by Liz Trenow
Anna smiled politely and thanked her aunt for her kindness, but found herself strangely detached, as though all the attention was focused on another, who looked like her and spoke like her, but who was not her inside. She felt like a commodity being packaged for sale by her aunt, who was desperate to seal the deal and thus be freed of responsibility.
Alone in her room, she took several deep breaths, trying to calm her racing thoughts and think rationally. What if he really does propose, this very afternoon? Do I have a duty to accept the first offer that comes along, because there are no other options? Would it be the end of the world, after all, being married to a well-to-do young man about town? She would not have to concern herself about money, and such a match would surely secure a comfortable future for her father and Jane. At least she would escape the confinement of Spital Square, and could entertain herself with painting and other diversions.
Charles arrived promptly at four o’clock. Tea was ordered and the family summoned, and the dreary round of polite conversation proceeded. Strategically placed by Aunt Sarah on the chaise longue beside Anna, he perched in a dandyish pose, with chin resting on his fingertips.
‘You are looking very well this afternoon, Anna.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, recoiling at the familiarity.
‘Have you been doing much sketching lately?’
He is doing his best. I must be polite. ‘No, alas. I love to draw flowers from real life but the weather has been so poor.’
‘I observed you enjoying Father’s garden, when you visited with Mr Ehret. Do you have much of a garden here in Spital Square?’ She found herself fighting an attack of the giggles as his Adam’s apple bobbed comically, like a small animal trapped in his throat. What if it turned out to be a real mouse? Perhaps it would escape, suddenly leaping out of his mouth and bouncing across the room like a crazed ball, rendering him speechless.
‘No, just a small square of grass, with a tree. It does not make for much of a painting. How are your studies going?’ she asked quickly. ‘The law must be such a fascinating subject.’
‘You would think so. But I am required to commit to memory the detail of many thousands of cases, and my poor head is struggling. It is all too easily distracted, I fear.’
The self-deprecation was endearing. Perhaps he has a sense of humour after all, she said to herself. ‘Which cases do you find most interesting?’
‘I regret to admit that it is the serious offences I find intriguing.’
‘For example?’
‘I have been studying cases of murder and manslaughter. What could bring a man to commit such crimes?’
‘I do not think anyone in their right mind could kill another, so it follows that they must be out of their minds to do so. I cannot believe that anyone is born evil.’
‘You would change your views if you met some of the villains in Newgate. Believe me, the gallows is too good for many of them.’
‘Pray heaven I never have to do so.’ She had read terrifying accounts of the notorious prison, and the ghoulish crowds that gathered to watch hangings. ‘But is killing a man really a just punishment, if he committed the crime when not of sane mind?’
‘Everyone has choices. That is what I believe. The poor can choose to better themselves by hard work, but the wicked and immoral are a curse on society, and we are better off without them.’
‘Well said,’ William interjected. ‘And that is why you are learning to be a lawyer, is it not, Charlie, so you can teach them a lesson?’ Anna could scarcely believe her ears. William, the thief, pontificating about upholding the law? She wished she could expose him then and there but had to content herself with a glare, to which he returned an insouciant smile.
After tea, Joseph and William excused themselves, citing pressures of work. Lizzie was sent to her studies and Sarah invented some urgent business with Cook. They were alone. Anna wished she could be anywhere else but here, but one of his long spindly legs was thrust out across the rug in front of her, like a barrier preventing her escape.
‘Dearest Anna, I have so enjoyed our little talks,’ he whispered. ‘You are an intelligent and spirited young woman, and I find this most attractive.’ As he took her hand and leaned towards her, she could smell his slightly rancid breath. ‘My regard for you has grown and, if I am not mistaken, I believe you may feel the same?’
She looked into his face, trying to read his expression, trying to convince herself. If he genuinely loves me then, perhaps, my love for him could grow in time? But there was something wrong: although his lips were smiling, his eyes were cold. It was as though he were embarking upon a business transaction. In that moment, she knew that she must listen to her own heart, and what her answer must be.
