The Penny Heart (30 page)

He again smiled amiably, but seeing a powerful insistence in his eyes, I found myself forced to agree.

The next day was a glorious one, spent wandering in the narrow streets. I found a colourman’s shop in nearby Spurriergate, and became spellbound at the array of paints, papers, and parchment. On display were the most remarkable miniatures, and a card left by the artist seeking both commissions and pupils. I left a note with the proprietor, enquiring if I might obtain lessons for a week. Then, together with Anne, I took tea at a bookshop, where my friend ceaselessly examined the shelves. Finally I was able to impose on her and buy a few volumes as gifts: Mr Solander’s
Travels Round the World
, which at least gave her a glimpse into unknown territories, and a few essential volumes on medical and domestic matters. As I inspected the engravings for sale, I noticed a very fine classical scene within which was written,
FERREA VIRGA EST, UMBRATILIS MOTUS
. Recognising the Latin motto from the sundial at Delafosse, I asked the proprietor if he knew the meaning.

‘“The rod is of iron, the motion of shadow”,’ he told me obligingly.

‘Thank you,’ I said with a smile, and returned to the engraving. It was a memento mori, an Italian scene in which the sundial was reminiscent of a tomb. On one side, a pair of young lovers basked idly in sunshine, while on the other they slept in sinister shadow. An ugly representation of Death approached them from behind the ornate tomb. They do not see what pursues them, I mused. But in a few moments I had forgotten it, and was engaged in ordering a small library of ancient and modern books, all bound in Venetian red leather.

That evening, even I could not fault Peter when he called at our lodgings. Like his brother, he always presented a favourable appearance; all buffed up in a smart blue coat, and doffing his hat with a low bow as we met him in the parlour.

‘Now do not pretend it is anything but tedious to accompany two old married ladies to a concert,’ I teased.

‘Grace, if I did not know you better, I should say you were fishing for compliments.’

It was true we had spent a considerable time dressing, for when else would we ever be taken to a famous Assembly? Anne had gratefully borrowed my chestnut silk, and after shortening its hem, looked like a fashion plate. My purple silk had its first outing, with a set of sleek black feathers in my hair from the milliner downstairs.

There are some occasions in any life that will always be recalled in a glow of pleasure, and that night is one of my secret store. The streets of York were crisp; the frost amplifying a dozen church bells ringing the hour. As our carriage queued before Lord Burlington’s famous Rooms, dozens of flambeaux flared against the classical portico. Anne pinched my arm to be sure that neither of us was dreaming; and I was sincerely grateful to Peter for indulging her in a manner she would never forget. From all accounts he had a wide acquaintance in the city, even amongst the wealthy and titled, so I was impressed by his courtesy in attending only to Anne and me.

‘So, ladies, do you not think it a fine room?’ Peter took each of our arms, guiding us into the famed Egyptian Hall. The room was glorious, and I told him so, marvelling at proportions made more exotic by rows of marbled Corinthian columns. Through the crush of people we processed to the benches, admiring the blazing chandeliers, and the great throng of York society. Peter fetched us glasses of Citrus Shrub, and, sipping the cool refreshment, Anne and I looked about. The younger ladies, especially, were a glorious sight in gowns puffed out in the new style, with satin ribbons at their waists, clasped with cameos.

I had never before heard Mozart’s ‘Idol mio’, nor anything sung by so fine a singer as Signora Tirenza, the prima donna from Rome itself. Her astonishing voice transported me to another place of wordless emotion. All my life I had hoped to find that uplifting love that crowns some lucky spirits but evades others, however long they seek it. Would it always escape me? Or should I return home, and try even harder to nurture affection between Michael and myself? Tears filled my eyes. The Signora, so exotic and proud, seemed to possess the secret knowledge of an artist, an adventurer, a lover. I wondered if the refreshment I had taken contained strong spirits, for I was forced secretly to wipe my eyes. To my annoyance, Peter nudged me. ‘Who is that fellow staring at us?’ he hissed.

