Mrs Tullett was quiet.
He leant forward. ‘Mrs Tullett, if I know this of him, then it is impossible that you do not. What was Ann Jemima doing alone with him at night?’
‘It was never meant to happen. She went there with Mr Provis. But Mr Provis had to go on to a meeting with the artists of the Academy…’
Darton frowned.
‘Cosway has a hold over Mr Provis and Ann Jemima…’ She gazed at him pleadingly.
He recognised that she wanted him to take the initiative.
‘It is because he has played the go-between in the West affair, and may yet prove the saviour of the situation?’
Mrs Tullett took a deep breath.
‘It is another kind of hold. He knows something of Provis and Ann Jemima’s past that you do not.’
He looked at her.
‘Is it connected to where I found Ann Jemima in Spitalfields? Where was that place? Why did the woman recognise her? She would say nothing when I asked her.’
She turned her face away from him, and he saw she would not be drawn further. ‘Mrs Tullett, who would know Ann Jemima in Spitalfields? If you won’t tell me, it would not be difficult for me to find out. Are you implying he can blackmail them about this?’
‘If there were any virtue in this world, he would not be able to,’ replied Mrs Tullett, ‘for in truth, they have nothing at all to be ashamed of.’
Darton shook his head.
‘Mrs Tullett, you are talking in riddles. What is the nature of the hold Mr Cosway has over them?’
She was silent.
‘When Ann Jemima arrived from the country to live with Mr Provis three years ago, there was much joking and speculation about the fact that Provis had never talked before about his family,’ he continued quietly.
‘You yourself know Mr Provis is quite the clam when it comes to his personal affairs.’
‘His wife died a long time ago. He never went to visit Ann Jemima, yet he has taken very naturally to late fatherhood. There is no doubt about the bond between them. Mrs Tullett, is Ann Jemima his illegitimate daughter?’
Her laugh escaped as a screech.
‘No, no she is not.’ She looked at him directly. ‘Ann Jemima is legitimate.’
Darton nodded and frowned.
‘Very well then.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Was it Mr Provis who suggested she come to join him in London after her grandmother died?’
Mrs Tullett was quiet for a moment. ‘It was a surprise to Mr Provis when Ann Jemima arrived here. He is a good man. He has more than done his duty.’ She looked at him with a beseeching air that he could not quite understand.
‘He sent her away for a year before she finally came to live here, did he not?’
‘She was at school in Highgate.’
‘Was that truly where she was?’
Mrs Tullett nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. I visited her often. She did not have many friends there. We would take a walk up around the woods, and then we would go out to tea. She seemed to enjoy my visits. We were great friends then.’ Suddenly Mrs Tullett looked lost, haunted.
Darton thought for a moment.
‘Then on what matter is Mr Cosway blackmailing the Provises?’
He could sense the tightness in her breathing as she wondered how to respond.
‘Mr Darton, there is no true cause for blackmail, the way I see it. The problem is you can never account for the way people might perceive something.’
Mrs Tullett would not meet his eyes any longer.
‘Where precisely did he meet her?’
‘I have already divulged too much,’ wailed Mrs Tullett. ‘Please question me no further. Mr Provis will never forgive me as it is.’
He decided to try another approach.
‘Whatever the truth of this sorry matter, Cosway needs to be warned off. I’d be happy to perform the task.’
‘No.’ The sound exploded across the apartment. Mrs Tullett wagged her finger violently and he looked at her with surprise. ‘He should be punished, but not now.’
‘Because of the method?’
She nodded.
‘I have warned against the method all the way through. But if everything goes well at the meeting tonight Mr Cosway is on the point of helping them to make a lot of money. Neither of them would thank you for creating a scandal at this point.’
Darton shook his head.
‘So you dare not take revenge?’
Mrs Tullett’s eyes were glazed with stubbornness.
‘I truly do not like what is happening,’ she said more quietly. ‘Frankly it disgusts me. Yet if the next few weeks go well, this whole ridiculous affair may well conclude in the Provises’ favour. There has been so much misunderstanding and suffering.’ Her voice shakes. ‘Please believe me when I tell you that a true friend of the Provises would tread cautiously.’