What took place next was a total surprise. His hand began to shake and he seemed to falter. There was a tense silence as he looked away to the window and turned back again. He took a deep breath. ‘Will you come to dine at Ludgate Hill next week?’ he said.
Relief swept over her like the surf on the seashore. His last-minute nerves – or was it cowardice – had reprieved her. Or perhaps he’d realised the truth: that neither of them loved the other. Only by biting her lip until it was almost painful did she manage to stop herself from laughing out loud.
‘Thank you, that would be delightful,’ she replied, crossing her fingers behind her back.
‘Well?’ Aunt Sarah whispered, once Charles had gone.
‘We had a very pleasant time,’ Anna said. ‘He has invited me to dinner at Ludgate Hill next week.’ She watched her aunt’s face deflate and then brighten once more. How desperate she is to see me settled. She has given her word to Father and won’t rest until she has done so.
Aunt Sarah was all of a flutter. Augusta Hinchliffe had sent a note to inform her that the portraitist Mr Gainsborough would be travelling to London from his home in Bath for a few days, and would be available to see prospective customers at his painting room in Pall Mall.
‘Mr Sadler has agreed to the notion, and we have made an appointment for tomorrow morning,’ she declared at breakfast. ‘It is only sensible to be prepared for when Mr Sadler is elected Upper Bailiff, don’t you think?’
Anna had heard and read so much about the man – definitely the up-and-coming artist of fashionable society. Although he made his living from portraits he was said to enjoy painting landscapes more, and certainly his trees and plants – often lightly sketched – were wonderfully lifelike. If only she too could meet Mr Gainsborough!
After breakfast, she pleaded her case to Aunt Sarah.
‘Mr Gainsborough is an excellent choice. He is sure to do justice to Uncle Joseph’s anticipated new status.’
‘You know his work?’
‘Know it? I adore it, Aunt Sarah. His landscapes and rural backgrounds are wonderful. I’d give anything to meet the man.’
Sarah smiled fondly at her niece. ‘Perhaps when you and Charles are married, you could commission him yourselves?’
‘What a splendid notion,’ Anna said, seizing her moment. ‘In that case, might this present a good opportunity to make his acquaintance in advance?’
Her aunt thought for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose that would do any harm. I will ask your uncle. If he agrees, you may come as my companion.’
The houses here in the West End were so much grander than any that Anna had previously entered. The carriage drew up outside an imposing red-brick mansion and she began to marvel that any artist – however famous – could earn enough to afford such a residence.
However, Mr Gainsborough’s lodgings turned out to be but a small part of the building – just two rooms on the ground floor. He appeared to have no servant and opened the door himself: a tall, fine-looking man in his mid-thirties, Anna guessed, with a good head of dark hair, a long nose and full lips that seemed to give him a permanently amused expression.
They were ushered into a large room smelling strongly of oil and turpentine, almost empty save for a chaise longue, a table and
a few chairs. To one side was another table covered in brushes and bladders of paint, various bottles and jars, a pestle and mortar and what Anna was pleased to recognise as a mahlstick, used to steady the painter’s wrist when working in detail. Standing on the floor was a small wooden mannequin dressed as a child, and a tall easel holding a large canvas concealed with a cloth.
After the introductions they were invited to take their seats and Mr Gainsborough disappeared into a rear room, returning with a notebook and a set of papers.
‘And so, how can I help you today?’
Uncle Joseph explained the reason for the commission.
‘What an honour, Mr Sadler, I am delighted,’ Mr Gainsborough said. ‘My family were in the same trade, in a small way. My father was a weaver of woollens.’
They chatted about the trials of the textile markets for a few moments before getting down to business. Mr Gainsborough explained the types of portrait he could offer: the most economical would be a single figure pictured from waist upwards, with plain background and no hands, ranging up to the most expensive, a full-length group or pair with landscape background, extra for animals.
