Free Sir William by David Stacton Page B

uncle’s wife was dead.
    “Good news, what, Charles?” said Towneley, in his best poke-a-stick-at-a-hedgehog way.
    Greville curled into himself.
    “I mean, since you are the favored nephew, no doubt you will inherit his wife’s estates, given he does not marry again and produce young.” Sir William was not only a doting uncle, he was also a childless man.
    Greville did not consider this remark well-bred. It smacked of the frank.
    “He is coming to England.”
    “In that case you will be making a trip to Wales, Iexpect,” said Towneley. “Lady Hamilton’s estates are in Wales, are they not?”
    Greville curled tighter than ever. Towneley was amused. When he was a boy, a gamekeeper had once given him a hedgehog which he had fed sweet milk from a tube, and in time it, too, had uncurled and eventually died. Towneley, who like most eunuchs, was afflicted with immortality, poured the sherry—a plump, complacent Jupiter, with money of his own.
    “He is bringing, I believe, a vase.”
    Greville was alarmed. “That is not a matter to be spoken of.”
    “Like what song the Sirens sang, and what name Hercules took among women? Alcmene, I expect; he was a mother’s boy and stuck with the heel of memory, like a crust of old bread. But I would like to see the vase.”
    He saw the vase. He always saw everything, for his principles were sound; when you cannot wheedle, threaten and—if possible—do both, for the best doors are not only closed, but have two locks.
    So one day Emma saw from her window a tall, lean gentleman who looked very like Greville, but a Greville made out of some more durable material—say bronze—accompanied by Greville and a packing case, descend from a carriage in front of her door. Since she had been told not to come downstairs until summoned, all she knew about him for the time being was that the two men went into the library and closed the door.
    She was late for Mr. Romney, and had no desire to linger; if that was Sir William, she already had heard enough about him to be terrified. He was, said Greville, a very grand personage: a Knight of the Bath, a Minister Plenipotentiary, a man of impeccable taste, a member of the Royal Society, an Intimate of Royalty, an expert alike upon Correggio and Vesuvius. He played the flute and ate young women raw, and what on earth was she to say to him, and should she curtsy?
    *
    “Oh, George, George, I do get so tired of nothing but ladies and gentlemen!” she said. If it was not a cri de coeur , it was most certainly a cri de cour. If one does not know French properly, one can form these puns.
    “The expression is perfect; don’t budge,” said Romney, and sketched rapidly. He had discovered that the knowledge that she could hold a pose made it easier for him to work fast.
    “And what am I to be this time, George?”
    Romney looked at his canvas. “Cassandra,” he decided, “for no one would listen to her then, and I have not the time to listen to you now.”
    It was a circular portrait, to fit Hayley’s wainscoting, and one of the best things he had ever done. And what was more, here he was right now, in front of the easel, doing it spontaneously, without the need to plan it in advance. It was a Cassandra, however, eager, dubious, young; without one prophecy as yet fulfilled; hurt by childhood perhaps, but not as yet, thank goodness, by life.
    “Emma, may the Gods keep you as you are,” he said, brushing busily.
    She seemed puzzled. She did not understand. It was just that added nuance needed to show Cassandra when young, for the young are always puzzled. He set it down.
    Jumping from the dais, she came to watch.
    “Why, George, that’s how I used to look. Now how did you ever guess that?”
    He felt a pang, for it was true. She was growing up. She would never again look the way she used to look. He must hurry to catch it.
    “And how do you think you look now?” he asked. “Look around and show me.” He waved a marl stick at the studio.
    In