Will & Tom

by Matthew Plampin

  ‘Will,’ says Tom, ‘you must calm yourself. I understand your wish to get back to London, honest I do. What difference, though, can another day make? Your father has managed alone at Maiden Lane for the best part of the summer. He’d hate for you to squander this chance.’

  Suddenly Will is suspicious. He glowers up at the bridge. Had this been a deliberate ploy, a trap to hinder him? Had Tom supported the idea of the waterfall knowing full well that it was no good – that Will would be obliged to stay another night and be delayed in his work?

  There is no sign of this. Tom wears an affable grin; he’s trying to be consolatory. ‘I’ll help you. We’ll seek out a subject together, a worthy subject. Never fear, old friend.’

  Will remains doubtful. The schedule’s collapse, however, has robbed him of his energy. He jams the umbrella beneath his arm and starts to scale the ivy-covered bank.

  ‘Very well,’ he says.

  *

  The hall has a welcome coolness after the dim, smothering heat of the service floor. There is a hush over this level of the house; everything is in its place and newly cleaned, yet a faint charge of last night’s riotousness lingers in the air. Will walks to the marble table, tugging at the sleeves of the Vandyck-brown suit. An invitation to dine with his patron had arrived not ten minutes after their return from the park. It could hardly be refused, but he’s in no mind for it. The day’s vicissitudes have left him spent, and damnably cross with the world. Moreover, he has a touch of sunburn on his nose and the backs of his hands; and his hair, after a second day baking beneath the sun hat, has acquired an oily immobility. Father’s philosophy is that powder alone can solve such problems. Accordingly, Will made a fresh and liberal application. The result was a further stiffening – and now a single fish-hook curl rests on his forehead, the plait jutting out over his collar like the tail of a tiny dog.

  Mr Cope appears at the rear of the hall, reading a note. Will clears his throat and approaches, requesting a moment of the valet’s time. The note is folded and inserted into a waistcoat pocket; the greyhound face is pointed Will’s way. It contains no surprise at seeing him still at Harewood, and the answer to his question is given so swiftly it is as if Mr Cope had prepared it in advance. The hint of London streets Will heard the evening before has been smoothed away entirely.

  ‘I would suggest the castle, sir. It stands a half-mile to the north-east, beyond the village. It is in a state of some ruination, but enjoys a commanding position over Wharfedale.’

  Will gives his thanks. A ruined castle on a ridge sounds promising indeed. The valet bows, gliding back to reopen the double doors through which he entered. Beau Lascelles’ voice carries into the hall, holding forth on an objet d’art from his collection.

  ‘… those at Mennecy attempted to rival them, but Sèvres remained, in the eyes of all true connoisseurs, the only workshop for such figures. See the limbs there, the freedom of arrangement. Exquisite.’

  Will goes forward, into the saloon where he saw last night’s party drinking their toasts. It is the largest room he has yet seen at Harewood. Ahead, past the portico, lies the valley about which he marched so strenuously that afternoon; in the soft gloom of dusk, its distances now seem no great matter. The saloon itself is decorated with yet more half-columns and elaborate furniture, against walls of salmon pink. The grand chandelier has been left dull; beeswax candles in silver holders dot the mantelpieces and commodes, concentrated around two dozen pieces of fine porcelain. There are jugs, plates and vases, teapots and small covered bowls, painted in the sumptuous hues of the French Rococo. All feature sprays of flowers or scenes of rustic merriment; most also bear delicate patterning in gold or bronze leaf, lending a shining trim to their spouts and handles.

  Beau is expounding before a figural group in glazed white – a centrepiece for a dining table. His costume is informal, a dressing gown of green silk over his shirt and breeches. He is plainly not at his best, still impaired by the excesses of the previous night; that full face is pale, lacking colour both real and artificial. Speech, however, is causing him no difficulty, and as Mr Cope announces Will he turns to crow with delight.

  ‘Mr Turner,’ he cries, stretching the words out to several times their normal length, with a rise in middle of the second, ‘how it pleases me to see you still among us! Perhaps you found more material here at Harewood than you anticipated?’

  There is a laugh. Tom is sitting off to the side, in the same plain suit as the evening before. His hair, Will notices, rests in a neat wave; and his complexion, despite his want of a sun hat, is only lightly tanned.

