He had come no nearer to a solution two days later when he went to call on Miss Whitecross.
She was one of his most lucrative clients: an elderly lady of immense wealth, and an amateur painter of limited talent who used supplies with wild abandon. As an artisan who put a lot of hard work into the colours she splashed about so wastefully, Titus found that somewhat grating. As a shopkeeper, he could only applaud.
Her latest order was for brown pink, vermilion, ultramarine, orpiment, and violet lake. It was a large and costly set of paints, and she would probably interrogate him on whether he had adulterated the vermilion with cheap red lead. Miss Whitecross was a suspicious woman who liked to feel that she was up to every rig and row. Titus had realised early on that her frequent accusations of dishonesty sprang rather from her own fears than any real doubt of him, and he had learned not to take offence. He feared he might struggle to find the necessary patience today, but he needed the money.
Her house was in Carey Street, not far from Titus’s shop. It was a wide and airy street that skirted the Inns of Court, a very pleasant address but decidedly not one for a fashionable lady. Miss Whitecross made no claim to that. Her father had made his money in manufacturing and she wore her lineage with pride rather than trying to disavow the taint of industry. She dressed and lived well, but she had never aspired to move westwards, where the height of the Ton was based, and her house was spacious without grandeur.
Titus pulled the bell. The door was answered by a worried-looking butler.
“Hello, Mr. Thorpe. Is all well?”
“Mr. Pilcrow?” the butler said blankly. “What is it?”
“I’ve an order for Miss Whitecross. Is something wrong?”
“She’s not well. You can’t see her.”
Oh, no no no. It was a four-guinea order because of the expensive materials. He couldn’t lose four guineas now. “I’m sorry to hear it, but—well, it is a very big order. Would tomorrow—”
“No,” Mr. Thorpe said, the word heavy. “She… she had a fall yesterday. She went right down the stairs, and her hip is broken. It doesn’t look good.”
“Oh, heavens. I’m so sorry.” Titus was, truly, for a woman he liked despite her obstreperous ways; selfishly, the loss of a good customer was one more blow in a week that was already quite bad enough. He glanced down at his expensive parcel with regret. The paints would last a little while in their bladders; perhaps he could find a buyer while also finding a new shop. His heart sank at the thought, but it couldn’t be helped. “I won’t disturb you further. Please pass her my very best wishes, and I will pray for her recovery.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pilcrow. That’s very gen—” The butler stopped dead, mouth open.
“Mr. Thorpe?”
“Yes. Yes. Would you have a moment to come in? Just for a short while. I, uh, may be able to get you the money.”
“Oh, don’t trouble her with that now,” Titus said, heart overriding brain. “Really, her health is far more important.”
“Please, Mr. Pilcrow,” Mr. Thorpe said, sounding positively urgent. “Half an hour of your time, that’s all. The mistress would want it.”
Titus followed him inside. It felt horribly intrusive, as though he were dunning a woman on her deathbed, but Mr. Thorpe had been with Miss Whitecross forever. If he thought it would make her feel better to pay a bill, he was doubtless right.
Mr. Thorpe showed him into the parlour and disappeared.He remained absent for so long that Titus began to feel quite uncomfortable. He didn’t have anything to read or a pencil with which to scribble, so he sat, bored and uncertain, on a spindly chair too small for the well-sized room, surrounded by little tables bearing china vases and statuettes and dishes, and some truly dreadful watercolours on the walls, which he recognised as being perpetrated by his hostess.
The room had a good high ceiling, large windows. If it were his house, Titus would hang oils in here. Then he thought about Miss Whitecross’s oil paintings and felt relieved she hadn’t.
Well, it was her home so her taste ruled. And Titus could only respect a level of self-esteem that allowed its possessor to decideMy work is worth displayingin the teeth of the evidence. He hadn’t pinned a scribble of his to the wall since he was a child, making sketches and showing them to his brothers. That had been “drawing attention to himself” or “giving himself airs,” cardinal sins for the younger Pilcrows and strongly discouraged.
There were footsteps and muffled voices in the hall, but nobody came in. Titus wondered if he’d been forgotten. He wondered why Mr. Thorpe had felt it necessary to bring him in. He wondered about his shop.
Out by the end of the month. He wouldn’t find new premises without closing up his current place and dedicating himself to the search, but that would cost him business he couldn’t afford to lose. Maybe a fellow colourman might lend him an apprentice? But that would take time to arrange, and it would all need to be done so quickly, and he hated to be rushed. It flustered him, and he always seemed to do the wrong thing when he was flustered.
He had no choice. If he didn’t find somewhere, he would soon have neither shop nor home.
What would he do if he couldn’t find new premises in time? Where would he put his tools and supplies? He had friends who would give him a space to sleep, but he couldn’t bring his many boxes of poisons and powders into people’s houses. He might have to sell off some of his stock or tools, but if he did that, clawing his way back would be even harder. He’d seen all too often the frightening speed with which people could fall from comfort to destitution; one bad accident or stroke of misfortune could send you sliding inexorably downwards. The void was yawning beneath his feet.
He was wondering whether he could appeal to his brother for help, and if there was any chance the appeal would be heard, when the door opened and Mr. Thorpe came in.
The butler was wearing an extraordinary expression, something almost like excitement. “Please come upstairs, Mr. Pilcrow. She wants to see you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Please. This way.”
Titus gave a mental shrug and followed him. Perhaps Miss Whitecross wasn’t so badly hurt after all. That would be good.