At Love's Bidding

by Regina Jennings

  She lowered the magnifying glass. “The LeBlanc estate?”

  Cornelius folded into the empty chair between her and Grandfather. His neck creased against his high starched collar. “The LeBlancs’ lawyer is on his way. Monty King claims the portrait was a priceless family heirloom, and LeBlanc had no intention of selling it.”

  Grandfather snorted as he finished recording the details of the saber before him. “He’s carting up and selling everything of value that belongs to the LeBlancs—not that I’m complaining at six percent commission, mind you.”

  “But how did it get to the block?” Miranda asked. “I never came across it during inventory.” And why hadn’t Grandfather realized the mistake? He’d built this business with a razor-sharp memory and a keen eye for detail. How could he have suffered such a lapse in judgment? And on a sale day, of all days?

  With steady, blue-veined hands, Grandfather slid the saber into its scabbard. “Someone in the family must have sent it over. I don’t see how they can hold us responsible.”

  Cornelius’s gaze met hers, and he had every reason to be concerned. Grandfather was his great-uncle, and as a phrenologist, Cornelius took particular interest in family traits. Through his monocle he studied Grandfather’s bowed head, which was bare except for a fringe of graying hair wrapped like a thick equator around a shiny globe. Miranda could only imagine how he wanted to get his hands on it and feel for any new protrusions that might explain Grandfather’s blunder. If one could really determine a person’s character by the bumps on his or her head, as Cornelius claimed, Grandfather would be an easy study.

  But no time for study now. The glassed door at the end of the warehouse swung open to admit her father, followed by two men, both of whom appeared to have been mistreating foodstuffs for quite some time. Grandfather and Cornelius rose to their feet.

  “This is Mr. Monty King and his assistant—”

  “McSwain.” The man’s face was shaped like a pyramid with dulled edges. His walrus whiskers twitched with uncertainty as his boss, Mr. King, barreled toward Grandfather.

  “You are going to get that portrait back. You had no right to sell it.” Mr. King’s small bald head was of a level with Grandfather’s equator, but he leaned forward as if speaking down to him. The profligate folds of his cravat reminded Miranda of a still life she’d seen at the Athenaeum—an apple sitting on a pillow. Only his smooth head had no stem protruding upward.

  “We will do what we can,” Grandfather said, “but the LeBlancs share the responsibility. They brought it to us.”

  “Did you use the words LeBlanc and responsibility in the same breath?” Mr. King’s jowls continued to shimmy after his head had stopped. “Frederic LeBlanc couldn’t name his ships, his wharf, or his captains without help. All he knows is that his picture of dear old Grandpère is missing off the wall. As his solicitor, I insist you return it. You have a month. After that, I’ll bring suit against you.”

  McSwain produced a small notepad and pencil stub. Holding it at arm’s length, his pencil moved. “Take Wimplegates to court,” he said. Then squinting upward asked, “Can you spell Wimplegate?”

  Mr. King’s eyes grew hard. “Leave the note-taking to me.” But instead of cowering, the man bit his fleshy tongue and continued to make letters.

  Seeing their rudeness toward Grandfather made Miranda wish for her silver tray. But Grandfather could defend himself.

  “Sue us for selling something you brought us? Bah,” Grandfather spat. “You won’t win.”

  “So what? Just the spectacle of poor Mr. LeBlanc on the stand pining for his family treasure will be enough to ruin you. No one will trust the Wimplegate Auction House after that.”

  “Ruin . . . the . . . auction . . .” McSwain flipped his pencil over to erase a mistake.

  “Outside,” Mr. King ordered, his apple head growing red. With a shrug, McSwain stepped out the door and closed it behind him, his pyramid silhouette easily discernible through the frosted glass insert as he struggled with his note-taking.

  “Now, listen.” Mr. King rested his knuckles on the table next to the jeweled scabbard. “I know you have records. You’ll hunt this down, and I can tell Frederic how helpful you were, but just in case you’re thinking that you’d rather the buyer keep his prize, I’m here to tell you that wouldn’t be a good idea. Do you understand?”

