~ ~ ~
Next morning, in the shade of the stand of trees behind the Lamb House's old stable block, Emma and Geraldine began probing the ground. After half an hour's careful work, Emma sat back on her heels and laid her tiny trowel aside. "There is something here, isn't there? Don't you think we should follow it up?"
Geraldine was frowning. She must be thinking through the possible ramifications of the discovery. "A dig would be expensive, even if we used students and volunteers," she said. "Geophys would be expensive, too, especially with all these tress. And if it turned out to be the foundations of a common barn, we'd have wasted our money. We need it to be something that would attract more paying visitors to the house. Something with pizzazz, like an underground room for a Lamb House Hellfire Club." She smiled wryly. "As far as I know, the Lamb House was always rather tame."
Emma suppressed a smile. She wouldn't have called Will's erotic pictures "tame" at all. Still, she had an opening now; she'd better make the most of it. "If it turned out to be something interesting, we might be able to get a grant for the excavation. The assessor who was at the museum yesterday might be interested, you know. His foundation seems to have a lot of money to throw around."
"Really?"
"Look, Geraldine, why don't we have a trawl through the archives and see if we can find any mention of a building on this site? I know it's your domain, but I'd be more than happy to help with the donkey work." A bit of ego-stroking never did any harm at times like this. And it was access to Geraldine's precious archives that Emma really wanted, since excavation would find nothing. "You tell me what to do, and I'll do it."
Geraldine smiled. "Well… Yes, all right. I could spare some time this afternoon, so we could make a start straight after lunch, if you like?"
Emma wouldn't be having any lunch today. Her lunch break was going to be used to sneak into the blue bedchamber and retrieve the digital watch from under the floor.
~ ~ ~
When she turned up in Geraldine's archive room at two o'clock, Emma was beaming. The watch was safely stowed in the bottom of her pocket and she'd managed to cover her tracks pretty well too, she thought. She was ready for her next challenge.
Geraldine's expression wasn't encouraging. She'd obviously been in the archive room for a while because there were architects' drawings strewn across the big table. "I've looked through all the house plans, and there's no record of that building."
Emma wasn't daunted. In her gut, she'd known there was something odd about Will's bath house and its demolition. "But your records can't be complete, can they? There are clearly foundations there."
Geraldine agreed, reluctantly. "If the demolition took place centuries ago, medieval or earlier, it wouldn't be on any of the plans. But we really need it to be more recent than that." She brightened suddenly. "I know. I'll go through the prints and drawings of the house. They go back to the eighteenth century. Your building might be shown in one of them." She made for the drawers where the prints were stored. "Oh," she said, turning back to Emma, "there's also a big box of nineteenth century documents that haven't been catalogued yet. Can't say I'd fancy the job of going through them, myself. In some of them, the handwriting is almost impossible to decipher."
"I've done quite a lot of work with old written records," Emma said eagerly. "I could look through them, if you like, while you get on with the drawings."
"You're a sucker for punishment, aren't you?" Geraldine said, obviously relieved to be spared hours of tedious work. "Come on, I'll dig out the papers for you. The box is in the storeroom back here."
After hours of poring through documents that were mostly about business matters like rents, Emma found a little bunch of letters tucked between two leases in the bottom of the box. From the handwriting, they looked like a lady's letters, so there must be a good chance they would not be about the price of the latest stock bull.
She spread out the first letter and began to read. It didn't date from the Regency. It was from decades later, near the end of Victoria's reign when envelopes were commonly used. Unfortunately, none of these letters had its envelope so Emma had neither full names nor addresses. The first letter began simply, "My dearest Fanny," and was signed only, "Your affectionate friend, Sarah". The gossipy contents were fascinating. If Emma hadn't been on the hunt for information about the bath house, she would have spent happy hours devouring this stash. Instead, she skimmed them quickly, one by one.
