Chapter 10
A week later
‘There!’ Darcy called as his brougham reached the turning for Newman Street. He descended beside the Oxford and Cambridge tavern, and approached his driver. ‘I won’t be more than half an hour.’
The tavern stood at the end of a row of tenements in the City of Westminster, a mile from Darcy’s town house in Mayfair. Next door lived Mr Henry Howard, a painter serving as secretary of the Royal Academy—and hence an expert on the London art world.
A manservant answered the door, and Darcy gave his name. ‘To see Mr Howard. I am expected.’
As he entered, two small children ran into the hall, and were rounded up by a maid followed by a woman in her thirties whom he judged to be the lady of the house.
‘Good morning, sir. My husband is in his studio. Briggs, show the gentleman up. I will order coffee.’
Darcy was ushered into a large well-lit room at the back, where a rugged man with thick brows and a long chin was working on a canvas depicting a classical scene.
‘Ah!’ The artist put down his palette, and removed an overall. ‘Honoured to meet you, sir.’
Darcy looked at the painting, still roughly sketched out. ‘Death of Caesar?’
‘Well spotted.’ Howard pointed to a corner table with armchairs. ‘I have been illustrating Shakespeare, in collaboration with an engraver. It makes a change from portraiture. How may I be of service?’
‘I own a work by Lorenzo Pavan, and learned by chance that his nephew came to London and earned his living by commissioning portraits. His name is Mario Pavan, and if possible I would like to trace him.’
Howard smiled, nodding. ‘To check the provenance of your painting?’
‘Among other things.’
‘Lorenzo is with us no more: a pity since he was a great artist. Mario, I would describe as competent. I came across him once or twice, but he returned to Venice. Whether he is active, or even alive, I could not say.’
Darcy sighed. If Mario was in Venice, the best chance of locating him would be through Mr Gardiner. But with mail disrupted by war, an exchange of letters would take months, and Gardiner would inevitably ask why.
Coffee arrived, and when the maid left, Darcy said, ‘Is there anything more you can tell me about Mario Pavan?’
A smile. ‘One should not gossip, but in confidence, he was reputed to be a likeable scoundrel. He hung out with a group of impoverished painters who specialised in what we call Canaletti, imitations of landscape maestro Canaletto. A genuine work would cost a fortune. But images of Venice remain fashionable, especially when rendered in the style of the master.’
‘So Canaletti are forgeries?’
‘Mostly. Some artists give their own names or leave their paintings unsigned.’
‘Was Mario married?’
‘I don’t think he had an apartment, let alone a wife.
His problem was that he couldn’t paint landscapes, and wasn’t good enough to command high fees for portraits.
I imagine he roomed with friends in London and sought clients in the provinces.
’ Howard sighed. ‘I’m sorry, that is all I can offer—and some of it is guesswork. ’
‘How about these friends of his?’
‘I can put you in touch with Josiah Platt, a reasonably respectable painter of Venetian landscapes. He’s been plying his trade for decades and knows most of the artists and dealers.’ Howard found a scrap of paper and pencilled an address. ‘Not the most salubrious quarter.’
‘Shall I mention your name?’
A laugh. ‘Better not.’
By coincidence, the address in Riding House Lane was near Edward Street, which Darcy had visited two days earlier in search of Mrs Younge—former companion of Georgiana and accomplice of Wickham.
It was located in a maze-like residential area off Oxford Street, among roads too narrow for carriages.
Descending in Cavendish Square, Darcy proceeded on foot past the establishment where Mrs Younge rented out rooms with no questions asked (as she put it), and recalled the dramatic end to his meeting with Elizabeth at the Lambton inn.
She had opened the letters from her sister in expectation, no doubt, of local gossip; then suddenly stiffened in shock.
Her cheeks had turned pale, as if her troubled mind could take no more, and Darcy immediately called for the maid to bring wine and send a manservant in pursuit of the Gardiners.
As he tried to comfort Elizabeth, he wondered why Wickham would elope with an immature girl with such a small dowry.
The motive could not be love. Wickham, an inveterate gambler, probably needed money.
Did he intend to earn a few guineas by selling her to a bawd?
