The Sensational Mr Danby

By S.R. Montague

The year is 1828, and the city of London is shaken by a sensational scandal. Everybody is talking about it. Emotions are running high; outrage from some, passionate support from others. There are women fainting, newspaper articles reporting on it, public debates discussing it.

The cause of it all was one painting: ‘The Opening of the Sixth Seal’ by the Irish artist Francis Danby. It was being displayed at the Royal Academy and was so popular that it had to be hung in a separate room because of the crowds queuing to see it. Everyone wanted a glance of this infamous painting.

The focus of the furore was the minute figure of a slave in the vast painting. It ignited fire into the issue of anti-slavery, which was dividing London society. It brought the debate on slavery in the British Empire to the forefront of social consciousness.

This work of historical fiction takes these real events and follows four people whose lives become caught up in the drama caused by Francis Danby and his painting. We witness the artist and the events through the very different perspectives of these characters.

There is HANNAH: the illiterate country maid who becomes Francis’ wife and endures a tumultuous relationship with her husband.

There is ELLEN: the educated mistress of Francis, whose love for him makes her agree to live with his family as governess to his children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.R. Montague
• Release date: Jul 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310663659

S.R. Montague

S.R. Montague lives in Dublin, Ireland and is an art historian and writer.

Book preview

Chapter One - Hannah

A large but rather shabby country house, on the outskirts of Bristol, in the south-west of England, stood in a lonely field with a dirt track approaching it. The flickering light of candles and lit fires glowed from the windows into the darkness that had fallen around it. A scrawny dog scratched and howled at the door but none of the occupants heard it from within the warmth of the thick stonewalls. The noise of men shouting and laughing could be heard in one room, and the excited whispers of female maids in another. The maids were trying to decide who would serve the rowdy men their cider, and encounter the stranger in their midst. It was a rare occurrence for the house to have a guest, let alone a young man. All of them wanted to be the one to go into the room of men, but were making great pretence of the opposite. Such a fuss was being made, that after a few minutes of listening to them, Hannah, the youngest of the maids, took the large jug and marched into the next room before another word could be said.

She hadn’t seen the stranger yet, this exotic Irish artist that they were all besotted with. She had been staying with her mother, who had been ill, and had only just returned to the house. The others told her that this handsome man had come to stay a few days before to do some portraits of the family. She wondered why on earth anyone would want to make a lasting record of the ugliness of the master of the house. He would have to be a very good artist to make him look anyway decent, she thought.

When she entered the room, she saw straightaway the man in question, this ‘sensational’ Mr. Danby. Although she only managed to have a quick glance, she wasn’t impressed. The other maids had raved about how good-looking he was, with a glimmer in his eye and a lovely smile, and with an accent like they’d never heard before. A deep voice, with words that flowed into each other, soothing to the ear, they said.

Well, she’d seen more handsome, she thought. The eldest son of the house was better looking, in her opinion, and he’d been keen on her for a while now. He chased her around the house when he knew his father was out, told her everything she wanted to hear about setting her up in a fine house and gave her flowers that he’d picked in the garden, said they were as pretty as her. She had blushed, and avoided his groping hands the first few times he had advanced on her, but she had enjoyed the attention, and the firmness of his body when he pressed himself up against her. The other girls had warned her not to let him have his way with her, that he wouldn’t do right by her. But she had closed her ears to them. She told herself that they were only jealous because he wasn’t chasing them.

She didn’t realise that he had chased them all at one point or another. That he had told them all the same pretty words, the same promises, the same kisses and caresses. Until he got what he wanted. Then that was that. He barely even seemed to notice that you existed then. Wouldn’t raise his eyes when you set his breakfast down in front of him in the morning. He offered you everything, and then snatched it all away.

She felt her stomach beneath her rough cotton dress, her hands coarse and red from scrubbing the bed sheets earlier that day. She could feel where her belly rose out slightly, the hardness of it, not like soft flesh from eating too much, but rounded, firm, solid. She wondered had the other girls noticed yet. She had tried to keep her dress loose from her body, to stand with her arms crossed in front of her, but she couldn’t hide the sickness in the morning, her tossing and turning in the night, from girls who all slept, ate, and lived their entire lives within inches of her.