In the second to last, she struck gold. Sarah was complaining that she would never now see the inside of the forbidden bath house, because Fanny's uncle proposed to demolish it. "I do not believe it could be so very bad," Sarah had written. "I understand, of course, that as a bath house it became useless after the hot spring ceased to flow, but the building could be used for some other purpose, could it not? Perhaps you might persuade your uncle to turn it into a summer house, so that visitors might view the art? If your uncle has truly decided on such a drastic step as demolition, he may be destroying works of real value."
Emma almost tore the paper of the last letter in her haste to open it. It was full of apologies. Sarah was almost begging Fanny not to end their friendship, though she was trying to justify her own position as well. "Needless to say, I respect your uncle's decision, dearest Fanny. He is a man of the highest Christian principles and, since he has decreed that the paintings are obscene, I would not, for a moment, suggest otherwise. It was just that it seemed to me somewhat drastic to demolish the whole building, and remove all records of its existence besides, for the sake of a few obscene paintings which could have been covered with whitewash. However, it is done now and I promise I will never mention it again. I would not have such a petty disagreement sour our friendship."
Emma gave a whoop of triumph. The friendship had probably foundered over the demolition of the bath house, for there were no more letters. But that didn't matter. What Emma had here was enough to prove that the bath house had existed and that some late Victorian do-gooder, inspired by puritan religious zeal, had had it demolished. He'd had all mention of it removed from the records, too, which would explain why Geraldine couldn't find it on any of the plans.
Emma rushed out to share her discovery with Geraldine.
The house manager was more than delighted. "Not quite as racy as the Hellfire Club, but worth pursuing, certainly. I wonder if there were any paintings below ground level? If the plunge bath itself had paintings on the sides, they might still be there to be excavated. Do you think your assessor friend might be interested?"
Emma knew perfectly well that there were no erotic paintings in the bath itself, but she promised to ask the assessor to visit the Lamb House. "I'm sure he'll be interested in what we've found out about the bath house. And even if he doesn't feel able to recommend a grant for a dig, perhaps we could interest him in the restoration of the bedchamber with the dangerous floors? If previous owners of the Lamb House had dodgy paintings in their bath house, they might have had some on the bedroom walls too, don't you think?"
Geraldine grinned. "Erotic paintings in the house itself would be a real draw. I'm not going to argue with your intuition, Emma. Not after this. You've certainly made a find about this bath house. You'll be written up in all the journals, I expect." She patted Emma on the back. "Better prepare yourself for being famous."
Emma ignored that. For the moment, all that mattered was that she had retrieved the watch and proved the existence of the bath house. So Will's Regency Lamb House was definitely the place where she and Will had been together. What she had experienced was the past life of a real house. Were the people, Will Allmay and Lady Emma Groatster, real too? Without documentary proof, that was much more difficult to answer but, if her final trip back to the Regency panned out as she hoped, she would soon have the evidence she needed on that score, too.
Her modern-day career could wait until her return. There would be plenty of time for the triumph that would bring Emma the professional recognition she was now determined to achie
ve. Perhaps, once she had that, she would be able to stop looking over her shoulder?
Chapter Twenty-Five
On Wednesday night, after a productive day at the museum, during which she had arranged for the charity assessor to visit the Lamb House towards the end of the week, Emma waited impatiently in the research room for St Mary's to begin to strike. The ballgown was laid across the table as usual. Everything else was the same, except that, this time, when she put her arm through the golden sleeve, she was going to have Will's dressing-room key in her hand. It needed to go back to where it belonged and this was Emma's last chance to return it.
Because this was definitely, absolutely definitely, the last time Emma was going to make the transition.
~ ~ ~
Fate was on Emma's side for once, she decided, for she arrived back in her own bedchamber in her own Regency house. And she was clutching Will's key, too. Excellent. She tucked it into her reticule before Bailey could appear and ask about it.
Emma sat down in the chair by the fire and held out her hands to the flames. How many days had passed since she was last here? If Bailey asked about her evening, Emma should be able to fob her off with platitudes about boring conversations and meeting the same people as she always did. Time was more difficult. And, in some ways, more important. She needed to find out what day it was. She hoped she would find a way of asking subtly, but she would be winging it. Would inspiration come?
