“I didn’t know any of that,” Morgan replied with feigned disinterest, even though a stream of new, random thoughts were tumbling through his mind.
“But enough of that, Morgan,” Leslie said with a big smile on his face. “You look far too serious. Suffice to say, Lord Nanvers is a very wealthy man and very generous to those of us in the arts. He is always praising you. Just the other day he asked me about that sailor friend of yours who was sailing with the West Africa Squadron. What was his name, Horace? Henry? Remember, he came to speak to us in the cabin of your ship.”
“Hiram, Hiram Smith,” replied Morgan.
“Right,” said Leslie. “Well, he wanted to know how that sailor had fared and whether you had heard from him recently.”
“Nice of him to show such interest in a simple sailor,” Morgan said, trying to hide the sarcasm in his voice as well as the concern.
“Is he still sailing with the West Africa Squadron?”
“No, I believe he’s left the Royal Navy. I think he’s looking for another ship.”
“Oh,” replied Leslie simply, his mind already shifting to another topic. “Say, I have an idea, Morgan.” Leslie looked at him expectantly, his face beaming with pleasure. “Why don’t you come with me to Nanvers’s estate? He’s just back today from a long hunting trip in Scotland. He took Landseer with him to do some sketches of the hunt. I heard all about it. Landseer says Nanvers is now anxious to be back in the whirl and mix of London activities. I was due to visit him shortly anyway to discuss this project, but now that you have given me this brilliant idea, I will travel there this afternoon. Nanvers House is just north of London in the rolling hills of Hertfordshire. Why don’t you come?”
A few hours later Leslie and Morgan were escorted into Nanvers House by the footman and told to wait at the front entrance. It was a stone house built in the eighteenth century with the vast sugar fortune of Nanvers’s father, Edmund Wilberton, the second Earl of Nanvers. The front entrance was framed by several Greek statues amidst a colorful mixture of white lilies, roses, and miniature box bushes. Morgan had a chance to look around the front hallway. The walls were old walnut wainscoting covered with large hunting tapestries that reached as high as the ornate white ceilings. The floors were covered with thick Indian rugs and life-size paintings of the Wilberton ancestors, who looked down at them from the walls with condescending stares.
Nanvers appeared suddenly, entering the room in a leisurely and autocratic manner. “Why, Leslie, what a wonderful surprise,” he exclaimed. “Welcome, welcome. Do come in. As you know I am just back from the highlands and I have been miserably out of touch. I have not even glimpsed at a newspaper in days. You will have to tell me what’s happening in London.”
Just then he spotted the captain. For a fleeting moment Morgan thought he caught a glimpse of a dark side, but then an impassive mask with a tepid smile once again seemed to emerge on the English lord’s face.
“Captain Morgan,” Nanvers said with a surprised tone in his voice. “What are you doing here in London so soon? I thought you would still be at sea on your packet ship. I am honored.”
Nanvers ushered them into his library with its floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases, amply cushioned leather chairs and sofas, and a lovely writing desk that looked out onto terraced gardens outside. A large oil painting of his father standing beside two greyhounds in a forest setting hung over the mantle. Nanvers offered them sherry and motioned for them to sit down in the leather chairs. Leslie excitedly told him about the idea to transform the Greek creation myth project into a symbolic painting of Queen Victoria.
“What do you think, Lord Nanvers? Her Majesty would love the symbolism. I think she would be pleased to be depicted as the Greek Mother Goddess who banished the unruly serpent into the underworld. Do you agree? As the Punch reviewers wrote recently, ‘If art is vital, it needs to find food among living events.’”
Nanvers didn’t comment immediately, but then rose from his chair and said in a deliberate voice, “I like your creative thoughts, Leslie.”
“It was actually Morgan’s idea,” Leslie persisted eagerly. “The captain even came up with the brilliant thought that Ophion becomes a convenient symbol of slavery and Queen Victoria, the heroic figure of emancipation. What do you think, Lord Nanvers? Ophion, the serpent?”
Morgan had been watching the English lord in thoughtful silence, but when Leslie stated Nanvers’s name followed by Ophion, the serpent, he saw him flinch, his mouth twisting to one side as if he had a toothache. Nanvers turned toward the captain and stared at him, his hardened face lingering. Instead of answering Leslie, he got up and paced around the library. After several minutes, which seemed like hours to Morgan, their host finally spoke.