Mary, one of the other maids, had hinted at some weeds she had heard of that you could make into a soup and swallow it all down, and it would stop the baby growing, and make it come out of you, small and dead. She knew that there was a woman in the village that other girls had gone to with these kinds of matters and she had helped them. Yet, she didn’t go, and she didn’t ask Mary to find some of the weeds for her. Even though she knew she couldn’t have this baby and keep working in the house, that she would be thrown out as soon as they knew, even though the child would be one of their own. Her mother would rant at her, mock her for her stupidity, tell her that her father would have beaten her if he were still alive.

Even still, she couldn’t bear the thought of seeing it coming out of her, still and not breathing. It was part of her now, and she liked the thought that someone was completely dependent on her. If she stopped breathing, it couldn’t breath, if she didn’t eat, it would go hungry. She finally meant something. She would do what she had to do, whatever it took.

So when she went into that room to serve more cider to those men, she held her head high and didn’t even glance at the master’s son, even though he touched her arm as she walked past him. She set the jug down on the large wooden table and turned to leave.

‘Where are you running off to? Pour the guests their drinks,’ the Master shouted to her and said something that she couldn’t quite catch to the other men. They all roared laughing, doubling over, spitting cider onto the floor from their gaping mouths, their faces red and shiny in the glow of the lamps placed in front of them.

She moved back over to the table, reluctantly, feeling their eyes on her, on her body. She moved her arm protectively in front of her stomach but then realised that she needed both hands to support the weight of the jug filled to the brim with golden liquid. The sweetness of it filled her nostrils, made her nearly cough with the heaviness of the alcohol in the air. But she suppressed it, and walked cautiously over to the Master. She filled his glass quickly, he talked loudly over her, and she hastened to get out of the way. The second glass was that of the Master’s son, who, when she stood in front of him, stared straight into her face. Those eyes, that only several weeks ago she had found so handsome and kind, now seemed leering and mean.

‘Come to my room later,’ he whispered to her, and winked.

She turned quickly from the heat of his face, shaking from his strong intent, his lack of discretion when his father was in the room. She turned to fill the next glass, and it was that of the Irish visitor. Her eyes stayed on the glass, her hands would not stay still, and the liquid slopped and spilled onto his lap.

‘Good God, watch what you’re doing, you’re spilling it everywhere,’ he shouted out and in a moment the Master grabbed the jug from her hands, wrenching her arm with his other hand.

‘Wait till I’ve finished with you,’ he snarled, as he pushed her forcefully across the room. She went flailing forward, her feet gone from beneath her, her arms reaching out to soften her fall, she closed her eyes and waited to hit the hard floor. Her thoughts were full of the baby inside her. But instead of painful impact, two soft but firm hands appeared around her, gently pulling her upwards, and set her down. She opened her eyes and peered up at the face of the Irishman, who had seated her on his lap.

‘No harm done. It was my own fault for not holding the glass still,’ he said, his arm wrapped around her, holding her still to him. She was still shaking slightly and he raised his own glass to her lips and let her gulp down some of the warm cider until her breathing calmed. She let the drunken shouts of the men’s conversation wash over her. Waves of his warm breath hit her face, heavy with drink. She could still feel the wetness of the spilled cider beneath her on the man’s lap, but she didn’t want to move from the safety of his arms. He saved me, she thought. He saved me now, and he’ll save me again.

They were married a few weeks later. On a morning of misty rain and a strong wind, which howled through the small, local church keeping their sole guest, her mother, company as she sniffled exuberantly into her handkerchief. The bride’s dress had been loosened around the waist to accommodate the swelling stomach, which she still had not mentioned to her mother. Yet the daughter kept feeling her mother’s eyes resting upon it. The groom was conscious of it also, and had momentary hesitations as he stood at the alter as to whether he would regret marrying this young bride who he barely knew and with a baby inside her which was much too large already to be his own. She had assured him the morning after the night of the spilled cider, when he woke to find her beside him, not quite sure how she had come to be there, that everything was fine. But then, when he was leaving the next day to board the ship back to Ireland, she had chased him down the laneway from the house, weeping, clinging to him, telling him that he could not leave for she was carrying his child.