She let the flickering fire calm her nerves for a good ten minutes before she rang the bell for the abigail.
Bailey appeared carrying a steaming cup. "I thought you might welcome a tisane to help you sleep, m'lady." She put the cup on the dressing table and began to remove Emma's jewellery. "You will deny it, I know, but I have noticed that Lady Mumford's parties often give you the headache."
Yes. Thank you, Bailey. But that's not the question I really need an answer to.
"I will admit to being fatigued, some of the conversation was tedious in the extreme, but I do not have the headache tonight. I will drink your tisane, though. It will be soothing. I am sure it will help me to sleep." She yawned theatrically. "Do I have any engagements tomorrow? I cannot quite remember." Emma hoped that tomorrow was not Sunday. If it were, her question would sound peculiar, given that Sunday was not generally a day for engagements other than divine service.
"Nothing of importance, m'lady. Nothing to stop you from sleeping late if you wish. Although I suppose—" Bailey pursed her lips. "I suppose I should mention that a message came while you were out. Mr Richard Cosway begged leave to wait on you first thing tomorrow morning to deliver your portrait. Shall I send to tell him to call in the afternoon, instead?"
"No, certainly not." So several days must have passed. But how many? "Since Cosway has finished my portrait so quickly, it would be courteous to make the effort to be available when he delivers it. Wake me in good time in the morning, please."
Bailey harrumphed. She clearly did not approve of suiting the convenience of someone she considered a mere tradesman. "I had always understood that paintings took weeks, or even months. It's been barely a week. This Cosway knows what he's about, does he, m'lady?"
"Indeed he does, Bailey. He did say it would take about a week. This is not a grand oil painting, after all. He works in watercolours. And the ivory is very small."
So it was about a week since she had sat for Cosway. To be absolutely sure of the date, she asked for the newspaper to be sent up. She pretended that one of the guests at Lady Mumford's party had mentioned something of interest that she wished to read for herself. Problem solved.
Emma congratulated herself. She would have both the day and the date. She would be able to sleep sound in Lady Emma Groatster's huge bed.
After an early breakfast, Emma took herself down to the bookroom to prepare for Cosway's arrival. He was commendably prompt. And he looked pleased with himself, too, as he handed over the work for her approval.
The miniature was stunningly beautiful, against a clear blue background. It was a pretty fair likeness, though Cosway had taken some liberties to make the image flattering to his sitter. He had painted Emma's eyes larger and more lustrous than they really were, and her neck much too long and elegant. The soft masses of red hair looked fuller than the real thing, too. But Emma wasn't going to complain. There was a lot to be said for having a portrait that was not an exact likeness of Emma Stanley, modern museum curator. It could raise far too many questions.
She turned the portrait over to check that he had carried out her instructions to the letter. There was a vast amount of writing on the back. And it was so small and crabbed that it was impossible to make out more than a letter here and there. She should have thought of that. Richard Cosway was a very old man. His hand might be deliberately steady and careful with a paintbrush, but with pen and ink he was obviously much more slapdash. He hadn't used normal black ink, either, but a watery sepia. Was black ink too dark to use on translucent ivory? Might it have shown through and spoiled the portrait on the front?
No matter how much she screwed up her eyes, she couldn't manage to decipher his text. She would need a magnifying glass. She gave up, for now. But she had to be sure it was all there, so she said, in a reproachful voice, "I cannot quite make this out, Mr Cosway. Would you be kind enough to read it to me?"
He took the ivory from her and dutifully read from the back: "Portrait of Lady Emma Groatster, privately commissioned by her from the artist, and completed in May, 1817 by Richard Cosway, RA, RSA, et cetera."
Et cetera? There was a great deal more of that inscription than he had read out. Cosway's long et cetera must be the reason his writing was illegible. It had had to be microscopic in order to fit everything in.