‘Mrs Tullett?’
Ann Jemima’s voice, slightly stronger than it had been, came from the direction of her bedroom.
‘Is all well with you, my dear?’ Mrs Tullett called, before putting a finger to her lips as she looked at Darton. There was a pause.
‘I should depart,’ said Darton. ‘It is time for you to attend only to her.’
‘Mr Darton, Mr Provis has been a great friend to you these many years. I can trust you not to meddle till the time is right?’
She looked at him hard. Her anxiety was like invisible flying arrows – he could feel his skin prickling beneath her stare.
‘I will let myself out,’ he said grimly. ‘Please keep me informed on Ann Jemima’s recovery.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dinner at Joseph Johnson’s
Carmine is a bright crimson colour, and is formed of the tinging substance of cochineal brightened with aqua fortis, by a process similar to that used for dying scarlet in grain. […] The greatest part of what is used here is brought from France; what is made in England not standing well in general, but being apt to turn purple on the addition of any kind of white, or even with the sweat of hands or face. Mr Godfrey, the chymist, is nevertheless possessed of a method of preparing it entirely free from this defect; and I have seen some parcels made by him which were equal to the best French I ever saw. The superiority of the French carmine, as well as of the scarlet dye, has been attributed to some qualities in the air and water of France; but nothing is more absurd than this supposition, as the air has very little concern in the production of carmine; and the qualities of water, if different, might be artificially changed.’
robert dossie,
The Handmaid to the Arts, 1758
The first lighting of an oil lamp at night, felt Joseph Johnson, was like a rebellion against the invading army of darkness. He had once observed that it was this, as much as language, or the power of laughter, that marked out the human race from animals – the determination that their hours of light and warmth would not be set by the cycle of the whimsical sun. Tonight, being a Tuesday, there was a sense of occasion as his housekeeper lit the lamps. Shortly the guests would arrive for one of the weekly dinner parties celebrated throughout radical London. Thomas Paine, the novelist Mary Hays, and more recently the poet Wordsworth had all dined at his table, which was more notable for the rhetorical skirmishes that blew up there than the food served.
Even so, the nourishment was good if plain. Great loaves of bread and jugs of red wine were brought out at the start, then as the chimes of St Paul’s clock rang out eight times anything from boiled cod to bowls of stew would be served. The large round oak table was untroubled by the fussiness of a tablecloth. Johnson sometimes reflected, as his housekeeper prepared the room for the meal, that there had been times when the knives and forks had been in as much danger of being used as weapons as eating implements. He remembered Paine jabbing his fork in the air as he swore, to an eruption of laughter, that he would skewer Burke on it. At another meal a female novelist had almost attacked Wordsworth with a knife when he revealed he had left an illegitimate daughter behind in France.<
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He gazed around his dining room. The walls were painted in a pale bluey green that took on an almost luminous quality when the lamps were lit. He had let his housekeeper choose the colour, and though at first he had been dubious, now he was convinced. In his more fanciful moments, generally after a few glasses of wine, he felt as if the entire company gathered round the table was submerged in an aquamarine river, and that any moment a fish might shimmer by.
A sharp knocking came at the door.
When it was opened, the man who walked in was unfamiliar. His complexion indicated he was around the age of thirty, though his bearing was that of a man almost a decade younger.
‘I hope very much that you will forgive me for arriving unannounced in this manner,’ said the man.
‘Most people are welcome here,’ replied Johnson, frowning. ‘May I know your name.’
‘Josiah Darton,’ replied the man, holding out his hand. Johnson stepped back for a moment, slightly shocked.
‘I must apologise – I was not…’
‘Expecting me? Please do not be alarmed – I have long been an admirer of yours, Mr Johnson.’
A sceptical look crept into Johnson’s eyes.
‘Your friend Mary Wollstonecraft has asked many questions about me, and I thought I would come and see you myself so I could answer them.’
