The Fraud (44 page)

In the mornings Francesca di Vecellio could be seen shopping round Covent Garden as usual,
where is he? when will I hear?
And (if anybody had been interested) perusing several rooms with big windows in Greek-street or Compton-street, or Leicester-lane. One of the rooms available was in Meard-street where James Burke had sent her so long ago: she turned away quickly.

While her brother and Lady Dorothea and Isabella and an extremely reluctant Claudio suddenly began appearing all together at the theatre, or a ball, or a visit across the river to Vauxhall Gardens, Francesca di Vecellio painted a small portrait of Eliza Towers,
Where is James? When will I hear?
One morning she took from the wall of her sewing-room the painting she had done of Poppy after she had met her in St James’s Park - the older Poppy who still had the memory in her face of the days when they were young and in the shadows of the
piazza.
She put Poppy and Eliza in her basket. She saw the Portraits of her family turned to the wall: Juno, Ezekiel, their mother,
when I find a room for Tobias, he shall have some of these, he shall have himself as a Pirate on his wall if he would like it, and I shall have some on mine
and it felt cosy, and made her smile.

In Frith Street the writer Mr Thomas Towers looked very pleased to see her, sitting at his desk in his shawls and his woollen hat and his waistcoat, looking more like an amiable bear than ever (if bears could be amiable, which she did not know).

‘I hoped you would come again, Signorina di Vecellio,’ he said, as a maid poured coffee. ‘I hope you will not be cold - I know it is summer, or they say it is summer, but still I build up the fire, for a Writer’s life is such a sedentary one. I sit for many, many hours with my Books and my Papers and - as I am sure you have observed - I need several layers of clothes!’ And he stoked the fire again so that the room, to Francesca di Vecellio, was stifling hot.

She reached quickly underneath the bread, took out one of the portraits. Again there flashed across the face of Mr Towers that look of slight perplexity as he gazed at the small picture of a grave girl looking at the painter. ‘This is so very like her,’ he said oddly. ‘I - forgive me, I presume you know how very good a Painter you are?’ She said nothing. ‘I would like to buy it for her.’

‘Oh, not under any circumstances will you pay me anything, Mr Towers. I was paid many times over by Eliza’s patience. I would like her to have it as a Gift.’

He looked at her and smiled. ‘Thank you,
Signorina
.’ And the clock ticked and in the noisy street below horses clattered by, the knife grinder called, and then a milkmaid passed calling BUY MY FRESH MILK. Francesca looked about the room: there were many papers strewn.

‘How is your Work progressing, Mr Towers?’

He sighed as he picked up his cup. ‘I am writing more to add to my History of Mr Handel. More facts of his life have come to light.’ He sighed suddenly. ‘Writing is hard, lonely work, Signorina Francesca,’ he said.

‘Like painting,’ she said, before she could stop herself. And then she coloured and sipped her coffee and was silent. He regarded her carefully.

‘Do you have a Studio of your own,
Signorina
?’

‘I - I paint at the top of the house in Pall Mall. Nobody comes there. Nobody knows.’

‘Would your Brother not be pleased - and proud - to have another Painter in the family? Surely?’

‘My brother would like his Son to be a famous Painter like himself. ’

‘But not his Sister?’ She was silent, looked down at her cup, but her very silence seemed disloyal and she stood embarrassed.

‘I must attend the fishmonger,’ she said. And because of all that had passed, spoken and unspoken, between them, her words seemed perhaps incongruous and, to the surprise of both of them, they both laughed, and she said to him in a burst of words, ‘One day before I die I
will
have a proper Studio, Mr Towers, like a real Artist,’ and then, embarrassed again, she at once busied herself with her shopping basket.

Thomas Towers said, ‘I will send this painting to Eliza, and I know she will be pleased. And Signorina Francesca, please do not be discomforted by my words: if there is anything at all that I could assist you with, I would be pleased, and proud.’ She understood that he knew her secret, or part of her secret. She understood he knew she was a painter.

