by Joan Smith
“I am quite aware of it, Spadger.”
While they spoke of Lord John, it was the image of Penfel’s handsome, laughing face that loomed large in Abbie’s thoughts. Too large! She must not let herself become infatuated with him. Lady Susan claimed he was no lecher, but she had not heard the way he laughed with the dancer in the tent. It would keep her busy, overseeing all her charges, with very little help from their hostess.
At eight o’clock, the ladies were at the table for breakfast. Neither Lady Penfel nor her elder son was there, but Lord John and his tutor were waiting for them. Lord John promptly showed Kate to a chair beside him. When Mr. Singleton cast a shy smile on Annabelle and made some incoherent sound as he drew a chair for her beside himself, Abbie began to fear she might have another romance to worry about. And to add to her troubles, Lady Susan looked definitely put out that Lord Penfel was not there to court her.
No audible conversation occurred between Singleton and Annabelle, but at breakfast’s end, he appeared to have offered to show the ladies about the estate, along with Lord John. Lady Susan announced that she would play propriety to allow Miss Fairchild to enjoy the gallery without feeling she was abandoning her duties. After a moment’s consideration, Abbie agreed. The girls considered Lady Susan second only to Slats as a chaperon, and Slats was second only to God. Abbie’s hope was that Lord Penfel would give her the key to the art room.
As she would be giving the girls a tour and dissertation that afternoon, or in the near future at least, she decided to try her hand at copying the Chardin that morning. She brought down her painting materials and easel, and found her way along various marble corridors to the gallery.
Sunlight slanted through tall mullioned windows along one wall of the long hall. Down its center, the parquet floor wore a long blue runner patterned with red flowers and arabesques. Between the windows hung paintings of Penfel ancestors in historical costumes going back for centuries. Brass and marble statues on pedestals varied the decor. The unwindowed wall held a more diverse collection of larger paintings—Flemish, Italian, and French, some of them huge enough to fill a whole wall of a small chamber. They were fine paintings by famous names, but Abbie had lost interest in overly large historical scenes depicting masses of humanity in classical poses. They were too old and too academic for her more modern taste. Da Vinci had never bothered with these grandiose monstrosities. She found more art in a simple Madonna and child than in all of Rubens’s posturings.
Portraiture was her true love. She borrowed a chair from beneath one of the windows and set up her easel in front of the simple Chardin genre painting of the Girl with Rose. The long stretch of empty corridor was silent and eerie. No echo from the busier part of the large house reached her. She might have been alone in the world. The only moving thing was the dust motes floating desultorily in the shafts of sunlight from the windows.
She took up her pencil and began sketching the outline of the girl. She was perhaps twelve or thirteen, just at that age where a child becomes a woman. Her brown hair, lightened to blond where the light struck it, was looped high on her head, showing her clean young profile. Marvelous how Chardin had expressed her tender yearning in profile, when one could not see her eyes, or much of her smile. The rose, perhaps, was a symbol of her beauty and innocence. Faces were easy for Abbie. The rose and the girl’s hand more difficult.
Time flew when she was at her easel. She did a quick sketch, then began applying the pigment. An hour passed, another thirty minutes, and the girl’s face and hands were completed to her satisfaction. The rose in her hand, the gown and the background were still to be done. The eerie feeling faded as she concentrated on her work.
She began to paint in the girl’s blue gown. From time to time she glanced to the door from the main hallway, thinking Lord Penfel might seek her out. She had mixed emotions about meeting him again. She was as eager as ever to see the da Vinci cartoons, but she felt some reluctance to cross swords with the flirtatious Lord Penfel. Even then, she admitted to herself, there was a good deal of anticipation mixed with the reluctance. When was she ever likely to meet such a dasher again? “The twelfth of never,” as her uncle would say, whatever that meant.
Engrossed in her work, she did not hear the soft footfalls on the carpet. Until a shadow fell across her canvas, she did not realize she had company. She looked up, startled and confused, and saw a man peering over her shoulder. She had been expecting Lord Penfel, and the gentleman had some resemblance to him. He was tall, with dark hair, and wore a well-cut blue jacket. It was not an old one, either. The cuffs were neither shiny nor frayed. It was the jacket that caused her confusion, for the last time she had seen Mr. O’Leary, he had been wearing his scarlet uniform.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, smiling and making a graceful bow.
“Good morning,” she replied, nodding.
“That’s a nice picture you’re doing there,” he said. A slight lilt of Irish brogue made his speech attractive.
“Thank you.”
“Not minding the school chits today, Miss Fairchild? I mistook you for one of them when I first glimpsed you from the doorway.” Some trace of laughter in his eyes told her he knew perfectly well who he had come to talk to. It was an oblique compliment, perhaps, a hint that she looked younger than her years.
“Perhaps it is time I began wearing a cap,” she replied.
“Nay, ‘twould be a shame to cover those pretty curls. They glint like copper in the sunlight.”
She just smiled without replying, and wondered what a circus manager was doing, running tame at Penfel. He could hardly be on such terms of intimacy with the owner that he was a welcome visitor. “Were you at the show last night?” he asked.
