Bram steps toward the hall. “That was Jane, Mangan’s wife,” he explains. “She’s chaotic and harassed, but she’d give you her last bowl of stew. Around here that means something. Try not to judge her too quickly.” And without giving me a chance to reply he disappears into the dark depths of the house.

Jane marches back in from the garden dragging two small children with her.

“Bram gone? I was hoping he’d help me bathe George. Wretched dog has candyfloss in its fur as well as ice cream and Mangan won’t allow it back in the house in such a state. Can’t think why not, it’s no stickier than his offspring. Leo, stop wriggling, do. You will be washed,” she insists.

“Does he often do things like that? Help you give the dog a bath and … suchlike?”

“Oh, Bram is a sweetie. Couldn’t wish for nicer. I know he looks very Byronesque, and he does have a tendency to brood if he’s on his own too much, but we see to it he’s kept sociable.” She laughs. “A person does not have a choice in the matter in this house. He’s only been with us a few weeks, but he gets on famously with everyone. And the children adore him.” She shakes her head. “Do you know he had barely set foot in the door, his very first day in London, and I sent him off to retrieve Mangan from that dreadful Mr. Chow Li’s clutches? Not that you’ll know who I’m talking about. Vincent, if you try to bite your brother again there will be consequences.” She strides onward, hauling her reluctant charges with her, but has not entirely vanished into the gloom of the hallway before she calls back over her shoulder. “That’s a tremendously dear man, you know, and such a talented artist. A very rare bird indeed.”

Chapter 7

7.

Bram regards the portrait on the easel in front of him with deepening disappointment. He has been working on it for days, now. He had taken Mangan’s advice and wandered the streets with his sketchbook, seeking inspiration. He has drawn scene after scene of the city: Oxord street shoppers, an overturned milk cart, a flower stall, the Thames at twilight. All interesting subjects, and good material to work with, but nothing that truly stirred him. He persuaded a chestnut seller to come to his studio and be painted, in the hope that a model would be more satisfying to paint directly, rather than working from sketches. The sitter had been patient and stoic, only mentioning once that, as he was still wearing his heavy coat and fingerless mittens, the studio was uncomfortably hot.

At the time Bram had been moderately pleased with the finished picture, but now, only a few days later, it fails to please.