“Iam so jealous. I am green with envy and am not ashamed to admit it,” said James.
Timothy Walters picked up a blob of green paint with his brush and flicked it in James’s direction. It fell short and landed with a splat to join the dozens of other paint spots which already dotted the dark wooden floor.
The attic at the top of the Walters’s family town house in Bond Street, where the ‘two Tims’ worked wasn’t overly large, but it was full of light. Timothy Walters’ father had made his vast fortune in trade with the newly minted United States of America and had allowed his son to pursue his painting as a full-time career.
In addition to the two large easels at which the two Tim’s worked, there was a small table where James sketched during his regular visits. The room was cramped but to James it was heaven. A private place in which to sketch, dream, and paint.
“When do you leave for Derbyshire?” he asked.
“Tomorrow. We have some final packing to do, and then we shall be heading off,” replied Smith with a smile.
Walters added another daub of paint to his canvas and kept working. He didn’t seem as happy about the impending journey north as much as his companion was. James looked at Smith, who shrugged.
“My friend here thinks himself in love. And from the miserable look on his face, I would say that the best place he could be right now is as far away from London and the young lady in question as possible.”
“I expect you are right. She won’t see me, so staying in London is torture,” said Walters.
James frowned at the sad look on Walters’ face. It was the same hopeless one that had stared back at him in the mirror earlier that morning.
“You really should come with us. Steal away from your parents and run off to Derbyshire. We all know you have the talent, James; you just need to be able to complete some paintings which you could then sell,” offered Smith.
James snorted. The chances of his father allowing, let alone funding him to wander off to the Marchington Woodlands in order to paint, were somewhere between little and none.
“The position I currently hold at my uncle’s shipping business is about as far as my father will allow me to stray from the path that he has chosen for me,” he replied.
Smith dropped onto the chair opposite James at the table. “You need to speak to his grace. Tell him that this is the passion you want in your life. I never thought my father would agree, but he did.”
James wasn’t going to mention to his friend that having a father who was a well- known and successful musician had helped more than a little in that decision.
“When your father is the Bishop of London, there are certain expectations that society and family place upon you. It is expected of me that I shall follow in my father’s footsteps. The way my life is panning out, my painting will be nothing more than a pastime,” he replied.
Walters set down his paintbrush and turned to James. He held his hands softly together, almost as if he were saying a prayer. “Don’t give up on your dreams. You never know—they might come true. I am still holding out for my love to realize that she and I are destined. This time apart from one another might be just what we need to bring her to her senses.”
Smith gave his friend a dejected look. “Yes, but don’t forget some dreams are that far out of our reach that we really should let them go. Not all dreams become reality.”
“Who is the lady in question?” asked James.
“No one you know,” replied Smith.
James got to his feet and wandered over to where Walters was standing at his easel.
“How did you go with getting Francis Saunders to ask the Prince Regent about our paintings?” asked Walters.
James shook his head. “Not good. One minute, Francis was keen to show him your work; the next thing, he decided he wasn’t. I haven’t been able to ask him why, but I shall have a word when I get a moment.”
Francis had a strong personal connection with the prince and had initially offered to show the future king some of his friends’ work. The Prince Regent was overseeing major renovations to the pavilion at Brighton and had spent a great deal of money acquiring artworks. James had hoped that through Francis, his friends may have been able to sell some of their pieces. But in the past week or so, he had sensed a distinct cooling in Francis’s interest in putting their work in front of Prince George.
“It would be great for our careers if we could get some of our work displayed in the royal pavilion. It would certainly help to secure other patrons.”
James considered the painting which Walters was working on. The subject was a wealthy looking gentleman. James tried not to screw up his nose.
Walters gave him a sideways glance. “Not the most exciting thing I have ever painted, grant you, but it pays good money. And my father does like to see me doing work for patrons in town. You might want to consider picking up some portrait commissions.”
James shook his head. “There is no light or drama in painting people. I want to create major landscape pieces, ones that capture the imagination and have folk thinking they are standing seeing the real thing. No offence, Walters, but if I reach the point where I am painting portraits of ruddy-faced bankers and merchants, I may as well give up. I would rather walk away from my art than paint simply to pay the bills.”
Walters dabbed his brush into the paint once more and leaned in close to the canvas.
“Someday, James, you may well eat those words.”
