Will & Tom (17 page)

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 abruptly 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 Lascelles 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.

At the other end of the room, a waiter is folding napkins. ‘Might I be of assistance?’

Will stops between a table end and a tall window. He looks back at this man – the uniform, the scrubbed complexion, the officious, faintly distrustful manner – and is preparing to answer when he hears another voice, far quieter, somewhere outside.

‘Do you imagine that will help us, Frances? Ending the dance, dragging me out here?’

It is Mary Ann, and she is livid. The waiter’s face is unchanged; the young noblewoman is beyond his earshot. Will makes a reply, saying he is well, his every need met. He turns to the window as nonchalantly as he can manage. It is open at the bottom, the lower pane propped two inches above the frame. Peering into the glass, attempting to catch sight of her, he sees only himself and the room behind, reflected in a liquid blackness.

Frances answers, her voice muffled by distance. Will can’t distinguish the words, but her tone is one of gentle admonition – rather gentler than might have been expected. The waiter states that guests are to remain in the ballroom until supper is called, that this is a strict rule of the house. Will nods absently, mumbling something, and bends a little closer to the window.

‘No one will think any such thing,’ Mary Ann retorts. ‘Why would they? You are being perfectly ridiculous. And what is a
dance
, by God, beside everything else you’ve had me do – that I have done without the smallest complaint?’

Will frowns down at the floorboards, his eyes straining on the whorls of the grain. Before he can wring any sense from what he has heard, the waiter loses patience and starts towards him. The man has perhaps four inches’ and two stones’ advantage – and a plain appetite for confrontation, despite his well-groomed exterior. Thinking that he has caught an interloper, he drops his civility and demands to see a ticket. This secures Will’s full attention. He straightens up, explaining that no ticket was ever given to him – that he is a painter staying at Harewood House, and a member of Mr Lascelles’ party. The waiter is not persuaded. He advances further, in the manner of one ready to seize hold of a fellow’s collar and then box his ears
en route
to a swift ejection.

‘I can vouch for this young man.’ Mr Cope stands five yards to the rear, having materialised, once more, from empty air. ‘What he says is true. Return to your napkins.’

It is unclear whether the waiter recognises the valet or is merely responding to his chilly authority; but he bows and retreats, leaving the room entirely. Will glances at the window, praying that the baron’s daughters have concluded their disputation. Mr Cope stays very still, a firm black stroke atop the smooth sepia washes and soft highlights of the dining room. Will was dreading such an encounter. It would be Cope, he’d assumed, who’d come to claim him – to lead him out into a back alley to face the baron’s vengeance. Now, though, he sees that there had been a basic error in his understanding. This tableau is too simple by far.

Everything else you
’
ve had me do. That I have done without the smallest complaint.