‘Rich men will be present. Console yourself with that. It’s a public ball, and among the guests will be many from outside the Lascelles’ acquaintance. People they’d usually have little to do with. Patrons, quite possibly, who might be inclined to offer us better terms for our labour.’ He uncrosses his arms; he weighs the watch-chain in his fingers. ‘Whose wealth ain’t drawn from such a polluted well.’
A public ball.
Instead of supplying reassurance or provoking curiosity, Tom’s words serve only to deepen Will’s dread of what lies before him. He’s made a very determined point of avoiding balls and dances of every description, believing them to be for the moneyed, the idle and the vain, and no place whatsoever for an artist of any seriousness or ambition. He considers flight, hiding away in the flower garden or the stables, or just bolting into the park. Tom has begun to wheeze like a man several times their age, but Will can’t help regarding him with a measure of envy. This affliction of his would surely be enough to excuse a fellow for the night, should he wish it. Might they be permitted to retire together, perhaps, with Will playing nurse? He’s seen Tom weather similar episodes, after all. He’s pondering how best to propose this when Tom overcomes his difficulty and speaks again.
‘Would that damn Hoppner have painted her with a beard, I wonder, or tentacles in place of arms, if Beau Lascelles had given him enough gold?’
The portrait. ‘It’s odd. I grant you that.’
‘It ain’t odd in the least. It’s despicable.’
Will sighs. ‘Who can say what really occurred. A painter and his patron – and the sitter as well – it’s a complicated—’
Tom won’t hear this. ‘The villain was humiliating her for his sport. That’s what damn well occurred, Will.’ He pulls himself up and knocks out his pipe against the plinth. ‘See there. He’s doing it right now.’
The party has started to disperse – to locate their carriages and climb aboard. Beau stands by the three large vehicles that belong to Harewood, their panels painted ivy green, which have been brought up for the family and those among their guests who lack conveyances of their own. He looks remarkable: sleek and huge in a coat of rich russet, hat set just so upon his powder-dusted hair, an unmistakable member of England’s very first rank. Adopting an air of patriarchal sternness, he sets about extracting Mary Ann from the company of her female friends, ordering her to Frances’s side and into the lead carriage. She obeys, walking over with a shuffling, reluctant quick-step, her head bent down in an attempt to hide her infuriation.
This matter dealt with, Beau’s gaze alights on his painters. Tom clears his throat and straightens his back, masking all sign of infirmity as he returns their patron’s hail. It’s hidden from them, Will thinks, as best as he can do it. It’s hidden along with everything else.
They are directed, with Beau’s compliments, to one of the other Lascelles carriages, further from the house. As they move through the remains of the party, Will overhears its whispers – many of which are so vocal and indiscreet that they scarcely deserve the term.
‘Of course, she is under their supervision. Their guardianship, I suppose. They are putting a brave face on it, but the situation is most lamentable. So upsetting for them all.’
‘I could provide a name – the author, so to speak, of Miss Lascelles’ distress – but I fear dear Beau would not be forgiving …’
‘Extraordinary, really, that the girl is not confined to the house. Were she my responsibility, I’d have her shut up in a tower somewhere, like a maiden of old.’
It occurs to Will that Tom has said nothing about Mary Ann’s eventful London season. He decides that he will ask him about it now, and learn how it might fit into his strident account of the young lady’s hardships. Tom is some yards ahead, however, his passage through the Lascelles’ milling guests proving rather easier than Will’s; and the next minute he is against a span of green-gold spokes, looking up at the carriage, introducing himself to the ladies and gentlemen already seated within. Before Will can speak, or reach out to tug at his coat, he has mounted the iron steps and ducked in through the door.
