Garlands of Gold

by Rosalind Laker

  He drew her closer to him. ‘My darling wife,’ he murmured in reply. Then again he took her, causing her to arch under him with the force of her ecstatic fulfilment.

  They stayed two more weeks at the Hall during which they walked hand-in-hand or rode in the parkland, he showing her where he had played as a boy, and they took a boat on to the lake in which once – as a three-year-old – he had almost drowned. One morning they came across an old swing hanging from the stout branch of an oak tree and after he had tested the rope he swung her to and fro, her petticoats fluttering, as she rose high into the air. Now and again they made love in sheltered groves with only birdsong to accompany her softly joyous cries.

  One morning as they went riding she told him how mixed her feelings had been when she found he had not taken the portrait medallion of her with him.

  He gave her a sideways glance. ‘I was so furious with you at the time that I was afraid that I might hurl it away somewhere, which was why I left it hanging where it was.’

  ‘What a torment I must have been to you,’ she said regretfully.

  ‘In more ways than one,’ he replied wryly. ‘But when we get back to London I want you to have your portrait painted. Grinling’s portrait medallion will always hold your likeness as a young girl, but it is time now for your beauty as a woman to be captured for ever.’

  ‘Then let it be done according to the Dutch way.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Surely you remember from your days in Holland that it is the custom for dual marriage portraits to be painted? There will be one of the bridegroom looking towards his bride while she in her portrait gazes towards him, and they hang side by side from then onwards. It means that we shall be looking into each other’s eyes for all eternity.’

  He smiled. ‘What could be better than that? It shall be as you wish.’

  Neighbours soon heard that Robert Harting’s wife had joined him at the Hall. It was then that their peaceful isolation was shattered as invites came and people called, all so full of goodwill that it was impossible not to welcome them. But the disruption lasted only a matter of days as word came that it was imperative that Robert should return to London.

  He looked up from the letter, his face alight. ‘It’s splendid news, although it means we must leave here sooner than we had intended. Wren’s third post-Great Fire plan for the cathedral has finally been accepted by the King and the clergy! Now work can begin!’

  The letter had come from Wren himself, for he was summoning his assistant architects to a final consultation, for at last the great work was to commence immediately.

  Twenty-One

  It had been a strange little scene that took place in the Palace of Whitehall when Wren arrived to discuss some minor details about his accepted plan, for His Majesty wished to be enlightened about some aspects of the new building, even though all was settled. There were several courtiers in attendance when Wren entered the royal presence and six of the King’s pet spaniels, which came scampering to greet him, tails wagging.

  Charles was seated at a table with the plan spread out before him and after initial greetings he motioned for Wren to take the chair set ready for him.

  ‘No doubt you are able to sleep again at nights,’ Charles began jovially, ‘now that the way is open for your great work to begin and all with the full approval of the archbishop and the clergy. Were you told that there was not a single dissent?’

  ‘Yes, sire. I was mightily relieved. It must be the resemblance to the old Norman cathedral that pleased them,’ Wren replied evenly, no hint of his own opinion of them in his voice. ‘Ever since you first entrusted me with the task ahead I have never stopped receiving letters from the clergy, all pointing out all that was beautiful about it and emphasizing that there was no need to look beyond it to anything new or different.’

  Charles smiled. ‘Some people always cling to the familiar and are ill at ease with anything new.’

  Wren nodded. ‘Frankly, sire, I should not have been surprised if they had wanted the building to resemble the early Saxon church that was the first Christian place of worship on the site!’

  The King laughed. ‘At least it would have stopped there. They would not have wanted the original Roman temple to Diana to be re-erected on that same location!’

  ‘Indeed not, sire!’

  The King leaned over the plan on the table. ‘Now I’m particularly interested in these arches by the nave. Tell me how they are to be constructed.’

  After all the royal questions had been answered Wren expected to leave, but Charles had one more query to put to him and there was a conspiratorial flicker in the dark depths of the royal gaze.

  ‘I suppose you will be using a great deal of scaffolding during the construction of this mighty masterpiece,’ Charles remarked casually. Then he glanced down to scoop up one of his spaniels and fondle it.

  ‘Indeed, sire. The world will see very little of the new cathedral until it is almost finished.’

  Now the King’s gaze met Wren’s eyes again with that same meaningful flicker. ‘I’m extremely pleased to hear it. My goodwill will be following every mounting stone of it.’

  Around them there was applause from the courtiers in honour of the great project that was to be started at last and the spaniel in the king’s arms yapped as if in assent.

  Originally the replacing of the old Norman cathedral had been planned in the early days of the Restoration, for the Parliamentarian troops had stabled their horses in it and defiled it further by using it for dubious entertainments at night. Nobody knew then that the Great Fire would consume it before Wren’s first great plan for it could be carried out. The burned-out ruins were still being brought down by gunpowder explosions.