  ‘I suppose we have delayed you for a day at most, though,’ continues Beau with a sigh. ‘Once you have made your sketches you will go.’

  Absolutely correct, Will thinks. He bows. ‘I’m indebted to you, sir, for your hospitality.’

  Mr Cope withdraws, closing the doors behind him.

  ‘Did I hear you and Mr Cope talking just then, Will?’ enquires Tom. ‘Out there in the hall?’

  ‘I believe poor Tom is jealous,’ says Beau, a trifle harshly. Tom glances over; something passes between them. ‘He alone, it would seem, is permitted to befriend my servants.’

  ‘I asked that he show me to Mr Lascelles,’ Will replies, keeping his eyes on the porcelain centrepiece. ‘That’s all.’

  Beau spots the direction of his gaze. ‘Superb, Mr Turner, is it not? Come, look more closely. That devil Girtin over there is perfectly dead to anything French, but items like this deserve – nay, demand – appreciative study.’

  Will obeys. Two nudes, a male and a female, are arranged upon a rocky bed. The recumbent poses and swan-like necks recall Michelangelo – forms imprinted forever on Will’s mind by his days at the Academy schools. They are lost in an amorous trance, the fingers of the female brushing gently over the male’s brow; whether this is to rouse or soothe is unclear. A gilded vine weaves around them, dark against the gleaming porcelain, flowing down to a stand of golden acanthus leaves. It is perhaps a foot high.

  ‘The dealer,’ sniffs Beau, ‘grubby Israelite that he was, could not name the subject. “The Shepherd’s Hour” was all he could offer. My own belief, however, is that it represents Zephyrus, the West Wind, and his bride Iris, at the—’

  ‘Endymion,’ states Will. ‘Bewitched, weren’t he, by the goddess of the moon.’ Beau is staring; Will wonders, momentarily, if he has pronounced the name right. He nods at the figures in confirmation. ‘That’s who they are.’

  ‘Why, Mr Turner,’ murmurs Beau, his manner acquiring a slight chill, ‘you know your Greeks.’

  Tom, over on his armchair, fails to hide his smile. ‘There’s much about Will a fellow wouldn’t guess.’

  Neither accepting nor rejecting Will’s identification, Beau moves on to a shallow cheese dish. The ground colour, a remarkably rich rose pink, seems almost to blush in the candlelight; it was made, he tells them, for the Duc de Richelieu.

  ‘See here,’ he says, pointing to a lozenge on the front, inside of which has been painted a bright little rustic feast. ‘Peasants roasting geese, after a scene by Boucher.’ He hesitates. ‘They are peasants, aren’t they, Mr Turner? I trust that is accurate enough for you?’

  Frances arrives through the saloon’s western door, accompanied by her husband. Tom rises from his chair and the three men bow – the artists somewhat lower than the aristocrat. This is Will’s first proper audience with Lord Harewood’s elder daughter. She’s taller than him, as many women are; her lavender gown is cut a mite closer than is the fashion, and her powdered hair is gathered up loosely beneath a length of purple satin. She comes to rest on the back foot, her chin raised and her left hand propped upon her hip, a pose both relaxed and faintly antagonistic. It is immediately plain – unlike Beau and the equally pasty Douglas, who lurks to the rear as if trying to evade notice – that Frances was not among those who overindulged at yesterday’s banquet. She is as hard and sharp as a steel pen nib, and propelled by an unnamed dissatisfaction
; then she turns towards her brother and it is unnamed no longer.

  ‘Is this an inventory, Edward, perchance?’ she asks, gesturing at the porcelain. ‘Are you seeking to reassure yourself that nothing else is missing?’

  Will looks to his evening shoes; beside him, Tom lets out an apprehensive cough.

  ‘You have not told your young painters, of course,’ announces Frances; her natural tone is one of proclamation. ‘A mishap has befallen the household, gentlemen. Two of Mr Lascelles’ French pieces are gone. Broken, no doubt, by some drunken scoundrel, and then buried in a shadowy corner of the flower garden.’

  Beau has gone to a window. ‘It is inevitable,’ he says, ‘with an assembly of this size – with the state floor thrown open as it was – that there be damage, a minor depredation of—’

  ‘My stars, so forgiving,’ Frances cries. ‘Is that the explanation you would offer to our father, if he were to enquire why his money is quite literally vanishing into the summer air?’