I looked through brimming eyes but saw no one.

In the tea room, the Master of Ceremonies bowed to us, and surprised me by uttering my name. A few moments later he returned with a solid-looking fair-haired stranger who addressed me with an open, but anxious expression.

‘Grace,’ the man said to me, with some hesitation. ‘How are you?’

I had not a notion who he was – nor how he might know me. I could only imagine he was the artist from whom I had sought lessons, and at once resolved I should have nothing to do with such a familiar fellow. Agitated by my silence, he bowed again and said, ‘My apologies for approaching you thus, with no introduction. But I would be obliged if you would tell me. Are you Grace Moore of Greaves?’

I told him that was the name I had been born to, but at once regretted it, fearing he might be a creditor of my father’s. I looked for assistance from Peter and Anne, but they had tactfully withdrawn at some distance.

‘You do not remember me, do you? I am John Francis Rawdon.’

‘John?’ In my surprise I reached out to grasp his arm. ‘How is it possible?’

‘Chance, I believe.’ We both smiled and laughed at once. I studied his features. Yes – now I saw the same eyes, only a little less bright, and a face grown older, but also stronger, in some masculine way. Yes, he was John Francis grown into a broad imposing man.

‘I recognised Anne at once, for she has not changed a whit. Then, as you were ever her companion, I studied you in the concert hall; I could not at first believe my eyes. Grace Moore.’ He glanced suddenly over to Peter. ‘So who is that gentleman?’

‘He is Peter Croxon. My – brother-in-law.’

I do not believe I imagined his disappointment. ‘Good God, so it is, Peter Croxon. Still the dandy. I should have thought he’d be chasing ladies of fortune, not Anne Dobson. And you are married – to a Croxon? To the older one – Michael was it? How unexpected.’

‘And you? When did you come home?’ I said this with some gentleness, for I understood at once that fate had not been kind to us. It is my fixed belief that if only we had met before I married, we would certainly have revived our connection. I knew it as surely as I had glimpsed the hope that lit up his whole being when he spoke my name.

He told me very frankly of his unhappiness when first he left Greaves, swiftly followed by an account of his good fortune in working with his uncle, a fine man who taught him his trade. John Francis was now a partner in the cotton business, and also, he hinted, the possessor of considerable wealth. He talked much as he always had; in a kindly, self-mocking manner, but now overlaid with an attractive civility.

‘May I enquire after your parents’ health?’

I touched the crucifix at my neck, where my mother’s hair had just been re-set in jet and rubies. John Francis’s hair was darker now than the youthful blond of the lock I’d treasured for so long. I told him briefly of my parents’ passing.

‘Michael Croxon – and you? I could never have predicted that.’ He shook his head in bemusement.

‘Why is that?’ I asked, expecting to hear my usual fears rehearsed: that Michael was of a superior rank, a man of fashion, a man of extraordinary good looks.

‘Oh, he was such a – well, a strange boy. Not that I knew him well, of course, he was sent to some faraway school. To think, their father was once the village carpenter. And you Grace, you were such a kind and sensible person. To be blunt, he was neither. And what talents you had. Do you still paint?’

‘I do.’ I began to tell him of my earlier misapprehension that he was in fact a painting master. We both laughed easily at my mistake.

Just then, as we talked in complete sympathy, two women set themselves between us, and the elder tapped John’s arm with her fan, speaking in a deep, commanding tone. ‘John, I should not wish to interrupt such an engaging conversation, but you forget that you promised Alice the quadrille.’ He glanced at the younger woman, a slight and childlike creature whose lip trembled visibly. ‘Please, Mama,’ she coaxed, doing her best to pull her mother away again.

‘Oh, yes – Alice.’ John rubbed his neck, and made awkward introductions. ‘Mrs Fotherly. Miss Alice Fotherly. May I introduce Mrs Croxon, a close acquaintance of mine from Greaves.’ We all nodded rather limply at each other.

