Page 107 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘In my experience,’ Wentworth answered, ‘artists are earthy creatures. Art is toil.’

‘Toil?’ Launde cried in outrage.

‘Surely there is more to it than that?’ Decius asked.

Wentworth shrugged. ‘You’ve heard people like Launde say you must suffer for your art. What you suffer mostly is dirty hands, sweat, sometimes an aching back. Art is a great deal of hard work allied to a modicum of skill.’

There was a general protest at this, and Mr Cowling said, ‘But aren’t there some folk – your great names – who are different? Like – er – your Michelangelo and your Rembrandt. Otherwise, how did they get to be so great?’

‘Simply, they worked very much harder at it,’ said Wentworth.

‘I think Mr Wentworth is trying to be mischievous,’ said Aunt Schofield. ‘You surely don’t suggest that anyone can be taught to be a Michelangelo?’

He bowed to her. ‘I confess I exaggerate a little for effect. But this idea that the artist is some rarefied fellow with ichor in his veins, who sips nectar from the flower of inspiration and sustains himself on manna from the gods . . .’ He shrugged. ‘It gets in the way. I teach in an art school, and the first thing I have to do with any pupil who shows promise is to break down their internal prohibitions, the barriers to thought and expression they’ve learned from their parents and society. They must dig their fingers deep into the soil. They must get grubby. They must be willing to try anything, do anything for their art.’

‘That sounds dangerous,’ Decius said.

‘Yes,’ said Lepida, ‘and aren’t you by that measure still preaching that the artist is different from the ordinary man? Aren’t you, in fact, agreeing with Mr Launde, even if your sustenance is bread and cheese rather than manna from the gods?’

Mawes Morris said gleefully, ‘You have him, my darling! Well said! But I am going to expose your secret, Wentworth, my dear fellow. This dangerous man, this bohemian free spirit, this cocker of snooks at convention, goes home when term ends to Surrey, to a dear little cottage with roses round the door where he keeps a dear little wife and six dear little children with roses in their cheeks!’

‘Not six! You exaggerate,’ said Wentworth, with high good humour. ‘Only four at the last count.’

‘Well, I don’t pretend to know much about art,’ said Mr Cowling, ‘but a cottage and a wife and a quiver of children sounds like a fine outcome, and if Mr Wentworth can get there by painting his pictures, good luck to him!’

John Benson spoke up. ‘We seem to have concentrated on painting, which, with writing, is something we all practise to an extent, but surely we must all agree that music is different.’

The conversation took off in a new direction, and Nina sat quietly and watched the ball being lobbed back and forth with great pleasure. She rather missed this in her ordinary life.

Rose had to flatten herself against the wall to avoid being barged into by the delivery boy from Bowden’s, the grocers, staggering under the weight of a box of dry goods and big with news.

‘There’s such a to-do at Hundon’s!’ he exclaimed, as he erupted into the kitchen and thumped the box down on the long table. ‘I saw when I went past on me bike! There’s been police there and all sorts!’

Rose followed him to the kitchen door, a cold feeling in her stomach.

Mrs Terry said crossly, ‘Don’t put it down there! I’m just about to roll out pastry. Over there on the side table.’

Ivy, one of the kitchen maids, was a better audience. ‘What d’you mean, police?’

‘I saw the police wagon going down the hill. And the cows was making a hullabaloo, like they’d not been milked, and I saw Mr Ogg in the yard talking to that yard boy with the hare lip, and he was wringing his hands like he was ever so upset about something. D’you think Mr Woodrow has been arrested?’

‘Of course he’s not, and don’t you go spreading rumours about,’ Mrs Terry berated him. Rose didn’t hear any more. She ran out of the back door without even putting on her hat and coat.

She half ran, half walked to Hundon’s, consumed with dread. She could hear the cows before she came in sight of the yard. Ogg, the yard man, seemed to be arguing with Beattie Gale, one of the milkmaids, while the other milkers huddled in the doorway, watching. Ogg looked at Rose with hope as she came through the gate. ‘Have you come with a message?’ he asked. ‘From up the house?’

‘No, I’ve not. What’s up with the cows?’

‘Mr Woodrow’s been took away,’ Ogg cried, wringing his hands. ‘And his sister. All over blood, he was, and no orders given. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Milk the cows for a start,’ Rose said impatiently. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘But we’ll have missed the collection,’ Ogg said helplessly.

‘Milk ’em anyway! They’re suffering!’

‘That’s what I said,’ Beattie Gale cried, ‘but Mr Ogg’s hanging back.’

‘Get on and milk ’em, for God’s sake!’ Rose snapped. ‘I can’t stand that noise.’ She had no authority there, but a sure demeanour and a sharp voice went a long way.