The Fraud (35 page)

And Grace Marshall smiled a wry smile, for the letter did call her Amazing Grace, in a way. And she thought of the small Rembrandt painting at the Auction, and the shock on all the faces when it was sold for four hundred guineas.

They left Amsterdam next morning, Claudio very pale and quiet and Isabella insisting on wearing her gold and ruby pendant at all times, and in not much more than three weeks they were back in London.

It was noticed that, soon after the
signore
had returned from abroad, there was a new regular face at the dinner-table in Pall Mall: a lady about town and noble. Lady Dorothea Bray was a pretty woman, not quite in the first flush of youth but attractive and charming. And she was the younger sister of a somewhat dissolute Duke, and she was unmarried: Signore Filipo di Vecellio had painted her before his wife died. No-one in the world would have accused the
signore
of impropriety while his wife lay ill but Lady Dorothea’s tinkling laugh was now heard more and more often at the dinner-table in the house in Pall Mall, and occasionally she gave charming orders to the sister, the housekeeper, Signorina Francesca di Vecellio. The dinners were boisterous (if truth be told they had indeed become somewhat rackety and wild now; so much wine was consumed that Francesca di Vecellio dryly suggested they grow their own grapes, like the old lady on St Martin’s Lane).

One afternoon not long after the travellers’ return, James Burke was again a guest at the dinner-table - business was business, after all - James Burke wished to know what all London Art Dealers wanted to know: having bought, did Filipo want to sell? Filipo had acquired paintings in Amsterdam and would be selling to the highest bidder, and James Burke would act as his dealer if required. Art was a business, just like any other. Miss Ffoulks and John Palmer again showed their pleasure to see their old friend and Lady Dorothea smiled and laughed in his direction, for indeed with his piercing grey eyes and his own hair tied behind, which was now so fashionable (even though he had been wearing it that way for many years), he was a most handsome man. Dr Charles Burney of the famous daughter was again present, and two rather rakish actresses. Roberto, who had been in the care of Euphemia the maid, was still thin and battered: he was old now of course, and he had never recovered from the death of his beloved mistress and looked on balefully, all Isabella’s pretty cajoling could not cheer him, although sometimes he perched near to her. The bright, late-summer light shone on to the table from the big windows, across the beef and the fish and the oranges, and slanting into the crimson-coloured wine. There was much talk of Rembrandt and Amsterdam, interspersed with somewhat salacious gossip of the machinations of Royalty and the wildly handsome and naughty Prince of Wales, and London society, and the theatre. The atmosphere was delightful, the guests thought. Even the two children seemed to enjoy their first European journey, now that it was over; Isabella blushed prettily as she felt admiration for her new-found erudition, understood that as her aunt had foretold she had indeed become more
interesting
: she mentioned
The Night Watch
rather proudly and twirled her Pendant from the Indies round her fingers.

Lady Dorothea looked at Isabella, her head on one side as she regarded the daughter of her dear friend Filipo. ‘Such a pretty child,’ she said. ‘I must take her in hand.’ Roberto cocked his head to one side also, seemed to listen at length and silently, just as Mr James Burke the art dealer did, but he also disgraced himself (the parrot that is, not the art dealer) by trying to bite Lady Dorothea’s be-jewelled finger.

Claudio, to everyone’s surprise and his father’s pride, seemed to have learned from his journey: he had begun painting in earnest, talked of
The Night Watch
several times, described the long lances and the drum, talked of having a studio of his own.

‘He shall be a Painter like his Father,’ said Filipo proudly. ‘I shall see to it. He shall have everything he needs; another di Vecellio in the annals of the Art of this country!’ (The guests did not know what Isabella and her aunt had witnessed on the boat from Ostend to Margate: Claudio seeing England so near, had finally broken down and confessed his large gambling debts to his father and at last a bargain had been agreed, there upon the English Channel. The father would pay the debts: the son, much chastened, would give up the cock-fighting, complete his studies in London, and become a Painter.)

In the dining-room the painter’s sister sat between John Palmer and Miss Ffoulks and spoke to them quietly as others shouted about Royalty; she made them laugh at her descriptions of the bone-shaking coaches and the terrible roads; she held their attention when she spoke of the Rembrandt paintings; Miss Ffoulks listened with great interest to hear she had seen another painting of Hendrickje Stoffels, Rembrandt’s mistress.

