“‘To others, copying our words year after year must seem like drudgery. But with you, I have never known a moment’s boredom. Our hands are one, as are our hearts and our lives.’”
Well…thatwas romantic enough that Philippa discounted the idea the illustrator had penned this letter to his daughter. It must be to his wife. “Our words” and “our hands are one” could certainly be interpreted as two artists illustrating the same text interchangeably. It often occurred with Renaissance painters and their apprentices.
A pang of loneliness filled her. How lovely it must be to have a shared passion with one’s spouse outside of the bedroom. To work side by side on something wonderful. It was a shame Sir Reginald’s wife’s involvement had been lost to history. Their partnership was just as romantic as any of the tales they’d written inside.
She turned back to the letter.
“‘I leave a part of myself in this volume, as I do every time, and I know that you silently do the same. Our names may never be known to anyone but ourselves, but the only esteem I have ever craved is yours. Being known fully to you has always been enough. Yours, Katherine.’”
Philippa blinked.
Katherine?
She quickly revised all of her theories. Sir Reginald hadn’t been the artist creating these volumes after all. Agnes and Katherine had. But who were they? Female apprentices?Werethere female apprentices?
To Philippa’s knowledge, illuminated manuscripts had been penned first by monks for centuries, and later by secular artists, but were almost always the exclusive domain of men.
Who were these women? Might they be…no, of course they weren’t lovers. If such things were scandalous in modern times, they would be unheard of two centuries before. Any such practitioner certainly wouldn’t create physical evidence.
Perhaps Agnes and Katherine were the artist’s daughters. Children often assisted the family business, did they not? Although…no mention was made of Sir Reginald himself. In fact, based on the contents of this letter, one could think the sole artists were Agnes and Katherine, and that Sir Reginald had little to do with the illustrations at all.
Mayhap he’d drawn thefirstset, and the ladies made copies. Incredible copies. Copies so skillful and intricate, they appeared penned by the master himself.
Except…Katherine had said, “writingourwords again year after year.”
Ourwords.
Not “Sir Reginald’s words.”
It could be a lie or braggadocio, but what would be the point? If she and Agnes worked half as closely together as the letter intimated, Agnes would already know the truth of the matter. These weretheirwords,theirillustrations,theirbooks. Philippa’s heart beat faster.
The ladies’ genius hadn’t been “lost” over time. It had beenhidden.
This was a scandal!
Philippa wiggled atop her dressing stool. Captain Northrup would definitely wish to obtain this document before its contents fell into the wrong hands and sullied his oh-so-important knightly ancestor’s spotless legacy.
Perhaps this was the leverage they needed! It was bad breeding to hold a document hostage until one’s demands were met…but if Northrup gave Damaris the credit she deserved, that was well worth a little extortion.
As Mother had said: blackmail was a part of life.
The letter had been cleverly hidden. If the previous collectors had taken proper care of this volume, the world still would have no idea that something lay just below the surface. She could not help but wonder if other volumes might also contain secrets.
Philippa closed the book as carefully as she could and patted the pages together until they lined up perfectly. She stared at the flowery motif and the abstract lines and swirls. Or perhaps not so abstract. The design was very similar to the illustrations decorating the hidden letter.
When Katherine said she and Agnes had left “part of themselves” in every book, what if they meant letters similar to the one Philippa had found? If she could acquire the rest of the set, she might uncover even more damning evidence against Sir Reginald. Proof that he was a fraud, just like Captain Northrup. And there were two more women whose credit had been stolen.
She had to talk to Tommy.
If there was anyone who could uncover the true identities of Agnes and Katherine, Philippa put her faith in Graham Wynchester. Unfortunately, now that Baron Vanderbean was in high demand, Mother no longer allowed him to escort Philippa to the park unless Mother herself was present to preen at his side.
Sending her discovery and concerns in a letter was also out of the question. Mother inspected all of Philippa’s correspondence before allowing it out of the house—and only if it was in what Mother called “plain English.”
Perhaps in the future, Philippa and Tommy could devise a cipher that didn’tlooklike an encrypted message, but for now an in-person conversation would have to do.
Was there a supper party or assembly tonight at which they might meet? Mother would have the upcoming weeks’ invitations. Philippa wrapped her damaged manuscript in cloth and tied it with string before replacing it on the bottom panel inside her wardrobe.
Then she raced downstairs in search of her mother.