She walked out into the busy bustling street, avoiding the carts and the carriages and the drains and the peddlers with nails and tin and pies, and the street-children kicking an old cabbage; she turned her footsteps towards Hanover Square:
a house by the Church
, Poppy had said. She found it almost at once: a respectable unobtrusive house next door to the house of the Vicar; from it a particular young woman emerging who did not, quite, match the house, or the area.

‘Excuse me,’ she said to the young woman.

‘Yes?’ She was not interested. They never, ever spoke to strangers, not in Hanover Street.

‘I am looking for - Poppy.’

‘Don’t know her. I’m Iris.’

But she put her hand briefly on the girl’s arm. ‘Your Mistress?’

‘Oh, you mean Mrs Marigold?’

Almost, Grace laughed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mrs Marigold, that will be her.’

‘She died.’

‘
What
?’

‘She died.’ The girl would have turned away.

‘No, that cannot be right. I saw her - wait!’ The girl turned back reluctantly. ‘I knew her,’ said Grace. She swallowed and said, ‘I am Daisy.’ At last the girl looked at the respectable woman carefully, but still she said nothing more.

‘Is she really dead?’

‘She died this winter. She had the Pox.’

Grace was stunned, stared at the girl in silence.
I wanted to see her again.
And something else, something important.
I wanted her to know that I was, after all, what I always told her. That I was a Painter.
She fumbled in her basket, brought out the picture. Without any words she handed it to the girl.

Iris stared. And then she said, almost in wonder, ‘That’s her laugh, I seen it!’ Her manner changed completely, she looked with interest at the older woman.

‘Who done that?’

‘I did.’

‘Did you? Ain’t you clever! She was still pretty.’

‘She was, always. And she was brave too.’

‘I liked her,’ said Iris, matter-of-fact. ‘She looked out for us. I never miss people, ain’t worth it, but I miss her a bit, and that’s the truth.’ She kept looking down at the painting and to Grace’s astonishment a tear dropped on to the paint; she felt something like tears at the back of her own eyes.

‘Would you - would you like to have this Picture?’

The girl looked at her disbelievingly. ‘I can’t buy this!’

‘No, no! I came here to give it to her. Perhaps you would have it instead?’

And Iris smiled, Iris the street-girl. ‘I’ll show the others,’ she said, ‘we’ll put it up for a bit of Decoration,’ and she turned hurriedly back to the house, carrying the picture of Poppy under her arm. ‘Lily,’ she called, ‘Lily! Look at this!’ as she disappeared into the house.

Signorina Francesca di Vecellio looked shaken as she made her way back towards the Strand where no doubt halibut lay waiting for her, with their glassy eyes no longer caring of their fate, but the words of Mr Shakespeare ran round and round in her head,
When I do count the clock that tells the Time
. . .

 

—and I could wait no longer: I saw nothing of James Burke, I heard nothing from him, I began to dream that my Painting had been spirited away, that James and the Frenchman and the Jew-men and my brother’s old assistant had taken it away, that they had tricked me, and Mr Thomas Towers sent me a short note telling me of an attic room in Compton-street that had good light from large windows and I went to view it: a light, bright room,
I wanted it so much
, and - I had to think of Tobias now, I would make sure Tobias was safe - I could not wait any longer - finally I was so desperate to begin to make my plans that I sent a note to his home.

He was furious of course; he contrived to come to the house of my brother on some matter of artistic business, I heard their stiff voices and I waited in the dining-room.

‘Ah, Signorina Francesca, good morning.’ Euphemia smiled and curtsied and reluctantly left with the coal scuttle, at once he spoke very coldly to me and very quietly. ‘Do not ever write to me of this matter and do not ever write to me at my Home. It is too dangerous. ’

I answered in an even more icy manner, except that I spoke even lower. ‘You have my Painting. I have nothing, and no news, and no Payment from you.’ I saw he was surprised: he had not expected me, I think, to talk of money so openly.

‘Why are you so urgent?’ he said but I would tell nothing to him.

‘When will you auction it?’

