A short while later she got up from her chair, gave herself a stiff, inward lecture about her lack of determination. “After all,” she said to her reflection as she stared at the ravages of her tears, “you were the one who told him you wanted no bonds. You said that nothing was more important than your art. And you meant it; you mean it now. So why are you being such a ninny? How can you be surprised that he took you at your word, and respected your decision. It is what you wanted him to do, isn’t it.” She saw her lip tremble, and continued her admonition, “No more of these tragic airs, Rowena. Remember that your grandfather has assured you funds in any part of Europe you may wish to visit. Why not think about those possibilities. And do not,” she added sternly, “take a notion to track Ragoczy down. Inform him of your plans once you have them and let him decide what is to be done. If anything.” This last melancholy thought made her eyes fill again, and she glared at herself. “That will be quite enough of that.”
On the easel her latest work stood, a third finished: a landscape of the wild Welsh cliffs over the sea, but with the grandeur of them changed to something more sinister. She made herself pick up her brushes and begin to apply color with full concentration on what the brushes did. Umber and raw sienna were applied by turns to the headlands above the iron-grey sea. Her own desolation of spirit communi-
Chelsea Quinn Yarhro
cated itself to the paint on the canvas, and within the hour she was fully caught up in her work.
The arrival of Timothy Harris, shortly before teatime, caught her unaware, and she went to admit him as if she had just wakened from sleep. For once she did not apologize for her appearance, but instead blinked twice before she understood that Ragoczy’s chauffeur had a small, oddly shaped package for her. “How very kind,” she murmured automatically as Harris gave it to her, touched the brim of his cap. “I had a note from your employer this morning. I was . . . saddened to learn he had been recalled to Saint Petersburg. I confess I was disappointed to learn of it; I was looking forward to his return.” She stopped herself before she said anything more—such admissions were unseemly, even in artists.
“And he as well, Madame,” said Harris.
“I don’t suppose you know what’s in this?” she prompted, indicating the package.
“Something the Count would like you to have, Madame,” Harris responded. He did not want to guess what someone like Ragoczy would give a young woman the likes of Rowena Saxon.
She glanced quickly at him, and saw there was no trace of impudence in his attitude. “It was good of you to bring it.”
“Just doing what my employer wants.” He was trying to figure out what Ragoczy saw in this impulsive Miss Saxon. Calling herself by a name other than her father’s. She might as well be on the stage, he thought.
“Then I thank you on his behalf,” she said, surprised he had not yet left.
“Anything you need me to do for you, Madame?” Harris asked abruptly, going on to explain, “The Count said as I was to inquire if you needed anything done?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.”
“You’re taken care of for food and the like then?” Harris pursued, following Ragoczy’s orders most scrupulously. “He said artists like yourself don’t always stop working for meals, and if you wanted, I should be happy to—”
At last she smiled. “No, thank you very much, Harris,” she said.
“The Count wants you to know he is very sorry he couldn’t bring the package himself, but the Czar himself wants him back in Russia. You don’t mess about when Czars give the orders.” He folded his arms, giving Rowena time to change her mind if she wanted to.
“Yes, so his note informed me,” she said, her formality returning. “Well, if you will return tomorrow, I will have a response for him, which
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I would appreciate if you would forward to him. He tells me he will not be at his house in Saint Petersburg through all of May, and I must suppose you know where to find him.”
“As a matter of fact, I am told to send everything to his business agent in Russia. Chap by the name of Peter Golovin; he’ll do the rest. Seems a sensible gentlemen, from what contact I’ve had with him.” He felt she wanted to know more, so he added, “I’ve been told that the Count is going to be traveling, and this Golovin will know where he is.”
“You mean you cannot contact him directly?” Rowena found this disturbing. “How very . . . odd.”
Harris shrugged. “Those Russians take mad turns, now and again. And that Czar isn’t any different, for all that our Vic was his grandmother. It could make it worse, if you ask me, him looking reasonable, like the Prince of Wales, and then going barmy. Beg pardon for saying it.” He coughed delicately. “I’ll return then, tomorrow at this time, if that will suit?”
“It will,” said Rowena, her optimism returning gradually, fueled by her amusement. She looked at Harris and told him impulsively, “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how relieved I am. It was good of you to do this, Harris.”
“Glad to be of service, Miss Saxon,” said Harris, liking Rowena a bit more that she was not acting in that high-in-the-instep way most women of her class did. She was not typical of any woman he had ever met, including actresses. Perhaps that was why Ragoczy was taken with her, being something of an oddity himself. “That’s it, then.” He turned and prepared to descend the stairs when one parting remark caught his attention.
“If you meant it about running an errand for me, I would appreciate it if you would stop at the art and drafting supplies shop on Tottenham Court Road your way tomorrow and pick up a can of rabbit-skin glue. I have two canvases that need sizing.” She knew she was blushing, and did not know if it was for taking advantage of Ragoczys instructions to his chauffeur, or because she still felt awkward about being set on her art career at last.
“Rabbit-skin glue,” Harris repeated, his opinion of such a peculiar substance concealed in his polite manner.