‘What is her story?’ asked the housekeeper at once.

‘I could find nothing,’ said Miss Ffoulks. ‘But - I believe they had a daughter.’ Grace Marshall looked down at her plate.

Dr Burney was finally persuaded to speak about the success of
his
daughter Fanny’s novel,
Evelina
. ‘At first I did not know’, he said proudly, ‘that it was penned by my own daughter!’

‘I do not think Private Thoughts should be made Public!’ said Lady Dorothea, ‘I should not tell mine for all the World,’ and her white bosom quivered as she leant across to their host, and smiled most charmingly.

‘I think a Novel is not private thoughts, but a Fictional tale,’ said Dr Burney.

‘Art is a Public Matter,’ murmured John Palmer, ‘and one must take care, for imagine if we Painters painted what we really thought!’ And Lady Dorothea’s bosom leant forward again, and the arm of John Palmer was tapped playfully with a fan.

Mr James Burke said that he must, most regretfully, leave to attend to some urgent business; the housekeeper, as always, showed the guest out: it would have been noticed, and rude, if she had not.

Laughter echoed from the dining-room as he turned to her at the front door. ‘What did you learn?’ he asked quietly, and she knew what he meant although they had all been speaking about such things at the dinner-table:
the galleries and auction rooms, the cobbled streets, the churches and the canals and the flowers, the foreign nights,
The Night Watch.
And, of course, Rembrandt van Rijn.
All, all these things she had talked of so often, with him.

‘Everything,’ she said simply.

He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew a piece of paper. ‘It is of immense importance that you meet me tomorrow, there is someone I want to introduce you to if you feel now able to agree to my . . . proposal?’

She did not exactly answer, but she said, ‘I saw another painting of Hendrickje Stoffels.’ She spoke expressionlessly, her face blank again.

‘The mistress of Rembrandt?’

She nodded. ‘It sold for - four hundred guineas.’

‘Your brother told me. He was very disappointed to have lost it,’ and he handed her the piece of paper. ‘It is perhaps best for me to introduce you to my - Colleague - in a public place, for I cannot of course bring him here.’ Another gust of laughter flew out from the dining-room. ‘This paper is a ticket to the Eidophusikon in Lisle Street for its Evening Presentation tomorrow.’

She looked at him blankly.

‘It is the newest sensation!’ he said to her with a small smile. ‘It provides Moving Pictures!’ And then he bent to her and said so quietly she could hardly hear above the noise of the guests, ‘We are to re-sell the Painting I purchased from you before you went away, your painting of the girl with the letter. We will speak of this tomorrow.’

The door closed behind him and the housekeeper went back to the noisy dining-room.

The Eidophusikon was, indeed, a sensation.

The Eidophusikon advertised itself as
Various Imitations of Natural Phenomena represented by -
something never seen before -
Moving Pictures.

A French painter had worked at Drury Lane Theatre as a scenic and lighting designer, bringing thrilling new mechanical devices on to the stage. People thronged to Drury Lane to see his moving ships (which were felt to be much more interesting than the actors now that Mr Garrick was dead). Now the Frenchman had decided to remove himself from the theatre and have an exciting new mechanical device all of his own in his house in Lisle Street. It was rapturously successful.

Many were kept out by the prohibitive cost of five shillings. But, for five shillings, spectators could see five Imitations of Natural Phenomena all of which moved (with musical accompaniment). Dawn, storms, moonlight - these things could be seen shining, fading,
moving
; there was the sound of rain, there were rumbles of thunder, sea crashed upon rocks as the light darkened. A moon would rise over London accompanied by the harpsichord, a sun would set on foreign parts, a ship was to be wrecked
in front of their eyes
by a terrible storm. It was absolutely, astoundingly, thrilling!

The house in Lisle Street crowded with people with five shillings to spend on this wondrous new marvel.

Among this crowd James Burke stood, waiting, with a companion. His alert eyes travelled to the door each time it opened. When she came he could not believe that she had brought her niece, Isabella.

‘Good evening, Isabella.’

‘Good evening, Mr Burke.’

‘Good evening, Signorina Francesca.’

‘Good evening, Mr Burke.’

There was a slight uncomfortable silence, then James Burke turned to introduce his companion.

