Read Online Queen Without a Crown by Fiona Buckley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Fiona Buckley
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Brockley was talking, broke out again as we climbed. We emerged into a room furnished, decently enough, as a bedchamber, though some shelves next to a door on the opposite side held an array of the silver-hooded candlesticks the landlady had mentioned, along with half a dozen mirrors on stands and bundles of candles. They were all being shaken by the hammering.
Mistress Browne went across to it and knocked, loudly, so as to be heard above the racket. ‘Master Arbuckle? The Stannards have brought their daughter!’
‘Then let them enter!’ called a muffled voice from inside. ‘Door’s not locked!’
We went in, and Mistress Browne’s exasperation was now explained. We had passed on the instant from order to chaos. As we soon came to realize, Jocelyn Arbuckle was an artist whose gifts made him a close rival to the legendary Hans Holbein. He was also, assuredly, the untidiest artist in England, if not Europe.
A trestle table stood before us, under the front window. It was laden with a wild clutter of dishes and bottles and jars, some containing vivid pigments, others full of more mysterious liquids, some with brushes steeping in them. Stained, crumpled cloths lay about, and there was a pestle and mortar, a set of scales and a measuring jug. A number of these assorted objects had overflowed the space on top of the table and were now dotted about on the floor beside it, like an advancing army. Table and floor were indeed copiously splashed with paint, and the air was full of an odd smell, a mingling of the exciting and the soothing, compounded, I thought, of pigments and oils.
There was little other furniture, but there was a stool under a side window and an easel beside it. A folding screen made of wooden panels, painted black, was propped against one wall, while in a corner were some spindly ironwork tables, stacked roughly into a pile.
Beside them, the strange glass which the landlady had mentioned was poised on top of a thin metal stand. It was a lens of some sort, I thought, a thicker version of the lenses which are put into eyeglasses. It did indeed resemble an eye. I wondered what it was for.
The place wasn’t cold or gloomy. A lively wood fire burnt in a hearth to our right, with a wood-basket and a stout fireguard at hand, and the room was bright, because even as we were climbing the stairs, the sun had come out and light was streaming through the side window. It illuminated the muddle on the work table rather well.
Finally, there was Arbuckle himself. He had been nailing a large sheet of white paper to the folding easel, and he had a hammer in his grasp and a row of nails in his mouth, which explained why his voice had been muffled. Master Arbuckle was not prepossessing; nor was he any tidier than his studio. He was tall and lanky, with small dark eyes, badly combed grey locks and a scruffy grey beard adorning a long chin. His gown was made of cheap material, probably from choice because he obviously had no intention of looking after it. It was basically dark, but like the floor and the table, it was splashed with paint. There were even flecks of paint in Arbuckle’s beard.
He nodded at us, and then, seeing Meg, his gaze sharpened. He put a last nail to a corner of the paper, hammered it quickly home, swept the other nails out of his mouth and said, in a voice which was deep and vigorous for a man of his obvious years: ‘Welcome. Is this the young lady? Bring her into the light. Such as it is,’ he added sourly, apparently not impressed by the efforts of the winter sun. ‘The climate of England should be forbidden by law.’
Meg came forward a little timidly, curtseying. I understood why his landlady had said she dursen’t say aught to him. For all his unkempt appearance, Arbuckle had presence. To Meg, I said encouragingly: ‘Don’t be nervous, my dear. Slip your cloak off. That’s right.’
‘Over here,’ Arbuckle said as he led her to where the sunlight could fall on her face. He pushed the
Mistress Browne went across to it and knocked, loudly, so as to be heard above the racket. ‘Master Arbuckle? The Stannards have brought their daughter!’
‘Then let them enter!’ called a muffled voice from inside. ‘Door’s not locked!’
We went in, and Mistress Browne’s exasperation was now explained. We had passed on the instant from order to chaos. As we soon came to realize, Jocelyn Arbuckle was an artist whose gifts made him a close rival to the legendary Hans Holbein. He was also, assuredly, the untidiest artist in England, if not Europe.
A trestle table stood before us, under the front window. It was laden with a wild clutter of dishes and bottles and jars, some containing vivid pigments, others full of more mysterious liquids, some with brushes steeping in them. Stained, crumpled cloths lay about, and there was a pestle and mortar, a set of scales and a measuring jug. A number of these assorted objects had overflowed the space on top of the table and were now dotted about on the floor beside it, like an advancing army. Table and floor were indeed copiously splashed with paint, and the air was full of an odd smell, a mingling of the exciting and the soothing, compounded, I thought, of pigments and oils.
There was little other furniture, but there was a stool under a side window and an easel beside it. A folding screen made of wooden panels, painted black, was propped against one wall, while in a corner were some spindly ironwork tables, stacked roughly into a pile.
Beside them, the strange glass which the landlady had mentioned was poised on top of a thin metal stand. It was a lens of some sort, I thought, a thicker version of the lenses which are put into eyeglasses. It did indeed resemble an eye. I wondered what it was for.
The place wasn’t cold or gloomy. A lively wood fire burnt in a hearth to our right, with a wood-basket and a stout fireguard at hand, and the room was bright, because even as we were climbing the stairs, the sun had come out and light was streaming through the side window. It illuminated the muddle on the work table rather well.
Finally, there was Arbuckle himself. He had been nailing a large sheet of white paper to the folding easel, and he had a hammer in his grasp and a row of nails in his mouth, which explained why his voice had been muffled. Master Arbuckle was not prepossessing; nor was he any tidier than his studio. He was tall and lanky, with small dark eyes, badly combed grey locks and a scruffy grey beard adorning a long chin. His gown was made of cheap material, probably from choice because he obviously had no intention of looking after it. It was basically dark, but like the floor and the table, it was splashed with paint. There were even flecks of paint in Arbuckle’s beard.
He nodded at us, and then, seeing Meg, his gaze sharpened. He put a last nail to a corner of the paper, hammered it quickly home, swept the other nails out of his mouth and said, in a voice which was deep and vigorous for a man of his obvious years: ‘Welcome. Is this the young lady? Bring her into the light. Such as it is,’ he added sourly, apparently not impressed by the efforts of the winter sun. ‘The climate of England should be forbidden by law.’
Meg came forward a little timidly, curtseying. I understood why his landlady had said she dursen’t say aught to him. For all his unkempt appearance, Arbuckle had presence. To Meg, I said encouragingly: ‘Don’t be nervous, my dear. Slip your cloak off. That’s right.’
‘Over here,’ Arbuckle said as he led her to where the sunlight could fall on her face. He pushed the
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