their friends.’
Carefully, I picked up a sugared plum. Its granules stuck to my fingers. ‘I confess, I am here on such an errand. Come August, we will entertain some illustrious guests.’
‘Ah! This way then, madam. I will show you the ivory. Exquisite pieces beyond all compare. Any guest will swoon.’
I popped the plum in my mouth and followed him.
It was a giddy half hour, picking and choosing from the world’s treasure chest. I found dried tulips mounted in frames and a mechanical cannon that fired shot. I was carried away, I confess. I felt quite ashamed when I turned and, in the low candlelight, saw another customer waiting.
‘Oh!’ I cried. ‘Pray, forgive me.’ I turned to Mr Samuels. ‘That must do for now, I am keeping you from business.’
His small eyes followed mine. For a moment, I thought he was afraid. Then he laughed.
I saw my mistake: it was no customer standing in the corner but a board, painted to resemble a person. So splendidly was it worked that you would not notice it was a piece of art, at first glance. The subject was a woman resting with her hand on her hip. Shadows were painted on her face at the exact angles light would hit from the window of the shop.
‘You have run ahead of me,’ Mr Samuels said. ‘I was coming to these.’ He walked over to the object. I could see, by the light of the window, beads of sweat stood upon his brow. ‘These counterfeits can trick the best of us. Do you know the meaning of trompe l’oeil?’
‘A trick of the eye?’
‘Precisely. A playful deception. Come hither.’ He pointed to the shoulder of the cut-out. His finger hovered an inch away from the wood. ‘See the bevelled edges? They stop it from looking flat.’ I peeped around the back, still surprised to find it was not solid. She was not real and yet I felt I could not touch her, could not meet her eye. ‘I have more of these I can show you. Children carrying fruit. Maids and sweepers. A lady with her lute.’
‘Wherever are they from?’
‘These were given to me in Amsterdam. They call them “silent companions”.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Those Dutchmen, madam, they love their little deceits. It’s not just the tulips they are mad for. They have perspective boxes and pretend food – even doll’s houses fitted out finer than a duke’s palace.’
I turned to Jane. ‘They are good sport, are they not? I can imagine guests coming across these boards with a little cry. A moment of shock, then laughter and conversation.’
‘I do not know if Her Majesty would wish to be shocked,’ said Jane.
Mr Samuels looked at me with a new respect. ‘Her Majesty, say you? The Queen?’
I coloured again, this time with pleasure. ‘Yes. We are greatly honoured. So you see why it is important that I choose—’
He held out a hand. The fingers were fat, like sausages, and marked by the weather. ‘Yes, yes,’ he interrupted, ‘you must have the best of everything. May I humbly recommend these items?’ Once more he gestured to the figure, but he did not let his hand make contact with it. I deduced the item was expensive, even too precious to touch.
‘They are unlike anything I have seen before. I shall certainly consider them.’
‘What is there to consider, dear madam? They are just the thing to please Her Majesty.’ There was a plea in his voice, in his eyes. Perchance business was not going as well as he had hoped.
‘I have taken a quantity of goods already,’ I said, trying to tally my spending. Something this rare would surely stretch beyond my purse? ‘It would be fitting to consult my husband before—’
‘But your lord will only counsel you as I do. I doubt any man in England has seen the like of these.’
I thought of Josiah, of the way he pined for recognition from the King. ‘We may desire one or two . . .’
‘But the effect will be diminished. Come, I will let you take the whole collection.’
Usually, I would be wary of a person desperate to peddle his goods, but I wanted Mr Samuels’s strange toys. They were calling to me, watching me, baiting me to take them with their painted eyes.
‘I am unsure whether . . .’
‘For a special price.’ He smiled. ‘I promise you, there is no better method to surprise the Queen. She will never forget the companions.’
I bought them all.
THE BRIDGE, 1865
‘Its eyes moved.’
‘What?’ Elsie’s pen jerked and spluttered over the page. Ruined: her letter to the builder was ruined. ‘What do you want, Mabel?’
After two weeks of resting in bed, Mabel had resumed dusting and other light tasks. Elsie was inclined to think she could manage a lot more. She played up to her misfortune, dragging herself about like a child with a club foot.
Today she stood in the open doorway of the library, her posture crooked, favouring the uninjured leg. Her right hand clasped a dirty cloth and there was a smear of soot on her nose.
‘The thing. Its eyes moved and looked right at me.’
Elsie laid down her pen. ‘What thing?’ she asked. But she already knew. It was as though she had spent the last fortnight just waiting for this to happen.
‘The wooden thing.’
‘The companion?’
‘That’s it.’ Sweat spangled the thin line of hair showing beneath Mabel’s cap. Her throat worked. ‘I won’t clean it no more. Its eyes moved.’
Words formed in her mind; a thousand cutting remarks. She could not utter a single one of them. ‘The gypsy boy?’
Mabel shook her head. ‘T’other one.’
‘Show me.’
They walked downstairs in silence, stiffly, like marionettes. Wind gusted through the cracks in the floorboards and skittered leaves against the windows. From behind the house, Beatrice gave a mournful low.
Helen stood waiting in the Great Hall, her knuckles clenched around a duster.
‘You have moved them again,’ Elsie said, looking at the scratches on the floor. ‘Why do you keep moving them?’
‘We didn’t move them,’ cried Mabel.
Both companions stood beside the fireplace. There was something different about the boy, but she could not place her finger on it. He regarded her haughtily, staring to his left. He was taunting her, daring her to notice a change.
Something . . . The angle of his face . . . She shook the thought off. There was no change. Paintings did not change, it was a ridiculous fancy.
The little girl looked exactly as Elsie recalled her: the white rose pressed to her breast; her mischievous smile and the olive silk. Her green-brown eyes still carried the same warmth of expression – they had not moved.
She let out her breath. ‘You do not appreciate good art, Mabel. The skill of a painter is to make the eyes look as if they are upon you, no matter where you stand. Go walk past the portraits upstairs. The same thing will happen.’
‘I weren’t walking. Didn’t move a muscle. I stood still, right there, and they slid.’
It was too horrible to imagine. She would not imagine it, or believe any more of these servants’ ridiculous stories. ‘Did Helen see it?’
‘No, ma’am,’ Helen croaked. She wrung the duster. ‘But . . .’