“Oh, I can’t think that; this is Mr. Angerstein’s collection. No, more likely— Oh, yes, look. See how this patch of sky is quite grey? I think that colour is blue smalt.”
“It is called blue when it is grey,” Nico said. “Naturally.”
“Well, it wouldn’t have been grey originally. It is a pigment made of ground cobalt-blue glass, which gives a marvellous colour, very intense, but it fades terribly over time. I thinksomebody realised it was faded, and touched up the sky with Prussian blue. What a shame.”
“Why so?”
“Prussian blue is an artificial pigment, and the colour is rather flat and somewhat strident to my mind. Lots of people admire it, but I don’t think it has the depth or resonance of blue smalt at all.”
“You know your colours, sir,” came a creaky voice.
Titus looked round to the elderly gentleman. “I beg your pardon, sir. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“Not at all. A pleasure to hear an expert speak. You are an artist? I think you have visited before.”
“I have, yes; it’s such a wonderful collection, it would take years to appreciate it. But I am not an artist. I am—was—a maker of paints. Oil and colourman.”
The old man regarded him with bright eyes. “Is that so. Now, does that make you the fellow who married Whitecross’s daughter?”
Titus flushed. “That’s right. Titus Pilcrow.”
The old man nodded, satisfied. “Then you bought Constable’s picture at the Exhibition, of Hampstead Heath. I had my eye on that.”
“Oh,” Titus said guiltily. “I beg your pardon.”
“Why? You moved faster. I should have made my mind up.”
“Constable has another one in the Exhibition,” Titus offered. “It was very good but not so much to my taste.”
“Of a hay-wain? No, I didn’t think so much of it. Rustic sentimentality, not surprised nobody has bought it. You’re setting up to collect?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir,” Titus said without thinking.
“Why not? You’ve the money, and you’ve an eye. And I’ll tell you what, art is the only thing worth buying. I’ve spent agreat deal of money in my time, and all that was worth spending went to my family or my collection. The first is my life, the second is my legacy, everything else is a lot of nonsense. John Angerstein,” he added. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“The Mr. Angerstein who owns all this?” Titus said faintly.
“Himself. Have you seen my Rembrandt?”
They spent two hours there, in the end. Mr. Angerstein talked them through his collection with the loquacity of an old man and the sharp observation of a formidably intelligent one. A businessman himself, he was quite unconcerned with Titus’s lowly origins or commercially generated wealth. He simply wanted to hear any insights about colours Titus could offer, anything that gave his beloved jewels a new facet.
Titus was walking on air by the time they left, having exchanged expressions of mutual regard and with a standing invitation to return. “Mr. Angerstein,” he said breathlessly. “That is perhaps the finest collection in London for its size. Good heavens. And he actually talked to me.”
“Mon ami, helistenedto you,” Nico said. “You did not say you had bought a picture in the Royal Exhibition.”
“It felt shockingly extravagant,” Titus admitted. “And also not quite real until I have it on my wall, which will not be until the end of the Exhibition. It is worth waiting for: I do think Mr. Constable is remarkable. I hope that was not too tedious for you? I know art is not a particular interest of yours.”
“But you are very much an interest of mine, and I watched you with the greatest pleasure. You are a different man on your own ground. It is a joy to observe.”
“Oh.” Titus could feel his cheeks pink. He found Nico’s confident competence desperately attractive; the idea that Nico might see a similar quality in him felt implausible but quiveringly delightful. And he did know a great deal about paints, and if John Julius Angerstein had listened to him with interest,perhaps it was not so implausible as all that. “Well, pigments are my ground, more than art in general, but Gideon told me I know more than I realise.”
Nico gave a satisfied nod. “I think you find your place.”
“Certainly I should much rather talk to artists than Society people. I understand the point of art, and I’m starting to see how it works, whereas I really can’t say either of those for Society.”
Nico snorted. “Quite. What is the painting you have bought?”
“A landscape of Hampstead Heath. I saw several of Mr. Constable’s pictures of the Lake District and liked them very much, but I felt I should have a London painting first, since I’ve never actually visited the Lakes. Actually, I wanted to ask you about that. I was thinking of taking a house there in August, as you suggested, as a sort of first step to travelling. It seems to be a wonderful inspiration to so many painters, and it would be far pleasanter than London in summer, and I wondered if you would like to come with me. Not if you are occupied with your own business,” he added quickly, as the explosion of daring faded. “I quite understand that you might have all sorts of things to do other than wander round the English countryside. It would be very quiet, and not at all social or lively. Really, it would be just us most of the time.”