Will & Tom

by Matthew Plampin

  But something about Mr Cope prohibits complaint. Will stands, glowering silently, while the valet issues a stream of perfectly enunciated information: a plain prelude to his withdrawal.

  ‘Water can be obtained from the pump in the sluice room, and candles from the still room. Laundry will be collected each morning and returned the following day. Any queries should be directed towards Mr Noakes. He will be more helpful when next you speak.’

  There is a second bow, less fulsome than the first, and Will is left alone in his casket chamber. Besides the bed, which nearly fills the floor, it contains just a washstand and a small wooden chair. For a minute he doesn’t move, trying hard to weigh every element and not be hasty or extreme. He’s defeated, though; he can’t understand it. Having overlooked his arrival, his host sends down a valet, a personal servant, to soothe him with flattery – only then to consign him to what must be the most wretched accommodation in the entire house. It isn’t proper lordly behaviour. It isn’t even polite.

  Leave, says a voice, right away. No other painter would stand for such treatment.

  The notion comes as a relief, and seems wholly excellent and right. What, honestly, is to stop him? He doesn’t need this man. There’s material enough in these two sketchbooks to fuel a decade’s worth of painting. Of this he is certain. His northern tour, with its crags and blue hills and endless, rain-swept valleys, has been no less than a revelation – the opening up of a new and brilliant territory. He’s on the cusp of something. He’s convinced of it. Beau Lascelles can go hang.

  But no. He can’t do this. He mustn’t. Father’s warning, given just as he was setting out from Maiden Lane to catch that first coach, sounds unbidden in his ears. Standing at the parlour hearth, the old man recited every expulsion and exclusion Will Turner had earned over the course of his life – the opportunities missed, the would-be allies lost, through shows of temper.

  You fight off your friends, boy, he said. You defy the very men who seek to help you.

  Will sits down on the bed. It is hard as a bench. He sets the sketchbooks on the meagre pillow and forces himself to consider his broader circumstances. He must operate, as all of his profession must, in the art world of London: a not over-large stage upon which Beau Lascelles, with his many friends and mountains of ready gold, is assigned a significant part. The man is simply too influential to risk offending. Will scratches at his calf through his stocking. He has to be reasonable. This room isn’t so very bad. And it is a bolt-hole only. Above are the saloons of Harewood – as splendorous as man’s wealth could summon, it is claimed – and outside is Nature, basking in the full-blown glory of summer. He’ll hardly have need of it at all.

  Will unwinds the white stock from around his neck. The muslin is damp, the starched collar beneath soaked with perspiration. He lays it on the bed beside him and reaches for the bundle.

  He has to see this through.

  *

  The dark mahogany door, gigantic and glossy, swings back on silent hinges. Will slips through, crossing from carpet to stone, and discovers that he is at the rear of the entrance hall. It is laid out like a mock temple, dedicated to the transcendent wealth of the Lascelles; around him are classical reliefs and statues, a table of dove marble upon a Grecian frame and a dozen fluted columns, all steeped in an atmosphere of cool, gloomy magnificence. And overhead, dear God, overhead is a moulded ceiling of such Attic intricacy – such divisions and subdivisions, such a profusion of loops and laurels and minute, interlocking patterns – that it makes the eyeballs ache to study it. The effect is oppressive. Will looks elsewhere.

  The door closes; the surly chambermaid who led him upstairs hasn’t followed him through it. He’s to find his own way from here. Six quick steps take him to a shallow niche, occupied by a bronze Minerva. The moment is approaching, advancing on him, impossible to avoid. Trembling slightly, he makes an adjustment to his plum waistcoat and catches a whiff of fresh sweat beneath his jacket. This is vexing – it’s been barely a half-hour since he performed his ablutions. He’s consoled, however, by his fine Vandyck-brown suit, the best York’s tailors could provide, which remained largely uncreased during its time in the bundle; his hair, plaited and powdered as well as Father could have done it; and his new evening shoes, little more than black leather slippers, which glisten wetly against the hall’s hexagonal flagging like the eyes of oxen.

