The Center of the World (19 page)

 
LORD EGREMONT RETURNED
a week ago, but I was surprised last night when I discovered that all the guests are leaving, except for Turner and myself. Even Egremont’s son and his family are departing. This morning there was a carriage and a wagon at the door, laden with a mountain of luggage, including an easy chair and what looked like enough kitchen equipment to meet the needs of a small army. I was told that His lordship’s son and heir was going up to London to look after some family business. I came downstairs to wish Wyndham and his wife a bon voyage, but they seemed severely out of sorts and were hardly civil to me. It was plain that my presence was not welcome, so I bade my adieus quickly. I went back to my room to write, but I was, I confess, aware that I was so situated that I could hear everything that went on by the front door just below me.

Wyndham’s temper did not improve with my absence, and for so pious a man, he used a good deal of rough language with
the servants. In general he needs more done for him than most men, and none of it is done to his satisfaction. This was certainly the case today. Dozens of things had been forgotten, and for each one the servants were roundly abused. A roil of confusion seemed to last for about an hour, building to a furious pitch just before ten, when I could hear Wyndham damn any number of eyes as the possibility of arriving in London after dark loomed.

At last the family was assembled and the ponderous wagon about to embark; Lord Egremont was summoned and from my room I could hear that deferential silence that always follows his appearance.

“So. You are ready at last?”

“Yes, my lord,” his son replied. “In a manner of speaking. What with the suddenness of the command, I am not sure that we have quite got everything we need. But we shall make do, my lord. We shall make do.”

“And what is in that wagon?”

“Why, just some small manner of things we require.”

Egremont let out a furious oath which I will not repeat here, but which provoked an audible gasp from his virtuous daughter-in-law. “I have sent you to London—not the Antipodes. Do you not recollect that my house in London is well equipped with chairs?”

“But you know how Maria suffers—this chair affords her some relief. We shall bring it back, of course.”

Egremont swore again. He made some particular suggestions as to that part of his daughter-in-law’s anatomy that most
often comes in contact with a chair. Again I could hear an audible gasp. Her husband began to remonstrate with his father, but Egremont silenced him with another oath. He said that he had no desire for further conversation and especially no desire that his son should keep the carriage waiting. But then his tone became quite cordial, as if he had made a great and successful effort to control himself.

“Godspeed, my son. I much appreciate your willingness to assist us with our affairs in London.” By this time, I confess, I had moved to the window. I was so positioned that I could see Wyndham, his family, and all their equipage. I could not see Lord Egremont, who was standing in the doorway just beneath my window. Wyndham and his wife were almost completely undone by Egremont’s change of tone; they could do nothing but bow.

I now heard Mrs. Spencer’s voice. Her tone seemed particularly clear and ringing. “I hope you have a safe journey and a good stay in London. We shall miss you here, of course, but there is so much to do in London at this season. You shall be content.”

As Wyndham looked up at her, his self-possession deserted him completely. His face contorted with hatred. If he had been a wittier man he might have said something cutting at this point, but all he could produce was, “The only thing that will make us content is not being with you!”

Egremont’s tone of cordiality vanished. “Get in that carriage, you puppy. If you tarry longer I shall drive you to London myself. Godspeed and good day, sir. Be off! Come, my dear.”

I heard the shuffle of the servants’ feet as the door was held open for Egremont and Mrs. Spencer. Wyndham and his party mounted the carriage amid much ado and shouting by the servants, although Wyndham himself was beet-faced and tight-lipped. I felt, I confess, almost sorry for the man, as I thought about his rage trying to break through his dullness.

Later that afternoon I took my book outside and found the bench under the cluster of chestnut trees that overlooks the house and pond. Petworth House is not a beautiful building, although there are many, I suppose, who might confuse its massive grandeur with beauty. The house sits in the landscape as an emblem of power. Petworth House does not need to be beautiful—it is above that. Solidity and mass signal its potency and its dominion over those who dwell in its shadow. It is always to me something of a shock that such a heavy building should contain so much exalted art. But then the sheer mass of the artworks, the profusion of Claudes, Van Dycks, and Turners also speaks to the truth that the lords of Petworth are peers of the realm, no more like the rest of us than the sun is like a candle flame.

I was engaged in these thoughts when I saw Mrs. Spencer emerge from the house and go into the park. It was late afternoon, that time when His Lordship usually betakes himself to his bedroom and Turner secretes himself in his studio to take advantage of the last good light of the day. She seemed to be scanning the horizon. When I waved she saw me and headed up the hill.

She was slightly out of breath when she reached me; her face flushed with laughter. “Is the mere sight of me so amusing?” I asked.

“No. You are a delightful vision. I was thinking of Wyndham’s face as he bid his adieus. You did not see it, but he was purple with vexation. I pity him, to be sure, and I do not wish upon him the apoplexy that is his due, but I will confess that the sight of his impotent rage did me good.”

As she sat down beside me I told her what I had seen and heard this morning. Had she, I asked, intended to provoke him?

“It was, perhaps, wicked of me. I know that if I had kept silent we might have been spared his outburst. But I did not intend to provoke him, although, if I am honest with myself, I was not unwilling to give him an opportunity to embarrass himself. Which, to the delight of my evil heart, he did.”

