gentleman, speaking with Mr Aislabie?’ I asked, gesturing towards a slight, straight-backed man dressed in a sky blue coat, the cuffs and pleats in the latest London style. His left hand and arm hung under the coat sleeve, bandaged and bound tightly in a fine muslin sling.
‘Ah, a swift change of subject! I have offended you with my probings . Mrs Gatteker oft complains—’
I cut him off before the inevitable and unwanted jest. ‘His arm is broken?’
‘Fell from his horse. Francis Forster. Decent fellow. Cat-a— strophically dull. Mind you don’t sit with him at supper.’
Mr Gatteker had a carrying voice. Mr Forster, hearing his name bellowed across the room – though thankfully not the proceeding description – came over and introduced himself with a neat bow. He had the look of a man who had spent long months on the Continent, or aboard ship. The sun had bronzed his skin, and his eyes – a vivid blue – shone out from beneath straight brows, burnished to a white gold. It had been another freezing winter in England, and the rest of the gathering looked pale, one might even say dusty, by comparison.
Forster didn’t ask me how it felt to be hanged by the neck in front of one hundred thousand spectators, which by this point in the evening I took to be the height of good manners. I held my pale hand against his. ‘I seem a corpse next to you, sir. Are you in the navy?’ Aislabie had been Treasurer of the Navy for four years.
‘Heavens, no,’ Forster laughed. ‘Though I have been abroad for some years. I have a great passion for architecture.’ He had spent the last three years on a grand tour of Italy, he explained, with two companions. His friends remained abroad, lost in the magnificent, ruined splendour of it all. He had run out of funds over the winter and so sailed home, eager to put his ideas into practice and presumably to find paid work. He had filled countless sketchbooks with his designs, perhaps I might like to see them? I pretended that I would.
‘Then I beg you to visit me tomorrow sir, at Fountains Hall,’ he beamed. ‘Have you viewed the abbey yet?’
‘There is a painting—’
‘No? Splendid – you must permit me to tour it with you. We must pray for good weather. Now: promise me you will set aside at least three hours, sir! One cannot appreciate all the finer details if one rushes through . . .’ He then ruined five perfectly decent minutes of my life talking about flying buttresses. Mr Gatteker, the traitor, drifted away. My eyes flickered across Forster’s face, which was more interesting than his conversation. A brilliant white scar crossed one golden brow, and another cut into his lip. The lines at the edges of his eyes suggested a man of at least five and thirty, but they might have been formed from squinting at the Italian sun. In fact he mentioned later that evening that he was born in 1700, ‘the very cusp of the new century’. It had aged him, that bright sunshine.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your arm,’ I said, leaping into a momentary lull in his monologuing.
Forster winced. ‘Broke the wrist too, would you believe. Damned horse stumbled on the Nottingham road.’ The sling kept his arm high upon his chest, his bandaged thumb and fingers pressed to his heart.
‘Must have been painful.’
‘Screamed like a baby,’ he said, laughing at himself in a likeable way – and I forgave him for his lamentable skills in conversation.
But not enough to sit with him at supper.
We were a smaller gathering in the dining room, our party whittled down to eight for a light meal. It was almost nine when we sat down, but the curtains were left open to the black night. It gave a dramatic backdrop to the room, which was bright with candles, flames mirrored in the silverware. Aislabie and Lady Judith sat at either end of the table, our elegant hosts, exchanging affectionate jests at each other’s expense. Elizabeth Fairwood sat next to her would-be father in her grey
‘Ah, a swift change of subject! I have offended you with my probings . Mrs Gatteker oft complains—’
I cut him off before the inevitable and unwanted jest. ‘His arm is broken?’
‘Fell from his horse. Francis Forster. Decent fellow. Cat-a— strophically dull. Mind you don’t sit with him at supper.’
Mr Gatteker had a carrying voice. Mr Forster, hearing his name bellowed across the room – though thankfully not the proceeding description – came over and introduced himself with a neat bow. He had the look of a man who had spent long months on the Continent, or aboard ship. The sun had bronzed his skin, and his eyes – a vivid blue – shone out from beneath straight brows, burnished to a white gold. It had been another freezing winter in England, and the rest of the gathering looked pale, one might even say dusty, by comparison.
Forster didn’t ask me how it felt to be hanged by the neck in front of one hundred thousand spectators, which by this point in the evening I took to be the height of good manners. I held my pale hand against his. ‘I seem a corpse next to you, sir. Are you in the navy?’ Aislabie had been Treasurer of the Navy for four years.
‘Heavens, no,’ Forster laughed. ‘Though I have been abroad for some years. I have a great passion for architecture.’ He had spent the last three years on a grand tour of Italy, he explained, with two companions. His friends remained abroad, lost in the magnificent, ruined splendour of it all. He had run out of funds over the winter and so sailed home, eager to put his ideas into practice and presumably to find paid work. He had filled countless sketchbooks with his designs, perhaps I might like to see them? I pretended that I would.
‘Then I beg you to visit me tomorrow sir, at Fountains Hall,’ he beamed. ‘Have you viewed the abbey yet?’
‘There is a painting—’
‘No? Splendid – you must permit me to tour it with you. We must pray for good weather. Now: promise me you will set aside at least three hours, sir! One cannot appreciate all the finer details if one rushes through . . .’ He then ruined five perfectly decent minutes of my life talking about flying buttresses. Mr Gatteker, the traitor, drifted away. My eyes flickered across Forster’s face, which was more interesting than his conversation. A brilliant white scar crossed one golden brow, and another cut into his lip. The lines at the edges of his eyes suggested a man of at least five and thirty, but they might have been formed from squinting at the Italian sun. In fact he mentioned later that evening that he was born in 1700, ‘the very cusp of the new century’. It had aged him, that bright sunshine.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your arm,’ I said, leaping into a momentary lull in his monologuing.
Forster winced. ‘Broke the wrist too, would you believe. Damned horse stumbled on the Nottingham road.’ The sling kept his arm high upon his chest, his bandaged thumb and fingers pressed to his heart.
‘Must have been painful.’
‘Screamed like a baby,’ he said, laughing at himself in a likeable way – and I forgave him for his lamentable skills in conversation.
But not enough to sit with him at supper.
We were a smaller gathering in the dining room, our party whittled down to eight for a light meal. It was almost nine when we sat down, but the curtains were left open to the black night. It gave a dramatic backdrop to the room, which was bright with candles, flames mirrored in the silverware. Aislabie and Lady Judith sat at either end of the table, our elegant hosts, exchanging affectionate jests at each other’s expense. Elizabeth Fairwood sat next to her would-be father in her grey
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