Free Gillespie and I by Jane Harris

neither wealth nor noblesse on her side. And yet, here Ned was, striving to create works of art, despite his unfavourable circumstances and background. I was prompted to wonder how many others there were, like him: gifted young men, whose talents were left to rot for want of money and opportunity. I also could not help but reflect on others of my acquaintance who, despite wealth and every advantage, had accomplished nothing meaningful. Ned, at least, was creating something of worth with his talent. My heart went out to him and, that evening, as I sat alone in my rooms, I found myself reflecting on the terrible unfairness of the world.

4
    Having given the matter some thought, I decided to see what could be done to help this Ned Gillespie, this talented young man. It was the least I could do, and would involve little or no hardship on my part. Clearly, a number of factors stood between him and real success. From our conversation in the park, I had deduced that, for financial reasons, he was forced to churn out ‘popular’ pictures, instead of indulging his own, more interesting, creativity. I also suspected that he was rather at the mercy of his charming, but unruly, family, who must surely have been a great distraction from his craft, especially since his studio was in the attic of his home. Lastly, it was obvious that he lacked a circle of influence: the friends in high places that tend to make life easier for many artists. Poor Ned had no such advantage, and I had an inkling that he was neither mercenary nor calculating enough to cultivate influential or moneyed acquaintances.
    Before retiring that evening, I composed a letter to my stepfather, Ramsay Dalrymple, who resided just north of Helensburgh, a town not far from Glasgow. My feeling was that I ought, at least, to bring Ned to his attention. As far as I was aware, Ramsay was not particularly interested in Fine Art, but he was a wealthy man, and there was always the chance that he might be persuaded to buy a painting or two. Moreover, I felt that he was bound to be acquainted with some of the West of Scotland’s ‘Establishment’ figures, perhaps even from within the art world itself, connections the like of which might prove useful to a young painter.
    In my letter, I proposed to visit him on Wednesday, provided that this met with his approval. No reply was forthcoming, but this was no surprise, as I was well aware that Ramsay disliked letter writing. Indeed, since he had moved away from London, after separating from my mother—and although I had written to him, several times, every year—he had sent me only a handful of brief notes in reply. These days, he rarely left his estate, and I myself had been so busy in the previous few weeks (what with the Exhibition, and my new friends, and so on), that I had yet to inform him of my arrival in Glasgow. Notwithstanding his dislike of correspondence, had he not wished me to call upon him at home, I presumed that he would have conveyed as much to me, if only by telegraph. Therefore, on Wednesday morning, having heard nothing to the contrary, I took the train to Helensburgh.
    Perhaps I should explain that Ramsay was my mother’s second husband. My real father, a captain in the Fusiliers, was killed at the Battle of Alma, in 1854, the year after I was born. A year later, my mother remarried and—perhaps because I was so young at the time—I had always thought of Ramsay as my ‘papa’, even though he was often a rather distant figure.
    But that is by the bye. As I was explaining, on Wednesday, I set out to visit my father—that is to say, my stepfather (perhaps, for the sake of clarity, I should refer to him thus, from now on). The day was wet, and cold for late May. Unfortunately, I must have been sickening for something, because I began to feel light-headed at the railway station, and became so queasy on the train that I thought that I might even have to disembark a few stops