Page 43 of The Uprising
George hurried on foot to Cheyne Walk. He’d exited the carriage as they entered Chelsea and walked the rest of the way to enjoy the breath-taking view of the River Thames. Gentle rays of sun skimmed the water and reflected off the river’s surface, bathing the landscape in a comforting golden glow.
What a wonderful photo this would make to show Cara.
As he walked along the river bank, he mused that maybe he should do what Cara suggested, and figure out how to purchase riverfront property. It would be an incredible investment; houses and flats in Chelsea sold for multi-millions of pounds in the present day and were in great demand.
From what he had read briefly on the internet, Turner and his long-time companion and common-law wife, Mrs Sophia Booth, had purchased a little house here so Turner wouldn’t have to keep travelling to Margate to visit her, and they could live a life of quiet anonymity. George hadn’t been able to glean much more in his brief search as it appeared the master-painter had been a secretive man, led a double life, and there appeared to be many versions of what he did, when he did it, and with whom. George was curious to see what the reality would be like, and excited to meet the renowned painter.
He arrived at 6 Davis’s Place hoping to find Mr Turner at home. He need not have feared because the glossy black door stood wide open; perhaps for the couple to enjoy the stunning view of the river that snaked in front of their house.
George was familiar with this area of Chelsea in the present-day where there was now an embankment. In the future, the Davis’s Place address would become part of the prestigious Cheyne Walk.
George rapped on the door and waited. He heard muffled voices and a minute later, a stout, jolly looking woman appeared in the doorway. ‘May I help you, Sir?’
‘Good day, you may indeed.’
‘I am looking for Mr William Turner. Is he at home by any chance?’
Mrs Booth looked surprised, and then said, ‘I’m not sure if he’s available. Who may I say is calling?’
‘My name is Cavendish, Lord George Cavendish, and I’m an ardent admirer of Mr Turner’s work, and am keen to increase my art collection.’
‘Right, I see. You’d better come in.’ She took his hat and coat and ushered him through a small vestibule and into a pleasant, bright front parlour with windows overlooking the Thames. There were flowers in a jug which gave the room a cheery feel. ‘Please bear with me a moment, Lord Cavendish, while I see if Mr Turner is amenable to a visit. He’s not in the best of health, you see.’
‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Please assure him I mean to only keep him for a short while, and I will not waste his time as I am a serious art collector.’
Mrs Booth disappeared for several minutes, and George waited and looked around the room. Contrary to what he had read, Turner lived in extremely comfortable conditions, and there was nothing remotely squalid about this house, if this room was any indication.
George’s eyes were immediately drawn to a painting of what looked like a view of the river from the front window. The master painter had depicted the glorious glowing light which George had admired on his way over. Perhaps his wish for a picture to show Cara would be granted, after all.
A while later, Mrs Booth entered the room with a rattling tray, weighed down by a silver teapot, and three fine china cups.She set her load down on the table carefully, wiped her hands on her apron, and then turned to him and held out her hand which he shook warmly.
‘I’m Mrs Booth, Sophia; it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please excuse the delay, Lord Cavendish; may I offer you some tea while you wait for Mr Turner to join us?’
‘That’s very kind, ma’am; most kind. I’ll take a cup; without milk, please.’
She straightened her frilly bonnet, poured the tea, and presented him with a cup and saucer in her outstretched hand.
‘Mr Turner is most intrigued as to how you knew to locate him at this residence, when his official address and gallery is in Marylebone.’
‘I do hope I’m not intruding, ma’am, as that was not my intention. I made discreet enquiries and was told that the gallery in Marylebone is closed. A gentleman whose name escapes me, was kind enough to give me your address. You may rest assured I will not pass on your whereabouts to anyone, as I quite understand the desire to enjoy a little privacy, being so well known.’
Mrs Booth nodded and sipped her tea. ‘I’m sure he will appreciate your interest;he should be down shortly. He doesn’t move too quickly these days, now he’s getting on, poor Mr Turner, although he is no less gifted with his pictures. Look what he painted the other day, with only his limited paint and brush selection on hand...he grows ever more talented by the year.’
She pointed towards the painting that George had admired.
‘If I’m not mistaken, this glorious work of art depicts the fine view from this very window, is it so, Mrs Booth?’
‘Indeed, it is, Lord Cavendish; he doesn’t work as much now, but he has produced a few fine paintings in the neighbourhood, of late, when he’s been feeling invigorated. There’s another similar one you might like in the other room. Perhaps he would be willing to part with one of those—he doesn’t have much to show here, with most of his work already exhibited in the galleries or adorning the walls of clients.’
George heard the creak of the stairs and the slow shuffle of approaching feet. The door squeaked open to reveal Mr William Turner.
George was excited and rose quickly to offer his hand to Turner but tried to appear nonchalant, as if meeting one of the most famous and celebrated dead painters from two hundred years earlier, was the most natural of events.
‘How do you do, Sir? Thank you for taking my unannounced visit,’ George said. ‘I am grateful and most keen to see your latest work, if you would do me the honour of allowing me to view it.’
‘It’s good to meet you Lord Cavendish, although I’m afraid I have little to show you of my work at this address.’
Mr Turner shuffled towards a chair and sat down with a heavy sigh, as if he might never get up again. ‘What type of painting are you looking for, Lord Cavendish?’
