Chapter 22 Angels And Ghosts #2
Lance gave a bark of laughter. “Does he think I am Michelangelo?”
“He would have engaged Michelangelo, naturally, but since he is sadly unavailable, you will have to do, I regret to say.”
That made Lance laugh again, but he shook his head. “I cannot, truly I cannot…”
“Read his letter, written, I might add, in his grace’s own hand.”
Lance unsealed it and read the duke’s words.
‘Chamberlain, I am sending Payne to explain it all. Pray indulge an old man’s whim to enjoy your company a while longer, in honour of your dear Mama. Brinshire.’
“What does that mean? ‘In honour of your dear Mama’ — what has my mother to do with this?”
“He knew her years ago, so he says,” Payne said.
“He is very nostalgic about ladies, you know. He knew Juliet’s mother, too, and becomes fearfully sentimental about her, especially on his third or fourth glass of port.
Old men tend to get lost in their memories, the days of their youth being so much more interesting than the present day.
He remembers your mother from years ago, and you remind him of her…
and of his glory days when he was a colossus striding about the ballrooms and drawing rooms of England.
He is a rather lonely old man now, I fear.
Will you come, Chamberlain? I am ordered not to return to Staineybank without you, and Sophia will be most unhappy if I am away for too long. ”
“How large is this ceiling to be?”
“Eighty feet by forty, so about half the size of the Sistine Chapel,” Payne said at once.
“Oh, so it will only take me two years to paint,” Lance said. “What a relief. I thought for an instant there we were talking about a large undertaking.”
“There is scope for frescoes around the upper walls, as well, should you feel so inclined,” Payne said, grinning.
“Two hundred and forty feet of frescoes,” Lance said, with a groan. “And what does his grace want me to paint? Something allegorical?”
“Angels. Nothing but angels.”
He sighed. “I suppose I can manage a few angels. Faces, trailing gowns and a few trumpets — that would not be beyond my capabilities.”
“Then you will come?” Payne said eagerly.
“I will consider it. Give me a day to think about it, Payne. Will you dine with us tonight?”
He agreed to it, and left to settle in to the Hanover Square house, while Lance set off in his curricle for Boodle’s. Since Denny was with him, he took the opportunity to tell him all that Payne had said, and of the duke’s letter.
“What do you think, my friend? Should I go?”
“Of course.”
“Why so definite?”
“Portraits are all very well, but painted ceilings are far more important,” Denny said, as they turned into St James’s Street.
“A portraitist is only remembered by those families who hold one of his works, and not always then. How often have you admired a portrait and enquired as to the artist, only to be told that he was very famous but no one could quite remember his name? Whereas people travel from all over the world to admire the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”
“As I said to Payne, I am no Michelangelo.”
“Well… Chatsworth, then.”
“Thornhill? You have an exaggerated view of my abilities, Denny.”
“Unless you make a complete mull of it, which I beg leave to doubt is possible, a painted ceiling can only enhance your reputation, my friend. You must do it.”
They drew up outside Boodle’s just then, so Lance jumped down and allowed Denny to drive the curricle back to Mount Street before returning later to collect him.
For two hours, Lance played cards with his little group of friends who were, like him, the sons of provincial gentry.
He got on well with them, but he sometimes wondered if he would miss them if he never saw them again.
They were like his own brothers and brothers-in-law — dull, rather stuffy men, not much interested in anything beyond their own small circle of acquaintances and their country pursuits.
Not that there was anything wrong with that, and in some ways he envied them their simple contentment with life.
Not for them the gnawings of ambition or the dissatisfaction with his lot that occasionally plagued Lance.
When matters went according to plan, he could be as contented as anyone, but when there was a setback or a difficulty to be overcome, he fretted unremittingly.
As he did now. What should he do? And yet, even as he mulled over the question in his mind, carefully laying out the reasons for and against returning to Staineybank, he knew he would go. How could he resist?
By the time he rose from the table, he had decided.
“Stay and dine with us, Chamberlain,” one of his friends said. “We can play on after dinner, or go to that little place on Pall Mall.”
“Thank you, but I am expected to dine at home tonight. We have a guest, and my curricle should be waiting outside for me.”
He left in leisurely fashion, speaking to a few acquaintances on his way out. The curricle was drawn up a short distance down St James’s Street, with Denny holding the horses’ heads.
“Have you been waiting long?” he said cheerfully, pulling on his driving gloves, before noticing Denny’s face. “Denny? Are you quite well? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”
Denny gave a quick ‘Huh!’, although whether of surprise or laughter or some other emotion, Lance could not tell.
“I have!” he said, his eyes wide with shock.
“That is exactly it — I have seen a ghost, Lance! He passed me by, as bold as you please, and went into White’s.
Of course, he did not notice me. No one notices a groom holding his master’s horses. ”
“A ghost, Denny? What fanciful nonsense is this?”
“I must follow him,” Denny said, with a jerk of his hands that set the greys dancing. “I must go into White’s.”
“Cannot be done, my friend,” Lance said. “I am not a member.”
“I know but… I have to do it… it will drive me mad, otherwise. I have to know. But not in these clothes. I need proper clothes. Will you lend me something, Lance? We are much of a size. I have to look the part.”
“You are going to force your way into White’s?”
“One way or another, I am, and you are coming with me… for support. Do not fail me, my good friend. Stand by me, I beg you.”
“Of course,” Lance said simply.
They drove back to Mount Street, where Denny hurled clothes out of Lance’s wardrobe until he found exactly what he was looking for. He knew every garment intimately, having valeted Lance for several years, but once clothed in the attire of a gentleman, the valet was gone completely.
“You certainly look the part,” Lance said. “You would pass muster inside any of the clubs, but how will you get past the doorman?”
“That is a most pertinent question,” Denny said. “I cannot tell you, but I must try. Come, let us go.”
“William can have the curricle round in five minutes.”
“No time. We will walk.”
And walk they did, Lance almost running to keep up with Denny’s rapid pace, striding oblivious of the crowds through Berkeley Square, down Berkeley Street and across Piccadilly into St James’s Street until he came to White’s.
There he stopped, breathing heavily. Above them, a face in the famous bow window turned to watch them, then looked away, uninterested.
“Will your ghost still be inside?” Lance said gently. “It is more than an hour since he entered.”
“Oh yes… probably, unless he has changed his habits. Lance, my friend… my very good friend… I have no idea how this is going to go. Even if I can get inside and find the ghost… I might be wrong. There is a very real danger that I am making a terrible mistake, and this will end badly for me. Very badly. Will you stand my friend, no matter what happens?”
“You have no need to ask,” Lance said quietly. “I am always your friend.”
“Whatever happens?”
“Whether good or ill, whatever happens.”
Denny took a deep breath. “Then let us enter.”