*
Will and Tom are placed on different ends of the same seat. Between them is a garrulous, bovine lady who talks without interruption to those opposite – a well-to-do couple in early middle age and an elderly gentlemen with a clerical bearing – about coiffure and costume, the particulars of dance steps and who else might be present at the ball. Any communication between the painters is impossible. Tom opens his window an inch or two and seems to concentrate on his breathing, while Will does his best to ignore his fellow passengers and savour each moment of the drive, each moment that is not the Crown Hotel at Harrogate. He studies the cottages and country churches; the roadside taverns and the shabby gaggles who come out to watch them pass; the fields that dip and rise in the diminishing glory of the dusk. Within a few miles, however, the scattered farmsteads and hamlets start to coalesce. Houses grow higher and group together into terraces of dark stone. Lanterns appear at corners, or suspended over doorways. Next there is a common, a broad blue expanse criss-crossed with paths; then the streets and sloping lanes of a prosperous market town; and finally, across a loose, leafy square, the façade of the Crown Hotel, a queue of carriages coiled before it.
The Lascelles’ carriage is waved to the front of the line, Beau emerging to a round of welcomes so effusive it sounds almost like an ovation. Tom’s door is nearest to the hotel and he is out the instant they stop. Will sets off in pursuit; he climbs into the street, strides around the rear wheels and makes for the entrance, joining the small crowd that is filing inside after the Lascelles.
The hallway beyond is dim and packed with people. Neither Tom nor any member of the family can be seen. The heat is staggering, rather like being slowly poached within your clothes; a salty human mist clouds the air and the very walls are stippled with moisture, as if they are sweating along with the multitude they contain. This suffocating atmosphere positively throbs with flattery and forced laughter. The Lascelles are much discussed. Will hears a great deal of admiration for Beau, the bachelor heir – for his person, his aristocratic mien, his tailoring – and at least three breathless accounts of his association with the Prince of Wales, who he resembles so closely (it is asserted) that even George’s intimates struggle to tell them apart. The scandalous Mary Ann proves an equally irresistible topic. It is noted how her brother and sister appear to be warding away introductions, more or less, ensuring that the girl’s invitations to dance will be non-existent. An ignominious night for her, certainly, but who’d want to risk offending Lord Harewood’s son?
Distracted by all of this, Will’s search wanders off course. He becomes wedged in a corner – stuck in a still pool at the margins of a wide, wallowing river. At his back is a sooty painting of a prize pig; while enclosing him to the front and side are infantry officers from some local regiment, resplendent in the sashes and baubles of their dress uniform. Blatantly bidding for female attention, they are engaged in a shouted exchange about the state of the war with France – the deplorable stalemate, the cowardice of Austria, their longing for action. Will addresses them, requesting his release. The officers respond with supercilious glares, as if an awful liberty has been attempted. Like many others in the hotel that evening, they seem to take him for a tradesman or clerk, presumptuously using a public ball to move among his betters, and will afford him no courtesy.
Will considers the pig, a piebald creature so bloated that its head is receding into its body; and he pictures Tom somewhere beyond, simpering at Mary Ann in such a clumsy, doting fashion that he’s given away in a trice and they are both tipped forever into ruin. This vision is enough to propel him forcibly between the soldiers’ scarlet-coated elbows. There are exclamations – egad, bounder, et cetera – and a hand fastens on his collar. He shrugs it off easily, somewhat violently, and without looking around; and by God does this improve his mood. His clarity of purpose, mislaid at Plumpton, is ab
ruptly recovered. He must find Tom. He must make him face their situation; obtain a vow that he will break from the Lascelles’ household; and plan their departure, their imminent departure, for their rightful quarter.
The lope and trill of dancing music draws Will down a corridor and into the ballroom. Two lines of dancers are arrayed along it, the gentlemen to the left and the ladies to the right, performing a sequence of precise, interlacing steps, to the stentorian instructions of a dance-master. Onlookers border them, four or five deep; commentary is being given, various persons identified and gossip shared. A dozen musicians are up on a stand at the far end, delivering a workmanlike rendition of a tune Will doesn’t recognise. The Harewood party arrived late, it appears, no doubt intentionally; this ball has plainly been underway for some time.
The dance ends to applause, the lines dissolving. A murmur goes up as Beau Lascelles takes to the floor, somewhere towards the ballroom’s centre. Bows and curtseys are made, and the music resumes with a flourish. Will secures a vantage point of sorts, craning and peering between the shoulders of those in front, but he cannot see the baron’s eldest son, or his mastery of the Scotch Reel – which is being reported throughout the company as a matter of urgent interest.