  “We will do what we can,” Father said, “but why threaten us? This was not our responsibility.”

  Or was it? Miranda ducked her chin. She’d known it was a mistake. She knew that painting wasn’t in the catalog, that Grandfather was confused, and she’d let it sell anyway. If the piece was truly a family heirloom, she couldn’t blame them for being upset.

  “I don’t care whose fault it was,” Mr. King said. “Mr. LeBlanc appreciates me because I get things done without bothering him. Cornelius can tell you that I’m a fair man, and if you do your part, then we’ll have no problems.”

  She’d never seen her father so angry. He didn’t blink, didn’t move, but disdain poured out his cold eyes.

  Mr. King rapped his knuckles, causing the sword to clatter against the table. “No problems, right?”

  From outside the door a hearty “Right, boss” was heard.

  “Imbecile,” Mr. King muttered. He straightened. “If we understand each other, I’ll take my leave. Truly, I don’t want to see this fine establishment go out of business. What would be the point? Just get the painting back.” His small, hard eyes covered each of them in turn. Satisfied that his message had hit the mark, he turned around—a gradual maneuver that took him three feet—then he flung the door open and hit the feckless McSwain on the head with his hat before they sauntered out of sight.

  Miranda ran her fingers over the rubies in the brooch before her. Between her father and grandfather, they could fix this. No one was more capable than they, but even the clever Wimplegate men needed a moment to catch their breath. Cornelius was the first to recover.

  “I’ll talk to him. Father and Monty were childhood friends. Maybe he can convince them not to prosecute our relatives.”

  “We aren’t that close of relatives,” Father growled.

  “We could be closer.” Cornelius nudged her foot beneath the table.

  Miranda pulled away, irritated as always whenever their possible union was discussed. “Now is not the time.”

  “When is?” He leaned across the table, blocking her view of her father and grandfather. “Taking care of this little mistake could be my wedding present to you. Even if Father isn’t thrilled about Mother’s poor relations, he wouldn’t hesitate to speak up for my fiancée.”

  Poor relations? There had to be another way.

  “We must get it corrected before word gets out.” Grandfather took up the sword again and bounced it in his palm. “Do you really think your father could get somewhere with them?”

  Cornelius beamed. “He wouldn’t let anything happen that would mar the joy of my nuptials.”

  Before he could touch her again, Miranda choked out, “Have we looked at the register? If the bidder had a number, he had to have a name.”

  “The bidder’s ticket led nowhere,” Father said. “False name, false information. Only the money was real.”

  The black carriage. Miranda’s chair squawked as she spun it around. “But I saw the man who bought the painting. He wore a black suit, had a trimmed beard, and a hat . . .”

  Her cousin shook his head. “You just described every man on the streets of Boston.”

  “But he came with a woman. I would recognize her. Maybe not her features, but her attitude, the way she made me feel. She was warning me, censuring me . . .” Come to think of it, perhaps Miranda should consider before going any further. What danger could the woman have foreseen?

  “Write down what you remember,” Grandfather said. “Perhaps she’ll reappear at tomorrow’s sale. We’ll be on the lookout for her.”

  “She doesn’t have the painting. Not anymore.” Miranda’s father
pulled an envelope out of his pocket. “Mr. Wakefield happened to overhear our mystery buyer at the cargo desk after the sale finished. He shipped one moderately-sized crate on the westbound.”

  “To New York?” Cornelius asked.

  “Even farther. Hart County, Missouri.”

  Grandfather whistled. “Never heard of it.”

  “Neither had the shipping agent. It’ll change rail lines in New York and then again in St. Louis. After that is anyone’s guess.”

  “Then it’s gone.” Miranda fingers curled around the bauble. How she wished she’d had the courage to speak up. After staying at Grandfather’s side throughout Grandmother’s illness and death, why had she let him down now?

  “Why didn’t you tell Mr. King your information?” Cornelius asked.

  “Because I don’t trust him,” Father said.

