by Ann Clement
“No sketchbook?” he asked once he satisfied himself that not a spot remained untouched. “Shall I get your knapsack?”
“No,” she murmured, burrowing her head deeper into his coat.
“Did I exhaust your energy posing for six evenings in a row?”
“Hmm, no,” she mumbled, but she did sound tired. “I have enough sketches for now, and the trouble is how to use them in the painting I am working on without creating complete chaos.”
“I have no doubt you will succeed,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“Why, thank you, but you might be of a different opinion if you saw my lack of progress.”
Then she suddenly straightened her relaxed spine and turned to him.
“Would you like to see it?” she asked.
“Your lack of progress? I would be honored.” He grinned. “But if I understood you correctly, you do not like to share that with any audience. There is no need to make exceptions for me, Lettie.”
“But I want to,” she said. “I…I wanted to annoy you when I said that no one was ever allowed to see my work before it was finished. And you even put a lock on the orangery door. Well, I suppose I owe you a confession.” She sighed.
“Do you?”
“I never painted anything as large as my current work before. There was no good space for it at Fratton, besides my old nursery that was too dark to be of any use. I always wanted a large and sunny room, yet I never expected you’d let me use your magnificent orangery. Do you regret altering it for me?”
“No,” he said. “Do you?”
“Not at all,” she replied, laughing. “Will you do me the honor of visiting your own orangery, then? You can find out what I did with it and what it is that I do in there. After all, I invaded your privacy in the library.”
“I am not complaining,” he said, kissing her forehead again. “Indeed, I very much enjoy the invasion. It will be delightful to reciprocate.”
He did so later the same day.
The rebirth the orangery had undergone in less than three months astonished him, despite the expectation of change.
The trees in the large tubs remained and, freed from the excess of smaller plants, added a sense of comfort to the open space. The wall joining the orangery to the house almost disappeared under canvases in various stages of preparation. A long bench at the other end of the room sported a multitude of jars, various objects of unknown purpose—to him, at least—and several scattered sketches. A couple of settees and tea tables Sarah had once banished to the attic formed the nucleus of a sitting room. The settees had new covers, he noticed.
Not one twinge of regret assailed him at the dismantling of the Indian jungle Sarah had cultivated with such devotion. He had rarely entered it, especially in the latter years of their marriage. The overcrowded stillness of the plants and hot, moist air had always felt more like a mournful shrine than a pleasure garden. It wouldn’t have surprised him if a boa or a python had uncoiled from some branch just in front of his face while Sarah, her slightly narrowed gaze betraying her displeasure at his intrusion, hurriedly put away her notebook or the letters she might be reading on that overdecorated table he had ordered for her directly from Bombay.
The orangery seemed much more inviting now than it had ever been before. The lower branches on the trees had been removed, and Percy breathed in the scent of linseed oil mingling with the fresh air coming in through the open French doors. With the sunlight diffused by the sailcloth sheets stretched under the glass roof, the breeze kept the open space cool, despite the summer heat.
The large canvas set up on an easel near the center of the room drew his attention. Lettie had not exaggerated. It was about five-by-eight feet in size, in his estimation.
He stepped closer to it. On it, groups of people mingled in the foreground, some of them barely silhouettes in one or two background colors, others quite well defined. He could identify a young maid about to enter a side door of a building, smiling shyly at a youth handing her a ribbon. A barely sketched coachman rolled down the steps of a coach. An inn, then? Two gray gentlemen on horseback spoke to an earth-tone lady leaning out the window of a small carriage. Nearby, a lonely figure knelt by one of the tombstones in a churchyard. Behind all this appeared fields with a group of laborers.
But one corner of the canvas remained empty.
“This is Endymion,” Lettie said behind his back.
Percy raised a brow. “Endymion?”