  There is laughter close by, a blast of male laughter, free and full of casual authority. Will’s head snaps up. A liveried footman is standing beside an urn on the far side of the hall. As if activated by his notice, this servant goes to a door, and holds it open. The sounds of merriment increase. Will scowls; this footman has been observing him, has recognised his reticence and is giving him a shove. He tugs again at the waistcoat and gathers his breath. What can he do now but go in?

  Do not take fright, he tells himself, striding towards the very faintly smirking footman. Do not. You were invited here. This man wishes to see you – to give you patronage. You have to grow used to this, to the toadying, to the bowing and chattering and incessant smiling. It is part of painting. You have to master it.

  Will enters a library. Tall white pilasters flank shelves loaded with gilded volumes; above is another of those staggering ceilings. At the other end of the room – and it is at least thirty feet in length – four gentlemen are roaming around a billiard table, engaged in a boisterous argument over some point of play. Cues are waved in the air and brandished like rapiers; insults are exchanged with jocular relish.

  ‘I call a two-ball carom – a two-ball carom – and no soul on God’s earth but this bounder here could possibly deny it were so!’

  ‘It ran wide, I tell you! That shot, you damnable villain, that shot struck my cue ball only!’

  Three ladies are half-watching this overblown dispute from a suite of delicate furniture, away in the early evening shadows at the back of the library. Another is off on an armchair, closer to Will, apart from the company – on purpose, it seems. All are dressed at the height of aristocratic fashion: pastels and greys, silks and satins, festooned with frills and a glittering variety of ornaments. The ladies also hold their fans, and both sexes have been dusted liberally with hair powder.

  Will Turner, born and raised on Maiden Lane, has landed among the bon ton. He experiences a new spasm of self-consciousness, a crumpling, contorting sensation in his stomach that quite paralyses him. Brown and plum! he thinks. You look like a parson, for God’s sake, next to these people – a plain little dumpling, simple and poor, brought in for general ridicule. He is relieved, though, that he opted to leave his sketchbooks downstairs. That was the correct decision. It would have cast him as a tradesman, coming to call with his samples – of no more significance than a fellow touting wallpaper or curtains.

  Edward Lascelles the younger, known to his intimates as Beau, is one of the four gentlemen at the billiard table. Clad in a coat of mulberry velvet, his fleshy face is warmed by exertion and hilarity. He is trying to speak, to make a riposte; but then a new joke is broached and the laughter resumes. Will wonders what exactly he is to do. No one seems to have noticed his arrival. He glances back through the doorway, at the motionless footman out in the hall. Weren’t the servants supposed to announce you? Wasn’t that the usual form?

  A figure slides from beside one of the windows and approaches the billiard table. It is Mr Cope, the valet from earlier; he touches Beau’s shoulder, just once, and has his master’s immediate attention. A few words are murmured. Beau looks over with evident satisfaction, then passes Cope his cue and starts towards this latest guest.

  Will orders his thoughts. He is to talk with his patron at last. Terms can be laid down, a contract agreed. This visit can be given its proper purpose. He makes the bow he has practised: tidy and brief, one foot drawn back, an arm held momentarily across his waist.

  Close sight does not inspire confidence. The heir to Harewood has a decent frame – Will’s eyes are level only with his Adam’s apple –
but he’s rather plumper than Will remembers, a globular belly nestled comfortably within his well-tailored breeches. His hair, powdered to the uniform smoky tone, has been crafted into a dense cap of curls, each one carefully teased out and arranged to create an impression of graceful, manly nonchalance. Beneath are full cheeks, coloured with just a fleck of carmine, Will reckons – he knows from Father’s shop that plenty of gentlemen still use it – a protuberant chin and small, hooded eyes. His expression, his bearing, every single aspect of his person, is shot through with a sense of easy dominion, over Will and the rest of humankind: a dominion brought about and upheld by the all-conquering power of cash.

  Will feels a pang of disgust. He wishes himself in his painting room, amidst its smells of damp, coal-smoke and mice, cork pellets pressed in his ears and a drawing taken from one of his Buttermere sketches clamped to the stand before him. He stares, unblinking, fighting the sensation down. It passes.

