Dr Johnson once remarked ‘I hope I have not daubed my fingers’ when congratulated on the omission of certain improper words in his Dictionary. It’s a prevailing notion, Winceworth thought as he passed a glazed fritware vase, expertly rendered to be some monumental ceramic ode to priapism. The idea that vulgarity should not necessarily enter dictionaries unless it can be appreciated on some rarefied, philological level was pretty standard. Some of the objects on display were clearly from antiquity, carefully dusted and polished so that every nook and crevice was shown to greatest effect. Marble figures’ textures had been made to look plashy and dewy by masters of their craft, and the curator tasked with writing exhibition catalogues would be hard-pressed to find synonyms for buxom, straining, lewd, rude and crude.
The artefacts were not limited to sculpture. As Winceworth edged about the room, he glimpsed scenes depicted in frescoes and on terracotta tiles that would make ivory blush. Here was a sketch of two witches delighting in the lack of laundry bills; there a zoetrope of a man finding a delightful new hobby with the assistance of a shoehorn and a pat of butter. It was a raucous, riotous, preposterous collection of anything and everything that could titillate, shock and arouse.
Winceworth looked upon it all with a remote curiosity. Rather than the things that were thronging and dripping and rearing so abundantly in these rooms, it was the people that compelled him to stand and stare. The space was packed, waiters navigating their trays at dangerous and devious angles in order to cross the space. Clearly the 1,500 Mile Society had been just a taster for potential funders of Swansby House – this was another order entirely. It might have been Winceworth’s imagination, but everyone had a predatory gleam in their eye, sly, wild, seeking pleasure and appreciation. The air was heavy with loud laughs and the richest perfumes, and it seemed as if every shoulder he passed was dressed in expensive furs or some filigree or other denoting fashion. Here, under lock and key, the mood was tinged by the spirit of the artefacts and objects in the room.
As Winceworth turned on his axis, vying to take everything in, he saw the partygoers as if in a series of friezes. Here was his colleague Appleton mid-sniff, disporting over a glass of Vin Mariani; here Bielefeld miming something grimly lascivious by a Roman bust in order to impress a ring of young women. He could have been mistaken, so pressed together were their bodies and so doggedly did he have to fight to see over so many jostling shoulders and outstretched arms, but Winceworth thought he even caught sight of Dr Rochfort-Smith across the room. If indeed it was he, the elocutionist’s finger was at another member of the faction’s lips, cooing and guffawing above the sound of the – what, the lute? Mandolin? Oud? Winceworth looked to see the source of the music and recognised the band from the 1,500 Mile Society, their sombre black suits swapped for rich silks and satins.
Everyone’s faces were flushed and their mouths were wet and open. Their heat was set in stark contrast to the cool of the marble and silver artefacts around.
An arm snaked through his.
‘Not quite your scene, perhaps?’ said Sophia, close to his ear.
Winceworth glanced at her. He noted her finery, that she had never looked better and more awful, then looked back at the crowd.
‘You think me prudish.’
‘No,’ she said. She looked a little bored. ‘But I do wonder if you have any words for it all. Not too debauched? Just a hint of bauch? I was speaking to Glossop earlier, about one of your great rivals. He told me that the Encyclopædia Britannica defines “nudities” in painting and sculpture as “denoting those parts of a human figure which are not covered by any drapery, or those parts where the carnation appears”.’
‘I did not think to bring flowers,’ Winceworth said. ‘And you shouldn’t believe everything you read in encyclopaedias.’
‘That being so,’ and Sophia plucked some imagined fluff from Winceworth’s lapel, ‘all of this should bring in a pretty penny for old Gerolf, so we can’t be too picky.’ Sophia moved her head to indicate her fiancé over by the velvet curtain. Frasham was miming the stance of the Laocoön sculpture with a feather boa. ‘Terence has already got a couple of politicians to stump up over a good couple of hundred pounds, and I’m working on an opera director—’
‘You must be very proud.’
‘We make a good team,’ she said.
‘You have said so before.’ Winceworth adjusted his glasses. ‘You also called him a useful idiot.’
‘He moves in such circles here in London, quite charms a whole host of prospective buyers. Excellent for securing money for Frasham, and all the better for making sure I secure some safe ground for myself.’
Winceworth translated, after a pause, ‘You need him for the money.’
She made a dismissive noise. ‘No, no – although, it is not so terrible an addition to his charms.’ Sophia drummed her fingers against her skirts. ‘It is useful to establish a suitable and reputable base for oneself, however, in order to allow various indiscretions and eccentricities to be overlooked. Even if they happen in plain sight!’ She seemed keen to change the subject, not so much out of embarrassment but out of tedium, looking to change the pace or stakes of their conversation. She steered his elbow slightly, repositioning him. ‘Have you heard of the painter Zichy?’ she said, blurting as if on impulse and not wanting to wait for his response. ‘He was a court artist for Tsar Alexander – and on the side did some quite extraordinary sketches of the human form! You understand. Here, look, they’re up on this wall—’
‘I thank you, no.’ Winceworth stood his ground. ‘No.’ She appeared crestfallen. He looked in the direction she had motioned: a ring of excited potential funders were pushing their noses right up against whatever was mounted on the walls, roaring with delighted outrage.
‘Ah. I posed for him, you know.’ Despite himself, Winceworth let out a surprised chirrup, but Sophia went on as if describing the weather. ‘The pieces are quite disgusting but quite wonderful. They’ll come out one day, maybe, when the man is long dead.’
‘I am not quite sure why you have taken me into your confidence on these matters,’ Winceworth said. ‘Other than you enjoy the thrill of scandalising me.’
She relaxed for the first time that evening, speaking with a new energy. ‘That is exactly it! Scandal – yes! Repercussions, getting under the skin of something! But more crucially, yes, as you say, confidence in one another. That’s exactly the word for it – and what I thought when I first met you: here is someone who knows the value of confidences. And I am right, am I not? I sense it on you, smell it on you.’
‘You can trust me,’ Winceworth said. He was beginning to feel something crumble within him, any last vestiges of sureness and forbearance drain away.
‘Terence is no good at that side of things,’ Sophia said. They walked together arm in arm, passed a shelf with an array of obscene netsuke. ‘We were just today talking about the words in English that might best describe his propensity to gossip or pass on someone else’s business. Tittle-tattle, blabber-mouth. Scandalmonger. Great fun, of course,’ she said, sighing, ‘and an enviable swagger to it that I truly do admire, but no notion of confidences.’
‘You have done very well to be in the position to enjoy such things.’