  Now as Wren made his way out of the great palace a smile was twitching the corners of his normally serious mouth. Without a single word or gesture the King had let him know that he had a free hand to go ahead with his advanced ideas for the cathedral, all of which had met with His Majesty’s enthusiastic approval right from the start. Then, by the time most of the scaffolding was removed, it would be too late for any reversal to the plan approved by the clergy. It was exactly what Wren had intended to do as long ago as when he had seen his first plan turned down by the clergy, but he had not expected to carry it through with unspoken royal approval. It should not be a steeple that would rise above London rooftops as before, but a beautiful dome such as had never before been seen against an English sky.

  When Saskia and Robert were on their way back to London news-sheet sellers ran to the coach in every town. Robert had bought from the first one, for the great news was that the war with the Dutch Republic was over and peace between the two countries was restored.

  ‘What splendid news to greet our homecoming,’ Saskia said thankfully.

  When they entered the London house she thought how different everything was for her now from that time of leaving. The first thing she did when she went upstairs was to unlock the dividing doors between Robert’s room and her own. He had told her that many times he had come close to forcing the lock, but her taunt of rape had always stopped him.

  ‘If only I had known how it was to be with us,’ she had sighed in his arms.

  ‘You needed time, my love,’ he replied, kissing away her frown.

  Elizabeth came visiting the day after their return, looking beautiful in a splendid straw hat, its wide brim half covered with silk flowers. Immediately she saw a change in Saskia.

  ‘You look radiant, my friend,’ she exclaimed, sitting down in a chair with a sweep of her blue-striped skirt and using her fan, for the August day was extremely hot. ‘What has happened? Are you with child?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ Saskia replied on a soft laugh.

  ‘You look so – so – happy!’ Elizabeth declared, being at a loss to find any other words to describe the difference she saw in Saskia.

  ‘Yes, I am. Robert and I had a delightful time at the Hall.’

  ‘I’
m so glad the property is his again at last. I gave Grinling the good news when he came home from measuring up for his carving at yet another great mansion that is being built – the country home of a duke this time. He has been called publicly an artist in wood, a compliment that pleased him mightily. He is constantly in demand these days and his workshop is full of wonderful pieces that he is working on.’ Then she added on an unconscious note of pride, ‘Yet he has agreed that now he has established himself as a craftsman of high repute and a personage of some importance that it is time we had our portraits painted.’

  Saskia raised her eyebrows in pleased surprise. ‘What a coincidence! Robert has decided that we should have our portraits painted too!’

  ‘How exciting! What are you going to wear?’

  ‘I have not given it any thought yet.’

  ‘Oh, but you must! It is very important. Grinling wanted our likenesses to be portrayed in the Dutch manner of two wedding portraits, but I said we had been married too long to be depicted as a bride and groom.’

  Saskia smiled to herself. The length of her marriage to Robert was immaterial since it had been consummated so recently.

  She resumed her afternoon consultations, but some while since had reduced them to one Wednesday afternoon a month, which made women all the more eager to be there. These afternoons had become important events in themselves with tea being served and ratatouille biscuits handed around by two pretty young girls in green gowns. To be present at one of Mistress Harting’s consultations was to be seen as knowing the high points of London’s social scene.

  Saskia was wryly aware that once again she had become a vogue, a whim of fashion having taken her up, but one that could just as easily drop her again. She also knew that she must continue to keep these gatherings exclusive by limiting admission, or else they could become commonplace.

  Some time after her return with Robert to London a long-delayed letter from Holland, held up by the conflict, came for her. As she broke the seal, recognizing Cornelia van Beek’s handwriting, she hoped that those to whom she had written during the past four years would be receiving her letters too. The date of this one showed it had been written over a year ago and it brought sad news. Nanny Bobbins had died, a peaceful end in her sleep.

  She treasured the letters you sent her and she has left you some of her beautiful lace – Cornelia had written – either for your wedding gown or, if you are married already, for your first baby’s christening robe.

  Saskia, folding the letter again after reading it through a second time, sat for a while with a handkerchief to her eyes as she wept in her grief that she would never see the old nurse again. Always at the back of her mind had been the hope that one day she would be able to visit her old home and see again the friends she had made there.

  Rising to her feet, she wiped her eyes and went upstairs to take from a drawer the Nordland cap that Nanny Bobbins had made her all that time ago. She often wore it, for fashion decreed the wearing of a cap under a wide-brimmed hat on wild and windy days to keep curls in place. Yet today she wore it as a sign of respect for someone who had brought a special kindness and affection into her life and whom she would never forget.

  Over the next few months some other long-delayed letters arrived. Her friend, Anna, with whom she had been skating the day that Grinling had joined her on the frozen lake, wrote that she was married to a successful artist and presently living in Amsterdam. She also included news of mutual friends, which Saskia appreciated. Amalia Visser’s letter also told of Nurse Bobbins’ passing, not knowing when she wrote that Cornelia’s letter would be first with the news. She was very distressed, having been fond of the old nurse and they had shared living accommodation at the Gibbons’ house. Although Dinely Gibbons was willing for her to stay on there, according to the arrangements that his mother had made, she was going to move to Delft and live with her widowed sister there.

  The bequeathed lace arrived not long afterwards and consisted of exquisite lace collars that would flow over the shoulders and many lengths in various depths to trim gowns and petticoats. Among them was included a tiny Nordland cap, exactly like the one Nurse Bobbins had made for Saskia, which would fit a little baby’s head.

