chained into dangerous ships and carried across the world for money ; Mr Hartley Pond spoke of bringing foreign paintings to Britain and selling them for money ; and Filipo di Vecellio spoke often of the money he could now earn for one portrait. Money, money, money : always it was there, at the edges of the conversations. And the welcoming table was arranged, and looked over, and the curtains and shutters drawn if it was cold, and the candles lit if the afternoon light faded, by Grace Marshall of Bristol disguised as the signorina.
And Grace had hardly been in London three months when the bad-tempered (so it was said) old German King of England died. Miss Ffoulks said briskly across the table that it would be hypocritical to mourn such a man, spoke of his brutish German manner. ‘However: he did encourage the wonderful Mr Handel so that we should be privy to his glorious music,’ she said. ‘That is to the deceased man’s good, but not much more.’
Signore Filipo di Vecellio was now so very well connected that he had managed something his mother would have swooned over: an invitation from one of his noble sitters (a somewhat raddled Duke) to Westminster Abbey, to the Coronation of the Grandson, of the new young King. To Filipo’s surprise the invitation was firmly extended to the young sister also (the noble Duke having noticed the attractive girl several times, there in the shadows of the studio). There was quite a flurry over the dinner table in St Martin’s Lane as guests like John Palmer (a declared anti-monarchist) nevertheless supported Miss Ffoulks (a fellow Republican) who suggested a further new silk gown for Francesca, and even Mr Hartley Pond (a great supporter of the Monarchy) showed interest in the invitation.
‘I shall paint the solemn scene!’ cried Filipo di Vecellio, waving his glass.
‘I thought you despised Epic Painting!’ shouted John Palmer, holding a bottle aloft.
‘There would be money in this Epic Painting!’ retorted his friend. ‘Think of the number of prints!’
Mr Hartley Pond cried, ‘An English-born King, another Monarch born in our own dear land at last!’ and Miss Ffoulks raised her eyebrows in amusement and caught the young girl’s eye and Francesca di Vecellio’s dark eyes sparked with delight and a hairdresser attended the morning of the great day and wove flowers into her long dark hair.
The coronation of the young, earnest King George III of England, with his seventeen-year-old foreign bride of two weeks at his side, was a splendid event and certainly to be celebrated: the populace turned out in their thousands to join in such an auspicious occasion. Many people were in particular desirous of catching a glimpse of the new bride, Charlotte: it was rumoured she was dowdy - surely not - a glimpse must be obtained! They crowded the streets along the route and were then treated to the most splendid sight of complete chaos at one moment, as several coaches and carriages of the attending Nobility collided and teetered and crashed and fell in one glorious mêlée on the road to Westminster Abbey.
‘God Save the King!’ cried the less noble onlookers in delight as great bangs and collisions and screams filled the air. Bottles of best champagne from the crashed coaches rolled into open sewers where they were eagerly retrieved by the crowds; ‘God Save the King!’ they yelled again as the gowns of several ladies of the nobility unravelled in an unimaginable and most entertaining manner and dogs and horses went quite berserk.
Filipo di Vecellio and his sister Francesca had had the good sense to walk from St Martin’s Lane, arriving on time but rather dusty and crowd-battered; on the way Philip had spoken yet again to his sister, very seriously, about how she must be pleasing to their noble host so that even more noble commissions would be forthcoming. The Duke, already ensconced, kissed the pretty sister’s hand and plied them with champagne and cold chicken from a
And Grace had hardly been in London three months when the bad-tempered (so it was said) old German King of England died. Miss Ffoulks said briskly across the table that it would be hypocritical to mourn such a man, spoke of his brutish German manner. ‘However: he did encourage the wonderful Mr Handel so that we should be privy to his glorious music,’ she said. ‘That is to the deceased man’s good, but not much more.’
Signore Filipo di Vecellio was now so very well connected that he had managed something his mother would have swooned over: an invitation from one of his noble sitters (a somewhat raddled Duke) to Westminster Abbey, to the Coronation of the Grandson, of the new young King. To Filipo’s surprise the invitation was firmly extended to the young sister also (the noble Duke having noticed the attractive girl several times, there in the shadows of the studio). There was quite a flurry over the dinner table in St Martin’s Lane as guests like John Palmer (a declared anti-monarchist) nevertheless supported Miss Ffoulks (a fellow Republican) who suggested a further new silk gown for Francesca, and even Mr Hartley Pond (a great supporter of the Monarchy) showed interest in the invitation.
‘I shall paint the solemn scene!’ cried Filipo di Vecellio, waving his glass.
‘I thought you despised Epic Painting!’ shouted John Palmer, holding a bottle aloft.
‘There would be money in this Epic Painting!’ retorted his friend. ‘Think of the number of prints!’
Mr Hartley Pond cried, ‘An English-born King, another Monarch born in our own dear land at last!’ and Miss Ffoulks raised her eyebrows in amusement and caught the young girl’s eye and Francesca di Vecellio’s dark eyes sparked with delight and a hairdresser attended the morning of the great day and wove flowers into her long dark hair.
The coronation of the young, earnest King George III of England, with his seventeen-year-old foreign bride of two weeks at his side, was a splendid event and certainly to be celebrated: the populace turned out in their thousands to join in such an auspicious occasion. Many people were in particular desirous of catching a glimpse of the new bride, Charlotte: it was rumoured she was dowdy - surely not - a glimpse must be obtained! They crowded the streets along the route and were then treated to the most splendid sight of complete chaos at one moment, as several coaches and carriages of the attending Nobility collided and teetered and crashed and fell in one glorious mêlée on the road to Westminster Abbey.
‘God Save the King!’ cried the less noble onlookers in delight as great bangs and collisions and screams filled the air. Bottles of best champagne from the crashed coaches rolled into open sewers where they were eagerly retrieved by the crowds; ‘God Save the King!’ they yelled again as the gowns of several ladies of the nobility unravelled in an unimaginable and most entertaining manner and dogs and horses went quite berserk.
Filipo di Vecellio and his sister Francesca had had the good sense to walk from St Martin’s Lane, arriving on time but rather dusty and crowd-battered; on the way Philip had spoken yet again to his sister, very seriously, about how she must be pleasing to their noble host so that even more noble commissions would be forthcoming. The Duke, already ensconced, kissed the pretty sister’s hand and plied them with champagne and cold chicken from a
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