Chapter Sixteen
By the time Titus woke, rather late, the next morning, Nico had already slipped out.
It was for the best, although if Perreau really didn’t care about his master sharing his bed with men …
That seemed extraordinary, but Nico would not have said it lightly.
Titus tried to imagine living without hiding, if only in his own house.
His head was full of dreams. He selected his blue-and-silver waistcoat because it always made Nico smile in a slightly smug manner, and went down to breakfast with a quiver of hopeful anticipation.
Nico was there already, and he did indeed give that satisfied smile, and Titus thought, yes. This was joy.
Nico insisted they should visit Mr. Hawkes without loss of time, to see if he still had the purple material.
He did, and Titus ordered a new waistcoat in it and then, in a fit of daring, bought a banyan, a silk robe de chambre embroidered with bright, impossible flowers.
It was unnecessary, far too expensive, positively garish for a quiet, sober, unremarkable man.
It was a wearable work of art and he loved it.
The whole day felt like that: an explosion of colour to which he could hardly believe he was entitled.
They drifted through shops examining fabrics, and lunched together, and strolled over to Pall Mall, not quite hand in hand but shoulder to shoulder, so Titus could show Nico Mr. Angerstein’s exquisite collection of paintings and drawings, including a lovely Rembrandt, works by Velasquez and Vandyck, and Hogarth’s sequence Marriage a-la-mode.
It was a lovely sunny day, so the exhibition rooms were almost empty except for an elderly man who sat on a chair, contemplating the Raphael drawings.
Nico stopped in front of a dramatic composition in which a large black eagle soared into the sky clutching a naked youth with prominent and rather lumpy buttocks.
It was, in fairness, attention-grabbing.
He contemplated it for a moment, and turned to Titus with a quizzical look. “This depicts what, precisely?”
Titus had noticed that, for an aristocrat, Nico’s classical education was rather poor.
“It’s an Abduction of Ganymede by Jupiter.
” He might have ventured a risqué remark about what Jupiter was abducting Ganymede for, except for the old man in the room.
“By Titian, although—hmph.” He peered at the canvas. “That’s odd.”
“What is?”
“Well, Titian painted, what, three hundred years ago? But the colour here, in the sky, looks awfully like Prussian blue, and that wasn’t invented until the last century.”
Nico’s brows went up. “You mean it is a forgery?”
“Oh, I can’t think that; this is Mr. Angerstein’s collection. No, more likely— Oh, yes, look. See how this patch of sky is quite grey? I think that colour is blue smalt.”
“It is called blue when it is grey,” Nico said. “Naturally.”
“Well, it wouldn’t have been grey originally. It is a pigment made of ground cobalt-blue glass, which gives a marvellous colour, very intense, but it fades terribly over time. I think somebody realised it was faded, and touched up the sky with Prussian blue. What a shame.”
“Why so?”
“Prussian blue is an artificial pigment, and the colour is rather flat and somewhat strident to my mind. Lots of people admire it, but I don’t think it has the depth or resonance of blue smalt at all.”
“You know your colours, sir,” came a creaky voice.
Titus looked round to the elderly gentleman. “I beg your pardon, sir. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“Not at all. A pleasure to hear an expert speak. You are an artist? I think you have visited before.”
“I have, yes; it’s such a wonderful collection, it would take years to appreciate it. But I am not an artist. I am—was—a maker of paints. Oil and colourman.”
The old man regarded him with bright eyes. “Is that so. Now, does that make you the fellow who married Whitecross’s daughter?”
Titus flushed. “That’s right. Titus Pilcrow.”
The old man nodded, satisfied. “Then you bought Constable’s picture at the Exhibition, of Hampstead Heath. I had my eye on that.”
“Oh,” Titus said guiltily. “I beg your pardon.”
“Why? You moved faster. I should have made my mind up.”
“Constable has another one in the Exhibition,” Titus offered. “It was very good but not so much to my taste.”
“Of a hay-wain? No, I didn’t think so much of it. Rustic sentimentality, not surprised nobody has bought it. You’re setting up to collect?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir,” Titus said without thinking.
“Why not? You’ve the money, and you’ve an eye.
And I’ll tell you what, art is the only thing worth buying.
I’ve spent a great deal of money in my time, and all that was worth spending went to my family or my collection.
