Will & Tom

Copyright

The Borough Press

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Matthew Plampin 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover images © Lee Lauren Matt LML Productions/Archangel Images (male figure on left and foreground grass); Richard Jenkins photography (male figure on right); Michael Hatfield/Alamy (background building).

Matthew Plampin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.

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Source ISBN: 9780007560868

Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007413935

Version: 2016-02-17

Dedication

For KP, who made me think of golden aeroplanes

‘The enquiry in England is not whether a man has talents and genius, but whether he is passive and polite and a virtuous ass, and obedient to noblemen’s opinions in art and science. If he is, he is a good man: if not, he must be starved.’

WILLIAM BLAKE

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Historical Note

Harewood, West Yorkshire: August 1797

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

Friday

Saturday

Sunday

Monday

Covent Garden: November 1797

Charing Cross: April 1803

Author’s Note

About the Author

Also by Matthew Plampin

About the Publisher

Historical Note

In this period, watercolour paintings were commonly referred to as ‘drawings’, and watercolour brushes as ‘pencils’; this was partly to distinguish them from paintings in oil, which was considered the far superior medium. Artists who aspired to join the Royal Academy (the professional body that dominated British art until well into the nineteenth century) would often begin their careers exhibiting works in watercolour, proceeding to oil as their skills and reputations developed. When depicting landscape, the conventional approach was to make detailed open-air sketches in lead or graphite, before painting the actual watercolour in the studio. Simple colour studies were sometimes taken on the spot, but they tended to be crude, partial views, created for reference only. To depart from this method was highly unusual.

Harewood, West Yorkshire

Tuesday

First sight of the house prompts a hard exhalation. Will’s fingers play a scale on the stick balanced over his shoulder. Sunlight swells between the scattered clouds, growing immensely bright, charging the pristine parkland around him with colour. His new blue coat feels hot and heavy; he notices the dampness gathering in his armpits and the droplets of perspiration wobbling on his freshly shaved lip.

‘Come now,’ he says. ‘Onwards.’

The driveway curves past a bank of elms and more of the vast mansion inches into view. Will smells bark and the resin oozing beneath; the leathery lushness of leaves; the faint, sour tang of livestock. He tries to calm himself by inwardly mapping out a composition and blending pigments to match the golden hue of the stone. The result of this exercise, unexpectedly, is disappointment. For all its size and grandeur, Harewood House is a simple structure, little more than an even line of boxes. There would be no challenge here.

Three large carts stand before the service entrance at the building’s eastern end. Servants are streaming in and out, unloading boxes, bags and packages. Mr Lascelles’ letter instructed Will to delay his arrival until a week into August, and here is the reason: that eminently fashionable gentleman has only just returned from London, despite the season having concluded some weeks previously. Will doesn’t try to imagine why this might be. Already, from his limited experience of their patronage, he’s learned not to second-guess the whims of the rich. A few glances are thrown his way – at his new clothes, his stick and bundle, the two leather-bound books clamped under his right arm – but no one asks his business. Their chief isn’t difficult to identify. A looming, fleshy fellow, clad in impeccable butler’s black, he watches from the sidelines, issuing orders and rebukes while doing none of the real work. Will steels himself and approaches. The man eyes him impatiently as he begins the introduction he rehearsed in the stage.

‘I have here a letter from Mr Lascelles, dated fifth of July, requesting that I attend him at—’

The butler, or whatever he is, breaks away to harass a pair of footmen bearing flat crates stamped with the mark of a London auction house – telling them to be extremely careful, that their positions are at stake and so on. Will follows, talking still, a strong, sudden indignation banishing any vestige of nervousness; and he crosses the threshold of the mighty house without even noticing.

They weave down a corridor littered with luggage. Will is determined to have this man hear him out, but cannot prise his attention from those accursed crates. In an effort to push himself forwards, he stumbles against a trunk and knocks the umbrella from the end of his stick. This umbrella is a quality item, not cheap, purchased on Oxford Street especially for the northern tour, and has proved its worth many times. Will wheels about, searching for it – and the butler is gone, around a corner, through a door.

The umbrella is trapped between a stack of shoe boxes and a wickerwork hamper. Will stands over it protectively. A retrieval would involve putting down his books or his bundle, and he’s unwilling to do either; it seems all too likely that something could be mixed up in the clutter and accidentally carried off. After the still, luminous heat of the driveway, this basement has an unsettling effect. The air reeks of tallow and boot polish, and it is quite dark; the only light is admitted through the service entrance and a narrow court somewhere up ahead, broken blue-white reflections gleaming across the floor tiles. Every variety of servant hurries by, focused on specific, pressing duties, disappearing down passages and into rooms. It is like a bustling underground village, or the lower deck of a huge merchant ship.

Will is attempting to lift the umbrella free with his shoe – to work the toe into the curved cane handle – when a hand comes to rest in the crook of his elbow. He starts, turning again; the person beside him ducks to avoid being clobbered by his bundle. It is a woman, two or three inches taller than he is. She is wearing a maid’s mob-cap over a mass of black hair and carries a shallow basket piled with plants. The eastern doorway is at her back, the daylight beyond making it hard to see much of her face. Will apologises, indicating his conundrum. In one movement, she crouches, plucks up the umbrella and hangs it where her hand was two seconds before.

