LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

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