“He is not in the painting yet.” She moved closer. “You see, I want to show him as someone who’s deprived of his life for a goddess’s selfish pleasure. Everything passes him by while he sleeps in isolation on the edge of the woods behind the fields.” She pointed to the empty upper left corner. “I don’t want to paint him in a traditional manner, as a beautiful young boy with a shepherd’s staff and a few sheep grazing around. He should be one of the villagers.”
She walked to the bench and pulled a sketch from a small pile.
In it, a male figure stretched unceremoniously on the ground, with a wooden flute lying abandoned in the grass, a basket with bread and cheese being inspected by a cautious fox, and not a sheep nearby. The figure’s head was turned away from the viewer; only the cascade of heavy locks partially covering the face and the fine proportions of his body indicated that he was indeed worthy of a goddess’s attention. The old, tattered breeches covered shapely legs, and a simple shirt, unbuttoned, revealed a muscular torso. Percy remembered posing in a similar attitude a couple of days earlier.
“Hmm.” He cleared his throat, taken aback by her unusual vision and his surroundings. “Had I ever harbored any doubts about giving you the orangery, all this”—he gestured around—“would banish them in an instant. As for the lack of progress itself”—he grinned—“it appears to be doing remarkably well, in my opinion. Do you have any plans for Endymion’s future once it is finished?”
She shook her head.
“Then we must find a proper place for it in this house.”
“You do not even know if you will like it,” she protested, but he knew the idea pleased her.
“Oh, I am certain I will,” Percy assured her. “I already admire your interpretation.”
The sound of someone clearing their throat made them both turn toward the door.
“I beg your pardon, madam, sir.” Slater stood there with a salver in his hand. “Mrs. Vernon is here. Mr. Wilkinson and Lady Marsden are here as well. And a messenger brought this letter from Mr. Welch for you, sir. He says it is very urgent and awaits your reply.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
All relaxation fled Percy’s face in an instant. Apparently, an urgent message from Mr. Welch, whoever he was, was not good news.
“I think I better find out what prompted my solicitor to such haste,” Percy muttered. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
“Do not worry about the guests,” Letitia replied. “I can manage very well on my own.”
“I know.” He smiled.
While Percy went into the library, Letitia continued on to the drawing room where Slater had deposited the entire group beforehand. He shuffled ahead of her to open the door.
“…battle was over, the Black Knight rode off into the woods, and no one ever saw him again.” Mr. Wilkinson, sitting in one of the armchairs and leaning with both hands on his cane, had managed to charm William and Henry into temporary immobility, their eyes round with wonder.
“But…the treasure, sir,” Henry piped in anxiously. “Did he take it with him?”
“Ah, the treasure.” Mr. Wilkinson nodded. “The treasure disappeared too, the same day, and no one ever found out what happened to it.”
“Was it very big and heavy?” William wanted to know.
Mr. Wilkinson pursed his lips. “Who knows, my boy, who knows?”
“Could the treasure be in England?” The boy’s face s
hone with expectation.
Mr. Wilkinson nodded. “Perhaps.”
“Hurry, William.” Henry nudged his brother. “We must fight the battle first.”
“Not yet,” Mary interjected. “Where are your manners, my knights errant? You haven’t paid proper homage to the lady of this castle.”
Letitia swallowed a chuckle and sank into a curtsy when the boys executed a very proper leg.
“Avenge thy honor, noble sirs,” she said, “and chase away all enemies of this kingdom.”
“But no mistaking cats for dragons or gardeners for giants,” Mary warned them as they dashed for the door. “No amount of treasure will help you if you get in trouble.”
Mr. Wilkinson began to laugh once the door closed behind the boys.
“Spoken from experience, no doubt, my dear Mrs. Vernon,” he said, still chuckling. “Good afternoon, Lady Hanbury.”
“Good afternoon, sir, Ethel, Mary. What a great pleasure. Slater, will you please see to the tea?”
Slater bowed himself out.
“Your knights were very impatient to conquer this little realm,” Letitia remarked.
Mary waved her hand in resignation. “Last week they chased an innocent feline basking in the sun and locked the gardener in his shed.” She hugged Letitia. “I’m so glad to see you, my dear.”