  ‘My dear Mr Turner,’ Beau begins, ‘how you must loathe me!’

  Will’s eyebrow twitches; he opens his mouth to speak. ‘I—’

  ‘Such short notice, such a steep imposition, such an interruption to your plans! Yes, you must positively loathe me – but I remain, for my part, unapologetic, so very glad does it make me that you were able to join us.’

  Will inclines his head. ‘A—’

  ‘Determining your itinerary was straightforward enough, out among the landscapists of London, along with the address of your tavern in York. I confess, though, that I was not hopeful. I had convinced myself that you would cast my letter on the fire and forget it at once.’ Beau takes Will’s left shoulder, enclosing the joint with his hand. ‘But here you are. Here you are, by Jove!’

  The hand squeezes; Will wants very much to shrug it off. Beau’s last remark strikes him as profoundly disingenuous. The Lascelles fortune is such that any young artist would give a finger to win their benefaction. He stays quiet.

  Beau looks to Mr Cope, who is back by his window. ‘I trust that your accommodation is adequate? I’m afraid that we are rather full at present. This house, Heaven protect her, is not so spacious as might sometimes be desired.’

  Will considers this. Harewood can surely hold more than are gathered in the library. Others must be upstairs. He shifts, his new shoes squeaking, and clears his throat. ‘Perfectly,’ he replies. ‘My needs are few, sir, in truth.’

  There is an unfriendly cackle from the billiard table; off in the shadows, fans flutter open to hide smiles. The cause is obvious. Will sees that he should have given more time to smoothing out his accent and rather less to buffing his buttons.

  ‘So, Lascelles,’ says one of the gentlemen – another well-fed specimen in a coat cut just like Beau’s but the colour of lemon curd, ‘this must be your cockney project.’

  An odd word to select. Will senses an objection building inside him; again, he quells it, keeping his face as blank as he can manage. Project may imply a refashioning, as if he is somehow inadequate in his current form – but it also clearly indicates an intention to invest. Be patient, he instructs himself. Wait for the terms.

  Beau is grinning, doubling the number of chins that quiver upon his collar. ‘If you were any less of a philistine, Purkiss,’ he declares, ‘you’d be aware that Mr Turner here, despite being scarcely out of boyhood, had two fine oils shown at the Academy Exhibition, and as many drawings in watercolour. He is a veritable phenomenon.’

  ‘Four,’ Will corrects – taking care to say forr rather than fowah, as he might in other circumstances. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but it was four drawings.’

  Beau pauses for a moment, deciding how much license he will allow. ‘Of course,’ he concedes. He releases Will’s shoulder. ‘Views of Ely Cathedral, if I recall correctly, and quite divine.’

  ‘Salisbury,’ murmurs Will, but he is not heard; Beau has turned about and is strolling to the billiard table.

  ‘I found Mr Turner, would you believe, in the house of a mad-doctor – one Thomas Monro, an illustrious fellow indeed within his field. He was prominent among the party of physicians assembled to minister to our King, God save him, during His Majesty’s most recent deterioration.’

  Beau’s manner had grown confidential while revealing this sensitive yet impressive detail; once it is out, though, and Monro’s cachet established beyond question, he moves briskly onwards. Discussing the royal travails is not thought patriotic.

  ‘The good doctor is a collector, and a devoted friend to the arts. He has a villa on Adelphi Terrace, from where he conducts a copying society – an academy, you might call it. On certain evenings, I have seen upwards of a half-dozen young draughtsmen at work in his rooms, setting down their own versions of drawings and prints from Monro’s albums. It is a fascinating undertaking for anyone interested in the visual arts in England, and several noble connoisseurs number among the doctor’s regular visitors. Viscount Malden introduced me there, in fact.’ Beau’s voice becomes mocking. ‘You know Malden, don’t you, Purkiss?’

  The gentleman in the lemon-curd coat levels his cue, returning pointedly to the billiards game. His complexion, beneath whatever cosmetics have been applied to it, is pock-marked; the bulb at the end of his nose is cleaved like the cheeks of a tiny bottom. ‘No need to revive that old tale, Lascelles,’ he says, ‘in front of the ladies and all.’