‘This is Monsieur Laberge, a visitor from France.’

The Frenchman bowed, both women bowed, but both women saw at once there was something, something not quite correct about the man: his hair or his clothes it was hard to say, something. Isabella, uninterested, turned away looking for Mr Georgie Bounds, the frame-maker’s son, to whom she had sent a message that she would be attending this new attraction. Mr Bounds bowed and grinned from across the room.

‘Excuse me for a moment, Aunt Francesca,’ said Isabella breathlessly and disappeared. The crowds swirled about, anticipating the Natural Phenomena they were about to observe. ‘There is to be specially composed Music!’ someone called, ‘and moving Clouds. And the crashing Sea!’ Grace Marshall waited.

Thomas Gainsborough suddenly bounded through the door. ‘Good evening,
Signorina
!’ he said to Grace. ‘Good evening James, have you seen this yet? It is remarkable, remarkable. I help, you know! I sometimes do the thunder!’ and he disappeared.

Chords suddenly sounded from a harpsichord, and then there was the plaintive sound of a flute. The Frenchman said in a low voice, ‘I had heard of your extraordinary talent,
Signorina
. I have also now seen your painting of the girl with the letter. I congratulate you. I would deem it an Honour to work with you.’

James Burke said, his voice also low, ‘Well? Monsieur Laberge wishes to hear your answer also. Will you do it?’

She had prepared herself. She looked firmly into the grey eyes, and then at the Frenchman. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will do it: if you show me the people who will - change it.’ She was not prepared now to be just an unknown lady in an attic.

‘
D’accord
,’ said Monsieur Laberge, surprised, but nodding his assent.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ called a foreign voice. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, please enter the Theatre.’ And everybody shuffled and crowded towards the large beautiful room full of flowers, and gold and elegant crimson chairs, trying to get the best view of the small stage. The harpsichord and the flute played thrillingly. Grace beckoned to her niece and bowed warmly to the gentleman with the curled hair beside whom she was standing, inviting him to sit with them: this then was Mr Bounds, the frame-maker’s son to whom she owed much. They sat in the third row as the lights were dowsed and the first phenomenon began:
Aurora.
They stared transfixed as the effects of dawn suddenly filled the room: there were sounds, as if of a breeze, and, in a house in Lisle Street in the night, the morning summer sun, it seemed, rose into the sky, golden, higher and higher, moving in front of their eyes; it rose over Greenwich Park where cattle were grazing as clouds drifted across the sky and birdsong commenced. Following these delights (they had been told) there would be noon in Tangiers, sunset in Naples, and a storm with real thunder.

And all the time, as people sighed and gasped in admiration and delight, the
signorina
sat with her niece and Mr Bounds, both of whom looked to be in a seventh heaven - because of the spectacle or because of each other - and no-one would know that the older
signorina
thought:
it is beginning
.

 

There was nobody to notice that several days later the
signorina
, with her housekeeper’s basket, made a visit, with a gentleman, to a house behind a maze of alleys off Covent Garden, in the less salubrious part of London. They turned deeper into the network of dark corners, past open sewers and stinking gutters, and memories. The narrow, dilapidated house she was led to was full of small, busy businesses: a penny newspaper with its small press; a tailor in a back room, children crying everywhere and his wife bent to the window to catch any light as she sewed; clerks bent over wooden desks in offices. The
signorina
followed the art dealer. Skirts were not as wide as once they had been but she still had to hold up her petticoats to climb the narrow, uneven steps, the petticoats caught on splintered wood. At the top James Burke knocked and called out his name, they heard footsteps and then the sound of a bolt being drawn. Three men were waiting for her in a small high attic where from a row of windows the light shone. In a far corner two other men painted at easels - she saw that they were copying something - they never looked up once or seemed to notice or hear. Canvases and boards and paints and paintings lay everywhere and there was the smell of paint and size and varnish mixed with sour milk and old meat and chamberpots and candles: the only new thing in the room seemed to be the big shiny bolt on the door. The dubious Frenchman from the night of the Eidophusikon, Monsieur Laberge, was there, and two Jews, she saw: short men in shirt-sleeves and waistcoats. Something was burning. To her astonishment she saw it was the frame that had been put on the painting of the girl reading the letter for which she had received ten guineas: hers but not hers: darker, older, and now in a blistered gilded frame.