“And I’m so glad you came. How wonderful you all came.”
Mr. Wilkinson bowed his head. “It has been a long-overdue pleasure for me, my dear Lady Hanbury. Luckily, the gout has given me some respite to enjoy my days before, no doubt, it sinks in its teeth again. Am I not correct, Ethel, my dear?”
“I hope not, Father.” Ethel stood a little to the side, her expression inscrutable.
Letitia had seen her only a couple of times since the incident with the ribbon. Each time Ethel apologized profusely, if not with genuine sincerity. There would never be close friendship between them, but for Percy’s and Mr. Wilkinson’s sakes, Letitia was determined to do her best.
“How are you, Ethel?” she asked.
“Pythe Park keeps me extremely busy.” Ethel sighed with a wan smile. “My brother is returning home, and I decided to move back to London. Naturally, it takes time to prepare the house for him and to make sure at the same time that my townhouse is habitable after several years of disuse.”
“What wonderful news,” Letitia exclaimed, despite a quick stab of regret bordering on envy. John would never come back. “Percy will, no doubt, share your joy. He’s mentioned his friend with warmth on several occasions. How soon do you expect him?”
“No sooner than in a fortnight,” Mr. Wilkinson replied. “His latest was sent from Gibraltar, from whence he planned to board a ship home. God willing, the weather will not turn violent with September upon us.”
“I certainly hope not,” Letitia said. “You must be very happy, sir, at the prospect of your son’s return.”
“Exceedingly so.” Mr. Wilkinson nodded. “I only wish he would finally settle down instead of dashing off here and there all the time. And I hope Ethel will not waste her time in London either.”
Ethel sat down at last.
“I have no notion of remarrying,” she said. “It is Thomas’s children you should be bouncing on your knee, Father, not mine.”
“Well”—he smiled at his daughter—“they could take turns. Perhaps, if you both hurry, I might see them grow into fine young lads like these two sons of yours, my dear Mrs. Vernon.”
Mary grinned. “I concur, sir,” she said. “Someone must, in the end, find that treasure you spoke of. And since I have a feeling that my boys may be unsuccessful, having grandchildren for that purpose is an excellent scheme indeed.”
Mr. Wilkinson grinned right back. “You read my thoughts, ma’am. Though, upon consideration, I fear they may have some fierce competition, as Percy would not want to be left out of such a promising quest. What do you say, Lady Hanbury?”
Mr. Wilkinson’s question caught her unprepared. Letitia felt the most annoying, horrible heat rise in her face.
“I…well…” she stammered. “Are you sure, sir, he knows your story about the Black Knight?”
Mr. Wilkinson chuckled. “Very clever, my dear Lady Hanbury. He might not be very interested in it. Something tells me he already found the treasure he was searching for.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilkinson,” Letitia replied, glad to have averted the need for any explanations. “You are flattering me shamelessly, but I do not mind, as this make-believe world of yours is so pleasant to wander about in for an afternoon.”
The footman entered with the tea tray, putting a temporary end to their small talk.
“I must say,” Mr. Wilkinson spoke again, and this time his tone had none of the careless banter in it, “that I am exceedingly worried about my son’s safety. There is talk once more of the French invasion. A ship from Gibraltar might not get through a blockade. In fact, I came to see if Percy had heard anything on the subject. The newspapers are full of conflicting information, and one doesn’t know anymore whom to believe.”
“Let us hope it’s nothing but a rumor,” Mary replied. “Don’t we hear it every year? I think it must be concocted by all the militiamen who wish to gather for a libation in the nearest village inn. Every time Bonaparte sneezes on his throne, they use it as a pretense to make merry under the guise of war preparations.”
“Percy hasn’t mentioned anything,” Letitia said. “I am sure he would not withhold such important information had he believed any of these rumors.”
“And I’m sure Thomas will be fine,” Ethel added. “If there is any action, his ship may go to Bristol, or even circle Scotland and come to Norfolk directly, thus avoiding the potential contact with the French if they prove foolish enough to attack us.”