He took notes and answered a few questions before handing over the set of papers. ‘These contain illustrations of each type of portrait and examples of the costs. Please feel free to write to me at any time with any further queries. I should require up to six sittings, depending on the composition you choose, which can take place here or at Bath, whichever is the most convenient.’
A moment of silence fell, in which Anna desperately wished to ask him about the painting on the easel, but was afraid it might be impolite. Fortunately Uncle Joseph seemed oblivious to such sensitivities. ‘May we see your latest work?’ he asked.
Mr Gainsborough hesitated for a second and then went to the easel, pulling off the cloth with a flourish. ‘It is unfinished, as I am sure you will appreciate,’ he said.
It was an almost full-length portrait of a handsome gentleman in a pale pink silk jacket leaning proudly against a rock, with a classical landscape in the distance. The figure was striking enough, but it was the foliage in the foreground, particularly the ivy growing across the rock, that caught Anna’s eye.
‘It is marvellous, sir,’ she said quietly. ‘I have long held your portraiture in the highest regard. But I have to confess that it is your depictions of landscapes and nature that I most admire.’
Mr Gainsborough, so stiff and formal during the earlier discussion, seemed suddenly to become animated. ‘I am happy to hear this, madam, for it is that which I most enjoy painting. Nature is my recreation. I find it a relaxation from the disciplined focus required for depicting the variations of the human face and form.’
‘This man has a very fine face, however. May we enquire who he is?’ Joseph asked.
‘It is Joshua Grigby, a lawyer at Gray’s Inn,’ he said. ‘His family is from my own beloved county of Suffolk, where I learned my love of landscape and nature.’
‘You are from Suffolk!’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘My niece is also lately come to the city from that same place.’
‘From a small village near Halesworth,’ Anna added. ‘I too have learned my love of painting from nature in the countryside around my home.’
‘And I from Ipswich, although I was born in the south, at Sudbury. And you are an artist too? What a happy coincidence.’
‘I would hardly call myself an artist, sir,’ she replied, blushing deep crimson. ‘Just one who loves to sketch and paint.’
‘And that is what you must do, as often as you can.’ His expression became thoughtful. ‘It is possible to learn techniques by watching others, but one’s own eyes and hands are the most important teachers. Nothing can replace the exercise of observation and constant practice.’
Anna longed to continue the conversation but Aunt Sarah was fidgeting at her side. ‘This has been most delightful but we must not keep you, Mr Gainsborough,’ she said. ‘We thank you for your time.’
‘It has been my pleasure,’ he said, and then added to Anna, ‘They are planning a new Society of the Arts, have you heard? It will be lodged just along the road from here. Perhaps you will be the first lady to display your work.’
‘Do not tease me, sir.’ He laughed with her, but his eyes were serious.
‘I have met many fine women artists,’ he said. ‘There is no reason why they should not have their work viewed in public too.’
As they left the building, Anna felt as though she was walking on air.
That evening, still buzzing with excitement, she took up her pen. Henri would understand her excitement.
Dear Henri,
Thank you for your letter. I am thrilled to learn that you are nearly ready to weave my design and you know that I would return to see it for myself, if only that were possible.
Today I met the great artist Gainsborough. Imagine! I admire his work tremendously. Anyway, your kind interest in my drawing has piqued my own curiosity about fabric design and I have already ordered a new, larger sketchbook to start on my next designs! But I need to learn more about weaving – perhaps you will teach me?
Please write again soon. With my very best wishes,
A
16
If ye should inadvertently cause offence, let your tongue be dipped in oil, never in vinegar; and rather endeavour to mollify, than irritate the wound, and avoid anger as much as possible. By mildness and good manners, the most intractable may be qualify’d, and the most exasperated appeased.
– Advice for apprentices and journeymen
OR A sure guide to gain both esteem and an estate
As they approached the prison, along Newgate Street, it soon became clear that this was no ordinary Monday morning. Church bells were tolling and a great crowd, even larger than at the demonstration a few weeks ago, had gathered outside the prison gates, making their route impassable.
