Chapter 7 A Grand Ball
Simon could not sleep, his head filled with designs for the orangery, his mind sketching away even as he lay in the darkness.
When he eventually dropped off, he slept badly, waking again and again with the urge to begin drawing.
As soon as the girl came in to light the fire, he was up, his pencil in his hand.
He worked at it all morning, absentmindedly almost forgetting breakfast until Juliet came to fetch him, covering page after page with his ideas.
And yet, nothing satisfied him. Somehow, his designs were not right, but he could not quite put his finger on what was wrong with them.
In the middle of the afternoon, he tossed aside his sketch book and stood gazing disgruntledly at the snow-covered grounds outside.
The skies were already darkening in preparation for nightfall, as a few stray flakes still fell.
Occasionally a miniature avalanche was dislodged from a tree, falling with a soft whump.
He sighed. Perhaps if he found a quiet spot somewhere about the house he could sit and think, and clear his head. Then perhaps he would understand what his designs needed.
It was a futile endeavour. The house was vast, but unused rooms were in darkness, and those with enough light for sketching were filled with noisy groups of people, chattering excitedly, playing the pianoforte and even dancing.
There was no possibility of finding the quietude he needed.
He moved on from room to room, and then up the grand staircase, running his hands appreciatively over the polished mahogany handrail.
Again he was out of luck, until he turned a corner and found himself in the Great Gallery.
When he had seen it before on his tour of the house, it had been a dreary place, panelled in dark oak, badly lit, with no objects of artistic merit, only a few badly-executed portraits of Bucknell ancestors in a variety of improbable costumes.
Now, however, lamps illuminated the full length and innumerable girandoles stood ready to be lit.
At the far end, several footmen had lowered a chandelier to fill the candle holders.
Nearer to hand, two men on hands and knees were steadily creating a chalk pattern of vines and ducal coronets and lions rampant on the wooden floor.
Along both walls, a selection of chairs and sofas had been arranged, and on one sofa, swinging her feet joyously, sat Miss Sophia Merrington.
Congenial company — perhaps that was what he needed?
Sitting down beside her, he said, “Preparation for the ball?”
“Yes! Is it not exciting? They are putting in the candles, and they are eight hour ones! Is it not wonderful? Eight whole hours of dancing!”
“Shall you not be exhausted by so many dances?”
“Oh yes, but it will be worth it. If I am exhausted, it will be because I have stood up for every dance. There is nothing more dispiriting, Mr Payne, than going to bed at the end of a ball still full of energy. I want to dance and dance and dance until dawn. Or until the candles burn out, I suppose, because at this time of year, even eight hour candles will not see the dawn.”
“Then for your sake, I wish you a partner for every dance,” he said, smiling at her, for such enthusiasm was infectious. “How fortunate I am to see the chalk pattern before you and your friends obliterate it with your lively steps. And I have my sketch book with me, so I shall attempt to copy it.”
For a while they were silent, as his pencil flew over the paper.
After the two chalk artists, he drew the footmen with the chandelier, and then he added in the chairs.
Dissatisfied, he started another sheet, this time drawing little details — a nearby girandole, the curved arm of a chair, one of the chalk artists, hunched over his work, his face intent.
Simon’s slender fingers moved the pencil with quick, sure strokes.
“Have you always had such skill?” she said, breaking his concentration so abruptly that he started. “I beg your pardon. I disturb your work.”
“The fault is mine,” he said. “I am inclined to forget the world when I draw. But yes, I have always been able to draw, or at least, I never remember a time when I could not. I have never had a drawing master and the architect to whom I was articled taught me only the skill of architectural drawings.”
“But people… people are hard,” she said.
“I can paint a vase of flowers, say, with sufficient accuracy that the gardener would recognise the precise blooms and not mistake a rose for a poppy, but I cannot capture the likeness of people at all well. My attempts are usually only recognisable by their clothes, or a favoured ornament. I painted Richard once, and Maria said, ‘Well, it must be Richard, because that is his waistcoat and fob, but otherwise I should have supposed it to be the bishop.’ Which was very lowering, for the bishop is twice Richard’s age, and very fat with red hair.