She leaned across and pointed to the last few lines of the inscription. "What does it say, please?"
"It is my normal painting signature, ma'am." He read out a long screed of Latin.
Of course. Emma recalled the gist of Cosway's vainglorious Latin boast from her reference book: Painted by Richard Cosway, RA, RSA, by Royal Appointment, Miniaturist to His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. Or something of the sort. Cosway used it often on his work and it would certainly prove that Emma's miniature was genuine. So in the end, the microscopic writing didn't matter. It was giving her the provenance she needed.
Cosway put the miniature carefully into its little leather case and handed it back to Emma.
"You have my letter also, Mr Cosway?"
"Indeed, ma'am, I do." He produced a thick folded paper from an inside pocket.
It crackled as Emma opened it. Its style was very formal. "Madam," it began, "I have the honour, in accordance with your ladyship's instructions, to set out the terms of your ladyship's commission to me." Emma quickly scanned the detailed paragraphs that followed. Everything was precisely as she had specified.
Except for one thing.
Emma looked up from the paper. "Mr Cosway, the letter contains the details that we had agreed. Thank you. But there is one significant omission. There is no salutation."
"Indeed, ma'am?" He stretched out a hand. "May I see? I was sure I had written 'Madam' at the top of the sheet."
She handed him the letter. "Indeed, you did, Mr Cosway. But if you consider the letter with an objective eye, you will note that it does not specify the name of the lady to whom you are addressing yourself. I should like the name and style of your client to be clear on the face of the letter." She gestured towards her desk. "I have pen and ink here. Would you be so good as to add it?"
"You wish me to add 'To Lady Emma Groatster' at the top of the letter?"
"I do."
"As you wish, my lady." At Emma's insistence, he sat in a chair by her desk and – rather laboriously, Emma thought – squeezed the extra words into the narrow gap at the top of the letter.
Yes! Now she would have it.
Cosway sanded it and waved it about in the air to dry it before he handed it back to Emma. "I hope that is now satisfactory for yo
ur purposes, Lady Emma?"
"I am sure it will be," Emma replied, setting the paper aside with a broad smile. It was time to pay her debts. "Stay there, for the moment, Mr Cosway." She had one more thing for him to write. She opened the drawer at the side of her desk, extracted the little packet of money she had prepared and laid it in front of him. "The balance of your fee. Sixty-four pounds and ten shillings. Making a total of ninety guineas, as agreed. Perhaps you would like to count it?"
Cosway shook his head vehemently. "No, indeed, ma'am. I am sure it is exactly right."
"Then if you would be so kind as to write, at the foot of your letter, that you received payment in full?"
Cosway nodded and did so, adding the date and sanding the paper again.
Their business was at an end. Emma rose and offered him her hand. That was an honour he clearly had not expected, for he coloured a little. "Thank you, Mr Cosway. I know that I may trust to your discretion in the matter of this commission. It is never to be mentioned, to anyone."
He looked at her through narrowed, assessing eyes.
He would love to know why, Emma concluded, but he never will.
"Madam," Cosway said, with a little bow, "it was my sincere pleasure to paint your ladyship. Sadly, I am now so old that I have forgotten all about it." The corner of his mouth quirked into a mischievous little smile. He might never know the reasons behind her strange conditions, but he had enjoyed the game.
The moment the door closed on Richard Cosway, RA, RSA, Emma grabbed his letter and peered at the scribble at the top of the paper.
And there it was. Even with Cosway's crabbed handwriting, Emma could make out the letters. It was not Groatster. It looked like G-J-R-O-R-S-I-T-E-S-T-E-R. Good grief. What a mouthful. Or rather, what a penful. Her name, her late husband's name, was another one of those English aristocratic handles that was pronounced in one way and written in quite another, like Cholmondeley/Chumly. Only Gjrorsitester/Groatster was much, much worse. None of the spelling variants Emma had tried came close to the real-life monstrosity.
Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip Page 23
