Authors: Matthew Plampin
‘It must hold you rapt, Mr Turner. It must have an effect on you that those who lack your training, your artistic sensibility, can scarce comprehend.’
Will loosens his stock. In truth, what with Mr Purkiss on one side of him (who might vomit, or mess himself, or grow violent, all of which seemed equally probable), and Mr Cope on the other (who could well have learned about his dance-floor exchange with Mary Ann and been ordered to take steps), he hasn’t given his usual attention to his surroundings. He looks now, and by God it is achingly fine. A full moon lies against the sky like a new shilling. Around it, in every direction, the clouds are in retreat – dark, trailing strands, wispily thin, banished by the great brightness behind. The landscape below, the rocks and winding hedgerows and patches of woodland, is coloured through a scale of silver-white to blackish blue; but he observes a note of gold as well, where the moon’s influence is strongest, a faint corona that projects earthwards, lending a warm contour to a range of distant hilltops.
‘Pretty,’ Will manages to say, wanting very much to curse; there’s light enough to work up here on the carriage roof, but he neglected to place any sketching materials in his formal clothes, assuming that propriety and circumstance would forbid their use. Squinting skywards, he begins to fix the view in his mind, intending to carry it within him until he can sit before a page and set it down. He’s well practised at this.
Mr Cope, meanwhile, is talking again, about a painting Will showed at the Academy the previous year – his first in oil and the product of much toil, trial and anguish. A night scene based on sketches taken on the Isle of Wight, it features a moon not unlike the one above them now, illuminating a pair of fishing boats as they sailed out onto an unruly sea.
‘Mr Lascelles and I stood before the canvas for some considerable time,’ the valet says, his fingers still drumming away. ‘He admired it enormously, and could hardly believe that it was the work of a man but twenty-one years old. It already rivalled Mr De Loutherbourg, he said, in terms of mystery and power. Much of the composition, as well, struck him as very true, the form and colour of the waves in particular. He spoke of this at length.’
Like most young artists, Will has a ravenous hunger for praise – for that instant of reassurance, of validation, that dwindles so quickly to nothing; that feels, on reflection, like such inadequate recompense for your efforts, yet is craved again so soon. This offering, though, is oddly deficient – not false exactly, but hollow, contrived, a means to another end. His concentration broken, Will sits forward awkwardly, rubbing one damp hand with the other.
‘I still have it,’ he says, ‘if he’s inclined to buy.’
This amuses Mr Cope. He might be wearing that spectral smile of his; Will can’t be certain without turning to study him at close range, which he has no intention of doing. The valet, he realises, is
pleased
. His calamitous dance with Mary Ann fulfilled its purpose, exceeded it even, supplanting her earlier performance with Tom as the talking point of the evening and creating sympathy for her only at the expense of an unknown painter up from London. It is impossible to tell how much Mr Cope knows about what happened out there on the dance floor, but Will reckons that the fellow isn’t planning any imminent reprisal.
‘You’ve sailed, I take it, upon the open ocean? Surely you must have done, to have acquired such a deep understanding of its nature.’
Will shakes his head. ‘Boating at Margate as a boy. Ferry on the Solent. The war—’
‘The war will end,’ Mr Cope interrupts, ‘before too long. The ports will reopen. You’ll be able to cross the sea – and should you wish it, carry on into the European mainland. Mr Lascelles holds this to be the necessary course for all artists of ambition.’ The fingers stop their drumming. ‘You’d describe yourself as an artist of ambition, wouldn’t you, Mr Turner?’
Here we are, Will thinks. Here’s the nub of it
.
He stares down at his evening shoes, the black leather nearly invisible in the darkness. He doesn’t answer.
‘The Louvre. The Alps. And beyond them, Italy. Celestial Rome. My master frequently asserts that experience of these marvels separates the good from the truly great. You’d have yourself placed among the great, I assume?’
Still Will says nothing. The carriage rocks upon the road; Purkiss’s bulging, loose-limbed bulk presses against his arm, then sways away.
‘It’s Mr Lascelles’ belief that true ambition, in any sphere, must recognise the importance of
pace
. Of advancement by degrees. Of retaining your patrons’ custom, and their good opinion also. Of avoiding their displeasure, or becoming a test to their patience.’