  Beau lifts a hand to his forehead. ‘Any further losses would pain me deeply.’

  ‘Will you seek the perpetrator, then? Your darling Mr Purkiss – who still slumbers upstairs, I believe – was showing Madame de Pompadour’s chocolate cup around with his usual recklessness.’

  ‘Any further losses, Frances,’ repeats Beau, ‘would pain me deeply. For God’s sake, woman, it was but two pieces. Barely a hundred guineas between them. This house has seen a good deal worse than that, I can tell you. Why, during the masquerades in the first baron’s time—’

  Frances laughs, saying that those days were a model for naught but moral ruin, and expressing the earnest hope that her brother would never attempt to stage a masquerade ball at Harewood himself; to which Beau replies that he would do no such thing until he is baron, and then he would do exactly as he deuced well pleased. Will and Tom stand very still. At first, Tom tries to appear amused, as if it were all good japes, but as the exchange grows more savage the smile dies on his lips.

  ‘Must this really be thrashed out now?’ Douglas interjects. ‘Can’t the two of you wait until after we have dined, at least?’

  Frances’s husband, settled by a marble table, is rubbing his eye with a long index finger; he sounds both pained and bored. Will perceives that this enmity between the heir to Harewood and his elder sister is of ancient origin. But Douglas’s words prove effective. The siblings look away from one another, abruptly breaking their disputation. Beau moves out of the window, draws his dressing gown around him and calls for dinner to be brought up. A servant appears to acknowledge the order, then bows smartly and withdraws. His master stalks into the hall. Unruffled, Frances takes Douglas’s arm and follows.

  The artists, quite suddenly, are alone.

  ‘Wonderful,’ says Tom. ‘Ain’t even a question of nerve with you, Will, is it? You just can’t help yourself.’

  The Endymion centrepiece. Tom is correct. Will spoke without thinking. ‘It was foolish,’ he admits. He studies his sunburned hands. ‘But Mr Lascelles was in error.’

  Tom falls on Will once more, clasping him in his arms with fierce affection. He smells of soap and pipe tobacco, laced with a drop of rose water. ‘You’re a rare bird, Will Turner. An honest and righteous and damnably decent soul.’ He lets Will go and looks across the saloon at the porcelain. ‘It takes every ounce of my effort, you know, to hold my peace before this. These revolting fancies, bought for fortunes while people lay starving in the gutters of Paris. So help me, if I had but half a minute in here with a hammer, I’d show them the true meaning of depredation. Not a single damn chocolate cup or cheese dish would survive.’

  Will can picture it clearly – the scattered, multicoloured shards; the disembodied handles and fractured lids; the glint of cracked gilding. The mere possibility is startling. Tom’s embrace has twisted his coat; he shrugs it straight, unsure of what to say.

  ‘Come.’ Tom gives Will’s shoulder a companionable slap. ‘To dinner.’

  *

  The dining room is much darker tonight, lit by just nine candles: three groups of three in silver candelabras. Its windows, like all of those on the state floor, have been left open throughout the day for airing, and the advent of evening has brought in a velvet dampness. No one else joins them; Mary Ann, it appears, is in some degree of disgrace, on top of the delicate circumstance explained by Mrs Lamb. Allowed a measure of freedom for the banquet, the younger sister proceeded to defy all good sense and dignity, larking about in the flower garden until early morning, and as a result is confined to her rooms.

  ‘Where she will remain,’ Will hears Frances murmur to her husband, ‘until she can demonstrate even the smallest understanding of her situation here.’

  This is another disappointment. Amid the various frustrations of his delay, Will was looking forward to encountering Mary Ann again. He was keen to discover if the still-room maid’s revelations would alter her at all in his eyes – if he could detect any sign of scandal or dishonour. Lord Harewood’s second daughter has been in his thoughts, he can’t deny it, despite her hostility towards him; the white curve of her neck, and the fall of her lower lip; the intense, wordless exasperation with which she bore the barbs of her brother and Mr Purkiss. Further experience of her siblings has only increased this sympathy.

  A thin broth is brought out. Will hasn’t eaten since that piece of bread in the valley. He tries it. Game, partridge perhaps; good enough, at any rate. He starts to spoon it in.