We sat in silence for a few moments, admiring the view. “So how,” she asked me, “has your work with Turner been progressing?”

“I was just trying to determine which of the windows is his studio.”

“It is there, on the left, on the second story—count three windows over from the side of the house. It is a most interesting room.”

“Yes. Most interesting. The first time it was odd. I was, I suppose, uncomfortable and nervous. But we have settled down. Turner flatters my vanity by telling me that I make an excellent model.”

“Yes. When I sat for
Jessica
, he was most flattering.”

“Do you mean that yellow painting in the gallery?” I looked hard at Mrs. Spencer’s face. “I suppose,” I said, “that there is a resemblance, but it had never occurred to me before. You are,
and I only state the fact, a much more attractive woman, although, perhaps, a few years older.”

She turned away from me. “I saw the painting before it was completed. It looked a great deal more like me then. But Turner was very unhappy with it. He was in a vile humor for almost a month. He had Egremont’s people construct a window frame up there on a platform. I spent hours and hours leaning through it, staring at Turner as he stared at me. He is usually a most sweet man, but he quite forgot himself in his vexation. I heard language that would have made me blush had I not been acquainted with Mr. Spencer.

“But then he took it up to London a few weeks before the Academy show last fall. It was quite altered. My face was transformed from a tolerable likeness to what you see now. The yellow had been there from the beginning but now it looked as if the pigment had been pressed into the canvas with anger. The lace had been added and the architecture around the edges, which had been plain, is what you see now. Almost the only thing that remained unchanged was the jewels. Egremont was most particular that he wanted those jewels in the portrait, and they, if you care about that sort of thing, are done to perfection. His Lordship was quite upset when he saw it. He had half a mind not to purchase it, and in private agreed with those who abused the painting in the press. But his respect for Turner—both as a man and as an artist—allowed him to overcome those scruples. Now that he has had the painting in the house for almost a year, I believe he regrets his purchase less and less.”

The afternoon was winding down, and the sandstone surface of Petworth seemed of a richer hue than it had earlier. “His Lordship and Turner, you know, have been discussing a new painting. I am to go to the studio tomorrow morning.”

“Ah,” I said. “Now I understand why my services will not be required.”

“His Lordship told me the painting was to be a classical composition.” She paused for a moment. “
Jessica
was not classical. So I was able to keep my dignity.”

“When I first started to pose, Turner asked me to take my shirt off. I did so, but at length he exclaimed that my trousers were too much of the nineteenth century, so off they went.”

She placed her hand on my leg and patted me as if I were a child or a new puppy. “I am so sorry. Were you ashamed?”

I shrugged. “Yes. I feared mostly that my claims to being a gentleman were at risk. He would never have asked it of a true gentleman, the son of one of the neighboring landowners, or a young man of affairs in London. But I could be asked. I understand that. And yet, at the same time, I was flattered; it was a great sop to my vanity. I am afraid I am all too human.”

She touched my leg again. Her smile was still radiant, but there was a tincture of sadness around her eyes. “We are all too human,” she said. “Even my Lord Egremont.” She waved her arm in a gesture that encompassed the grand house, the lake, the pleasure grounds, and large swaths of the Sussex countryside. “All of this is his. The rules and conventions by which other men are bound do not bind him. I can be his ‘special friend’ and the world must bow to me and treat me with respect. If,
however, Dr. Phillips, a young and handsome widower down in the village there, were so much as suspected of keeping company with a woman of easy virtue, he would be a ruined man. But even Egremont’s ability to ride roughshod over convention has its limits. All the other guests have been sent away, as have many of the servants, except for the oldest and most trusted amongst them.”

I looked at her blankly. “Don’t you see?” she said. “Egremont desires that you and I should be part of Mr. Turner’s classical composition. So I shall pay him a visit tomorrow morning.”

“And will you do what he requests of you?” I asked.

“I am past that. We must live, you and I. If you do not know that, I must teach you.” She rose from the bench. “Give me your arm and take me down to the house. I could do with a cup of tea, or perhaps something stronger. We shall do well enough in the end. Come.”

 
WHEN I WOKE
my first instinct was to go look at the painting, but I realized I needed to be in this world when Eddy came. Just to make things worse, there was no hot water. There was an inch of water on the basement floor and a steady rain falling from the ceiling. The floor joists on the north side of the house were all pretty far gone, Eddy explained when he arrived, and one of them, under the piano, had given way. “See how it landed on that pipe there? That’s where your water is coming from. There’s no water coming to the heater, but you were going to have to replace that heater anyway. It’s all rusted out and it’s only a matter of time before it goes. But your water heater is the least of it. You never know with rot how much you got until you peel it back.”

My father hadn’t put any money into the house in years, and the house was rotting away from the inside out. Eddy pointed his flashlight at thick beams that were so soft he could stick a pencil into them. When I asked him what was involved
he said it was a big deal: basically raise the whole house up and replace the understructure. Lower it back down. Install French drains and new gutters so it wouldn’t happen again. He wasn’t prepared to give me an estimate yet, but thirty to fifty thousand wouldn’t surprise him.