Or simply have a little fun before deserting her?
If so, he might secure a bank loan and then cross the channel to Antwerp, hoping to find further victims among the Walloons or the Dutch.
Darcy did not share these thoughts with Elizabeth.
But to see her in such distress was unbearable.
To suspect that she might be illegitimate was bad enough, but at least there was doubt in the matter, and no reason to fear that it would become generally known.
But Lydia’s plight could not be hidden for long.
He had paced the room in silent consternation.
Did he still love Elizabeth? Yes, more than before.
Was there a chance …? Of winning her trust and affection, yes; but he could not damage Georgiana’s prospects by marrying into a disgraced family.
Only one recourse was open to him. The fugitives must be found and restored to respectability.
Having formed this resolution, Darcy had taken care to keep it to himself.
For one thing, he was not optimistic of success.
For another, if he succeeded, he would be placing Elizabeth under an intolerable obligation.
And so he had offered what comfort he could, waited until her uncle and aunt returned, then taken his leave.
Pausing outside Mrs Younge’s tenement, he recalled her evasive replies to his enquiry. But money had loosened her tongue. Yes, Wickham had called, but she had had no rooms free and had directed him elsewhere …
Well, they were found now, Wickham had been bought off, a quiet wedding had been arranged, and Gardiner had written to reassure the Bennets—and reluctantly agreed to take the credit. One weight, at least, off Elizabeth’s mind.
There remained Mario Pavan, and his relationship with the Bennets all those years ago.
Darcy found Josiah Platt in a well-lit attic studio reeking of tobacco and turpentine.
As the landlady showed Darcy up, she pointed out rooms occupied by young artists serving an informal apprenticeship.
Platt was elderly and gaunt, with straggly white hair and a smock stained with paint.
He had sunk into an armchair, smoking his pipe and drinking red wine, while peering at an easel holding an image of the Venice Grand Canal.
Around the small studio, similar canvases were stacked against the walls.
‘Pavan.’ Platt puffed on his pipe, looking into the distance.
‘Tricky customer. Liked the ladies. We had a lot of Italians before all this revolution and war. Students from the Venice Accademia who reckoned they could become the next Canaletto.’ He cackled, making himself choke, and coughed into a rag stained with paint.
‘Wrongly, I imagine,’ Darcy prompted.
‘It’s how they’re taught.’ A slurp of wine restored Platt’s voice. ‘Years spent copying masterpieces. Result: men who know how to copy. In Venice no-one would take them seriously, so they tried their luck abroad.’
‘Do you know what became of Mario?’
‘Haven’t seen him for years.’
Darcy frowned. ‘That is all you can tell me?’
‘He stayed with a friend.’ Platt cackled again. ‘An Italian still active in London—unfortunately. They arrived in England at the same time, but Sgaravatti could sell as well as paint, so he ended up owning a house.’ A wink. ‘Rather like myself, except I’m honest.’
‘Of course.’ Darcy tried not to smile. ‘May I ask where?’
‘Clipstone Street. Just beyond the Bastard Arms.’ Another cackle. ‘If you’ll pardon the expression.’
Platt had forgotten the number, but after a ten-minute ride up Great Portland Street, Darcy’s driver found the road, then the tavern—which did indeed boast the sign Bastard Arms. An enquiry bore fruit immediately when the landlord pointed to three men seated at the back, eating mutton pie and drinking small beer.
Darcy approached. ‘Signor Sgaravatti?’
‘At your service!’ A shrewd-looking man with white hair and moustache rose and bowed theatrically. ‘Will you join us, sir? The pie is …’ He kissed his fingers. ‘Delizioso.’
‘Could we talk in privacy? After your luncheon?’
‘We can find another table.’ Sgaravatti grasped his tankard, and hissed in Italian to his companions.
‘By the window?’ Darcy suggested.
The Italian called to the landlord, who brought another jug of ale with a tankard for Darcy. The brew looked rough, but he tried a sip.
‘You are interested in buying art?’ Sgaravatti asked. ‘I can find the best masters.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Perhaps a Marieschi? I have the ear of a gentleman of distinction who has been unlucky at cards …’
‘Perhaps later. First I have an enquiry, concerning a portrait artist whose work I was shown recently.’