Now Will turns to Mr Cope. The lines of his tapering face are further whetted by the moonlight; his eyes, half-hidden in shadow beneath his narrow-brimmed hat, seem weirdly flat, lifeless, as if painted on. ‘I ain’t—’
‘My meaning,’ the valet continues, ‘is merely that it would be wise for you to affix your thoughts to your commission. To keep to your proper pursuits.’
Will looks back to his boots. This is precisely the sort of warning you’d expect from Mr Cope’s type – the threat well disguised, wrapped in the velvet glove of implication. It might also be argued that it is sound advice. Father, Will knows, would certainly argue this.
There is no affair
. There is no assault on this grand family’s honour. Will’s complicity, as he conceived it, now counts for naught. The Lascelles know. They
desire
it, for pity’s sake. He could make that sketch in the morning, the replacement for the one lost at Plumpton, and be on his way, finishing off the northern tour before returning to Maiden Lane. This quandary of his is an illusion. If he provides the drawings, if he honours his terms, then Beau Lascelles surely will as well.
Sixty guineas.
But no. It can’t be done. These people have treated him like the lowest species of idiot – worked him into place like a knobbly foot into a stiff new boot. Even as he threatens, Mr Cope is plainly unconcerned by what Will might actually have learned of his master’s orchestrations. He expects silence. Complete capitulation to the interests of the Lascelles, regardless of what this might spell for Tom Girtin. The cowed, unquestioning obedience of a servant. Will smiles grimly. He will not give it.
‘The commission’s my only concern, Mr Cope. Always has been.’
Mr Cope is still for a moment, as if assessing the truth of this avowal; then he nods and points towards a vein of lights, twinkling weakly through the trees ahead.
‘Harewood village, Mr Turner. We are home.’
The returning guests are directed through to the saloon. They are being received with an extra trim of courtesy and concern; Harewood is recognising their right to grievance after they were abandoned in Harrogate and is seeking to make amends. Will gets in front of Mr Cope – who is caught up with the revival and unloading of Mr Purkiss, and the payment of the coachman – and skirts the meandering crocodile of ladies and gentlemen. The saloon doors open; he glimpses Beau Lascelles beyond, out in the middle of the carpet, giving a demonstration of one of his acclaimed dance steps. Frances is in a window, apparently recovered, with her husband at her side. Mary Ann is there as well, and a handful of others – and Tom, standing rather closer to his lover than might have been expected. His shoulder slopes slightly and his face is blank; he is uncharacteristically opaque amidst the laughter and champagne.
Will swerves, descending from the hall’s cool vault into the close warren of the service floor. The casket chamber is just as he left it. He shrugs off his jacket and removes his shoes. By the light of one of Mrs Lamb’s contraband candles, he sits himself on the edge of the bed with the larger sketchbook laid across his knees and a stiff leaf of Whatman positioned atop its cover.
‘Colour.’
The word hiccups from Will’s lips, almost catching him by surprise. It seems wholly correct, the prompting of a pure artistic instinct. He leans down to retrieve his kit. There isn’t much time for this, really there isn’t; five minutes’ diligence, though, while the scene is so present in his mind, could conjure the beginnings of a picture – of an oil that would set Somerset House ablaze. Before leaving Covent Garden he bought a dozen fresh paint blocks from Mr Reeves’s shop, every pigment he might have need of, from Roman Ochre to Burnt Sienna – a black hour indeed for his pocket book, but worth it. The little cubes, glued into the kit in an uneven row, rattle together like dice as Will rolls it out. He runs his eye along them, all other thoughts held in check, and settles upon the last: Mars Orange. This particular block has not yet been used and still has its crisp, newly pressed shape; Reeves’s emblem, a seated greyhound, remains clearly stamped on its upward face. It has a rich, mineral brightness, like something precious dug up from the soil.
Will stares at the block. A touch of this in the correct place, the subtlest glaze, would supply that singular golden quality he observed from the carriage roof, hazing the night sky. It would be there, on his page; he would
have it
. His wash bowl contains an inch of water, clouded by dirt and soap. Good enough. Reaching out with his foot, he draws the bowl across the floor towards him, readies his palette and selects a red-handled pencil of medium thickness – a current favourite of his, due to the tidy narrowing of its bristles.
Marriage.