The first is my life, the second is my legacy, everything else is a lot of nonsense.
John Angerstein,” he added. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“The Mr. Angerstein who owns all this?” Titus said faintly.
“Himself. Have you seen my Rembrandt?”
They spent two hours there, in the end. Mr. Angerstein talked them through his collection with the loquacity of an old man and the sharp observation of a formidably intelligent one.
A businessman himself, he was quite unconcerned with Titus’s lowly origins or commercially generated wealth.
He simply wanted to hear any insights about colours Titus could offer, anything that gave his beloved jewels a new facet.
Titus was walking on air by the time they left, having exchanged expressions of mutual regard and with a standing invitation to return. “Mr. Angerstein,” he said breathlessly. “That is perhaps the finest collection in London for its size. Good heavens. And he actually talked to me.”
“Mon ami, he listened to you,” Nico said. “You did not say you had bought a picture in the Royal Exhibition.”
“It felt shockingly extravagant,” Titus admitted.
“And also not quite real until I have it on my wall, which will not be until the end of the Exhibition. It is worth waiting for: I do think Mr. Constable is remarkable. I hope that was not too tedious for you? I know art is not a particular interest of yours.”
“But you are very much an interest of mine, and I watched you with the greatest pleasure. You are a different man on your own ground. It is a joy to observe.”
“Oh.” Titus could feel his cheeks pink. He found Nico’s confident competence desperately attractive; the idea that Nico might see a similar quality in him felt implausible but quiveringly delightful.
And he did know a great deal about paints, and if John Julius Angerstein had listened to him with interest, perhaps it was not so implausible as all that.
“Well, pigments are my ground, more than art in general, but Gideon told me I know more than I realise.”
Nico gave a satisfied nod. “I think you find your place.”
“Certainly I should much rather talk to artists than Society people. I understand the point of art, and I’m starting to see how it works, whereas I really can’t say either of those for Society.”
Nico snorted. “Quite. What is the painting you have bought?”
“A landscape of Hampstead Heath. I saw several of Mr. Constable’s pictures of the Lake District and liked them very much, but I felt I should have a London painting first, since I’ve never actually visited the Lakes.
Actually, I wanted to ask you about that.
I was thinking of taking a house there in August, as you suggested, as a sort of first step to travelling.
It seems to be a wonderful inspiration to so many painters, and it would be far pleasanter than London in summer, and I wondered if you would like to come with me.
Not if you are occupied with your own business,” he added quickly, as the explosion of daring faded.
“I quite understand that you might have all sorts of things to do other than wander round the English countryside. It would be very quiet, and not at all social or lively. Really, it would be just us most of the time.”
“It sounds marvellous.” Nico’s voice was a little throaty. “I will need to be sure I have concluded my business, but that would be perfection.”
“I shall look into it, then,” Titus said with a glow. “Erm, on the subject of your business—”
“Pilcrow!”
It was a coarse bellow, carrying across the street. Titus looked round and said, “Oh, bother.”
It was Matthew Laxton. He had come once more to the house in Carey Street after Nico’s memorable eviction, and Mr. Thorpe had not let him over the threshold. Now he was storming across the street.
Nico said, “Jean-foutre,” with quiet intensity. Titus could feel him bristling.
“Pilcrow!” Laxton shouted again loudly, causing heads to turn. He was red-faced and sweaty, and looked as though he had slept in his clothes, possibly for a couple of nights in a row. “You damned sneaking thief. Walking down the street bold as brass when you stole my inheritance!”
“That will do,” Nico said sharply, which created an odd choral effect because Titus had said it as well.
Nico glanced at him, then made a carry on gesture, giving way.
Titus squared his shoulders. “That will do,” he repeated.
“You are slanderous, Mr. Laxton, and if you repeat that slander, I will instruct Mr. Carnaby to take legal action. Do you want me to tell the world why your aunt disinherited you?”
Laxton’s mouth dropped open. “How dare you!”
“How dare you? Presenting yourself as a loving nephew, behaving as if you were wronged. I will not tolerate it. Go away. If you bother me again, you will not like the consequences.”
Laxton was brick-red now. “Look, damn you, I had a reasonable expectation. I am her heir—”
“No, you’re not.”
“—and it is an injustice to cut me out. The least you could do is acknowledge that I have been disappointed and excluded.”