Authors: Matthew Plampin
This isn’t news to Mrs Lamb. She presses him to her bosom, pinning them together for a second time, but for the purposes of restraint rather than desire. ‘Monday,’ she tells him. ‘Monday at the earliest. We’re safe enough, Mr Turner.’
Will struggles, but it’s no use. Her words do not reassure; he hasn’t the least idea when Monday might be. The past few days, in all their madness and muddle, have made him lose track completely. He finds, furthermore, that he’s annoyed by this woman, who runs so damnably hot and cold – baiting him with mysteries, pricking him with adversity – and now, apropos of nothing, smothering him in the most intimate friendship. She seems to be upending him merely for the fun of it.
‘Why the devil should I listen to you?’ he gasps. ‘Why are you so concerned for my wellbeing all of a damn sudden?’
The still-room maid watches the door. She speaks intently, seriously, her mouth an inch from his ear; he can feel her voice as well as hear it, reverberating in her breastbone. ‘You’re thinking of the night just passed, in the saloon. I was cross, Mr Turner, I admit it. I thought we understood each other, you and me. I thought there was sympathy. Then I hear that you’re going. Then staying. Then going once more. And then you’re sneaking through the house like a spy. To be frank, sir, I decided to draw you out. To see what you truly are.’ Her manner hardens. ‘And I wanted you to
battle them
. I wanted to show you the falseness of this gathering of theirs, this summer season they’ve crafted up here. Mr Lascelles has made you a part of it, after all. You should know its real nature.’
‘Its real nature,’ repeats Will flatly, from within her décolletage. This speech has only deepened his unease. There’s an expectation here that he’s done little to encourage; an assumption of allegiance, of comradeship, which he doesn’t recall having granted.
Mrs Lamb’s humour creeps back in; she loosens her hold, from a confining clasp to something like an embrace. ‘And the scales are falling, sir, in’t they? There’s much talk of you downstairs. You’ve had quite the day.’
‘Madam, I—’
‘Word is that Mr Ellis, that slippery slug, had to fetch you from the gallery earlier. Was it the portraits, perchance, that commanded your notice? The one of Miss Lascelles in particular?’
Will stays quiet.
‘It must be difficult for you,’ Mrs Lamb continues, ‘as an artistic gentleman, to understand why the baron’s own daughter was taken so unsparingly. With such brutal attention.’
‘Distortion,’ Will mumbles, his lower lip dragging very slightly against her skin. ‘Of a cruel sort.’
‘No, sir,’ she corrects him, ‘it was truth, no more and no less. The cruelty lay in making her sit, and having that fellow paint her so much as she was, so soon after the birth.’
The birth
. Imparted casually, this is intended to stun: a choice morsel from the still-room maid’s store of Lascelles secrets. Once again, everything begins to shift, to pivot and realign, like the parts of a celestial model.
‘You’re saying … you’re honestly saying that Miss Lascelles is a mother.’
Mrs Lamb goes on to explain, in her steady, under-the-bed whisper, how the unlucky girl had returned from London early in the summer of 1796, with three trunk-loads of fashionable gowns, a case of new jewels and some gallant’s seed growing in her belly. He’d already exited the stage, an eminently unsuitable fellow whom Mr Cope (she believed) had been obliged to dissuade. As fortune would have it, her sister-in-law Henrietta was then at Harewood also, and with child as well – for the first time, before the twins. They entered their confinement together, up on the top floor of the house. Two expectant ladies climbed the stairs, yet only one baby was brought back down: a healthy boy who was accepted by Lord Harewood, by the world, as Edward Lascelles the third, his grandson and eventual heir. Of the other child there was no trace.
‘My guess would be a still birth,’ says Mrs Lamb, ‘and a switch. A solution to satisfy all parties. Anyhow, the portrait painter was on his way up from London before the babe was even baptised. To take the new mother, they said – meaning the son’s wife. And the gentleman certainly earned his money there. Every effort was made to mask Mrs Lascelles’ recent ordeals and picture the lady to her best advantage.’ She sighs; Will’s head moves with her chest. ‘It was her elder brother’s idea that he take one of Mary Ann too. As a punishment for her carelessness – for what she might have put them through, had those around her not managed things as they did. How she might have tarnished this new title of theirs. And it stays at Harewood as a badge of her shame. A warning, if you like, against further misbehaviour.’
