How to Fake It in Society

Chapter One

Titus Pilcrow read the note with disbelief. Then he read it a second time in the hope he had misunderstood. It still said the same thing.

“You’re throwing me out?”

“I’m not throwing you out,” Mr. Henry Morris said.

“I am giving you notice that I have found someone who will pay a higher rent for the shop, and it is all of a piece that you must make me the villain for it. Have I not kept the rent absurdly low for years? Am I not entitled to earn my bread as well as you?”

“How much more?” Titus demanded. “That is, can I not match it?” The words gave him an instant qualm.

His rent was not in fact low at all, and his work had never been greatly profitable.

The raw materials were costly, and though people loved the quality of his products, they were less keen to pay for them.

“An extra three shillings a week.”

“A week?”

“If you have not the funds, there’s really nothing I can do.”

Titus wasn’t a shouter, and the thought of another argument with Henry made him feel sick, but he would have liked to shout and argue all the same. His throat was closing. “I have paid my rent in full, on time, for six years, and you’re giving me a month’s notice?”

“You’re supposed to pay your rent on time; it’s hardly praiseworthy,” Henry said. “And if you had not treated me with such unkindness, always casting blame—” The familiar complaints went on, buzzing like bluebottles in Titus’s ears as he tried to think.

Henry had the right to raise the rent by whatever extortionate sum he chose.

He was the landlord, the property owner, and money always flowed in the direction of those who already had it, like streams flowing down to a lake.

For whosoever hath, to him shall be given, and he shall have more abundance, Titus’s father had often repeated to his four younger sons, but whosoever hath not, from him shall be taken away even that he hath.

His shop was being taken away. This was calamitous.

The premises in Red Lion Street, a quite respectable address a little way off bustling Holborn, were small, the bull’s-eye windows rather obstructive of light, but they did for Titus’s needs.

He ran Pilcrow’s Improved Colours, making up his cakes of watercolour paint and his oils, slept in the cramped back room amid sacks and boxes and a clutter of canvases, and tried not to be irritated by the jeweller with his family of nine who lived upstairs.

He spent more of his time wrist-deep in noxious substances than he might have liked, but he found the work satisfying, and took pride in his reputation for supplying reliable, well-made colours.

He spent untold hours in conversation with artists about shade and permanency, what pigments could not be used together, the minutiae of hard work and technical knowledge that underlaid inspiration and vision.

He’d built Pilcrow’s into something to be proud of.

And now his shop, his home, his income, his whole little world would be snatched from him, because he’d been fool enough to sleep with his landlord.

Henry Morris had taken over the management of the property from his father three years ago.

He was a charming man, witty, lively, a sparkling talker—not, perhaps, a very good listener, but Titus was used to letting people do all the talking.

That suited Henry well, and his attentions had become marked.

They’d had a few drinks, Henry had taken him to bed, and it had all been thrillingly far from Titus’s quiet routine.

It took a couple of months for the cracks to show.

The problem was that Henry wanted passion in his life, and any sort of passion would do.

Sometimes he would fuck wildly, or make extravagant declarations of feeling, but on other days, which became more and more frequent, he was only happy making them both miserable.

He would snipe and complain, then throw around accusations, insults, and verbal cruelties that escalated until Titus was finally provoked into protest, and then the onslaught would really begin.

There would be tears, screaming, throwing things, breaking things.

Afterwards he would weep, and say that his feelings and Titus’s lack of sensibility drove him to these extremes, and then he’d mope in a sad, distraught manner until Titus gave him the reassurance and apologies he needed.

And it would be all love and flowers until Henry felt the urge to do it again.

Titus had spent an increasingly unhappy year buffeted by Henry’s alts and rages, bewildered, guilty, and unhappy, desperately trying to extricate himself from the affair without making things worse.

He had finally said a firm No more a few months ago.

Henry had not taken the rejection well, even by his standards.

And here they were. Titus should probably have seen it coming.

In truth, he’d give a lot to get away from Henry, but this would cost him everything.

He would have to pack up his pots and powders and poisons, find affordable premises in this horribly crowded city, advertise everywhere in the hope some of his customers would follow him.

