Chapter One
July 1868
The Treadmill Turns
‘Get your hands off me! Trying to steal from me are you?’ The shrieking voices of two wretched Newsboys, with nothing in the world worth stealing, fighting noisily in the street assaulted all his senses. Putting his hands over his ears he stared up at the ceiling and knew that being here was a terrible mistake.
It had been this never-ending cacophony of unfamiliar noises that had prematurely dragged him from his sleep. How he longed for his own bed and waking to the gentle sounds of Spring Street where bird song had been the accompaniment to his mornings since he could first remember. Here, the clattering of carriage wheels and hooves on cobbles, and the loud discordant tune of man, threw him off balance.
Since dawn, a fly had transfixed him as it buzzed above his head repeatedly bumping against the plaster, held down unable to rise any higher. He felt held down too, by the inevitability of his future and the physical and mental burden of the shackles that bound him and fixed him to the bed.
His back was even more painful and stiff than usual this morning, aggravated by the soft downy mattress, but with great effort he raised himself up carefully and sat on the edge of the bed. Staring down at his feet, tanned from barefoot days in the garden, he could not believe he had only been here for two days. Was time destined to pass this slowly now?
His uncle had extended the hospitality of his comfortable home unreservedly and was offering him the promise of a good career. He knew he should be more grateful but he felt trapped. Uncle William, the epitome of so much he admired and aspired to in his own life and yet, so different.
Unlike Ned, Uncle William approached everything with the same steady, unfaltering temperament and Ned was sure that his uncle’s heart had never had cause to beat faster or that anything had ever taken his breath away. Except perhaps once.
He was certain that even if he were to suddenly drop down dead in front of him, Uncle William would not flap but would deal with the tragedy before him with strength and calm practicality, his sadness and grief muted, sitting quietly waiting for its turn. To some he may appear uncaring and unmoved by events but the truth was he cared deeply, always putting himself aside for others, considering their needs first.
Ned was of the opposite disposition, nervous and often unsure of himself, always just one step away from worry and disquiet. He knew any familial similarities they had were rooted in their devotion to those they loved, Ned openly tender hearted, Uncle William quietly so.
The last two long nights had been humid and the days unbearably hot which only added to his feeling of being stifled. No air moved and all motion seemed slowed. Even any conversation seemed laborious and weighed down by the heat, almost too much effort. So had passed long hours with his uncle and aunt over the last two days in dense silence, the effort of speaking too great for them all.
Even any slight reprieve offered by the breath of a breeze, brought with it the shifting of dust that settled heavy in his lungs, lees that no cough could expel and that left him feeling congested all the time.
Now, as he lifted the pitcher of tepid water to fill the basin, his hand trembled a little, what was he expected to do in this new way of living?
The face staring back at him from the mirror showed that the shadow of a moustache had started to appear but nothing of any note anywhere else on his face. A thick healthy moustache was expected of course in time but he was far from sporting even a suggestion of his own burnsides and this morning he could have been an imposter; a child borrowing his father’s razor play-acting at what was to come.
As he flicked the razor clumsily around the corners of his upper lip trying to define the outline of something resembling a moustache, he drew blood which dripped and grew crimson on his nightshirt, like watercolour paint cockling the paper it touched.
The sight of the blood jolted him from his stupor, everything seemed so dead but here he was, a living creature with blood pumping in his veins. Now, on this his first day at W. Adams & R. J. Morris, he would wear with embarrassment, the crimson badge of a bare-faced clumsy youth.
He dressed slowly and deliberately to stop his mind wandering to what lay ahead and as he lifted the black stock from his trunk a small scrap of paper dropped from its folds. Just five words in his mother’s hand ‘Always find time to paint.’
Her words were a second razor cut. Today he would step onto the treadmill of working life, selling his soul for a regular wage and the respectability and material trappings of middle-class America. He could not believe that his own mother had helped orchestrate this life sentence. Destined to be office-bound and living by the clock, today she dangled in front of him the only thing he really wanted to spend every waking hour doing, painting.
There had been practicalities to consider of course and he knew the opportunities for him in Watertown were in every sense more limited than those the city offered but what of his soul? The peace and contentment he woke up to every day on Spring Street was surely the essence of his elan and the foundation to all his ambitions and dreams. Without it what would determine the direction of his life?
