hundred packing crates back from Italy and one of them contained a small and by now discoloured oil painting in a gilt frame.
Because it had been his first gift to Lady Lucia and she had always loved it, he hung it again in the library where the patina of smoke and grime dulled the once-bright colours until the images of the figures became harder and harder to discern.
The First World War came and went, and in passing changed the world. Sir Bryan’s fortune became much depleted as his investments in the Imperial Russian railway stock vanished in 1917. After 1918 Britain had a new social landscape.
The staff diminished, but Millicent Gore stayed. She rose from parlourmaid to under-housekeeper, and from 1921 onwards the housekeeper and only member of inside staff. In the last seven years of his life she looked after the frail Sir Bryan like a nurse and on his death in 1930 he remembered her.
He left her a cottage tenancy for life and a capital sum in trust to provide an income on which she could live modestly.
While the rest of his estate was realized at auction, there was one item not included: a small oil painting. She was very proud of this; it came from a strange place called Abroad, so she hung it in the tiny sitting room of her tied cottage, not far from the open wood-burning range. There it became dirtier and dirtier.
Miss. Gore never married. She busied herself with village and parish works and died in 1965 at the age of five and eighty. Her brother had married and produced a son and he in turn had sired a boy, the old lady’s only great-nephew.
When she died she had little to leave, for the cottage and the capital fund reverted to the estate of her benefactor. But she left the painting to her great-nephew. Thirty-five more years went by until the dirty, stained, crusted old artefact saw the light of day again when it was unwrapped in a musty bedsitter in a back street off Shepherd’s Bush.
On the following morning its owner presented himself at the front desk of the prestigious House of Darcy, fine arts auctioneers and valuers. He clasped a hessian-wrapped package to his chest.
“I understand that you offer a service of valuation to o-> members of the public who may have an item of merit,” he said to the young woman behind the desk. She too took in the frayed shirt and grubby mackintosh. She waved him towards a door marked Valuations. The interior was less lush than the front lobby. There was a desk and another girl. The actor repeated his query. She reached for a form.
“Name, sir?”
“My name is Mr. Trumpington Gore. Now, this painting ...”
“Address?”
He gave it.
“Phone number?”
“Er, no phone.”
She gave him a glance as if he had said that he lacked a head.
“And what is the item, sir?”
“An oil painting.”
Slowly the details, or lack of them, were teased out of him as her expression became more and more weary. Age unknown, school unknown, period unknown, artist unknown, country presumed Italy.
The woman in Valuations had a huge crush on a young blade in Classic Wines and she knew it was the hour of midmorning coffee in the Caffe Uno just round the corner. If this boring little man with his awful little daub would go away, she could slip out with a girlfriend and coincidentally bag the table next to Adonis.
“And finally, sir, what value would you put on it?”
“I don’t know. That was why I brought it in.”
“We must have a valuation from the customer, sir. For insurance purposes. Shall I say a hundred pounds?”
“Very well. Do you know when I may expect to hear?”
“In due course, sir. There is a large number of pieces already in the storeroom waiting to be studied. It takes time.”
It was plain her personal view was that a glance would be enough. God, the junk some people passed over her desk, thinking they had discovered a Ming dish in the lavvy.
Five minutes later Mr. Trumpington Gore had signed the form, taken his copy, left the hessian package and
Because it had been his first gift to Lady Lucia and she had always loved it, he hung it again in the library where the patina of smoke and grime dulled the once-bright colours until the images of the figures became harder and harder to discern.
The First World War came and went, and in passing changed the world. Sir Bryan’s fortune became much depleted as his investments in the Imperial Russian railway stock vanished in 1917. After 1918 Britain had a new social landscape.
The staff diminished, but Millicent Gore stayed. She rose from parlourmaid to under-housekeeper, and from 1921 onwards the housekeeper and only member of inside staff. In the last seven years of his life she looked after the frail Sir Bryan like a nurse and on his death in 1930 he remembered her.
He left her a cottage tenancy for life and a capital sum in trust to provide an income on which she could live modestly.
While the rest of his estate was realized at auction, there was one item not included: a small oil painting. She was very proud of this; it came from a strange place called Abroad, so she hung it in the tiny sitting room of her tied cottage, not far from the open wood-burning range. There it became dirtier and dirtier.
Miss. Gore never married. She busied herself with village and parish works and died in 1965 at the age of five and eighty. Her brother had married and produced a son and he in turn had sired a boy, the old lady’s only great-nephew.
When she died she had little to leave, for the cottage and the capital fund reverted to the estate of her benefactor. But she left the painting to her great-nephew. Thirty-five more years went by until the dirty, stained, crusted old artefact saw the light of day again when it was unwrapped in a musty bedsitter in a back street off Shepherd’s Bush.
On the following morning its owner presented himself at the front desk of the prestigious House of Darcy, fine arts auctioneers and valuers. He clasped a hessian-wrapped package to his chest.
“I understand that you offer a service of valuation to o-> members of the public who may have an item of merit,” he said to the young woman behind the desk. She too took in the frayed shirt and grubby mackintosh. She waved him towards a door marked Valuations. The interior was less lush than the front lobby. There was a desk and another girl. The actor repeated his query. She reached for a form.
“Name, sir?”
“My name is Mr. Trumpington Gore. Now, this painting ...”
“Address?”
He gave it.
“Phone number?”
“Er, no phone.”
She gave him a glance as if he had said that he lacked a head.
“And what is the item, sir?”
“An oil painting.”
Slowly the details, or lack of them, were teased out of him as her expression became more and more weary. Age unknown, school unknown, period unknown, artist unknown, country presumed Italy.
The woman in Valuations had a huge crush on a young blade in Classic Wines and she knew it was the hour of midmorning coffee in the Caffe Uno just round the corner. If this boring little man with his awful little daub would go away, she could slip out with a girlfriend and coincidentally bag the table next to Adonis.
“And finally, sir, what value would you put on it?”
“I don’t know. That was why I brought it in.”
“We must have a valuation from the customer, sir. For insurance purposes. Shall I say a hundred pounds?”
“Very well. Do you know when I may expect to hear?”
“In due course, sir. There is a large number of pieces already in the storeroom waiting to be studied. It takes time.”
It was plain her personal view was that a glance would be enough. God, the junk some people passed over her desk, thinking they had discovered a Ming dish in the lavvy.
Five minutes later Mr. Trumpington Gore had signed the form, taken his copy, left the hessian package and
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