‘Much obliged,’ he mutters.

The maid is studying his person, the bundle, the leather-bound books. ‘You’re the draughtsman,’ she says, ‘up from London. I’ve heard them talking about you.’

Her voice has a ripe, rough edge to it, the Yorkshire inflections mingled with something Will can’t place. She’s older than he’d first thought, though how old precisely he wouldn’t like to say. Her hips are broad and arranged at a slight angle; her bosom (he can’t help noticing) is remarkably ample; her forearms, exposed by rolled-up sleeves, are sun-tanned and etched with muscle. There is no deference in her manner, such as a personal guest of Lord Harewood’s son might expect as his due – just a powerful, amiable curiosity.

‘In’t you a mite early, sir? Weren’t you supposed to be joining us at the end of the week?’

Will shakes his head. He won’t have this. ‘A letter was waiting for me in York. At the Black Horse. The dates were clear.’

The maid moves by him, further into the house, and now Will can discern the roundness of chin; her ink-black eyes with their long lashes; her wide lips and the lines at their sides. A heath gypsy, he thinks. Will has been travelling in the north for six weeks now. He’s caught the occasional glimpse of these people, camped out on the moors or at the fringes of the smaller towns. They’re commonly held to be inveterate criminals, or mystics with unnatural pagan allegiances. That one has managed to find herself a position beneath Harewood’s exalted roof seems unusual, to say the least.

‘Well then, I must be mistaken. Heavens, sir, that’d be no great novelty! Come, this way – we’ll pay a visit to Mr Noakes, our steward. He’ll straighten this out.’ She smiles, her teeth white in the murk. ‘Would you have me carry them books of yours?’

Will firms his grip, his fingertips sinking very slightly into the leather. ‘I am well.’

The gypsy maid leads him through the basement, cruising three steps ahead. Others, younger girls, hop smartly from her path; this is no drudge from the scullery. A sweet, hedgerow fragrance trails from the basket on her arm. Will looks at it more closely. Amidst the leaves and stems are clusters of tiny pale flowers and a twisted seam of purple berries.

They cross a bare, vaulted area; beyond it, along another passage, a latticed interior window provides a view of a large, formidably neat office. Two men are within, standing on either side of a desk. One, bearded and dressed for the outdoors, is plainly a gardener; the other, Will senses, is the fellow in overall charge down here, senior even to the butler figure he chased inside. Barely half the bulk of the gardener before him, he is entirely bald, the unified expanse of his scalp and forehead seeming to compress the face beneath, to squash it under the line of his brow. He is listening to his subordinate report some difficulty or other; his thin arms are crossed and his expression ill-tempered.

Will’s guide enters the office without knocking. ‘The draughtsman’s here, Mr Noakes,’ she announces, ‘the one from London. Found him out in the east corridor, I did, quite adrift.’

The gnome-like Mr Noakes glances over at Will. He is unimpressed. ‘You’re early,’ he says. ‘What’s your name?’

‘William Turner.’ Will’s limbs are tense; his blood is humming. It’s always like this with servants. They’ll do whatever they can to pin an error on an innocent outsider. Keeping steady, he sets down his bundle, unclasps the smaller sketchbook and slides the letter from inside the front cover. The Harewood crest is at the top, and Beau Lascelles’ swooping signature at the base. He walks forward to hand it over. ‘Mr Lascelles asked me to come here in the second week of August.’ He pauses. ‘The mistake ain’t mine.’

This alters the situation somewhat. A footman is summoned and dispatched upstairs to obtain clarification from the family. Mr Noakes returns the letter, rather more politely than he received it. Will calms; things will now be put on their proper course. He’ll be taken to his patron and they’ll set out their business together. The house itself may not inspire, but inspiration, in truth, is a luxury for a young artist. Harewood remains a great chance.

The office begins to feel close. A stripe of sunlight falls in through a high window, tinted with the first fiery note of dusk; running diagonally between Mr Noakes and the gardener, it ends at Will’s stockings, blazing on the white wool, making it prickle against his skin. He looks about him. A snowy tie-wig rests on a stand; a bookcase groans with ledgers; a framed engraving of the King, taken indifferently from Zoffany’s portrait, hangs upon the wall.

The gypsy maid, Mrs Lamb, is lingering close by, the scent of those pale flowers seeping through the room. ‘You must excuse us, Mr Turner,’ she says. ‘The family came back only yesterday, along with Mr Noakes here – and as you saw, most of their luggage arrived just an hour or so ago. We’re all a-shambles at present! Why, it is—’

‘Mrs Lamb, do you not have duties to see to?’ interrupts Mr Noakes. ‘If you’re lacking for work, I’m sure Monsieur Blossier would welcome your assistance in the kitchens.’

