Will & Tom. Matthew Plampin

Will. I heard about the fight, the last one, over on Southampton Street. How she broke that barrow boy’s jaw. It’s a damn miracle, frankly, that you’re still able to work as you do.’

      And then Will sees it. Tom Girtin is attempting to unnerve him, to throw off his concentration and disrupt his schedule, and thus give himself a chance to catch up. Will has managed to bar this business from his mind for the better part of six weeks – as Father had ordered him to do, in the plainest language – and he rears from it like a horse before a fire. Without speaking, without even looking Tom’s way, he gathers his gear, gets up and walks west.

      But now it’s there, eclipsing everything, the memory louder and brighter than life. Mother at the height of her frenzy, spitting at Father and Will as they edge closer, trying to grab hold of her. The howl of the victim, blood spotting fast between the broken bottles. The feel of her pressed to his chest, so bony and fierce, kicking backwards at his shins as Father addresses the crowd, promising grand sums if only the incident can be kept from the magistrate.

      This is no use. This will accomplish nothing. Don’t you grant her a single thought, Father had said. The work must come first. Will passes through a screen of slender trees, swinging at some tangled bracken with his umbrella. He rubs his brow on his sleeve, then breathes deeply and wipes the matter away. He gulps; he blinks. It’s gone.

      Beyond the trees is a long expanse of pasture, distant sheep drifting over its lower reaches like flecks of foam. Will strides uphill, towards an old tree-stump. The valley lies open before him, bruised by the shadows of clouds. A south-western prospect would have been best, but straight south will do. Time is growing short. He sits and prepares his materials; then he squints at the house, pulls the sun hat forward and slips gratefully into the blankness of work.

      Not ten minutes have passed when a whistle makes him look up. A shepherd is moving the sheep off, funnelling them through a gate – and there, perhaps forty yards to the right, is Tom Girtin, propped against a dry-stone wall. A warm breeze sways the trees; the clouds roll back and brilliant sunlight surges across the pasture, breaking over them both, reducing Tom’s face to no more than a pale blot atop his coat.

      Will returns to the sketch, his resolve to complete his task and leave Harewood fortified yet further; and a detail from Tom’s talk strikes him as stunningly as a pebble hurled from a sling, jogging his line by a clear half-inch.

      A goose-feather mattress.

      *

      Things are now urgent. Will heads out onto a dandelion-spotted meadow, his boot-steps jarring his spine as he trots down the gradient towards the boating pond. He has enough for the second long view, just barely, but the afternoon is well on the wane. There are perhaps four hours of decent daylight remaining, and two more sketches to be done, of subjects he has yet to determine. The part of the commission he was least concerned by, to which he has given no real thought, suddenly looks like it may be his undoing.

      All is not lost. Yesterday, while crossing a bridge in the western part of the estate, Will heard the whisper of a waterfall. He didn’t pay it any mind at the time, but if there are rocks, or a picturesque arrangement of trees, it could serve his purpose. Another twenty minutes walking, a half-hour to judge the views, an hour on each sketch – he might yet make the evening mail coach.

      Following the pond’s bank westwards brings Will to a walled garden. He goes to the nearest door, a navy blue rectangle set into the red brick, thinking to save a few minutes by cutting through. It opens easily, revealing a grid of gravel paths laid out around plots of vegetables. Will steps inside. The air is still, heavy, scented with herbs; the only sound is the soft hum of bumblebees. Almost instantly, a gardener rises from behind a line of lettuces, a man of about his age with a downy beard and a narrow, unfriendly face. Will halts, recognising the situation: trespasser meets warden. He glances back to the doorway, wondering if he should remonstrate or simply accept ejection.

      Without speaking, the gardener retreats to a nearby shed, wiping a trowel on the end of his muddy apron. Will walks on, past carrot-tops and thyme bushes; and he notices other gardeners packing up and moving away as well. He looks around him in perplexity.

      Tom Girtin is strolling in through the garden door. Will considers evasion, hiding amid the beds, but sees that this would be futile. He stands in place, picking at his teeth with the scraping nail, and eyes the other painter with wary annoyance. Is there to be a discussion of their earlier rupture? Is there to be contrition, an embrace, a pledge of brotherhood?

      The answer is no, thankfully, on every count. Tom appears to have excised all unpleasantness from his mind; and indeed, as he draws near, his talk is not of Maiden Lane but a herd of young deer that have wandered from the woods on the southern side of the valley.

      ‘You should’ve sketched them,’ Will tells him. ‘Put them in a view. Just the sort of detail they like.’

      Tom laughs. ‘I ain’t got the skill for that, Will. I didn’t attend the Academy schools, if you recollect.’

      No, thinks Will, you were rejected – and immediately feels guilty. This is unjust. He knows very well what Tom can do. He says nothing.

      ‘Besides, I ain’t brought any blessed paper.’ Tom is looking now at the sketchbooks; his voice grows teasing. ‘I ain’t so magnificently prepared as you. D’you really need both books out here? Scared a maid might run off with them, are you, if they was left back at the house?’

      Will ignores this. ‘I’ve two more studies to take, Tom, afore the post leaves from the village. I’ve got to get on.’

      At once Tom is serious. ‘What are you thinking?’

      The question – direct, practical, genuinely interested – comes from a simpler time; from expeditions made together into the countryside around London, perhaps, when Will could stand the barber’s shop no longer and Tom was truanting from the studio of Edward Dayes. Walking out to Lambeth or Putney, or the fields of Highgate, they would set themselves various artistic challenges, and deliver frank verdicts on each other’s work; then talk a little of their plans, their frustrations, their common aims. It’s been three years since they last did this. Three years at least.

      ‘The waterfall. Over by that bridge.’

      Tom’s expression suggests approval. He offers to show Will the fastest route through the gardens. Of course – he’s familiar with this place. Will looks up at the sky, at the full tones of late afternoon, and attempts to quash his aggravation. He accepts.

      Another blue door admits them to a different section of the enclosure, given over in large part to a vineyard. These voracious plants are taller than a man, their tendrils reaching out across the avenues, leaves blocking the sun to such a degree that Will has an impression of being under canvas – of proceeding through a low, yellow-green marquee, with purple grape-clusters in place of sconces and chandeliers. At first, this area appears to be similarly deserted. As they approach the end of the vine plot, however, Will glimpses white up ahead – the hard white of starched cotton. A greenhouse has been built against the far wall, seventy feet in length, its roof angled to trap as much light as possible. Before it, at a trestle table, Mrs Lamb is trimming pineapples with a clasp knife. Will slows, recalling the warmth with which she’d treated him and how welcome it had been; and also Mr Cope’s blunt warning in the servants’ hall. He decides it would be best to slip by unnoticed.

      Tom lopes past, breaking cover, and bids the still-room maid a blithe good afternoon. Will stops and curses; then he trails out after Tom, scanning the greenhouse and the paths around it for the nearest blue door. Mrs Lamb turns towards them, performing a subtle swivel that lifts her chest very slightly. Her sun-browned cheeks are stippled with perspiration; her eyes lost in the shade beneath her bonnet brim. With one hand, she folds up her clasp knife and puts it into the pocket of her apron.

      The conversation that follows is excruciatingly trivial: the fine weather, the subsequent heat in the greenhouses, the splendour of the park. Mrs Lamb responds to Tom’s queries with readiness and some wit. There’s a distance to her, though, a near-imperceptible detachment; Tom no doubt imagines