Will is unconvinced. ‘Ain’t that an awful risk? Might someone not—’
The still-room maid pulls back, breaking their clinch. ‘Is it, though, Mr Turner? Who’d think to tie an unkind likeness of Mary Ann to her brother’s infant child? Did
you
, sir? Her condition was concealed. Nobody suspects, save a few Yorkshire servants. They hang the canvas poorly, as you saw – move it between the very worst spots in the house. And if it did ever receive any proper notice, who’d dare to make anything of it? Who among the fops and toadies that they invite out here would take the chance of insulting Lord Harewood?’
This interpretation feels rather determined to Will, like forcing a hat down upon a head that it doesn’t quite fit. He says nothing.
Mrs Lamb senses his scepticism; she seems to smile. ‘They’re right harsh with her, Mr Turner. Always have been. The youngest daughter, the late addition, and with a temper that does her no favours. A burden of worry to her parents and nowt but a nuisance to the rest of them.’ She peers out again, into the dark chamber. ‘Until this spring, that is.’
‘Beg pardon?’
Instead of supplying an explanation, Mrs Lamb releases Will completely and rolls onto her stomach. Light is gathering beneath the northern door. There are footsteps; two male voices, one sounding disturbingly like that of Mr Cope, engage in a brief discussion. The still-room maid crawls from beneath the bed. She listens hard and hisses an oath.
‘Appears I was mistaken. They’re searching for someone. Come, we should get downstairs.’
Will emerges, floundering in his haste, buttoning the slap of his breeches. ‘What … what happened in the spring, madam? What changed?’
Mrs Lamb doesn’t answer. Six strides take her back to the western door; she inches it open, alert for any sign of life in the corridor outside. The light is strong now. Will can see the impression on the counterpane, where they lay not five minutes before; and a curious crowding of objects across the bedroom’s buffets and side tables. It is china, he realises, Beau Lascelles’ haul of fine French porcelain, most probably being stored in here for safekeeping while the baron is absent. No individual pieces can be made out, just the odd spout or handle; and a tiny, naked arm, extended with graceful languor, which can only belong to the Endymion centrepiece.
The still-room maid isn’t going to wait. Will stumbles after her, fastening the last of his buttons. ‘Mary Ann’s much the same, ain’t she?’ He thinks of the castle, of the lovers squirming in the hearth. ‘Their punishment failed. She was just as careless this season as the last.’
Mrs Lamb almost laughs. ‘Oh no, Mr Turner. This time the whole thing was quite reversed.’ She steps into the doorway. ‘This time the poor sow was
looking
for pregnancy.’
*
A hunt is in progress. Footmen are combing the state floor to ensure that no interloper is at large; that the upset up in the nursery was an accident, the mortified perpetrator now hiding in their quarters, too embarrassed to come forward; that no vagabond or burglar or professional child stealer lurks among the Chippendale, waiting for their opportunity.
Mrs Lamb leads Will across the corridor, heading diagonally down it, neatly evading a patrol. They arrive at a far smaller room, about the size of one of the four-posters, intended for a personal servant. It holds a mean bed and a modest wardrobe, and has a single window facing onto the eastern court, through which a weak, soapy light filters up from the service floor. She closes the door behind them with the same silent speed and tells him that this room will be checked last, as nothing of value is housed within – that they should be safe for a short while. He nods, glad of her assurance. It strikes him how very good she is at this.
They remain upright, ready for a prompt exit. Mrs Lamb comes near, taking Will’s hands in hers. A new awareness of what has just happened on the baron’s bed sounds through him, sudden and staggeringly loud, making everything reverberate at a strange new pitch. Her latest claim is forgotten. All intention, opinion and judgement are gone. He tries to catch his breath, but misses it slightly; he stands there like an imbecile, mute and idiotic, quite unable to meet her eye.
Mrs Lamb speaks fast and low, her lip twisting, taking her usual pleasure in the spinning out of privileged, provocative information. She starts with a question.
‘What do you know, Mr Turner, of Prince Ernest Augustus?’