‘We are not ready,’ said James Burke. ‘It has only been a few months! This is not some fol-de-rol, Grace. There are a great many things to attend to, as you well know, as you have seen previously but this is a much, much more complicated affair. They have been smoking and dirtying the Picture, for age and wear - it is a long, difficult process - and there must be layers of Varnish in case anyone tries to remove a little, to verify the Painting. And there is,’ his voice was very low now, our heads were very close together beside the fireplace, our words left us and disappeared up the chimney , ‘there is the matter of the correct Frame, you know all that, you have seen some of that. But then we must have Tax Returns and Customs Certification - things about which you have no idea and which take very many months to arrange, and which I do not think we should be speaking of.’ And I saw our secrets, rushing up out of the chimney and flying across St James’s Park,

‘Do you think I will impart such Information?’

‘You are the Painter. But everything else is technical and it needs a long, painstaking time. The Painting must be as dry as dust before it can be put on show. It has been varnished twice, first with a very slow-drying Varnish then with a quicker one; this allows the Varnish to crack slightly which gives excellent effect, they then rub dirt into the cracks. We must not exhibit until all is ready. You must trust me.’

This time the words were out of my mouth before I had even thought them, or so it seemed to me, ‘What has happened between us that I should suddenly trust you?’ and I took no notice of something on his face, something, some shock or pain. ‘I simply require to be paid,’ I said.

And then the shock was gone, and he contained himself, that way he had. His hat had been on the dining-room table, he picked it up and quickly bowed.

‘The end of summer,’ he said. ‘People will come back to Town at the end of the summer.’ And he was gone at once from Pall Mall, and Euphemia brought more coal.

For that side of the house in Pall Mall was always cold, like Frith Street, no matter how hard the sun tried to shine through the grey clouds.

 

I went to the cock-pit that night, to at least tell Tobias, but he was not there.

At last whispers of real information about the Rembrandt painting found their way round London. Definitely an early one, the whispers said. It was said to be called
Girl Reading
, a painting that nobody had even heard of. Mr Hartley Pond pooh-poohed the whisper. ‘We would have heard of it if it was anything Genuine,’ he said, ‘if it was anywhere in Europe.’

The Art Dealer James Burke had seen it. ‘I believe’, he said to Mr Hartley Pond when they met at Mr Christie’s auction rooms, ‘that it is Genuine. I believe it is to be auctioned by Mr Valiant in Poland-street well before the end of the year, but I may be wrong, it may only be a Rumour.’ And the rumour grew, was embellished, as it made its way around the drawing-rooms and dining-rooms of art lovers and art chancers and art collectors and art dealers and art auctioneers and the nobility of England and possibly Buckingham House. A
Rembrandt
. He was, at that moment, the most collectable Old Master in Europe.

Mr Hartley Pond, who had recently been touring the continent, relayed all this information over halibut in parsley sauce at Pall Mall.

‘We would have heard of such a Painting if it was anything Genuine,’ he re-iterated. ‘If it was anywhere in Europe, I would know about it,’ and he spoke knowledgeably of early Rembrandt paintings. Signore Filipo di Vecellio re-told his story of the auction in Amsterdam and the Rembrandt painting he had lost to a Frenchman, and the wine flowed and Claudio glowered and Isabella preened palely at the attention of one of her father’s new guests. Lady Dorothea’s laugh tinkled and the voices raised, as they so often did as dinner wore on; Francesca di Vecellio missed very much the brisk presence of Miss Ffoulks. Mr Swallow at the end of the table proudly mentioned again his biography.

‘At least he does not take note of your Conversations,’ shouted John Palmer, present for once, who was more inebriated even than usual, ‘as Mr Boswell used of Dr Johnson. Then what stories we would hear!’ And Francesca saw that her brother looked coldly at John Palmer and then he turned that same look upon Mr Swallow.

‘Take care that you write my Biography while I live, young man, for I am the final Arbiter of the Truth of my Life, and I shall not have people scratching around my Coffin after I am dead.’ And there was something almost menacing in the way he spoke so that a
frisson
of something, some warning, drifted about the table and Grace Marshall stared at the candle-flame.

It was late September when the notice of the auction suddenly appeared.

Another collection of European paintings was to be presented by Mr Valiant in Poland-street, the centrepiece of which was the new discovery of a painting by the Netherlands artist, which was advertised separately.