Tom stalks by, then circles back sharply to Will’s side. It seems, at first, a rare piece of luck. Will opens his mouth to propose that they head outside, to discuss their situation. But Tom’s expression stops him from speaking. With the slightest of nods, the other painter directs his attention to the opposite wall.
It’s a perfect little scene, in its way – an incidental group worthy of Hogarth. Mary Ann is positioned by the ballroom’s yawning, unlit fireplace with a single companion, the bovine lady from their carriage, who talks on at the same indefatigable rate. Just behind them is none other than Mr Cope, standing bolt upright and impassive against the cream-and-blue wallpaper, deterring all who might approach – ensuring that there is a boundary around her, several feet in radius, which none will cross. A young lady who would normally expect to dance for much of the evening is being made to stand idle. Boredom, anger and acute embarrassment all boil within her, barely contained beneath a thin shell of gentility. She looks up fixedly at the chandeliers, her fan flickering in her grasp like a snared bird.
‘I’ll do it,’ says Tom. ‘Why shouldn’t I? I’ll ask her.’
Will’s shoulders fall. ‘Tom—’
‘But why the devil shouldn’t I, Will? What right have they got to shame her like that?’
Will nearly laughs. How exactly, after everything he has experienced, does Tom manage to remain so innocent? ‘You do know, don’t you? What happened in London in the spring?’
Tom doesn’t reply. He’s following the patterns of the dance – the bobbing of heads, the arcing of arms, the little jumps and hops. It leaves him undaunted. ‘This ain’t so hard. If this collection of blockheads can keep up with it, then so can I.’
‘There’s rules here, Tom. Rules we ain’t privy to.’ This earns Will a look of absolute derision. He moves nearer; he grows desperate. ‘We’ve got to stay quiet. For God’s sake. Plan for our departure. Not draw unnecessary notice.’
Tom raises a hand. ‘Enough, Will. Honestly. If I need an address on decorum, on probity and suchlike, I’ll find myself a damn vicar.’
He steps back and is gone. Will loses sight of him almost at once, becoming trapped behind a range of velvet and satin, topped by heaps of over-powdered hair. He’s rooting about for another gap when the moment arrives. A quiver of alertness travels through the company. Everyone who is not presently dancing looks towards the fireplace. All conversation dies away. Even over the music and the noises of the dance, Will hears the question and the confidence with which it is asked; and he hears Mary Ann’s immediate, affirmative reply.
Tom returns. He walks with his chin up, proud of himself, unmindful of the speculation that hums around him, both scandalised and delighted, concerning his identity, his intentions and so forth. The disposition of the ballroom has been reversed. Whereas few paid him notice before – and then only to admire him in passing, as a well-made young man of no obvious consequence – now few do not. There is a cautiousness to this fascination, however, as towards someone diseased or condemned to die. No one wants to be standing too close when the Lascelles’ hammer falls. A small circle quickly clears around the two painters, much like that which isolates Mary Ann.
‘It’s done,’ says Tom, rather unnecessarily. ‘To hell with them all.’
Will cannot speak; he cannot move, even, or make a sound beyond a low, tortured growl.
‘What other path was open? Tell me that, Will. What man of honour could watch as—’
‘Honour! Honour!’
Tom smiles. ‘You don’t understand. I knew you wouldn’t.’
Will imagines himself gripping hold of the fellow’s lapels, wrestling him to the ground and banging his head repeatedly against the floor. ‘Tom,’ he hisses, ‘you are rutting with the baron’s daughter. While you are a guest in his house. I believe the position on that, as regards to this honour of yours, is pretty much universally agreed upon.’
Tom merely smiles again; and before Will can make another appeal for prudence, for sanity, for simple self-preservation, the Scotch Reel prances to its finish. Amidst the clapping, under the eyes of the entire ballroom, Tom pulls his fine white waistcoat straight and walks out onto the floor. Mary Ann comes forward to join him. The lovers take a mischievous, almost childlike pleasure in the other’s proximity, and reveal not a single hint of discomfort or regret. He bows, she curtseys, both exaggerating the action very slightly; then they join hands and wheel around to find their place.