His thoughts brought him such distress that his fingers would not obey him and he struggled and contorted to fasten the stiff and unyielding stock. Finally, the noose was around his neck.
He took a step backwards for a final look at himself. It was true that his clothes convincingly portrayed him as a man but underneath he felt as rigid and lifeless as a wooden manikin and knew that others would shape his movements from now on.
He made his way down to the dining room, passing the unsmiling Adams’ family portraits as he descended the stairs, the family resemblance striking across the generations from Capotain to top hat. Entering the dining room, if they had spotted his shaving cut, they were too kind to mention it.
His aunt and uncle were already seated at the table waiting for him, the china and silverware set out with precision on a creaseless white linen tablecloth, like a communion table lovingly and reverently set for the Eucharist. They smiled fleetingly at him as he pulled out a chair and joined the daily ritual of this intimate union.
He found breakfasts at No.11 an excruciating affair. Only his hunger pains were sated by the copious amounts of corn bread, hot cakes and eggs. His need for conversation and companionship were not. This was all so far from the noisy, chaotic breakfasts at home that he loved.
Passing mostly in silence, apart from an occasional word as coffee was offered or plates were replenished, it was to be endured today and every day.
In the absence of conversation, from across the table, he quietly took in his uncle and aunt.
Uncle William was a big man, not fat but broad and muscular and even though his muscles had begun to slacken and he did not stand as tall as he once did, Ned could see the echoes of the young man he would have been. An open, not quite handsome face, with no guile hiding in the crevices or cruelty lurking in his dark eyes, it was a kind face.
He had been a constant and reassuring presence in their home when he was growing up, and in the absence of a husband and father at Greenbrook, he had brought a welcome stability and ballast to all their lives. Ned knew that he would not even exist if it were not for his uncle.
Ned’s mother had always adored her big brother even before he had rescued her when she was six years old. On a sunny day nearing fifty years ago they were just two boisterous children chasing up and down the shore as the waves crashed onto the beach. The story went that suddenly a wave had whipped his mother’s feet from under her and she found herself carried out to sea, bobbing like a cork, although more often under than on the surface.
Every time she went under she swallowed water. One, two, three, four times she counted but no five, just blackout. Then a loud gasping sound, her own gasping sound, and she was back above water and in William’s arms.
He held her so tightly that it had made her cough up the salty water. ‘Do you think yourself a mermaid little one?’ William had chided before brushing the hair from her face and pressing his cheek to hers in relief. His mother had told them this story so many times over the years and her eyes always shone with the memory of it and her hero.
‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Well enough thank you uncle.’
‘Excellent, my sister would be vexed to think that we were not ensuring your every comfort.’
Ned was still too cross with his mother to answer in her favour.
‘Today I hope you are at the beginning of something to which you can industriously apply yourself. It is a wonderful opportunity for you and I hope you grasp it with fervour. There are many young men who would like to be in your shoes.’
‘Please rescue me uncle’ was his desperate plea but the words actually came out of his mouth as ‘Yes Uncle, I will do my best to apply myself fully.’
‘Very good.’
And that was it before a return to the rhythmic sound of knife and fork on plate.
In the renewed silence, Ned reflected that the only words that he had ever exchanged with his aunt were about food and his linen requirements. This seemed to be her only place of comfort when conversing with him.
A homely petite woman, you might pass her in the street and not even notice her, except if you cared to really look, you would be fixed by her beautiful violet eyes. She was quiet and somehow seemed a little at odds with herself and her surroundings like she was a stranger in her own home.
Childless, Ned could sense the void in her and could see that she had never had a vent for any of the maternal instincts she naturally had. He assumed that, without nourishment, these had simply withered and died over the years. She had dedicated herself to being a supportive wife and to keeping a comfortable and smart home commensurate with her husband’s social standing. She did this diligently without resentment and with obvious generosity and affection towards him.
Despite their limited interactions Ned had a growing affection for her and her unassuming and gentle ways.
The ritual completed, in an uncharacteristically theatrical way, Uncle William took out his pocket watch announcing that it was time they left for the office. Ned felt the dread of it in the pit of his stomach and as a wave of nausea rose he nearly re-presented his eggs and cornbread for all to see. Taking in a deep quiet breath, he followed his uncle’s lead in rising from the table, slowly and ensuring no sudden movement. As he stepped away from the breakfast table he felt the treadmill begin to move under his feet.