  “He’s one of my patients,” Cornelius said, “and has an obvious excrescence in both agreeableness and conscientiousness.”

  “Have you found those traits displayed beyond the lumps on his skull?” Father asked.

  Cornelius elevated his thin nostrils. “As I said, my father and Mr. King frequent the same clubs. Given the right circumstances . . .”

  Miranda’s nails dug into her palms. She’d always assumed she would marry Cornelius—so busy was she with the family business that she hardly knew any other young men—but as she got to the age that it was actually possible, she’d begun to resist. As far as his threatening to withhold help, that was the wrong tactic. She might hate making a choice, but she resented having them made for her.

  “Do we know where in Hart County it’s going?” Grandfather asked.

  “Maybe we do.” Her father opened the envelope and fished out a slip of paper. “I’ve had the telegraph wires buzzing this morning, and my efforts have been rewarded. It appears there’s an auction house in Hart County. At least it’s a place to start.” He slid the paper across the table.

  “Do they have it or not?” Cornelius asked.

  “They wouldn’t have it yet, but we mustn’t tell them what we’re looking for,” Father explained. “It’s an auction house. If they know we’re desperate to get the piece, they’ll make us pay dearly. Better to act uninterested in that particular item and buy it back unopposed.”

  Even a novice knew better than to disclose one’s intent at an auction, but Cornelius rarely dirtied his hands at their place.

  “Where is Hart County?” Miranda asked. “Could there be many antiques there? Enough to keep an auction house in business?”

  Her father shrugged. “Fine estates have lined the Mississippi for years, especially around St. Louis. And not only is there an auction house in Hart County, but it’s also for sale. The owner telegraphed me to give me a bid.”

  “We could buy the whole auction house?” Her grandfather clapped his hands together. “How much?”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary,” Father said, “but the price was surprisingly low.” Absently, he stuck a finger in his ear and twisted as he thought.

  “I’m responsible for the sale, so I should be the one to recover it,” Grandfather said.

  “You won’t be able to find it,” Cornelius said. “And how can you afford an expensive trip west? Especially if word gets out and no estates will hire you?”

  “I’ll have Patrick prepare my bags.” Bless Grandfather and his ability to ignore Cornelius. Leaving his sword and scabbard on the table of items for the next sale, Grandfather strode away.

  “If he’s determined to go,” Cornelius said, “then I suppose Miranda and I will do what we can from here to smooth things over.” He trailed his fingers along her arm. “Maybe this unfortunate mistake will finally convince you how much you stand to gain.”

  The brooch skittered out of her fingers. “I’m going, too.” She shoved her chair backwards and pinched her skirt narrow to fit around Cornelius and reach her father. Her words spilled out in desperate eloquence. “Grandfather hasn’t been himself. Under normal circumstances he could out-bargain and out-deal anyone, but recently his thinking has been impaired.” She searched Father’s face, looking for any sign that her words were hitting their mark. “I could check on the details—timetables, tickets—and make sure he remembers to take his meals.”

  After a searing look toward Cornelius, her father nodded like the sage he was.

  “Not a bad idea. Your mother and I think you spend too much time at the auction house. Maybe a little travel would bolster your confidence.”

  “I think she’s perfect in every way,” Cornelius said. Miranda could only guess that confidence was one attribute he thought she could do without. “And what if things don’t go as planned? She could come back even more fearful. Don’t forget, I’ve done a complete phrenological examination of Miranda, and from the way her skull is shaped, she has an overlarge capacity for caution and a cavity in the self-esteem area. We’re proceeding against nature to try to cultivate—”

  “Poppycock.” Charles Wimplegate pinched his daughter’s chin. “We all know she is smart and capable, but maybe she needs to prove it to herself. Four weeks, Miranda. You and Grandfather will have a grand adventure and return with the LeBlancs’ troublesome portrait. Then we’ll put these rumors of our incompetency to rest. You can do this.”

  Probably not. More than likely Cornelius was right, but it was her fault the painting hadn’t been saved. If she couldn’t recover it this way, then Cornelius’s suggestion might be the only solution.

