The Fraud (11 page)

An older man, a painter called John Palmer, was often there. Grace soon learned he was her brother’s oldest friend, a wise and cynical man: a failed painter who lived in the wilds of Spitalfields where the French weavers had settled, although he was neither a weaver nor French. He was balding but often removed his long, unfashionable (and, if truth be told, rather grubby) wig; he would wipe his pate with his big kerchief and entertain them all with his stories of painting people less rich, and less salubrious, than Philip’s clients, and of painting biblical scenes above fireplaces or in corners of poor, religious people’s houses.

‘I am a craftsman,’ he would say wryly, ‘not an Artist. I charge by the yard like the sky-men.’ But Grace quickly understood that he believed that he
was
an artist, but one who had not had the luck of his Italian friend. ‘I design also Epitaphs’, he said another time, ‘for poor families who bury their loved ones at Spitalfields Church.’ He and Filipo di Vecellio had met in Italy, and the older man had befriended the younger. (Sometimes Grace wondered what exactly John Palmer knew of Philip: if he had any inkling of Philip’s deception he never ever gave any sign, if he had been there when Philip was learning to present his Italian persona he never mentioned it.) The two of them would often, amid great roars of laughter, recall Roman stories to entertain the table - how they painted portraits in the streets and the squares to support themselves, how pretty ladies showed them much attention: ‘Showed Filipo much attention,’ amended John Palmer, ‘for I was already stout!’ But Grace, so used to looking at faces, saw that, for all his rumbustiousness, John Palmer’s eyes were sad. He did not eat mountainously like some of the guests but once Grace saw him secreting a piece of bread in his pocket. She was so shocked, and so embarrassed, that she blushed bright red: she never knew if he had known he was observed or not.

Often too an older woman was present: Philip’s first landlady who had unlocked so many doors for him when he first came to London, Miss Ann Ffoulks. She was a spinster lady of uncertain years and it was in her house in Brook Street that Philip had first lodged. Miss Ffoulks was proprietorial in his rise, and dogmatic in her opinions: she was used to moving in painterly circles and knew Mr Joshua Reynolds, to whose dinners she also presented opinions on occasion. The large white cap on her head had flowing ribbons and the ribbons shook as Miss Ffoulks, who had rather a loud voice, imparted her views to the table not just about art but about the affairs of the day: the new colonies in America for instance, or the iniquities of the slave trade. But Miss Ffoulks knew very much about artistic matters also, and artists: she had travelled with her brother to Europe when he was alive and was one of a few Englishwomen who had seen the Pope’s Sistine Chapel in Rome. She spoke of art auctions and of Michelangelo most knowledgebly but Mr Hartley Pond ignored her at all times, sniffing snuff up into his nose ostentatiously whenever she held forth, to which she paid no mind. Grace thought that, actually, Mr Pond and Miss Ffoulks were rather alike - sharp and knowledgeable and opinionated - but Mr Hartley Pond was the more rude. Grace also noticed that Mr James Burke often teased Miss Ffoulks, who would smile and blush and was obviously fond of him. Miss Ffoulks was condescending to the young sister from Florence, but also very kind: she would bring her small gifts of thimbles or pretty sewing-boxes (not, of course, knowing that Grace had hoped never to see a thimble again). Often Miss Ffoulks would rush off while the gentlemen were still twirling their glasses: she attended many meetings and acquired many pamphlets.

Sometimes Grace thought that her brother liked to have Miss Ffoulks and Mr Palmer there at dinner often, even though many of the other guests were much younger, because they somehow validated him, were witness to how far and how quickly he had risen. (And she would again stare surreptitiously at the two of them, and wonder again if they knew the real extent of her brother’s journey.)

Grace had never sat through such wonderful conversations in her life: they ate and they drank and they spoke of colour and line and painting and disputed warmly of Raphael and Tintoretto, and of Rembrandt’s and Van Dyck’s portraits, and of politics and poetry and war with France and casual stories of royalty - and then always again of paint and oils and canvases and Leonardo and Titian, and Grace thought,
I know of Mr Titian, there was a Picture in the Bristol Library by Mr Titian
. And always, always too there was talk of
money
: money in one way or another: Miss Ffoulks criticised the traders of slaves, described black people crowded and chained into dangerous ships and carried across the world for
money
; Mr Hartley Pond spoke of bringing foreign paintings to Britain and selling them for
money
; and Filipo di Vecellio spoke often of the money he could now earn for one portrait.
Money, money, money
: always it was there, at the edges of the conversations. And the welcoming table was arranged, and looked over, and the curtains and shutters drawn if it was cold, and the candles lit if the afternoon light faded, by Grace Marshall of Bristol disguised as the
signorina.