But Maria’s portraits are no better, and Charlotte does not even attempt them. ”
He had to smile at this tale of woe. “It is true that portraits are challenging, and I could not do it in watercolours and certainly not in oils. But a pencil… that is a very forgiving medium, to my mind. Charcoal is even better. It is just a line here, another line there, a little smudge of shading… not difficult at all. And because my main interest is drawing buildings, I have a good eye for perspective and proportion, which is half the battle when drawing people.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I can see that that must be so. Richard is very good at drawing people, too, and he draws buildings all the time. Mostly cottages and the like. That is how he became interested in architectural matters, when new cottages were needed for our estate at Leahollow, and he disliked all the designs he saw, so he designed his own. Being Richard, of course, he wanted to save money, too. He worked out the cost to the last brick, so that he could order just the right number.”
“There is nothing wrong with being economical,” Simon said, pulling out his knife and shavings box to sharpen his pencil.
“Especially with labourers’ cottages, where the need is for practicality, not ornamentation.
Function is the most important object, whereas a man of wealth and rank wants to impress his fellows and display his position in society to the world.
The cost of coal and candles is immaterial to him. ”
“But not to Richard,” she said softly. “When he inherits, he will be the most parsimonious duke in the Kingdom.”
Simon laughed and shook his head. “He will grow accustomed. It is easy to adjust from a modest income to great wealth. It is much harder to grow up in great wealth and have to adjust to poverty.”
“Oh. I suppose it is.” She gazed at him round-eyed, wanting to ask the obvious question but not quite daring to breach the protocols of never asking about money.
“You are wondering, I suppose, if I refer to myself,” he said. “Indeed I do.”
“But… your father is an earl,” she whispered.
“True, but the title bestows upon a man wealth and power and the esteem of society. It does not give him wisdom or kindliness or generosity. It does not make him a good father. It clothes him in silk and ermine and puts a coronet on his head, but his character remains just as it always was, for good or evil.”
She was silent for a long time. The footmen had long since finished wrestling with the chandelier, and the chalk artists had shuffled their way almost to the far end of the gallery. He started another drawing, this time of the stone fireplace with its ornately carved overmantel.
“Was he very horrid to you?” Her voice was so low as to be almost inaudible.
“He never beat me or anything of that nature. Mostly, he ignored me. I was the third son, so quite unnecessary in the scheme of things. My destiny was to go into the army, he decided. If he had chosen the church for me, perhaps I could have put up with that, and become a famous ecclesiastical architect eventually, but no, he had settled on the army. My younger brothers were bookish, so he deemed them a better fit for the church, thus I was to go into the army. It would make a man of me, he said. When I refused, he threw me out.”
“Threw you out of… his study?”
“The house. I was banished from Edlesborough, with only a small bag of necessities and whatever money I happened to have saved. Fortunately, I had enough to get a seat on the mail coach to London, where Juliet and a widowed aunt took me in. I had never met Juliet, since she left Edlesborough before I was born, but when I became interested in architecture, I wrote to her for advice. She lived in London, where so many architects live, and she encouraged my ambitions. She told me she would help if I chose to study the subject, so when I was banished, naturally I turned to her. And there I have stayed for the past fifteen years with Juliet my only true friend. Half my life was passed at Edlesborough, in great comfort even if there was not much affection to spare, and the other half in an unfashionable area of London, eking out an existence on a hundred and fifty pounds a year.”
Another long silence, then she said, “I spend almost that much on clothes every year.” Then, slowly, “You must have some friends, surely? Do you belong to clubs?”
“No, since my father and uncles never introduced me to any. It is true that I do have… well, acquaintances. Other architects, for instance. Neighbours we dine with or invite to card evenings. But not friends.”
“Mr Payne,” she said, her voice strengthening suddenly, “I have not known you for very long, but even so, I consider myself your friend. I hope you would regard me in the same light?”
“Oh!” He was aware of a warmth within him that made him, quite involuntarily, smile broadly. “I should be honoured to so regard you, Miss Merrington.”