Johnson shook his head, as if rebuking himself.
‘I apologise, Mary does not believe in secrecy,’ he said.
‘Do not concern yourself,’ replied Darton. ‘I wanted to assure you that you have nothing to fear from me. No matter what games Opie and I may have played on Mr Wolcot.’
He and Johnson held glances for a moment. In the brief combat that seemed to ensue, Johnson finally relaxed his gaze.
‘My sympathies were with the French Revolution, certainly until the Terror took hold,’ continued Darton. ‘I was inspired to travel to France after the revolution. Like Wordsworth I believed that “Bliss was it in that very dawn to be alive.” I hoped it was a victory for reason.’
Johnson summoned his boy in. A glass of red wine was poured and handed to Darton.
‘But man the savage cohabits very closely with man the rationalist,’ said Johnson quietly.
‘Indeed,’ replied Darton. ‘Moderation was quickly replaced by a shocking brutality.’
‘Does that mean you worry about sedition here?’ The tone of Johnson’s voice was severe.
‘I am a musician before I am a spy. I do not believe that is my job to stifle debate.’
‘Yet you do not believe any more that it is worth fighting for liberty and equality? You believe we should allow the corruption of privilege to persist – accept that some are born to a good life, and others to a wretched one?’
‘I simply ask at what point death becomes preferable to an unequal existence.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Surely there are less violent ways to change society. I believe that the work you yourself do is extremely valuable. But you understand the risks…’
Johnson looked at him sharply.
‘Why else did you decide,’ Darton continued, ‘to remove Paine’s Rights of Man from your printing presses at the last moment?’
Johnson was briefly quiet. For a moment he felt nauseous.
‘I was threatened directly,’ he eventually declared, staring at Darton. ‘It would have been the last work I published. Thomas Paine understood. But many of my friends did not. You do not have to dig very deep in our great democracy,’ his words rang out sarcastically, ‘to find the menace beneath.’
Darton was about to respond, but a second knock on the door interrupted them.
The heavy tread in the hallway announced Mary’s lover, the radical philosopher William Godwin. Tonight he was dressed in clerical black. His eyes impatient, his cheeks sallow. A small vertical line was scored between his eyebrows – more pronounced, Johnson noted, than it had been of late.
‘Welcome, Mr Godwin,’ he declared. ‘May I introduce you to Josiah Darton.’
Godwin appeared not to note the coldness of Johnson’s tone when he was making his introduction. He nodded perfunctorily, while his expression was quizzical.
‘Is all well?’ continued Johnson, sensing his distraction.
‘All is well, all is well, thank you. I suspect that you have heard our news.’ His voice was like sun on frosted grass. ‘Mary is with child.’
Johnson dipped his head. All the while he studied the expression on Godwin’s face.
‘Yes, my congratulations, William.’
Godwin flinched slightly.
‘Her condition has been making her rather unwell today. I am assured that all is fine, but, unusual though it is for Mary, she has decided she should rest tonight.’
‘I received her card,’ replied Johnson. ‘She has suggested that the young writer Amelia Alderson come in her place. I look forward to meeting her, but I am sorry Mary will not be here.’
He looked towards Darton. ‘It was indirectly Miss Wollstonecraft who brought you here. Have you met her in person?’
‘No, though obviously I have heard much of her through Opie.’
Godwin looked between Johnson and Darton enquiringly.
‘By chance, I have invited Mr Opie here for the first time tonight,’ said Johnson. ‘Why don’t you stay for the meal, Mr Darton? It will be a good chance for all of us to get to know each other better.’
It sounded less like an invitation than a challenge.
Darton’s eyes widened. ‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘If Mr Godwin is amenable, I would be happy to.’ Godwin dipped his head noncomittally. ‘Not least for the chance of eating with the author of The Adventures of Caleb Williams,’ continued Darton. ‘It was entirely absorbing – I read it in one sitting.’
Johnson took a sip of wine.