He was no fool, but he had a strange sense of admiration for this shrewd little rodent of a girl who thought she was deceiving him. He was impressed by the theatricality of it all, the farcical story in which he became a prince of chivalry protecting the honour of this wretched girl. He had an elevated sense of himself as an artist, and of the artist’s grand role in the world, and this noble act, this fairy-tale style experience, seemed to fit in perfectly with this notion. He also liked to think that he was a progressive, modern man who could be swept along by the momentum of life, embracing all that it threw at him.

So, it was this double-bluff scenario that initiated Hannah and Francis’ life together. Not the most romantic start to a union, but it allowed Hannah the chance to keep her baby and also raised her to a more comfortable life than she had had as a maid. It was also the reason why Francis stayed in Bristol instead of returning to his native Ireland. The couple set themselves up in a house in the town, which was rather larger than they could afford, and spent rather more than Francis was making through his painting. They fought like cat and dog, as resentment grew and flourished in their home. And love was largely absent, except for that felt for the baby boy, who was born healthy and strong and was named James Francis.

Chapter Two - Edward

A few years later, in a much larger house, on one of the most desirable streets in London, a man of sixty-five sat in a room with a roaring fire and all the fine trappings and luxuries of wealth surrounding him. He sat on a leather armchair, the review of his latest book on the newspaper page in front of him. His head rested in his hands, his elbows on the table, he felt like crying. The words of the review ran through his head: ‘whimsical’, ‘old-fashioned’, ‘silly’, ‘self-indulgent blathering of an old man’. He rubbed his temples, trying to alleviate the heaviness he felt there, and was surprised at the deep crevices of wrinkled skin his fingers felt. He went to the mirror above the mantelpiece. He hadn’t looked at himself in a mirror like this for a long time, really looked at himself. He was shocked to see an old man. A saggy, wrinkled mass of skin covered his face, pale and sallow from a lack of fresh air. A double chin, hanging joules, flesh plumped with the excesses of a rich diet. All sitting on rounded shoulders clad in the finest attire, a silk scarf tied at his neck: an attempt at fashion, which now appeared comical to him. His dark blue eyes, always his best feature in his own opinion, seemed small beneath the overhang of skin, swallowed in the face of gluttony.

‘How has this happened?’ he asked himself. Time had flowed unwittingly by, etching it’s cruel passing on his face. His view of himself as a highly regarded writer and a handsome man had come crashing down in a matter of minutes; the debris of his reputation fell around his feet. Life had seemed so generous to him, he had enjoyed wealth, success, had two lovely daughters. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t noticed the mounting years very much, or with great alarm, because he presumed that death would only elevate his status more highly. He always had this idea that he would be immortalised through his books and collections of poems. He often imagined his obituary in the newspaper, resplendent in it’s praise for him, sorrowful in the loss of such a literary Great.

But now that it seemed as if that vision might not be a reality, his heart began to pump frantically, his palms became sweaty, he felt dizzy, on the verge of throwing up, he stumbled over to a chair and sank down into it. His life had been wasted. He had contributed nothing of significance. He would be forgotten. Now death seemed to loom before him, it’s cavernous mouth waiting to envelope him into its depths, creeping closer and closer. He was not ready to go. He needed more time to prove himself. He had to do something to rectify his reputation.

He sat for hours in this agitated state, trying to think of a way to redeem himself, a piece of work that would get people’s attention. He wondered about the mood of change that was hanging heavy in the air throughout England, the mood that was casting out the old, like him, and bringing in a new way of thinking. He needed to be part of it. He needed to show people that he was not some old relic, but part of this modern age of progression.

Thoughts ran through his head of what people had been talking about at his wife’s dinner party the night before. His wife has been ridiculing him in front of their guests as a form of entertainment, as usual, and flirting outrageously with any man that was foolish enough to glance her way. Edward had tried to escape her embarrassing behaviour. He knew that he should assert his authority as the man of the house, but he did not have the energy. He hovered over to the younger crowd where a number of young men, friends of his daughters, were having animated conversation. He knew their type; they were involved in campaigning for political issues, all very reactionary against the established hierarchy, passionate about every cause that caught their eye. Normally he wouldn’t have listened to them at all, but they were getting very heated and excited about something in particular, and there had been a humming of gossip around the room, some of agreement and some of disapproval, but everyone seemed to be talking about the same thing. It was as if a fever had gripped London society. And it was all caused by some Irish painter by the name of Francis Danby.