  This embarrassment is false. Mr Purkiss is perversely proud of whatever Beau is about to reveal. A lively back-and-forth ensues, drawing guffaws from the other two gentlemen and disapproving sighs from the ladies. Will learns that on one infamous occasion, while staying at Viscount Malden’s country seat at Cassiobury Park, Mr Purkiss embarked on a brandy-fuelled rampage across the formal gardens, under the impression that the peacocks purchased to strut thereabouts were intended to serve as game. The conclusion was predictable: iridescent feathers strewn over the lawn, the Viscount’s young children wailing at windows and a dead bird crushed in a flowerbed, buried beneath their father’s insensible guest.

  Will, still standing, is forgotten completely. Mr Cope snags his eye and gestures discreetly to a chair. It is a fancy thing, all scrolls and flourishes, painted a soapy green with cushions of pink satin. Will sits as naturally as he can, flapping up the tails of his jacket. He is close to the lone lady, the one who appears to have deliberately isolated herself from the party. A sidelong glance reveals that she is younger than the rest of them – who range, by Will’s estimate, between thirty and forty years of age – being no more than twenty-five. She slouches in her chair with none of the poise affected by the other women. Her legs are crossed inside her loose fawn gown, a silken slipper dangling from her toe. There is a clear familial resemblance to Beau, the eyes heavy-lidded, the nose straight, with the same generosity of figure; it fits her better, though, Will decides – lending her a sleek, almost classical quality, akin to the larger women of Tiziano, or Peter-Paul Rubens – and she is hugely, aggressively bored. No notice whatever is granted to the artist seated beside her. Will summons his knowledge of the Lascelles family, gleaned from the portrait commissions they have made. This is surely Mary Ann, Lord Harewood’s younger daughter.

  It won’t do to sit there mutely. Will knows that he has to talk; to ingratiate and flatter. He draws breath, makes an introduction and asks Miss Lascelles if her father is at home. She says that he is not, and nothing more – neatly snipping this first, somewhat feeble line of discourse and dropping them back into silence.

  Will girds himself to try again. The library is growing quite dark now, but he opts nonetheless to undertake an assessment of the paintings displayed above the bookshelves and in other suitable places. These are Grecian in character, simple decorative pieces done without use of local colour or atmospheric effect; hack work, basically, and too late he realises that he must admire them, yet cannot hope to sound remotely sincere whilst doing so. He is growing tongue-tied when Miss Lascelles interrupts him.

  ‘You are well used to praise, aren’t you, Mr Turner? You rather ex
pect it, I think.’

  Her voice, in contrast with her careless pose, has a tart refinement, suggestive of governesses and tutors, private balls and carriages, the best of everything. Will begs her pardon.

  ‘Just then, when you were talking to my brother – he called you a phenomenon, for goodness sake, and you gave next to no reaction. You are accustomed to people falling at your feet. Lauding you to the heavens.’ She looks away. ‘I would worry, if I were you, that it had made me proud.’

  A bristling heat blooms across Will’s face and closes around his throat; he turns a little in his chair. There are no thoughts or words within him, only a sense of having reached a boundary beyond which he cannot proceed. He feels the usual impulse to retreat, to plan and prepare, to seek the advice of more experienced men. This can’t be done, of course. He needs to meet this bizarre slur with modest good humour, a deferential quip; but the precise remark required, the sentiment he has to frame, eludes him utterly.

  Someone enters the library and begins to speak over the billiard-table prattle in the assertive yet respectful tone of a senior servant. It is Mr Noakes, resplendent in livery of emerald green and gold, the tie-wig from his basement office perched atop his head, come to announce that dinner is served. The ladies rise, the gentlemen lay down their cues and an informal procession saunters off into the palatial hallway. Will lifts himself from the soap-green chair, his shirt peeling clammily from his back. He glances out at the blue shadows of the park with vague longing; then he mops his brow on his sleeve and falls in behind.