She called after him, “It should run you a couple shillings, no more. I will reimburse you, naturally.”
“Not to worry, Madame,” he said, for Ragoczy had left him ten pounds to cover any incidental expenses he might incur on Rowena Saxon’s behalf. “It’s taken care of.”
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“Oh!” she cried, “But there’s no—”
“Taken care of,” he said a second time as he reached the landing below. “Teatime tomorrow. Rabbit-skin glue.” He seconded his own perception: artists were a strange lot. But not as strange as the Russians.
Left alone again, Rowena went back into her studio, the package Harris had given her still in her hands. She was eager to open it, and at the same time she dreaded it, wondering if her mother had been right about Ragoczy all along, and that he was not to be relied upon. Her hands shook as she removed the brown paper wrapping Loretta Nowell had insisted on supplying; beneath it was a box of carved chalcedony, about four inches long and three wide, shaped like a frog. Rowena held it in her hands, astonished at the quality of the workmanship, and delighted with the implication she thought might well be intended. The gold clasp was at the mouth; she opened it and gasped: on the dark-green velvet interior there lay a necklace and earrings of gold, in the same frog shape, with topazes for eyes. She lifted the necklace out and held the inch-and-a-half-long frog leaping to the right on the filigreed chain up to her face. “Will you become a prince if I kiss you?” Gingerly she unfastened the golden links of the necklace and carefully put it on, fumbling with the catch before securing it. The frog gleamed against her smock and she laughed at the incongruity of it. Next she removed the simple pearl drops from her ears and put the two sitting frogs in their place.
The gold flattered her skin and eyes, as Ragoczy must have intended they should. She smiled at her reflection, liking the gift more and more because it was so unusual. She did not remember seeing its like before. Where had Ragoczy found such a suite? she wondered. She could not imagin
e that he had taken the time to commission it, although he must have done. The truth—that he had made the whole of it, including the gold, himself—did not occur to her.
Suddenly she was sorry she had nowhere to go that evening; she wanted to show off this most remarkable gift. The Gallery of Women Artists was not open after six in the evening. Besides, she would probably not get the response she was hoping for from the women who frequented the place. No, what she wanted was a modish establishment where jewelry was noticed. The least scandalous place would be a restaurant, she decided. Did she dare to go out on her own? Were there reputable restaurants where she could be served if she arrived without escort? If she were her mothers age, they might—not that her mother would ever consider doing anything so shocking. If she was dressed in full mourning, she might be able to command a table, but otherwise
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her lone presence was not apt to be tolerated: a few bold suffragettes had made such attempts with unpromising results. She decided she had to try, if only to discover for herself that it could not be done.
Rowena went and stared into her closet, aware that a proper appearance was an absolute necessity for her adventure. She would have to look unexceptional if she was to have the least chance of achieving her goal. As she picked her way through her clothes, she tried to imagine how she would feel if she succeeded.
Finally she chose a conservative ensemble in a faded-wine shade, the gown of matte-finish peau de soie with a Juliet-neck and lily-skirt, with the front of the hem a good five inches above her ankle, the back just brushing the floor. The matching coat was of sculptured velvet, with the same lily hemline as the dress, and a high, turned neck. She selected lacy stockings and black-satin shoes with a Louis XIV heel. As she transferred four ten-pound notes and a handful of coins to her beaded evening bag, she began to enjoy herself. Pausing to check her hair in the mirror, she gave herself a mischievous smile as she approved of what she saw. She was satisfied that the frogs showed to dramatic advantage.
Although her Daimler was garaged nearby, she knew it would be more discreet to arrive by cab, and so she descended to the street and went to flag one down on Great Russell Street. It did not take her long to secure one. As she got in, she said, “Please be good enough to take me to the Savoy.” Although the hotel had certain associations with the theatre, it was not a place for low company, and, given its modem conveniences and safety features, quite acceptable to all but the highest sticklers, Rowena thought: opera divas dined there, and royalty, and the kitchen was world famous. It was the most likely place she could think of where she had a chance of being allowed to dine alone.
The cabby let her out in front of the hotel, took his fare and tipped his cap as Rowena stepped out. “You have a care, Miss,” he said as he prepared to drive off.
“Thank you; I will.” She went up the stairs at a good pace, neither lagging nor rushing. As she stepped into the lobby, she resisted the urge to stare; that would surely mark her as a woman of no sophistication or breeding and would make her expulsion certain. Collecting her wits, she continued through the lobby. As she recalled, the restaurant was ahead and to the left; she went toward it with purpose, although she felt increasing apprehension.
The maitre d’ hesitated only a moment; he recognized the handsome young woman asking for a table, and said smoothly, “Ah, yes, Miss Pearce-Manning. I suppose you are meeting someone?”
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Knowing it was cowardly to do so, but taking advantage of the opportunity presented, she nodded. “Yes. I am expecting ... a relative. Who has been delayed.” That was vague enough to permit her to castigate herself only mildly for her lie; it would also put the maitre d’ on notice that she was doing this with the approval of her family, reducing the chance of him denying her service. She did her best to look unconcerned, as if she did this every day of her life.