It seemed to Henri that the whole of London had taken to the streets: men, women and children all primped and vested in their Sunday best as though they were off to church and then for a pleasant picnic in the park, or perhaps a trip to the pleasure gardens.
‘Grand Dieu,’ M. Lavalle said, his face grim. ‘It’s an execution.’
The condemned man emerged at the top of the steps, prompting an excited roar from the crowd, part appreciation and part denunciation. Despite the chains binding him at hand and foot, the prisoner was coiffed and dressed like a dandy. He raised his arms as best he could and smiled at the assembled masses, for all the world like a king acknowledging his subjects.
Then, to a chorus of ugly jeers and crude catcalls, he was led down the steps, hauled onto a rackety old horse cart and forcibly mounted onto a long wooden box which, Henri now realised with a shudder, was the coffin in which the man’s body would later be interred.
But the man seemed barely to notice, laughing and joking with the Guards and managing, most of the time, to dodge the missiles of rotting fruit and excrement. As the cart set off, surrounded by soldiers armed with pistols and swords, the crowd swarmed in its wake.
‘How far is the scaffold?’ Henri asked a grizzled old man beside him.
‘’Tis but two miles to Tyburn. But by the time they’ve stopped at every tavern on the route it’ll take ’em three hours and they’ll have bought him so many pints he’ll be dead drunk when he hangs. Which is more than the bastard deserves.’
‘What crime has he committed?’
‘They say he murdered a woman, though he denies it. She was a tart by all accounts, but no one deserves to die like that.’
‘Why do they treat such a sinner to beer?’
‘It’s the spectacle they come for,’ the man replied. ‘They want to see him piss in his breeches.’
‘From fear?’
‘Nah. When he’s been hanging for a while, it shows he’s finally dead,’ was the terse reply.
Henri watched the baying crowd, feeling dizzy and bilious. No matter how evil the crime, how could humans inflict such vi
le punishments on their fellow men? And what if the man was innocent? He could not bear to imagine that his friend might have to suffer the same terrible journey and undignified death.
As the crowd departed with the procession, he and M. Lavalle were able to move towards the prison gates. Even before they reached the steps they could hear the angry clamour of caged souls. It seemed to Henri that they were about to enter the gates of hell – only this was on earth, but two miles from his home and only a few hundred yards from the most beautiful building he had ever seen. M. Lavalle had told him it was St Paul’s Cathedral.
‘We might pray there afterwards,’ he’d said.
After handing over a sixpence in ‘fees’, they were led by a rotund and red-faced warder along several corridors towards the cells. The stench and the racket were almost overwhelming. M. Lavalle handed Henri a handkerchief. ‘Hold this to your nose, lad,’ he said. ‘Vapours and diseases are rife in this place.’
The warder unlocked a heavy metal door and they were ushered into the cell. It was a large stone room, lit only by two small barred windows high in the walls. At first, in the gloom, they could barely make out anything, but as their eyes became accustomed they could see that the room contained thirty or more men, all of them chained to the wall and most of them naked, covered only in their own muck. All appeared to be equally starving and desperate, clanking their chains and calling out for food, water, tobacco and gin. Picking their way between them, they found Guy curled up in silent despair on the filthy floor.
Henri shook his shoulder. ‘It’s Monsieur Lavalle and me. We’ve come to help you.’
Guy turned his head, his eyes bright in the dirt of his face. ‘Leave me be,’ he groaned. ‘There’s nothing to be done.’
‘We’ve brought you food.’
The sight of the bundle that M. Lavalle produced from inside his jacket aroused an instant reaction from the other prisoners, who strained forwards against their shackles, bellowing even more menacingly than before. Guy grabbed the parcel, tore it open and began to stuff the bread and cheese into his mouth in a ravenous frenzy. When he’d swallowed the last morsel and checked for crumbs, he grabbed the bottle of porter from Henri’s hand, pulled out the cork with his teeth, and glugged it down in four long swigs, pausing only for a sharp breath between each gulp. He concluded with a raucous belch that brought cheers from his fellow inmates.