  ‘Perhaps one day,’ Saskia whispered, placing it in a drawer with her own cap.

  Saskia felt that it was fast becoming time to find a shop and she had seen one near Piccadilly that she thought would suit her perfectly. Her beauty products were now sufficiently in demand for her to risk such an enterprise.

  Robert went with her to view the premises as she wanted his opinion on its location, for the shop was sandwiched between a hatter’s high-priced establishment and an expensive bootmaker’s. There was also a gentlemen’s exclusive club in the street and she wondered if it was too masculine an area for her wares, for although she wanted male customers her primary concern was in maintaining a feminine demand for her products.

  ‘There is a milliner’s shop only two doors away,’ she pointed out to Robert. ‘So I should not be quite alone in the street in dealing with women customers.’

  He shook his head. ‘This is not the right place for you. I happen to know that the milliner – like many that follow her trade – has rooms above her shop available for liaisons, which means that your shop would be near enough to get the wrong kind of customer calling in and expecting to be offered the same upstairs facilities. I know you’re disappointed, but something else will come along.’

  So the purchase of a shop was postponed until a better location could be found. Saskia was disappointed, but she had seen the wisdom of Robert’s advice. In the meantime she continued to search out small treasures for her collection, which brought her into contact with people in all walks of life. Some, such as old Will in the curiosity shop, had become very friendly, always on the watch for something that would please her. Sensibly he always saved any spare glass or porcelain stoppers for her as often the little bottles she collected were missing them and she was able to match them up or at least top them suitably.

  As her collection had grown so had her respect for her mother increased beyond all bounds, for by the very nature of Diane’s employment she would have had little leisure time in which to search for what she wanted, and yet she had achieved it so magnificently. For that reason alone Saskia never let heavy rain, snow or fierce winds deter her from going out on her search, always remembering that her mother must have done the same.

  Twenty-Two

  Grinling and Elizabeth held a party for friends to celebrate the completion of their joint portraits by a prominent English artist. At an arranged moment a draped cloth, which was covering it, was removed and there was a burst of spontaneous applause from all present. The painting was quite large and showed them sitting side by side. Elizabeth was sumptuously gowned, her lips curved in her attractive, impish smile, and she was holding up for view the necklace of pearls that Grinling had given her from the proceeds of his first important sale. He, grandly wigged, was clad in a rich blue silk coat with diamond buttons, a well-fitted waistcoat and fashionably full cut breeches, his triumphant smile revealing his happiness in his marriage and in his success.

  Recently he had installed for the first time his beautiful lime wood foliage carvings at Holme Lacy House, which was a grand house in Herefordshire, and also at another fine mansion in Hertfordshire. Already he was receiving enquiries from those who had seen the carvings in situ.

  His likeness on canvas also showed something that Saskia had not really noticed over the passing of time. He had become quite portly from good living and fine wine. He looked every inch of what he was, a prosperous craftsman moving in gentlemen’s circles, who was able to command whatever price he wanted for his wonderful work.

  She and Robert had almost decided to commission the same artist to paint their portraits, but then one day he came home with the news that he had seen the work of a Dutch artist living in London and thought he was the one they should choose.

  ‘He came to Engla
nd as a young man and over the years has established himself as a fine portrait painter.’

  Saskia was delighted with this news. ‘He will know exactly what I want in our marriage portraits,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘When can I see some of his work?’

  ‘I’ll take you to his studio tomorrow.’

  It was a successful visit. Saskia liked the artist’s work. Johan Rykers, originally from Amsterdam, was in his early sixties, a tall, gaunt-faced man with remarkably alert blue eyes. He bowed low to Saskia when she announced her decision.

  ‘I look forward to sitting for you, Master Rykers,’ she said, ‘and I hope you will be patient when my husband is only able to spare a short time now and again.’

  ‘It will be an honour to portray you and your husband, mejuffrouw,’ he answered courteously, ‘and I have had to paint busy men before now, so do not concern yourself. It will be a particular pleasure to paint a pair of marriage portraits again. The last time was for a young couple of your nationality and mine, who had eloped here to England in order to be married.’

  ‘I hope there was a happy ending for them,’ Saskia said sincerely.

  He nodded. ‘I’m glad to say that her father relented and they returned to Holland with their portraits.’

  Before leaving his studio, appointments were made for the first sittings. Now Saskia gave thought to what she would wear and, equally important, what Robert should wear too. Eventually she had a new gown of cream silk made for her, which was embroidered with roses. It was an appropriate choice, for the artist painted her looking over her shoulder, her hand lifted gracefully as if to accept the red rose that Robert, handsome in ruby velvet, was handing to her in his portrait. They were looking into each other’s eyes just as she had wished.

  They went down to Sussex with the paintings, wanting them to be at Harting Hall. There the portraits in gilded frames were hung side by side in the grand drawing room. As the servant, who had secured the paintings, left the room they stepped back a pace, hand in hand, to regard their likenesses in these new surroundings.