She meets his irritability with a smile, which she then directs towards the gardener. ‘As it happens, Mr Noakes, I do require a word with our Stephen.’

Several detailed questions follow, concerning Harewood’s crop of peaches. The gardener, obviously uncomfortable, keeps his replies brief. It’s plain enough that Mrs Lamb already knows the answers – her aim is to rile her superior. Will stares down fixedly at his bundle; he considers lifting it to his shoulder again, so that he’s ready to go upstairs the moment the footman reappears.

Before he can act, someone strides along the corridor outside and enters the office. Mrs Lamb looks across at the newcomer and promptly falls quiet. It is not the man who was sent up. At first, Will assumes he must be a member of the family, or a guest perhaps, so fine are his clothes. The coat, though, is a sober black, the stock a modest grey, and no jewels or gold adorn his person; the impression, taken with his short sandy hair, is more that of a professional gentleman, an engineer or architect. He is imposingly tall, dipping his head slightly as he comes through the door. His tapering face, with its straight nose and sharp chin, makes Will think of greyhounds.

Mr Noakes had been preparing to launch another rebuke at Mrs Lamb, but seeing this man he pulls himself up and makes a small, stiff bow. ‘Mr Cope,’ he says, ‘good day to you, sir. I trust all is well with Mr Lascelles. Did his first night at Harewood pass pleasantly?’

Mr Cope does not respond. He looks at each of the three servants in turn. Mr Noakes smiles thinly; the gardener quite literally backs away; Mrs Lamb meets his gaze but remains disinclined to speak.

Then Mr Cope turns to Will. His eyes are a flat hazel and rather narrow-set; their scrutiny feels inescapable. Several seconds pass. Will is clutching his sketchbooks more tightly than ever, with not a single idea what to expect; and this Mr Cope is bowing, bowing lower than anyone has bowed to him before.

‘Welcome to Harewood, Mr Turner.’ The man’s voice is even, expressionless, without accent. ‘Mr Lascelles extends his fondest greetings and most sincere regards, and hopes that your journey from York was not too onerous.’

Will nods; he mumbles something.

‘I am Mr Cope, his valet. He offers his apologies for the unfortunate circumstances of your arrival, and asks that you accompany me.’ Mr Cope’s attention returns to the servants. ‘Understand that Mr Turner is the guest of our master. We must grant him every courtesy from now on.’

Will is consumed by a violent blush. For an instant he is intensely grateful towards Mr Cope, but then he corrects himself. This is how it’s supposed to be. This is how a visiting artist should be received. He looks down at his bundle – and Mr Cope is scooping it up, umbrella and all, and making for the door. They leave the office, valet then artist, watched by the others. Mrs Lamb sighs, chuckles almost, as if tickled by a private joke.

Another sequence of corridors follows. The pace, this time, is swifter; Will feels like a child, a Covent Garden guttersnipe, scurrying behind some upright officer of the parish. He is confused, momentarily, when they pass a staircase – but decides that they must be going outside rather than upstairs. It makes sense. Mr Lascelles must be in the park, intending that they discuss potential prospects of the house in the last of the day’s light. Beau Lascelles is known to be a man of advanced tastes; perhaps it is the effects of dusk that he’ll desire in these drawings. Will’s enthusiasm for the commission begins to return.

They halt before a door on one of the longer passages. Mr Cope reaches into the pocket of his mustard-coloured waistcoat for a key. The door is unlocked and opened; beyond is a dingy bedchamber, barely more than a closet. Only when a key is held out to Will does he realise that this room is to be his.

‘Ain’t we—’ Will stops. His dismay, the abrupt dashing of his expectations, is disorientating. ‘Are we not going to Mr Lascelles? Weren’t that your purpose in fetching me?’

Mr Cope remains impassive. ‘No, Mr Turner. My instructions were to escort you to your quarters, and to inform you that dinner will be called at half-past six. Someone will come to show you upstairs.’ He leans into the room and sets down the bundle. ‘I take it, sir, that you have evening clothes?’

‘I have,’ Will answers. He’s angry now. Course I have, he nearly snaps. I know very well where I am! He scours the valet’s face for a sign of judgement or disdain. There is nothing. Years of going with Father on his rounds has acquainted Will with more or less every variety of servant. This one is from the top flight, the dearest there is, available only to men of the highest rank or the most capacious coffers. These uncanny creatures are capable of screening their characters entirely; of becoming vessels, embodiments of their master’s will. There is no more chance of a normal human response from Mr Cope than from a guardsman on parade.

Will steps through the doorway, thinking that perhaps the chamber will seem larger once he’s inside. It’s like a casket. The bed seems to have been made for a child. Will is short enough, God knows, but he wonders if he’ll even be able to lie down on it at his full extent. The single window, furthermore, is high and dull – north-facing, he reckons, and devoid of direct sunlight, lacking even the slanting beam enjoyed by Mr Noakes. Will glares at the wall, at the chalky, unpainted plaster, and is gripped by the urge to object. Surely, as a practising painter he is at least entitled to some decent light?

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.’