Will stops; he sits upright. Could this be it? Could it be that Beau, in an attempt to wipe away his younger sister’s humiliation, is seeking to have her wed as quickly as possible – and, seeing no obvious candidates, has opted to create one of his own? Is his aim to take this impecunious young painter from St Martin’s Le Grand and remake him as a gentleman? Will thinks hard. More improbable schemes have been enacted within the fashionable world; and besides, the fathomless wealth of the Lascelles can bring almost anything about. Tom Girtin is known in some select circles, but he is hardly famous. Should he vanish, and a handsome fiancé of means and manners appear on Mary Ann Lascelles’ arm that autumn, next to no one would perceive the connection.
Hurriedly, Will dips the red-handled pencil in his wash bowl and transfers three or four brush-loads to his palette, until a small puddle wobbles in its centre. Switching his attention to the dried paint block, he dabs the wet bristles on the greyhound’s back, rotating them until Reeves’s stamp is effaced and the Mars Orange revived. Just the moon, he promises, and the light around it, and perhaps a suggestion of the terrain upon which the strongest beams fall. Just the heart of it. Then he’ll steal up to the top floor, find Tom’s room and lie in wait; and when he returns, they’ll talk. Everything will be explained and a new strategy devised. Will mixes the wash, charges the pencil and sets to work.
The great question, of course, if such a mighty fraud has really been initiated, is whether Tom is a willing participant. It seems very unlikely, given his stated hatred of the family and the version of the affair he spun at Plumpton. How the devil, in that case, are the Lascelles planning to ensure his co-operation? And why would they parade him around as they’ve done, loudly identifying him as a painter up from London? And invite Will to Harewood in the same week? And draw so much damn attention to themselves, with their assemblies and dinners and balls?
These queries are preoccupying and quite spoil the moon. Will scowls at it – botched, ugly, all power missing, a poached egg drenched in cayenne sauce. He scratches around a bit, orange pigment banking beneath the scraping nail, but to no advantage. Dropping the pencil in the wash bowl, he takes up the porte-crayone and scribbles some notes beside the sketch, upbraiding his own labours, informing his future self how to address its deficiencies; he forgets his spellings, though, and the form of his letters, and struggles to read back what he has written. Too much time has passed. The moment, that exhilarating view from the carriage roof, is gone. He lays his materials on the bed, blows out the candle and hastens into the corridor.
Two minutes later, Will reaches the summit of the service staircase. He looks across the wide landing, at the panelled walls and the many doors they contain, and realises that he hasn’t the first idea where Tom’s room actually is. All he knows is that it is modest – the kind allotted to a ladies’ maid or a valet, Tom said. This is of little use.
‘Blast it,’ he mutters. ‘Damnation and buggery.’
No candles burn up here. There is a soft, greyish atmosphere, derived from the moonlight outside; and the occasional luminous line, shining from beneath the doors of occupied rooms. These, at least, can be discounted. Will is certain that Tom remains on the state floor, with the party in the saloon. A tactic proposes itself. He will try all the other doors in turn, opening them very gently and then poking the smallest possible portion of his head within. If someone is there, if he is seen, he’ll duck back, offering an apology in the manner of a mistaken servant. It’s a nerve-wracking prospect. His fingers tingle as he closes them around the first moulded doorknob; his stomach, still fragile after the ball supper, flutters and coos like a startled pigeon.
Not a single soul is encountered, awake or asleep, in the entire eastern half of the floor. The doors reveal only empty bedchambers and dressing rooms, varying in size but all luxuriously appointed and scrupulously neat. No trace is found of Tom – no travelling clothes, no artistic equipment. Will heads down a corridor to a second, even broader landing, the dark well of Harewood’s main staircase falling away on its far side. He pads over the carpet, towards the nearest door. As he prepares to open it, the landing grows suddenly lighter, its tones warmer; a candle is being carried up the staircase, the shadows of the balusters wheeling around the walls like the hands of clocks, followed by the murmur of refined voices. He is through the door without a thought, closing it behind him as swiftly and as quietly as he can.
The rocking horse, skilfully carved and slick with varnish, stands in the middle of the floor. It seems positively monstrous, a polka-dotted harbinger of doom; for it indicates with dismaying certainty that Will has taken refuge in a nursery. Sure enough, the two beds beyond this dreadful horse each have a pair of little bodies tucked into them, and the paraphernalia of privileged childhood – toys and toy chests, half-sized wardrobes – is arrayed all about. He doesn’t know whose children these might be; he has no precise recollection, even, of having noticed any children at Harewood. There can be no doubt, however, that this would be the worst, absolutely the
worst
place in the entire house for him to be discovered. His end would be assured.