 

And Grace had hardly been in London three months when the bad-tempered (so it was said) old German King of England died. Miss Ffoulks said briskly across the table that it would be hypocritical to mourn such a man, spoke of his brutish German manner. ‘However: he did encourage the wonderful Mr Handel so that we should be privy to his glorious music,’ she said. ‘That is to the deceased man’s good, but not much more.’

Signore Filipo di Vecellio was now so very well connected that he had managed something his mother would have swooned over: an invitation from one of his noble sitters (a somewhat raddled Duke) to Westminster Abbey, to the Coronation of the Grandson, of the new young King. To Filipo’s surprise the invitation was firmly extended to the young sister also (the noble Duke having noticed the attractive girl several times, there in the shadows of the studio). There was quite a flurry over the dinner table in St Martin’s Lane as guests like John Palmer (a declared anti-monarchist) nevertheless supported Miss Ffoulks (a fellow Republican) who suggested a further new silk gown for Francesca, and even Mr Hartley Pond (a great supporter of the Monarchy) showed interest in the invitation.

‘I shall paint the solemn scene!’ cried Filipo di Vecellio, waving his glass.

‘I thought you despised Epic Painting!’ shouted John Palmer, holding a bottle aloft.

‘There would be money in
this
Epic Painting!’ retorted his friend. ‘Think of the number of prints!’

Mr Hartley Pond cried, ‘An English-born King, another Monarch born in our own dear land at last!’ and Miss Ffoulks raised her eyebrows in amusement and caught the young girl’s eye and Francesca di Vecellio’s dark eyes sparked with delight and a hairdresser attended the morning of the great day and wove flowers into her long dark hair.

The coronation of the young, earnest King George III of England, with his seventeen-year-old foreign bride of two weeks at his side, was a splendid event and certainly to be celebrated: the populace turned out in their thousands to join in such an auspicious occasion. Many people were in particular desirous of catching a glimpse of the new bride, Charlotte: it was rumoured she was
dowdy
- surely not - a glimpse must be obtained! They crowded the streets along the route and were then treated to the most splendid sight of complete chaos at one moment, as several coaches and carriages of the attending Nobility collided and teetered and crashed and fell in one glorious
mêlée
on the road to Westminster Abbey.

‘God Save the King!’ cried the less noble onlookers in delight as great bangs and collisions and screams filled the air. Bottles of best champagne from the crashed coaches rolled into open sewers where they were eagerly retrieved by the crowds; ‘God Save the King!’ they yelled again as the gowns of several ladies of the nobility unravelled in an unimaginable and most entertaining manner and dogs and horses went quite berserk.

Filipo di Vecellio and his sister Francesca had had the good sense to walk from St Martin’s Lane, arriving on time but rather dusty and crowd-battered; on the way Philip had spoken yet again to his sister, very seriously, about how she must be pleasing to their noble host so that even more noble commissions would be forthcoming. The Duke, already ensconced, kissed the pretty sister’s hand and plied them with champagne and cold chicken from a huge hamper he had had installed inside his box at the far end of the Abbey, whilst just outside the door a large chamberpot served duty for gentlemen (ladies of course did not need such vulgar appurtenances). There were a number of people in the Duke’s small box and it was crowded and excited and already smelled rather hot: the Duke’s elderly wife was unfortunately not able to attend but the young
signorina
was installed between him and another elderly noble gentleman in the front while her brother sat behind with various noble spinsters of uncertain age who waved champagne glasses pleasedly at his appearance. Grace glanced back to her brother in some alarm at the proximity of the Duke, whose wrinkled hand was clamped almost at once upon her knee, but Filipo was smiling at the ladies, and searching the crowd for other noble faces. Many of the guests not directly in the eye of the waiting bishops had had the sense to arrange food and wine in the same manner as the Duke and a cheerful buzz of laughter and conversation filled the Abbey. People were soon calling in a most confident and somewhat inebriated manner to one another across the aisle; everyone was dressed in their finest clothes; much expensive lace was to be seen, gold lace even, and jewels sparkled and glittered and competed under the chandeliers. At one point the Duke indicated to Francesca a group of elegant, aging duchesses in a box nearby who maintained a silent, noble hauteur amid the loud sociability.