  Beau pushes his away untasted. ‘You younger gentlemen may be wondering,’ he says, ‘what precisely happened at those masquerade balls I mentioned in the saloon.’

  Will’s spoon stops in his mouth. He looks at Tom and then at Frances, who carries on eating her broth with calm application. Beau, it seems, is purposely initiating a second bout. Will slowly draws the spoon back out and lays it on the tablecloth.

  ‘Worsley is the crucial name. See how my poor sister flinches just to hear me say it. Lady Seymour Worsley, to be more precise: a stepdaughter of the first baron and a perfect hellion, married off to a baronet who could not begin to control her. John Douglas over there will remember the stories.’

  Douglas’s lean features are pinched by something that is more a wince than a smile. ‘Is it really the moment, Edward?’

  Beau pays no notice, going on to tell of one Christmas masquerade twenty years previously, when this rampant noblewoman sought out the gentlemen’s ordinary clothes and then hurled them, in vast armfuls, from the state windows. Wigs were left perched on hedges; waistcoats were lost among the rose bushes; breeches trailed from the boughs of trees.

  ‘This single night – as well as the harm to his reputation, which was considerable – cost the baron over eight hundred pounds in damages.’ Beau sips his wine, letting this figure hang before them, dwarfing that of his own misplaced porcelain. ‘We still have her portrait,’ he adds carelessly, ‘a rather splendid piece by Sir Joshua Reynolds. The young lady’s spirit positively glares from the canvas.’

  There is a silence. Frances makes no deliberate reaction, but her movements strain with displeasure. Douglas shifts in his chair, bracing himself for a renewal of battle. Will looks regretfully at the broth cooling in his bowl.

  Then Tom speaks. ‘Will here knew Sir Joshua. In fact, during his last days, that great painter came to rely on young Master Turner – to retrieve his escaped canaries, you understand, from the branches of Leicester Fields.’

  This is a route away from Lady Worsley and Frances takes it readily. She sets down her spoon and fixes Will with a firm, enquiring stare. ‘How extraordinary, Mr Turner, to have experienced such an august connection. Were you attached to Sir Joshua’s studio?’

  Will has that which eluded him so completely on his first night: the attention of the room. He plumbs his memories of the old man – the frilled shirts and brass ear trumpet, the scarred lip and the snuff-dusted waistcoats, all those damn little birds – trying to craft them into a diverting tale, as Tom might do. He un
covers only a strong, contrary desire not to talk: to cross his arms, sit there in dogged silence and thumb his nose at the lot of them.

  ‘I was not, madam.’ He pauses. ‘I heard his discourses, like any student of the Academy, and would call on him from time to time. I held Sir Joshua in the highest regard.’

  Frances isn’t about to release him. ‘Did you ever consider a career in portraiture yourself? It is one of the more useful branches of your art, I always feel.’

  ‘No, madam. I did not.’

  Tom comes to Will’s aid. ‘Landscape has been our sole object, madam,’ he says, ‘from our early boyhood. Neither of us ever thought of anything else. It bonded us. We’d roam the borders of London together, sailing out far along the river in search of scenic effects. We’d immerse ourselves in the beauty of the world.’

  ‘And yet …’ Frances stops. She turns to Tom; her smile is slight and merciless. ‘You will forgive me, Mr Girtin, if I speak plainly. My brother likes your productions very well and that is his business, but to me this new approach of yours seems decidedly coarse. The pigment is applied so thickly, so haphazardly, and you scratch it and smear it about in a manner that defies my understanding. I confess that I see scarcely any beauty in it at all.’

  This is reprisal, obviously: a blow struck back at Beau, who sighs loudly and waves for more wine. Will catches something else in Frances’s voice, though, as she details her complaints to Tom – flirtation, almost. She certainly sounds more entertained than she has so far that evening.

  Will fares badly with criticism. He’s known for it – the muttered profanities, the black looks, the unexpected departures – and he’s squirming now, impatience nibbling at his innards. Tom, however, appears untroubled by Frances’s words. After the soup dishes have been removed, he offers a riposte, pontificating about the elevation to be found in Nature; the finer sentiments it can stir in the soul; the ways in which it can identify us with what he terms ‘our more permanent existences’.