It would mean starting all over again. The prospect was appalling.

“Henry,” he said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. “Please. Can we not find a compromise? I have been a good tenant for a long time. I can pay more—”

“Five shillings a week more?”

“You said three!”

“That’s the other offer. You need to improve on it. We all have to work, you know. You can’t expect to live on my goodwill after you treated me so callously.”

“I—”

Henry’s mouth curved in the smile Titus knew well, eyes glittering with gleeful anticipation, and Titus realised abruptly that he couldn’t do this one more time, not even at the price of his shop. He simply couldn’t bear it.

“All right,” he said. “A month’s notice it is.”

Henry’s mouth dropped open, shocked at the lack of resistance. “What—is that all? You can’t even scrape together a few shillings? Or do me the courtesy of a proper farewell?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Titus said. “Goodbye.”

Henry reacted as poorly as might have been expected.

Titus ignored the tempest; the scale of the disaster was such that he simply didn’t have it in him to care for Henry’s reproaches.

He just stared through Henry as he raged, and felt a twinge of unkind satisfaction in watching him storm out, frustrated.

It didn’t last. He had a single month to find new premises, and no idea what he was going to do.

He had come no nearer to a solution two days later when he went to call on Miss Whitecross.

She was one of his most lucrative clients: an elderly lady of immense wealth, and an amateur painter of limited talent who used supplies with wild abandon.

As an artisan who put a lot of hard work into the colours she splashed about so wastefully, Titus found that somewhat grating. As a shopkeeper, he could only applaud.

Her latest order was for brown pink, vermilion, ultramarine, orpiment, and violet lake.

It was a large and costly set of paints, and she would probably interrogate him on whether he had adulterated the vermilion with cheap red lead.

Miss Whitecross was a suspicious woman who liked to feel that she was up to every rig and row.

Titus had realised early on that her frequent accusations of dishonesty sprang rather from her own fears than any real doubt of him, and he had learned not to take offence.

He feared he might struggle to find the necessary patience today, but he needed the money.

Her house was in Carey Street, not far from Titus’s shop.

It was a wide and airy street that skirted the Inns of Court, a very pleasant address but decidedly not one for a fashionable lady.

Miss Whitecross made no claim to that. Her father had made his money in manufacturing and she wore her lineage with pride rather than trying to disavow the taint of industry.

She dressed and lived well, but she had never aspired to move westwards, where the height of the Ton was based, and her house was spacious without grandeur.

Titus pulled the bell. The door was answered by a worried-looking butler.

“Hello, Mr. Thorpe. Is all well?”

“Mr. Pilcrow?” the butler said blankly. “What is it?”

“I’ve an order for Miss Whitecross. Is something wrong?”

“She’s not well. You can’t see her.”

Oh, no no no. It was a four-guinea order because of the expensive materials. He couldn’t lose four guineas now. “I’m sorry to hear it, but—well, it is a very big order. Would tomorrow—”

“No,” Mr. Thorpe said, the word heavy. “She … she had a fall yesterday. She went right down the stairs, and her hip is broken. It doesn’t look good.”

“Oh, heavens. I’m so sorry.” Titus was, truly, for a woman he liked despite her obstreperous ways; selfishly, the loss of a good customer was one more blow in a week that was already quite bad enough.

He glanced down at his expensive parcel with regret.

The paints would last a little while in their bladders; perhaps he could find a buyer while also finding a new shop.

His heart sank at the thought, but it couldn’t be helped.

“I won’t disturb you further. Please pass her my very best wishes, and I will pray for her recovery. ”

“Thank you, Mr. Pilcrow. That’s very gen—” The butler stopped dead, mouth open.

“Mr. Thorpe?”

“Yes. Yes. Would you have a moment to come in? Just for a short while. I, uh, may be able to get you the money.”

“Oh, don’t trouble her with that now,” Titus said, heart overriding brain. “Really, her health is far more important.”

“Please, Mr. Pilcrow,” Mr. Thorpe said, sounding positively urgent. “Half an hour of your time, that’s all. The mistress would want it.”