A Country Dance is announced, with the Right Honourable Mr and Mrs John Douglas leading, to a piece entitled ‘Summer’s Bounty’. As the music strikes up, Will sees Beau and Mr Cope, over by the fireplace, close to where Mary Ann was situated. Beau glistens with heat, mopping at his brow and grinning, working hard to appear as if nothing unusual or improper is going on; but the way Mr Cope holds his arm, a thumb hooked into the elbow, and whispers rapidly in his ear, speaks of considerable alarm. He gives a near-invisible signal of assent and the valet is away, heading for the orchestra stand.
Will moves towards the dance and the empty circle moves along with him, providing an uninterrupted view of the proceedings. The couples are arranged in two facing lines, performing simple, reciprocal steps and taking turns to sweep down the middle. Frances and Douglas, the leaders, go first. They are magnificent to behold, veterans of a thousand balls far more grand than this one; graceful yet rigorous, stately yet really quite fast, whirling from one end of the dance to the other at a racehorse pace. It is a display plainly intended to remind the room of the aristocratic plane upon which they dwell – which they never leave, regardless of their surroundings – and which will protect them, ultimately, against the evening’s petty controversies.
Tom and Mary Ann come eighth or ninth. Their progress has a rather different effect. He plays the rank neophyte, wearing an expression of humorous vexation as he attempts this alien discipline; while she is his tutor, patiently guiding him through the movements and smiling at his frequent missteps. They edge along the central channel at a fraction of the normal speed. At one point he stumbles, in an effort not to tread on her gown, bringing them into an accidental half-embrace. Hands linger upon arms as they right themselves; their spectators practically convulse with mock-indignation.
When every couple has made their run – a duration of perhaps ten minutes – the dance ends. It feels premature, even to one as unversed as Will; a first act, as it were, cut off from the remainder of the drama. The Lascelles begin to withdraw from the ballroom, taking Tom Girtin along with them. This is noticed, of course, and prompts a rush of conjecture; but fresh information is also beginning to circulate.
‘A painter, up from London,’ says a gentleman, somewhere to Will’s left. ‘He’s staying at Harewood. I’m told that he asked Miss Las
celles to dance at her brother’s particular request.’
‘But why in heaven,’ a lady enquires, ‘would a noble gentleman such as Mr Lascelles desire a painter to dance with his sister?’
Across the room, in an adjoining vestibule, Beau is laughing, clapping Tom on the shoulder as he directs him down an unseen corridor. Here it is, thinks Will. Our end has arrived. He’s tempted to flee, to hurry from the hotel, through the kitchens maybe, locate a coaching inn and start for some remote region of Wales or Scotland. He pictures a cabin beside a lake, several miles from any road; a spread of mountains in the background, with forested slopes and snowy peaks; a lifetime’s work, just beyond his door. No one would find him.
Yet he does not move. Should he run now, London would be closed to him. His rise, barely begun, would be halted categorically. The two sketchbooks back at the house, the precious seeds they contain, would yield nothing. Father would just have to get on as best he could, denied his dearest ally and his greatest chance for the future. And Tom, brainless hot-head that he is, would no doubt secure his own fate with some mutinous pronouncement – dig a nice deep grave into which Beau Lascelles had only to push him. No, the sole remaining option is an appeal: an abject and heartfelt appeal to Beau’s Christian mercy, coupled with a sincere apology for the stupidity, the bestial impulsiveness, the very existence of Tom Girtin. Will makes for the vestibule at a panicked trot. He tries to convince himself that Beau’s professed love of art, of their art, may trump all other concerns. This idea is so nakedly improbable, however, that it brings him despair rather than hope. Destruction, right then, seems assured, the situation irresolvable.
The Lascelles are already gone from the vestibule, and Tom along with them. At random, Will selects the leftmost of three doorways and discovers a large dining room, with places set for two hundred or more. After the humid, overcrowded chaos of the ballroom, the order of its long tables has an almost mesmeric quality; the dense pattern of the cutlery, all those blades and prongs and spoon-heads shining against the white cloth, slows his step.
Will & Tom Page 13