A brisk ten-minute walk later the brass plaque told him they were at the prison door.
In contrast to the noise on the street, inside there was a hush, which made Ned feel like he should tiptoe quietly. The reception area was a sober affair of dark wood panelling and polished floors but all thankfully lifted by the sunlight streaming in through the large south-facing windows.
Walls were hung with elaborately framed architectural drawings and centre-stage were two portraits; a particularly good likeness of a much younger Uncle William and next to it, a slightly dour looking man who Ned assumed must be Robert Morris.
‘Good morning Mr. Adams’ the smartly dressed young man behind the desk rose quickly from his chair.
‘Good morning Mr. Lawrence. Let me introduce my nephew Edward Miller who joins us today as a student under Mr. Dawson’s direction.’
‘Good morning Mr. Miller and welcome to W. Adams & R. J. Morris.’
‘Thank you Mr. Lawrence.’ Ned thought that he was probably no more than three years his elder but his demeanour was of a much older man. Was this what awaited him? Again, it made him want to run.
Uncle William and his partner Robert Morris had established a successful Atelier in their Boston office four years earlier. This was a shrewd business decision, both for the more inexpensive labour it afforded the practice, and for the opportunity to grow the talent they needed from within. William Adams and Robert Morris’ one shared desire was to be widely recognised and respected for their contributions to architecture. They believed profits would follow and they did.
Ned was to be one of six students and would be working under the tutelage of Richard Dawson one of the practice’s most prolific and respected architects. Mr. Dawson did not come to this role generously. He was selfish and ambitious but at least the authority and power he was given over the students, served to feed his ego in the absence of the status he craved as a Partner in the practice, something he continued to petition for.
He pushed his students to do better by criticism and humiliation making them feel useless in contrast to himself, to them, he would be their god.
From his very first meeting with Richard Dawson, Ned did not like him. As he had offered his hand in welcome, he had looked directly into Ned’s eyes and the look said, ‘you are only here by fortune of birth and there will be no special privileges for you.’
What he actually said with a smirk was ‘Cut yourself shaving I see...’
He was then dully introduced to his fellow students, masters John Barnes Simon Baker, Francis Jones, James Brady and Henry Owens. All sombre and physically shrivelled by their new and overwhelming environment, except perhaps Francis who dared to smile on their first greeting, a quick bright smile that found its way in through a crack in the bleakness Ned felt. He knew they would be allies.
The studio was bright but stark, no distractions here, the only embellishment the ornate wall clock that ticked away confidently, a face and hands that would unashamedly measure the days and their productivity.
Drafting tables were lined up with precision, in two rows of three, intentionally spaced to discourage conversation and distractions. In contrast to the substance of the oak panelling, the tables were a modest construction of white pine tilting tops with simple wrought iron tripod bases. They wore the scars of their years of use, tattooed with the ink of careless past endeavours, and as Ned ran his fingers along the surface of the table that was to be his, he had the familiar feeling of the blank canvas before it is transformed by the artist. It comforted him.
Transported back momentarily he could feel the see breeze, the gulls soaring above him, sitting on a cliff top, brush on paper. He felt free. Now perched awkwardly on his drafting stool, he was back in the reality of the studio, he did not want it. He did not want these sights and sounds to be any part of the composition of his days.
In his discomfort, Ned unfastened the two lower buttons of his vest, fixed his eyes on the wall clock, and resigned himself to beginning the journey of free man to slave.
Chapter Two
4th May 1851
Amelia was feeling weary; it was an unseasonably hot day and the paint was drying too quickly on the paper making it hard to work. Shifting in her chair for the hundredth time, this baby was laying heavier than any other she had carried. She was older though and had already borne seven babies. She had also felt the burden of managing her family and home alone these past four months with only the inept help of the bumbling Martha and it had taken its toll on her.
Amelia lamented the lack of time to paint these days and felt the loss of it acutely. She was truly herself when she painted, escaping all that was mundane and disappointing about her life and entering a place where she was the architect of her own happiness as she tried to capture the perfect artistry of the creator.