  A train ride. No public performances, no uncomfortable confrontations. Merely making sure Grandfather’s cravat was clean and he didn’t eat too much rich food. She’d behave herself, bite her tongue, and come home with the painting. What could go wrong? With Miranda’s morbid imagination, she could think of thousands of horrifying outcomes, but she should have stopped Grandfather from selling the portrait in the first place. She had to do this. Her family needed her.

  Chapter 3

  Pine Gap, Missouri

  Pine Gap. That was the name of the town, but all Miranda could picture were President Washington’s ill-fitting wooden dentures. Keeping her eyes glued to the window, she waited for the endless trees to thin and reveal their destination. According to the conductor they should arrive soon, but how could a town of any size exist in such an isolated area? Naked rocks jutted out on both sides of the train, where the railroad had blasted through the mountains—menacing, sharp overhangs that hadn’t healed from their recent injury. Had Mother known about the miles of wilderness they would cross, she never would’ve let Miranda go.

  Miranda had barely been able to pry herself out of Mother’s arms as it was. On second thought, she was giving herself too much credit. Father was the one who’d ultimately separated the two. Without his firm insistence, she would’ve climbed back into the hired hack and sulked home to where she’d feel safe and sound—until Cousin Cornelius called again.

  “I wonder if our auction house is close to the depot.” Grandfather rested both hands atop his cane. Since they’d left Boston, he’d been a fidgety bundle of excitement. Striking up conversations at random, exploring the shabby depots, anxiously rocking, as if his efforts could speed the train along the tracks. “Our first priority is to recover the LeBlanc portrait, but I don’t deny that I’m excited to see what other treasures our purchase has netted us.”

  Miranda studied the seams on her gloves. Once her father had located the auction house owner, her grandfather had taken over the correspondence. Thinking it not prudent to ask outright about the portrait, he merely expressed interest in the auction house itself, and before her father could stop him, he’d purchased the entire business—lock, stock, and barrel, as they said. Their weekly receipts weren’t much, but the number of items for sale and the number of bidders was impressive, leaving Miranda to suspect, and her grandfather convinced, that they’d stumbled upon a goldmine. Here was a place where antiques, furnishings, and jewelry went for pennies on the dollar. All they needed to do was to box up t
he inventory, ship it home, and they’d not only have the LeBlanc picture, but a tidy profit besides.

  “You’re certain the owner hasn’t sold anything?” Miranda asked.

  “He gave me his word. As of the twenty-eighth of May, he hasn’t sold a thing, but waits for us to arrive. That painting should be safe in his warehouse.”

  “I hope so,” Miranda said. “I hate to think of being away from home any longer. Grandmother always fretted if you weren’t home for dinner. I can only imagine what she’d think of this adventure.”

  He fidgeted before answering. “Your grandmother was a dear woman but a bit of a worrywart.”

  “How could she help it, with your antics to trouble her?” Miranda tucked her hand beneath her grandfather’s arm. His eyes dimmed with memory. Grandmother’s passing had changed him. He used to be so open, so approachable, to even the lowliest laborer. Now he used a blustery whirlwind of activity to chase people away and perhaps to dispel thoughts of his own mortality.

  The steam whistle blew. The wheels screeched. Still nothing but trees outside the window. Miranda checked her fob watch, a souvenir her father had purchased from the first sale she’d cataloged. Just past noon. They should arrive . . .

  A log building appeared. A stubby rock chimney, a short platform, and a massive pile of firewood met her eye. Confused, Miranda scanned the railcar. Unlike other stops, no one seemed to notice that the train had halted. No gathering packages, no adjusting hats and buttoning overcoats. Was this their stop?

  Her grandfather’s mouth tightened. Standing, he flagged down the porter. “Excuse me. Is this Pine Gap?”

  “Yes, sir. They’ll unload your bags to the platform. Good luck to ya.”

  Grandfather widened his stance. The unlucky porter was blocked in. “But I don’t see the town,” Grandfather said. “We’re in the middle of a wilderness.”