It was somewhat irregular, but the maitre d’ knew better than to embarrass the oldest daughter of one of the wealthiest men in England. He nodded once. “If you will follow me, Miss Pearce-Manning?” he invited, and led the way to a table somewhat behind a pillar: he ignored the stares Rowena earned as well as she did. “Your party will ask for you?”
“Oh, yes, I should think so,” she said, remaining calm although her pulse was fast. “There was trouble with making a connection with the London train. With things so unresolved, I may go ahead and order, if that will not inconvenience you.”
This was plausible enough for the maitre d’, who gave her a menu and said, “How unfortunate; I will send your waiter over in ten minutes,” before he returned to his station at the reception podium.
Rowena sat back in her chair and resisted the urge to cheer. To have managed this! She wanted to congratulate herself, to boast to someone of what she had done. The only person she could think of who might understand her pride was Franchot Ragoczy, now en route back to Russia. Tonight would be a much greater triumph if Ragoczy were able to share in it. Well, she told herself, she would include an account of the evening when she wrote to thank him for his splendid gift.
Opening her menu, she discovered that the prices were higher than she remembered—not above what she could afford, but dear enough to make her understand why so many people complained of them. The selections were as lavish as they were costly, and it was with a sigh that she passed over the eggs a la Russe with imported caviar. She decided on the truffled-goose-liver pate and then the turtle soup to start, the broiled salmon with mayonnaise for fish, the duckling stuffed with chanterelles in port wine for her main course, with a salad of new asparagus; side dishes she left to the chef so long as none of them were turnips. She would choose her sweet later, at the conclusion of the meal. Tempting as it was to order champagne, she decided on a grey St. Emillion for the soup and fish, and a Cotes du Rhone for the duck. When the waiter appeared, she gave him her order, saying, “When my friend arrives, please return. I’d like to speak to your wine steward.”
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“Of course, Madame,” said the waiter in a vaguely Continental accent, and went away to put her order in at the kitchen, and to inform the wine steward that the young woman dining alone had an order for him.
The somallier—for so he liked to think of himself—went at once to Miss Pearce-Mannings table, and received her selection with a mixture of umbrage and respect, telling those willing to listen that she was not wholly a novice in regard to wine.
The pate was delicious, smooth of texture and savory. Rowena was almost sorry to have so little of it, except that with what was to come she did not want to gorge herself at the start. She was hallway through the bowl of turtle soup when she heard someone speak her name and glanced up to see Oliver Rupert Dominic Bowen standing across the table from her, his features rigid with disapproval.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” he demanded in a voice quiet with rage. “Well, have you, Rowena?”
Her initial shock gave way to a reserved calm that surprised her as much as it provoked him. “Good evening, Rupert. I didn’t know you would be here.”
“I should think not! Your pranks are not at all worthy of you, let me tell you,” he said in the same restricted tone. “What is the matter with you, doing so reckless a thing?”
“As waiting for my cousin to join me for dinner?” she asked confidently.
“What cousin?” he scoffed. “With your father decrying your wild ways, who among your family would encourage you to greater outrages? Do you expect me to believe such a farrago?”
“This is not the nineteenth century, Rupert, it is the twentieth, and women are no longer content to live under the restrictions of the past. My family does not wholly condemn my actions as you are determined to do,” Rowena improvised, all the while maintaining an outward calm that made her feel light-headed. “My cousin Juliana. The eldest of my father’s sister Elizabeth’s brood. She is nearly thirty, and she is coming to London to take up a p
ost as a private tutor in French and Italian.” She smiled winningly at Rupert. “Surely you remember her. She’s the one who looks like an owl.”
“An owl!” Rupert expostulated in disapproval. “Really, Rowena, you must not speak of your cousin in this way.”
“Why not?” Rowena inquired politely, then glanced at the approaching waiter. “Rupert, please go away. I don’t like the attention you are drawing on me.”
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“The attention I am drawing?” he huffed. “I am not drawing any attention. You are the one who is—”
“You are the one who is making a scene,” she pointed out coolly.
“I am doing no such thing,” he said indignantly. “A fine thing when a man cannot look after his affianced wife—”
“I am not your affianced wife,” she corrected him, some of her tranquility deserting her.
“Your father and I are agreed—” he began, trying to placate her. He held his hand out as if he was prepared to pat her shoulder.
She interrupted him without apology. “My father may have been willing to listen to you, but I will not believe that he would expect me to consider your offer seriously, not given what I have said about marriage since I was ten. The fact that you are not willing to accept my decision is indication that we would make a very poor match indeed.”
“There’s no need to cause a scene,” he reprimanded her.
“I am not causing it. I was sitting quietly until you arrived and took it upon yourself to correct me, a thing you have no right to do.” She had to struggle to keep her voice from rising. “If you are so worried about attracting attention, you had best leave me at once, before I am driven to empty this excellent soup over your head.” The golden frog lying in the frame of her gown’s neckline felt hot on her skin.
He narrowed his eyes. “Have you had too much wine, my dear?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I have only tasted what is in this glass. Not that it is any business of yours.”
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