The door flew open.
“We found it! Mama! Sir, you were right. We found it!”
William’s reddened face glowed with excitement above what appeared to be a rhubarb leaf serving as a shield and a stick he swung like a saber.
“You found what?” Mr. Wilkinson asked. “Don’t tell me you have seen the Black Knight galloping through Uncle Percy’s gardens.”
William shook his head, sweat-dampened locks plastered to his forehead.
“No, sir. We thought we did, but he got away before we could question him.” He grinned. “But we found the treasure.”
“You did?” Mary asked, getting up from her chair. “Well, where is this treasure? You better show us.”
“In the hallway. Henry is guarding it,” William breathed excitedly, leading the way. “It was always in the hallway. That’s why no one knew where it was, sir, because Uncle Percy never told anyone.” He nodded and then glanced at Mr. Wilkinson. “Did you know, sir, that it was in Uncle Percy’s hallway?”
“I did not at all,” Mr. Wilkinson said with indignation, getting up with his daughter’s help and following the others. “Goodness gracious, if I did, I would have found it myself instead of telling you.”
“But it is ours now,” William announced triumphantly and capered ahead to where Henry sat below Sir Giles’s portrait, holding a tole box in both hands, another rhubarb leaf and stick by his side. “See? It has secret golden signs on top. And it’s black. So it had to belong to the Black Knight.”
Letitia examined the box. It was no bigger than an average-sized book. Or rather, big enough for an average-sized small book to fit inside it. The tole work, from what she could see between Henry’s smudgy fingers, was of high quality. What an odd find. Surely, the boys had not gone through the drawers. Mrs. Waters had accounted for their contents when they had been doing the inventory. She would have remembered if the box had been in one of them.
“Where did you find it?” Mary asked, reaching for the box.
“Oh…” Ethel’s feeble moan diverted all attention from the boys to her.
/>
Pale as freshly washed linen, Ethel swayed.
Mr. Wilkinson’s step faltered. He tried to steady his stance. “Ethel, are you unwell, my dear child?” He sounded alarmed.
“Ethel, you must sit down.” Letitia hurried to put an arm around Ethel’s shoulders. It would not do to let the two of them tumble to the floor.
Ethel only shook her head and took in a harsh breath while Mary took her father’s arm and led him a few steps away. Letitia helped Ethel sit in a chair by the commode opposite to the one where Henry sat on the floor.
“Slater,” Letitia called anxiously, but the butler had already appeared. “Please call Miss Fourier. I think Lady Marsden is ill. Would you like to lie down, Ethel?”
“No, no.” Ethel shook her head again and even tried to smile. “Do not mind me. It must be the heat. Or maybe the pie we had for breakfast today. Nothing to worry about, I assure you.” She took another deep breath, and her smile broadened. Then she was back on her feet, smoothing her skirts. “See? I’m already better.”
“Oh no, don’t you dare,” Mary said suddenly, bringing everyone’s attention to the other side of the hallway again. William had joined his brother on the floor, and both boys were trying to pry open the lid of the box.
“But we want to see what’s inside,” Henry protested.
“Whatever is inside, it belongs to Uncle Percy,” Mary said in a tone not brooking opposition. “If Uncle Percy decides to give it to you, then you may have it. But for now, hand it over to Lady Letitia, please. Where exactly did you find it, Henry?”
“Behind the painting,” Henry said, getting up from the floor and giving the box to Letitia. It was relatively heavy for its size. How had it ended up behind a painting? Percy had said once he didn’t mind the warped frame encasing his forebear’s likeness, and she agreed with him. The imperfection was charming in its own way. But it never occurred to her that anyone might use it for storage.
Apparently, Mary found this surprising as well. “Can you show me?” she asked her son.
Henry walked to Sir Giles’s portrait, where the warped bottom corner of the frame hung only about two feet above the floor. He easily slid his hand between the back of the frame and the wall.