“Yes, we all went. It was very amusing.”
“ ‘Tis a tawdry thing, but my own. Since I lost my estate at the card table, I am left to shift for myself in the cruel world. But I shall gain no sympathy from a schoolmistress. Your lot is not an easy one. I’ve tried teaching youngsters myself.”
His accent was good, and his easy manner suggested he had seen better days. The career he had chosen was strange, even infra-dig, but at least he worked for a living. She was ready for a break from her work, and set down her brush to show she welcomed the diversion.
She did not go into details about her own teaching, but said, “You are from Ireland, Mr. O’Leary?”
“That’s right. Was it my name or the brogue that tipped you off?”
“Both.”
“I’m from God’s country, county Wessex. Have you been there at all?”
“No, I should like to go sometime.”
“You’ve been to Italy, I expect? That is where you artistes go first.”
“No, how I should love to! I’ve never had the opportunity to travel.”
“It’s very expensive.”
“Yes, there’s the rub, but of course there is a good deal of art from all over the world in England.”
“Oh, aye, the English have always been good at plundering their conquests. Those who have the art don’t appreciate it, though.”
“And are not eager to share it with those who do,” she added, thinking of her fruitless letters to Lord Penfel.
He began to talk about Ireland in a fond, reminiscent way, with his full share of Irish blarney. He was an amusing rattle. Abbie found herself telling him something about her background. Like Penfel, he was understanding and sympathetic. Even more so, as his experiences were closer to her own. Of course, being a man, he had more freedom.
After a little conversation, he said, “But I’m keeping you from your work. I’d best be off. I came for a word with Penfel, but it seems the lazy hound is still abed. Nice to be rich, eh?”
“Very nice, I should think.”
“Teaching’s a hard game. You cannot have been at it long, Miss Fairchild. You haven’t the hagged look of the professional scold.”
“This is my second year.”
“Could you not make a living a
t that?” he asked, indicating her canvas.
“Hardly. Being a lady makes it difficult to be taken seriously.”
He hesitated a moment, then seemed to make his decision. He leaned a little closer to her and said, “What do you do with your pictures when you’ve finished with them?”
“When I am lucky, I sell them. More usually, I keep them. I have quite a collection in the attic at home.”
“I could find a buyer for that one, if you’re interested. We split the profit, fifty-fifty.”
“That would hardly be worth your while, Mr. O’Leary.”
He looked surprised. “I wager I could get you a couple of hundred for that Chardin. I know a fellow who collects French pictures.”
She was surprised that he recognized the artist, but then his conversation had suggested he came from a good background. “But this is not a Chardin. It’s just a copy.”
His easy smile assumed a wolfish look. “I know that, you know it, but my friend don’t know it.” Then he gave a knowing little laugh. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him or us, eh? The risk would be mine. I’d not involve you at all.”
“Are you suggesting to sell it as a Chardin?” she asked, hardly believing her ears.
“Why not? How much would you get for a Fairchild?”
“But that’s against the law!”
He laughed at her naiveté. “I didn’t make the law, nor did you. ‘Twas made by the fine lords to keep the likes of you and me down.”
She pokered up. “I don’t believe we have anything more to say to each other, Mr. O’Leary,” she said, and picked up her brush.
“Suit yourself, my dear,” he said, and sauntered off down the long corridor as if he owned the place.
Really, the man was incorrigible! Whatever made him think she was a crook? She had let him think her circumstances were a little worse than they were, and from there he had leapt to the conclusion she would sell forgeries to better it. It is what happens when you let circus people onto your property. She ought to warn Lord Penfel. The man was as likely as not to stuff some valuable small item into his pocket. When she tried to continue her work, she found her concentration was broken and decided to see if Lord Penfel was about. She would warn him of O’Leary’s criminal tendency—and hopefully get the key to the da Vinci cartoons as well.
She passed an open door on her way back to the main hallway. From it issued O’Leary’s lilting voice.
“I’ve come about tonight, Penfel. We have a little game on after the show. ‘Twill give you a chance to win back the blunt you lost last time.”
“Excellent!” Penfel said, in the accents of an old friend.
The door closed, and Abbie stood, wondering what she ought to do. Very likely O’Leary was a Captain Sharp along with the rest. He had spoken of Penfel winning back the blunt, so clearly Penfel had already lost money to the rogue. When the conversation behind the door settled down to a friendly, conversational hum that suggested it might go on for some time, Abbie went up to her room. She would return a little later, after O’Leary had left, and caution Lord Penfel to be on his guard.
Chapter Eight
After stowing away her painting equipment, Abbie glanced from her window and saw Mr. O’Leary striding toward the fairgrounds. His broad shoulders and swaggering gait suggested he was the lord of the manor. Lord John, Singleton, and the young ladies, their tour of the estate having ended up at the circus, were strolling toward him in the sunlit meadow. O’Leary stopped to chat with them. Abbie watched as he lifted his hat and bowed all around. After a moment, the two young couples continued their walk. Lady Susan remained behind, talking to O’Leary.
