Epitaphs’, he said another time, ‘for poor families who bury their loved ones at Spitalfields Church.’ He and Filipo di Vecellio had met in Italy, and the older man had befriended the younger. (Sometimes Grace wondered what exactly John Palmer knew of Philip: if he had any inkling of Philip’s deception he never ever gave any sign, if he had been there when Philip was learning to present his Italian persona he never mentioned it.) The two of them would often, amid great roars of laughter, recall Roman stories to entertain the table - how they painted portraits in the streets and the squares to support themselves, how pretty ladies showed them much attention: ‘Showed Filipo much attention,’ amended John Palmer, ‘for I was already stout!’ But Grace, so used to looking at faces, saw that, for all his rumbustiousness, John Palmer’s eyes were sad. He did not eat mountainously like some of the guests but once Grace saw him secreting a piece of bread in his pocket. She was so shocked, and so embarrassed, that she blushed bright red: she never knew if he had known he was observed or not.
Often too an older woman was present: Philip’s first landlady who had unlocked so many doors for him when he first came to London, Miss Ann Ffoulks. She was a spinster lady of uncertain years and it was in her house in Brook Street that Philip had first lodged. Miss Ffoulks was proprietorial in his rise, and dogmatic in her opinions: she was used to moving in painterly circles and knew Mr Joshua Reynolds, to whose dinners she also presented opinions on occasion. The large white cap on her head had flowing ribbons and the ribbons shook as Miss Ffoulks, who had rather a loud voice, imparted her views to the table not just about art but about the affairs of the day: the new colonies in America for instance, or the iniquities of the slave trade. But Miss Ffoulks knew very much about artistic matters also, and artists: she had travelled with her brother to Europe when he was alive and was one of a few Englishwomen who had seen the Pope’s Sistine Chapel in Rome. She spoke of art auctions and of Michelangelo most knowledgebly but Mr Hartley Pond ignored her at all times, sniffing snuff up into his nose ostentatiously whenever she held forth, to which she paid no mind. Grace thought that, actually, Mr Pond and Miss Ffoulks were rather alike - sharp and knowledgeable and opinionated - but Mr Hartley Pond was the more rude. Grace also noticed that Mr James Burke often teased Miss Ffoulks, who would smile and blush and was obviously fond of him. Miss Ffoulks was condescending to the young sister from Florence, but also very kind: she would bring her small gifts of thimbles or pretty sewing-boxes (not, of course, knowing that Grace had hoped never to see a thimble again). Often Miss Ffoulks would rush off while the gentlemen were still twirling their glasses: she attended many meetings and acquired many pamphlets.
Sometimes Grace thought that her brother liked to have Miss Ffoulks and Mr Palmer there at dinner often, even though many of the other guests were much younger, because they somehow validated him, were witness to how far and how quickly he had risen. (And she would again stare surreptitiously at the two of them, and wonder again if they knew the real extent of her brother’s journey.)
Grace had never sat through such wonderful conversations in her life: they ate and they drank and they spoke of colour and line and painting and disputed warmly of Raphael and Tintoretto, and of Rembrandt’s and Van Dyck’s portraits, and of politics and poetry and war with France and casual stories of royalty - and then always again of paint and oils and canvases and Leonardo and Titian, and Grace thought, I know of Mr Titian, there was a Picture in the Bristol Library by Mr Titian . And always, always too there was talk of money : money in one way or another: Miss Ffoulks criticised the traders of slaves, described black people crowded and
Often too an older woman was present: Philip’s first landlady who had unlocked so many doors for him when he first came to London, Miss Ann Ffoulks. She was a spinster lady of uncertain years and it was in her house in Brook Street that Philip had first lodged. Miss Ffoulks was proprietorial in his rise, and dogmatic in her opinions: she was used to moving in painterly circles and knew Mr Joshua Reynolds, to whose dinners she also presented opinions on occasion. The large white cap on her head had flowing ribbons and the ribbons shook as Miss Ffoulks, who had rather a loud voice, imparted her views to the table not just about art but about the affairs of the day: the new colonies in America for instance, or the iniquities of the slave trade. But Miss Ffoulks knew very much about artistic matters also, and artists: she had travelled with her brother to Europe when he was alive and was one of a few Englishwomen who had seen the Pope’s Sistine Chapel in Rome. She spoke of art auctions and of Michelangelo most knowledgebly but Mr Hartley Pond ignored her at all times, sniffing snuff up into his nose ostentatiously whenever she held forth, to which she paid no mind. Grace thought that, actually, Mr Pond and Miss Ffoulks were rather alike - sharp and knowledgeable and opinionated - but Mr Hartley Pond was the more rude. Grace also noticed that Mr James Burke often teased Miss Ffoulks, who would smile and blush and was obviously fond of him. Miss Ffoulks was condescending to the young sister from Florence, but also very kind: she would bring her small gifts of thimbles or pretty sewing-boxes (not, of course, knowing that Grace had hoped never to see a thimble again). Often Miss Ffoulks would rush off while the gentlemen were still twirling their glasses: she attended many meetings and acquired many pamphlets.
Sometimes Grace thought that her brother liked to have Miss Ffoulks and Mr Palmer there at dinner often, even though many of the other guests were much younger, because they somehow validated him, were witness to how far and how quickly he had risen. (And she would again stare surreptitiously at the two of them, and wonder again if they knew the real extent of her brother’s journey.)
Grace had never sat through such wonderful conversations in her life: they ate and they drank and they spoke of colour and line and painting and disputed warmly of Raphael and Tintoretto, and of Rembrandt’s and Van Dyck’s portraits, and of politics and poetry and war with France and casual stories of royalty - and then always again of paint and oils and canvases and Leonardo and Titian, and Grace thought, I know of Mr Titian, there was a Picture in the Bristol Library by Mr Titian . And always, always too there was talk of money : money in one way or another: Miss Ffoulks criticised the traders of slaves, described black people crowded and
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