He mentioned the name, and Sgaravatti gestured recognition. ‘Of course! Mario, I knew him well. But he left five, six years ago. In fact …’
He broke off, and Darcy said, ‘Yes?’
A sniff. ‘He sneaked off owing a month’s rent.’
‘Did you hear from him again?’
‘Never! All he left me were a dozen canvases. As if that covered his debt!’
‘Did you manage to sell them?’
‘One or two.’ The dealer perked up. ‘Perhaps you would be interested?’
Sgaravatti lived on the first floor, the rest being rented to artists or used for storage. Darcy glimpsed a young woman on the landing—the wife perhaps, since he blew her a kiss as they climbed to a dingy spare room where canvases were piled on deep shelves.
‘A moment.’ Sgaravatti found a stack and pulled out unframed paintings similar in size to Young lady with letter. ‘We can view them upstairs in my studio. Better light.’
Darcy took half the canvases, and they passed to an attic room with easels, and a long trestle for storing pigments and mixing them with oil. Sgaravatti removed canvases he was working on, leaned them against the wall, and set up three Pavans in their place.
‘You recognise the style?’
In truth Darcy did not: the paintings were competent, as Howard had said, but lacked the appeal of the work attributed to Lorenzo Pavan. With a noncommital nod, he studied the ladies depicted. None of them resembled Elizabeth or her mother.
‘What do you think?’ the dealer said.
Darcy pointed to the other canvases. ‘Shall we …?’
Down came the three portraits and up went the rest, one of which caught Darcy’s eye immediately.
The subject was a lady of middle age, her hair mostly black but speckled with grey.
Nose and mouth were similar to those in Young lady with letter; the eyes were brown and wide-set.
Overall, he felt this could be the same woman painted 20 years later.
Yet the resemblance to Elizabeth was unconvincing.
‘You like this one?’ Sgaravatti asked casually, as if hiding his eagerness.
‘Can you tell me about the sitter?’
Sgaravatti turned the canvas to reveal a label pasted to the back. ‘Date 1806. Artist Mario Pavan. Title, Portrait of Venetian Lady.’
‘Yet painted in London.’ Darcy paused. ‘Do you happen to know who she was?’
Sgaravatti studied him, perhaps sensing a personal connection to the picture, in which case he could negotiate a higher price. He asked matter-of-factly, ‘Have you a particular interest in this woman?’
Darcy shrugged. ‘Only that she resembles the subject of a painting I bought recently.’
‘Yes?’ Sgaravatti waited.
Darcy saw no advantage in concealment. ‘A painting by Lorenzo Pavan entitled Fanciulla con lettera.’
‘Ah.’ The dealer smiled. ‘If you permit, the word is pronounced Fan-CHOO-la. And yes, I have seen the painting. Of course Lorenzo was more skilled than his nephew, so you made a good choice. As for the subject …’ He paused, as if recalling a memory, then turned back to the picture on the easel.
‘Mario’s sister, Concetta, who came to London, I suppose in 1806, to visit her brother. ’
‘You met her?’
‘A few times. Her husband had died, leaving her enough money to travel. She was anxious for Mario, and hoped he would re-join their family in Venice.’
‘And the fanciulla in my painting?’
‘I cannot be sure. But as Lorenzo’s niece, it is likely that Concetta sat for him when she was young.’
Darcy pointed. ‘The likeness is imperfect, especially in the eyes.’
‘I have no wish to disparage Mario. His proportions are correct. But the nuances on which an expression depends …’ Sgaravatti spread his palms. ‘They require a true master, such as Lorenzo.’
‘Can you tell me more about Concetta?’
‘A cultured lady. Forte too, strong, to cross Europe alone except for two servants, and rescue her stranded brother. Would you like the painting? I can have it framed.’
‘I will take the canvas and frame it later. How much?’
Sgaravatti impassively suggested 20 guineas, an absurd price for such a mediocre work. Darcy whittled him down to 12 guineas, then paid up: after losing ￡8000 buying off Wickham, this further expense hardly registered.