The driveway curves past a bank of elms and more of the vast mansion inches into view. Will smells bark and the resin oozing beneath; the leathery lushness of leaves; the faint, sour tang of livestock. He tries to calm himself by inwardly mapping out a composition and blending pigments to match the golden hue of the stone. The result of this exercise, unexpectedly, is disappointment. For all its size and grandeur, Harewood House is a simple structure, little more than an even line of boxes. There would be no challenge here.
Three large carts stand before the service entrance at the building’s eastern end. Servants are streaming in and out, unloading boxes, bags and packages. Mr Lascelles’ letter instructed Will to delay his arrival until a week into August, and here is the reason: that eminently fashionable gentleman has only just returned from London, despite the season having concluded some weeks previously. Will doesn’t try to imagine why this might be. Already, from his limited experience of their patronage, he’s learned not to second-guess the whims of the rich. A few glances are thrown his way – at his new clothes, his stick and bundle, the two leather-bound books clamped under his right arm – but no one asks his business. Their chief isn’t difficult to identify. A looming, fleshy fellow, clad in impeccable butler’s black, he watches from the sidelines, issuing orders and rebukes while doing none of the real work. Will steels himself and approaches. The man eyes him impatiently as he begins the introduction he rehearsed in the stage.
‘I have here a letter from Mr Lascelles, dated fifth of July, requesting that I attend him at—’
The butler, or whatever he is, breaks away to harass a pair of footmen bearing flat crates stamped with the mark of a London auction house – telling them to be extremely careful, that their positions are at stake and so on. Will follows, talking still, a strong, sudden indignation banishing any vestige of nervousness; and he crosses the threshold of the mighty house without even noticing.
They weave down a corridor littered with luggage. Will is determined to have this man hear him out, but cannot prise his attention from those accursed crates. In an effort to push himself forwards, he stumbles against a trunk and knocks the umbrella from the end of his stick. This umbrella is a quality item, not cheap, purchased on Oxford Street especially for the northern tour, and has proved its worth many times. Will wheels about, searching for it – and the butler is gone, around a corner, through a door.
The umbrella is trapped between a stack of shoe boxes and a wickerwork hamper. Will stands over it protectively. A retrieval would involve putting down his books or his bundle, and he’s unwilling to do either; it seems all too likely that something could be mixed up in the clutter and accidentally carried off. After the still, luminous heat of the driveway, this basement has an unsettling effect. The air reeks of tallow and boot polish, and it is quite dark; the only light is admitted through the service entrance and a narrow court somewhere up ahead, broken blue-white reflections gleaming across the floor tiles. Every variety of servant hurries by, focused on specific, pressing duties, disappearing down passages and into rooms. It is like a bustling underground village, or the lower deck of a huge merchant ship.
Will is attempting to lift the umbrella free with his shoe – to work the toe into the curved cane handle – when a hand comes to rest in the crook of his elbow. He starts, turning again; the person beside him ducks to avoid being clobbered by his bundle. It is a woman, two or three inches taller than he is. She is wearing a maid’s mob-cap over a mass of black hair and carries a shallow basket piled with plants. The eastern doorway is at her back, the daylight beyond making it hard to see much of her face. Will apologises, indicating his conundrum. In one movement, she crouches, plucks up the umbrella and hangs it where her hand was two seconds before.
‘Much obliged,’ he mutters.
The maid is studying his person, the bundle, the leather-bound books. ‘You’re the draughtsman,’ she says, ‘up from London. I’ve heard them talking about you.’
Her voice has a ripe, rough edge to it, the Yorkshire inflections mingled with something Will can’t place. She’s older than he’d first thought, though how old precisely he wouldn’t like to say. Her hips are broad and arranged at a slight angle; her bosom (he can’t help noticing) is remarkably ample; her forearms, exposed by rolled-up sleeves, are sun-tanned and etched with muscle. There is no deference in her manner, such as a personal guest of Lord Harewood’s son might expect as his due – just a powerful, amiable curiosity.
‘In’t you a mite early, sir? Weren’t you supposed to be joining us at the end of the week?’
Will shakes his head. He won’t have this. ‘A letter was waiting for me in York. At the Black Horse. The dates were clear.’
The maid moves by him, further into the house, and now Will can discern the roundness of chin; her ink-black eyes with their long lashes; her wide lips and the lines at their sides. A heath gypsy, he thinks. Will has been travelling in the north for six weeks now. He’s caught the occasional glimpse of these people, camped out on the moors or at the fringes of the smaller towns. They’re commonly held to be inveterate criminals, or mystics with unnatural pagan allegiances. That one has managed to find herself a position beneath Harewood’s exalted roof seems unusual, to say the least.
‘Well then, I must be mistaken. Heavens, sir, that’d be no great novelty! Come, this way – we’ll pay a visit to Mr Noakes, our steward. He’ll straighten this out.’ She smiles, her teeth white in the murk. ‘Would you have me carry them books of yours?’
Will firms his grip, his fingertips sinking very slightly into the leather. ‘I am well.’
The gypsy maid leads him through the basement, cruising three steps ahead. Others, younger girls, hop smartly from her path; this is no drudge from the scullery. A sweet, hedgerow fragrance trails from the basket on her arm. Will looks at it more closely. Amidst the leaves and stems are clusters of tiny pale flowers and a twisted seam of purple berries.
They cross a bare, vaulted area; beyond it, along another passage, a latticed interior window provides a view of a large, formidably neat office. Two men are within, standing on either side of a desk. One, bearded and dressed for the outdoors, is plainly a gardener; the other, Will senses, is the fellow in overall charge down here, senior even to the butler figure he chased inside. Barely half the bulk of the gardener before him, he is entirely bald, the unified expanse of his scalp and forehead seeming to compress the face beneath, to squash it under the line of his brow. He is listening to his subordinate report some difficulty or other; his thin arms are crossed and his expression ill-tempered.
Will’s guide enters the office without knocking. ‘The draughtsman’s here, Mr Noakes,’ she announces, ‘the one from London. Found him out in the east corridor, I did, quite adrift.’
The gnome-like Mr Noakes glances over at Will. He is unimpressed. ‘You’re early,’ he says. ‘What’s your name?’
‘William Turner.’ Will’s limbs are tense; his blood is humming. It’s always like this with servants. They’ll do whatever they can to pin an error on an innocent outsider. Keeping steady, he sets down his bundle, unclasps the smaller sketchbook and slides the letter from inside the front cover. The Harewood crest is at the top, and Beau Lascelles’ swooping signature at the base. He walks forward to hand it over. ‘Mr Lascelles asked me to come here in the second week of August.’ He pauses. ‘The mistake ain’t mine.’
This alters the situation somewhat. A footman is summoned and dispatched upstairs to obtain clarification from the family. Mr Noakes returns the letter, rather more politely than he received it. Will calms; things will now be put on their proper course. He’ll be taken to his patron and they’ll set out their business together. The house itself may not inspire, but inspiration, in truth, is a luxury