Like most London artists, Will maintains a certain familiarity with royalty: their habits and preferences, their residences and haunts, and especially rumours of any need for paintings. This particular Prince is the fifth son of the King – raised, it is said, in deliberate counterpoint to the libertine Prince of Wales. Accordingly, Ernest Augustus is an officer of the cavalry, and a veteran of many battles against the French on the European mainland. He is described as being solemn and private by nature, and a determined philistine – of no use to artists whatsoever. Will has seen him but once, riding through St James’s. Tall and solidly built, the Prince was no more than five-and-twenty, with a plain, Hanoverian cast to his features – enlivened by a fearsome scar carved across his cheek, reportedly the work of a French sabre, and the unsettling deadness of a blind left eye.
‘Not overmuch.’
This wins him a sly look. ‘Our baron,’ Mrs Lamb confides, ‘considers him a dear friend. They sit together in the Lords, you see, high Tories both, and concur on many matters. I hear that they saw a great deal of each other over the season just past. Lord Harewood bent the whole of his London household to the diversion of the Prince, including his unmarried children. The son, that Beau, was a failure, all cards and theatres and tours of the auction houses. Too different from Ernest in character and inclination. Too like his degenerate elder brother.’ She comes nearer still. ‘The daughter, though, was more successful. At least at first.’
‘This Prince was the lover,’ says Will, who’d guessed halfway through. ‘The one who jilted her.’
Mrs Lamb’s black eyes grow narrow. ‘Imagine their pride,’ she murmurs, ‘as people talked of it. Prince Ernest in’t known for his amours. Don’t form attachments with the frequency of his brothers. I’ll bet their hopes were high indeed. They’ll have been urging Mary Ann to make herself amenable, to do exactly that which had brought so much trouble the previous year. And then to have it come to nowt; to end only in embarrassment and bitter rejection. Imagine their distress.’
The two things are mixed – blended to a glaring tone. Will pulls his hands free. ‘Tom,’ he says. ‘They don’t want
him
, they …’ Disbelief hampers his speech. ‘He’s to – he’s to provide a … give her a … a child.’
This pleases Mrs Lamb; she clearly knows the full extent of Tom’s activities at Harewood. ‘The Prince is a lofty one, like our Mr Girtin. His nose … well, it in’t
small
, if the newspaper sketch artists are to be believed. There’s a resemblance. Queen Charlotte is a moral sort, so they say; and her husband too, when his mind is in order. Prince Ernest heeds his parents. This in’t some actress or painted lady. Our Miss Lascelles is the unmarried daughter of a loyal nobleman. If she’s revealed to be carrying a royal baby, the expectation must be that matrimony will follow.’
Everything else you’ve had me do. That I have done without the smallest complaint.
Will looks out into the court, at the dark windows piled up in the opposite wall. ‘So the dinners and balls,’ he says, ‘parading before all these people …’
‘A balance has been sought, Mr Turner. The brother and sister wish to present Mary Ann as a young girl bruised by circumstance – who’s under their protection, and restricted in her acquaintance – but who, at root, is a guiltless victim, pining for her lost love. She’s on display. Being talked about. The affair is kept fresh. And then, if Mr Girtin’s efforts bear fruit – if the timings work as they should – the Prince’s cut can be refashioned as a minor quarrel. A
misunderstanding
, from which she fled in confusion. Reunion, betrothal, would be the natural consequence.’ Mrs Lamb settles on her back foot, crossing her arms; she angles her head towards the saloon. ‘Course, having all these extra bodies about the place, drinking and shouting and so forth, only makes it easier for your friend to get up to her and do his duty.’
The timings. Will thinks. Mary Ann can’t have seen this Prince for a fortnight at least. ‘They don’t have long.’
‘That they don’t. A week at most, sir, if there’s to be any chance.’ Mrs Lamb shrugs. ‘It’s a desperate plan.’
Someone passes outside, stopping at the corridor’s end. ‘Lord Harewood’s bed’s seen use. Counterpane’s all creased.’
‘The doors are locked, yes?’ Mr Cope – for definite this time. ‘Go through the blue room again. The fireplaces. These wretches will hide up chimneys if they have to.’
Mrs Lamb lets a minute go by, and then they are out – with perhaps thirty feet between capture, utter destruction, and blameless safety. They are on the staircase; they are around a corner, and along a passage; they are at the casket chamber. No one has seen them. Will scampers up to the door, into shadow. Mrs Lamb has rescued him. Glancing back at her, he both hopes and fears that she’ll come in, to join him in his tiny pallet; and is both relieved and disappointed when she steps away, as if to continue into the service floor.
‘What about me then, madam?’ he asks. ‘Why am
I
here?’