He wished he had paid more attention to the details. He knew that the scandal was about some painting by this Danby man and that it was being displayed at the Royal Academy as part of the annual exhibition. The name of it had gone completely out of his head. He couldn’t even remember what the painting was of, but the word that had been on everyone’s lips was ‘slavery’.

Slavery was not really an issue that concerned Edward. Although he knew it was a sensational and popular topic amongst most people he knew, he failed to see how it concerned him. They had outlawed slavery in Britain back in 1808, and it was only in faraway parts of the British Empire that it was still common. So unless it was the question of whether or not he had a slave of his own, in his own house, he couldn’t comprehend why he should have an opinion on it. What difference did it make to him if these people thousands of miles away were treated in a particular way?

Despite his indifference, he had an idea that this painting could be an opportunity for him to salvage his career. Perhaps he could write a book about the artist, the painting, the scandal, the whole thing. People would lap it up. They would realise that he still had the ability to prove his worth, that he could write about something current, instead of his favourite subject of long-deceased poets.

He picked up the paper and leafed through it. There would surely be some mention of the whole thing in here, he thought. He didn’t have to look far; right there on the front page was a small article, pointing the reader to a lengthier article within.

Scandal at the Royal Academy

This newspaper can report that the painting mentioned in yesterday’s paper, ‘The Opening of the Sixth Seal’ has been causing further outrage in London today. The painting, by Mr. Francis Danby, which is being held at the Royal Academy of Arts, has had to be moved to a separate gallery due to the huge volume of people queuing to see it. There have been reports of female persons fainting in front of the painting, due to its shocking and tragic nature. Lord Edgeworth has called for the painting to be taken down in the interest of upholding the virtues of Christian decency. The anti-slavery committee have criticised such claims and have highlighted the importance of the painting for promoting anti-slavery feeling. The issue is to be discussed by the board members of the Royal Academy. Mr. Danby was unavailable for comment.

Edward decided that he would have to see the painting for himself.

Chapter Three – Ellen

When he sent her a love letter she knew he had a wife. Most of Bristol knew about his wife and what she got up to, so she couldn’t plead ignorance. He hadn’t tricked her, lied to her, forced her. He had told her his feelings and she had known that she felt the same. Why had she allowed a relationship to develop between them? Money? Love? Stupidity?

When he had first seen her at a concert recital in Bristol he had stared at her all evening. She knew who he was, and felt the heat of his eyes upon her. She did not blush, or run away, but stayed composed and carried on playing. She had expected him to come up to her after the performance, to shower her with compliments, to try to make small-talk with her, as often a gentleman might. But when she looked up after the final piece he was nowhere to be seen, he had slipped out the door when she was not looking. She did not mind, she told herself, she would be crazy to seek the attention of a man like that. She knew better.

Yet that night as she lay in bed, the darkness heavy around her, the noise of her sister’s deep breathing coming from across the room, she could not drift off to sleep. His face kept coming back to her. His eyes bearing into her, as if they saw beneath the surface of her skin. Nobody had ever looked at her with such concentration before. As if she was the only person in the room, as if the crowds of people in the concert hall did not exist. As if it were only he and she. Alone.

The next evening when she came out to the packed room along with the other musicians to start the performance, her palms felt sweaty and her heart felt as if it was beating in a hollow shell. Her eyes scanned the faces before her. She did not see him among them. He had not come. She felt deflated. And then cursed herself for feeling it. She was pretty, clever, talented, accomplished and from a well-respected family of a decent standing. She could marry any wealthy, handsome, intelligent man in Bristol if she wanted to. Yet, here was a man who was already married, was known to gamble and drink, was chased around town by his creditors, was said to be temperamental, moody, argumentative, proud, arrogant, and rude, and she couldn’t stop thinking about him. He could not marry her even if he wanted to. He had children. His profession was precarious. He was not particularly handsome. He had nothing to recommend him as suitable for her whatsoever. But she knew it was inevitable all the same.

She received a letter from him a few days later. His scrawling handwriting was