‘I wonder, Mrs Croxon, did you see the announcement in the York Courant?’ boomed Mrs Fotherly, as if I might be deaf. ‘Mr Rawdon and Miss Alice were this week betrothed. You must be delighted to see your bachelor acquaintance at last approaching the altar.’

I did not risk a glance at John, but congratulated Alice heartily, though my face grew rigid from its artificial smile.

‘And where is your own husband?’ the mother asked, looking airily about. ‘You must collect him. The dances are being called.’

‘I am attended by my brother-in-law.’ I nodded in Peter’s direction, and Mrs Fotherly followed my gaze in a most scrutinising manner. ‘My husband is attending to his business.’

‘Dear me,’ she said. ‘I should never allow such negligence from a husband – and certainly not for mere business.’

I would not exchange another word with such an insufferable person. I curtseyed and they returned the same, in frigid silence. Poor John Francis looked stricken as I walked steadily back to where Anne and Peter awaited me.

Only later, alone in my room, did I allow myself to reflect upon my sorrow. For a few extraordinary moments, I had felt such joy at meeting John again, that all the intervening years had vanished. I had even had the ridiculous notion he might have waited all these years to find me. But no, we had both been frail. I had bound myself to Michael, the ‘strange boy’ who had grown into the man he so aptly judged as lacking both sense and kindness. And poor John Francis had somehow got himself entangled with that carping mother and her offspring. Grace, I rebuked myself, the strong drink has unsettled you. You are married now; it is time to leave these childish notions behind you.

19

York

November 1792

~ Yorkshire Fat Rascals ~

Take one pound of flour and rub into a half pound of butter; mix in one ounce of moist sugar, a quarter pound cleaned and dried currants, a little citron peel and a good pinch of salt. Mix well together with as much milk as will make a firm dough. Roll it out pretty thick and cut rounds with the rim of a glass. Just before you send to the oven put currants and almonds and cherries upon them and sift with fine sugar.

As made by Mrs Palmer at her Coney Street Lodgings

A note did arrive next day from the art master, and so I began my daily lessons at his studio. I was at first unwilling to show my teacher my own work, but after I summoned the courage he was generous in his praise and astute in his criticism. Thus I learned a number of the professional artist’s tricks: clever matters of line and shadow. He also spoke freely of the new styles of painting, the abandonment of high wigs and whalebone for flowing costumes, and that most excellent word, Truth. ‘Portraiture should not be confused with flattery,’ he said. ‘What is more ridiculous than a stout duchess tricked out in hoops, masquerading as a goddess? Use your excellent eye to record what you see, Mrs Croxon. Painting is eighty parts looking to twenty parts moving one’s brush.’ It was then, as he taught me how to add brightness to the depiction of the human eye, that I resolved to paint Peg when I returned home.

*

On Sunday, rather than find a chapel, I attended the service at the Minster with Anne and Peter. From the cobbled Close, we all admired the Minster’s great towers of fretted stone soaring to the clouds, every inch carved as fine as lacework. Once we had passed into the nave, I surrendered my scruples to that glorious hush that tells of a higher presence than ourselves. It was a bright winter’s day, and the vaulted windows tinted the air with dappled rainbows. Sitting quietly in my pew, I recognised a change in myself; that every morning I woke quite glad to be alive. Instead of fitful notions of footsteps at midnight, each new day was heralded by cheery sounds outside my window: the post-horn’s trumpeting and the cries and songs of busy, prosperous people. I was still young and vital, with no need for bed rest or sleeping draughts. I was ready to face whatever the future held. However troubled my marriage was, it was better by far than my former life with my father. Dropping my face into my clasped hands, I glimpsed in reverie a sort of labyrinth, a mysterious path I must traverse in the months to come. I could not say what trials lay ahead of me – but I knew that I must be strong, and win whatever happiness I might glean on this earth.