Of course it was impossible to know what words were exchanged, but O’Leary’s gestures suggested flirtation. He cocked his head aside playfully, he inclined his upper body toward Lady Susan’s in the posture of romance. At one point, he reached out his hand and touched her arm. And Susan seemed less stiff than usual, too. It was unlike her to waste time on a commoner, but she stayed with O’Leary for two or three minutes. Abbie was just beginning to worry when O’Leary bowed, and Lady Susan hurried on to catch up to the others.
Selling a forged painting was bad enough, but setting up a flirtation with the Duke of Wycliffe’s daughter could lead to something a good deal more serious. Lady Susan had a good notion of her own worth, but she was only sixteen years old. She would never have met anyone like O’Leary before. Such a practiced flirt might manage to turn her head, to compromise her in some manner. Abbie, who was considerably older than Susan, had fallen under his spell for a few minutes in the gallery. She must warn Lady Susan—and she must have that word with Penfel at once.
She immediately went belowstairs, where she found him in his oak-lined study, poring over a stack of journals at a handsome desk the size of a dining-room table. In this impressive setting and at this unexceptionable pastime, with a frown pleating his brow, Penfel seemed a more serious gentleman than she had been imagining. For the first time since she had met him, he appeared to be engaged in work. He looked as the lord of such a fine estate as Penfel Hall should look.
He glanced up when she entered, and the little frown eased to a smile. His eyes brightened perceptibly.
“Miss Fairchild,” he said, rising and making a modest bow. “I need not ask to what I owe the honor of this visit,” he said playfully. “It is not eagerness to see my poor self, but the Leonardos that has brought you knocking on my door. Come in, come in—as the spider said to the fly.”
She was a little vexed that his seriousness had dissipated at the first sign of a female. “I am eager to see the cartoons, but in fact, I have come on another matter. A more serious matter altogether.”
He waved a graceful hand toward the chair by his desk. She perched on its edge and leaned toward him as he resumed his seat. “I have come about Mr. O’Leary,” she said.
His eyes opened wider. Again that frown grew between his eyebrows, “He hasn’t been harassing you?” he asked sharply.
“In a manner of speaking, he has.”
“‘What happened?”
“I was in the long gallery, copying the Chardin. O’Leary stopped for a chat.”
Penfel’s jaw tightened. He gave a tsk of annoyance and said, “Next time, you must have a footman with you. The gallery is not within shouting distance of the butler.”
“You misunderstand, milord. He was not harassing me in a—a physical way.”
“He didn’t try to molest you?”
“No, I would not have minded that. That is—” She colored up as she realized her words were capable of misinterpretation. “I could have handled that,” she modified. “My meaning is that the man is a crook. He offered to sell the copy I was making, try to pass it off as an original Chardin to what he called a friend of his. Some friend! He wanted to sell the man a forgery, for a couple of hundred pounds!”
Penfel considered this a moment, then said, unexpectedly, “It must have been an excellent copy.”
“That is not the point! The man is a crook.”
“And a rash one, to suggest chicanery to a young lady of impeccable morals.”
“He was at pains to cozen me first. He was sympathizing with my hard life, to sound me out. He learned how eager I am to go to Italy to view the famous masterpieces there.”
“You never mentioned that to me!”
“That is neither here nor there. We discussed how expensive travel is. Impossible really, and how those who have fine art don’t appreciate it.”
“I wonder what name arose in that respect?”
“We didn’t mention names. I had no idea what he was up to, but I wager it was my complaints that made him think I could be corrupted. And this wretch is running tame at Penfel. I would not be a bit surprised if he picked up an expensive trinket or two before he left.”
“He called to see me on business. I would hardly call it running tame.”
“What was he doing in the gallery? He had no business there. You said yo
urself it is well separated from the part of the house where the servants are working. As he seems to be interested in art, he might very well be looking around with a view to robbing you.”
His lips clenched together. “Thank you for notifying me. Is there anything else?”
Penfel made a show of concern, but some sixth sense told Abbie she had made no impression whatsoever. She trusted her next statement would open up his eyes.
“Yes. I saw him from my window just now. He was walking back to the fair. He stopped Lady Susan and talked to her for quite two or three minutes.”
“Was she not with John and Singleton?”
“They walked on with the other girls. Lady Susan was alone with him. He was flirting with her.”
Penfel shrugged his broad shoulders, like a man who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—take responsibility for grave matters. “No accounting for taste. I hardly see what harm could come to her during a few moments’ chat, on my property, with John a few feet away.”
“Lady Susan—all the girls—are just at that vulnerable age where their minds are full of men, yet they have no real experience of them. Lady Susan might very well find a rogue like O’Leary attractive. She has already been singing his praises.”
The only emotion she could read was impatience. “The girls are in your charge. You must keep an eye on them,” he said.
“You should not allow him to run tame about the estate when you are entertaining schoolgirls.”
“The arrangement with O’Leary was made some time ago. I could not break the contract without being liable for his lost revenue.”
Abbie’s patience was growing quite as short as Penfel’s. “Then, why on earth did you agree to let the girls come here?” she demanded.
“The question is why Mama let any of you come!” he shot back. “If it was an attempt to see me shackled to a stiff-rumped lady, it will not fadge.”