‘Was it the subject matter that appealed to you, Mr Darton?’ The tone of his question was not polite.
‘It’s a story of an innocent being persecuted by corrupt lawyers and spies,’ replied Darton. ‘Mr Godwin – you published it, did you not, on the same day Pitt ruled that radicals could be sent to prison without trial. If you had gone and kicked Pitt’s arse, your message could not have been clearer.’
A chilly smile from Godwin. ‘No one has expressed their appreciation in quite that language, Mr Darton. But I thank you for it.’
Johnson tutted impatiently under his breath. Yet other things were starting to concern him beyond Darton’s arrival. As he called the boy back in to pour wine, he noted with alarm the sobriety of Godwin’s dress. Though clad in black for much of his adult life, just a couple of years beforehand Godwin had started sporting more colourful outfits. Outlandish certainly – they included a blue coat worn with yellow cashmere breeches, and a green coat complemented by red Moroccan slippers. Yet they seemed to symbolise a happier period of life for the severe intellectual – and it was little coincidence that the flamboyance had coincided with the success of Caleb Williams. This sudden return to black made Johnson worry for Mary as much as for Godwin himself.
The burgundy tipped from the bottle, turning the wine glass into a glinting red jewel. Another knock came on the door. The lighter touch of footsteps in the hall suggested to Johnson that the only female guest of the evening had arrived. He could see from the straightening of Godwin’s back that he concurred.
‘Mr Johnson.’ Amelia Alderson walked neatly into the room. Immediately he was impressed. Her shiny dark brown hair was piled on the top of her head while her glowing complexion indicated vitality rather than delicacy. Although she was very pretty, with rosebud lips, and heavy – but not over-heavy – eyebrows above her dark eyes, it was her good-natured expression that made its impact first. Her high-waisted dress with its flattering drawstring neckline was a Wedgwood blue. The overall impression she gave was of someone who had taken care of her appearance, but was not obsessed by it.
‘Miss Alderson. It is always a joy to see you.’
Johnson realised, to his amusement, that Godwin
was fighting to stop his smile from reaching his ears. Yet in the same moment that he perceived Godwin’s admiration for her, he could see precisely why Amelia Alderson was no threat to Mary. The glint in her eye indicated that she saw Godwin as faintly comic even though her overall manner conveyed a respect for the man. This is a flirtation, but one whose chief pleasure derives from the fact that there is little danger of anything serious happening, he thought to himself. In the distant caverns of his memory, he suddenly recalled that Godwin had once proposed to Amelia. But if there had been any profundity of emotion then, it had comfortably receded now.
She turned towards Johnson.
‘It is very kind of you to invite me to one of your dinners, Mr Johnson. I grew up hearing about them, but never thought I would be fortunate enough to attend one.’
He dipped his head.
‘Miss Alderson, I am delighted you could attend. You must forgive me – tonight you will be a rose amongst thorns, all the other guests are men.’
She surveyed the room briskly. ‘I will do my best to rise to the task,’ she said. ‘I hope they will not regret too much the fact that I have come in Mary’s place.’
Johnson smiled. ‘Let us hope it is not we who disappoint you. We have quite diverse group tonight. Allow me to introduce you to Josiah Darton, a singer at the Chapel Royal.’ Darton bowed. ‘Fuseli the painter will be here,’ he continued, ‘and he will be bringing John Opie.’
At the mention of Fuseli’s name Godwin’s eyebrows levitated.
‘Was Mary aware that he was going to be in attendance?’
‘I had not mentioned it.’
Amelia looked between them, alive to the sudden tension.
‘My dear William,’ Johnson said. ‘I hope you do not feel I have been insensitive. It is a long time since Mary…’
‘… proposed a ménage à trois with Fuseli and his wife,’ Godwin concluded crisply. ‘I know.’
Darton started coughing. Amelia cast her eyes to the ground.
‘Fuseli invited himself,’ said Johnson, momentarily discomfited. ‘I did consider saying no, but then thought that in these happier times for everyone it would not pose too much of a problem.’
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