‘They can do no other, m’dear,’ boomed the Duke in a loud voice, ‘they dare not speak or smile because their cheeks are full of little corks.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said the young girl politely, thinking she must have misheard him as she tried heroically yet again to disengage her knee.

‘Cork!’ boomed the Duke. ‘It fills out all the hollows where they have lost their teeth but if they smile or speak or eat, the corks will fall out!’ On receiving this information the laughter of the girl rang out unchecked just for a moment around the Abbey: it ceased abruptly when she became aware of the Duke’s old wrinkled hand now fumbling under her petticoats.

‘Oh look! Look!’ she cried extremely loudly (to her brother’s mortification) as she stood quickly and pointed at where the Royal Couple, deposited at last, were making their way through rose petals and down the aisle.

‘Huzzah for His Majesty!’ the inebriated Nobles shouted: as their host stood to huzzah, Francesca took the opportunity to grab her brother’s arms as she used to and, with some acrobatics in the small box, drag him into her own small seat and literally clamber backwards to sit behind him; the Duke and Filipo di Vecellio were both surprised when the nobleman felt again for a knee.

The organ blazed out and kettledrums rolled. A semblance of quietitude reigned briefly among the guests: the young King was red-robed and proud, the new young bride rather dumpy (it was true) and bewildered. There was comparative silence while the crowns were placed upon the heads of the new monarchs with much pomp and circumstance (with perhaps just a little to-ing and fro-ing to chamberpots and just a little tinkling of glasses to be heard, hopefully not by their new Majesties). However once the Archbishop of Canterbury climbed to the altar to begin his sonorous sermon, those whose position, like the Duke’s, at the far end of the Abbey precluded any chance of hearing or seeing anything of the fine words, took the beginning as a sign for dinner to begin in earnest. A loud cacophony of knives and forks and mutton and fish and glasses and animated conversation ensued. It was noted at one moment that the Signorina Francesca di Vecellio had her face hidden behind her fan and that her body was shaking. Their host the Duke nodded approvingly into his claret, such emotion on such a day, by God he would like to take the little lady home with him, and his head fell gracefully on to his large glass as he became, for the moment, dead to the world, snoring slightly. Filipo took the opportunity to rebuke his sister quietly over his shoulder.

‘You should not point and shout and I have told you it is so unfashionable to
laugh
like that!’ he whispered, but then began to laugh himself when he saw the tears of glee in the girl’s face as she surveyed the rumbustious scene in Westminster Abbey and the red-faced spinster ladies beside her screeching, and their snoring host. Indeed by the time the coronated couple appeared, crowned, walking slowly and solemnly back down the aisle, all pretence at decorum had disappeared and many chop bones and glasses were waved at them in a cheerful and well-wishing manner and the old Duke woke at once and shouted, ‘Huzzah for the King!’ and was only prevented from falling into the path of their Majesties by the dexterity of his guests.

 

Such exciting adventures in her exciting new life: but every day Grace was there, in a corner of her brother’s studio, watching, waiting, learning from observing her brother some of the many things she would need to know, to be an artist.

Within a few more months Grace’s new gowns were too small in all sorts of places and she needed unlacing and re-sewing: Miss Ffoulks’ kind thimbles were put to use after all. And within a few months Grace, who had been too afraid of being found to be an ignorant Bristolian to actually speak at the dinner-table herself, became confident enough to join in the conversations: asked questions in quick, accented English, her dark eyes shining with curiosity and enjoyment, for Grace had a million words inside her. She laughed; she recounted the coronation, she waved her hands about, she asked everybody questions in an accent like her brother’s: ‘Such good English,’ they all said. The guests enjoyed her: everyone loved to see the dark-eyed
signorina
laugh, nobody minded when she asked her inexperienced questions,
What is a fresco? Who was Van Dyck? What is lapis lazuli?