by Joan Smith
He came to the nursery during the middle of the next morning for a short visit, to confirm that he “had not dreamed the whole wonderful thing,” as he put it. He came back again that evening, still in exalted spirits, very warm and friendly toward myself, as well as toward his son. Every new little bit of success was crowed over by the proud father.
Attention and love are powerful things. They can cause the human personality to expand and grow, as plants flourish in sunlight. It seemed to me, watching Bobby throughout that week, that he had been storing up all his resources for this spurt of accomplishment. Every day, every hour saw an improvement. His sensitive little face would firm in concentration, as he strove hard and harder to please us. There were no temper tantrums, no sulks or pouts.
For him to achieve so much so quickly, I assume he had already half this information in his head, but could not bother to use it. Words were added to his vocabulary so swiftly that this was the only conclusion I could come to. He had just not bothered to try before, for no one seemed to care, or demand it of him. He was as proud of himself as his father was of him. He delighted to surprise us with his revelations. He would look, curious, to see if we were impressed or amused, and if it was the case, he would laugh joyfully.
The shared work and success threw the three of us into a spirit of camaraderie, almost like a private club. When Bobby displayed some new trick for me, I waited impatiently for Mr. Palin to come, that we might show it to him. I supposed that was the main reason I glanced so often to the door, for he popped in at odd minutes, sometimes to stay for a very short while.
On the third day, late in the afternoon, Bobby was tired from all his efforts, and had curled up on my knee for his reward, a story. I removed my spectacles and put them aside on the arm of the chair. We sat together near the window. On that occasion, I did not hear or see Mr. Palin as he approached. It was not till Bobby made some exclamation that I glanced up. He was standing very still, gazing at us with a bemused expression on his face, a soft smile, with a trace of wistfulness in it.
“Nature designed you to be a mother, Miss Bingie,” he said, strolling into the room. “I hope you will fly in the face of Nature and remain always a spinster, so we won’t lose you. Is that unforgivably selfish of me?”
“Why yes, sir, I believe it is,” I answered without hesitation. Less formality was observed between us since we were so often together.
“I suppose you have a beau waiting for you back home in Northumberland, if the truth were known.”
“No, not a suitor to my name.”
“The gentlemen thereabouts must be an uncommonly slow bunch of tops.”
“Their lassitude is generally blamed on the colder weather,” I answered lightly, looking about for my spectacles. Bobby chose that moment to leave my knee. His descent was somewhat rambunctious, knocking the glasses to the floor. Before I could retrieve them, his little heel came down on one of the lenses, crunching it to splinters.
“Oh, Bobby!” I exclaimed, chagrined at the mishap.
“Bobby is a bad boy. I’m sorry,” he said, full of humility.
“Do you not have another pair?” Mr. Palin asked, walking forward to pick them up.
“No.”
“I shall have these repaired for you. I hope the lack of them won’t interfere too much with your seeing,” he said, holding the good lens to the window to look through it. “They are not very strong, Miss Bingie. Are you quite sure you actually require these, or do you just use them to hide behind, and give the gentlemen the notion you are blue, so they won’t pester you?”
“I am as blind as a bat,” I insisted. I felt a blush color my cheeks as he looked closely at me, gazing into my eyes, with a sort of half-smile on his lips.
“That is a great pity,” he said. Then he drew out his handkerchief, wrapped the broken spectacles in it and put them in his pocket. “I have come to ask you if I might borrow our boy for an hour or so. You will think me impetuous, but I have bought him a pony,” he said, a little ashamed of himself. “He has been wanting to ride forever, and now that I know he—he is capable of it, I am eager to get him to work. I was riding at a younger age than four.”
Bobby was standing at rigid attention during this speech, his eyes alert, as he tried to hear and understand. Unless one spoke to him and used a loudish voice, he was unlikely to hear it all. The magical words “pony” and “ride” seemed to have got through. “Papa riding a pony?” he asked, frowning.
“No, my son is going to ride a pony,” Mr. Palin answered, smiling broadly.
It was a wonderful sight to see comprehension dawn on the child. His eyes actually grew wider. He looked as much frightened as happy, till the lips parted in a gigantic smile. “Bobby ride?” he asked.
“Do you think you can hack it, old boy?” his father asked.
“Miss Bingie, I riding! I riding!” He actually hopped up and down in uncontrollable glee, his voice not far removed from a shout.
It was impossible to remain unmoved at this joyful spectacle. I laughed, but my eyes were moist. When Mr. Palin looked from his son to me, there was a peculiar glitter in his too. “I don’t think you were too impetuous, Mr. Palin,” I said. My voice was quaking with emotion.
His reaction was so very peculiar. He was momentarily beyond words. He squeezed my fingers very tightly, swallowed, and said, “God bless you, Bingie.”
Bobby could be restrained no longer. He literally dragged his father from the room by the hand, babbling excitedly, quite as incoherently as he had babbled when first I arrived at Palin Park, but his incoherence was of so happy a nature it was impossible to regret it. Mr. Palin looked back over his shoulder with an apologetic look. “I’ll take good care of him,” he said.
My heart was full of joy. I stood at the window and watched them hasten, the elder hardly able to keep up with the younger, as they went to the stable. I intended watching the lesson as well, from the nursery window, but I had been derelict in my first duty here, which was to find out what had happened to Rosalie. The excitement of the past days had pushed it to the rear of my mind. This was a good opportunity to visit madame’s rooms.
Chapter Fifteen
Knowing Mrs. Palin had locked her door, I planned to gain entry through Mr. Palin’s room, which was next to hers, and presumably adjoining it. I slipped quietly down the hall of the nursery wing, around the corner to the family part of the house. There was no one about. I felt very guilty indeed as I entered Mr. Palin’s chamber. A large canopied bed stood in one corner. It was a masculine room, with heavy mahogany furnishings and stately green hangings. I closed the hall doorway behind me and went straight to the door on the left side, adjacent to madame’s room. It opened silently into her oasis of sybaritic grandeur.
I had ample time to view it on this visit. It was large and bright, with a row of windows along the far wall, curtained in pale-green velvet. The carpet underfoot was a creamy white with an intertwining pattern of green leaves around its edge. Walking on it was like walking on a pile of blankets, it was so thick and luxurious. There were no less then three large mirrors in the room—one over the mahogany vanity table, a pier glass at one corner of the window, and another above her desk. There were, strangely, no pictures on the wall. Reflections of madame were the ornament of the chamber, reflections of myself at that present moment. I saw myself looking at myself from odd angles, in the various mirrors. I looked frightened, dark-eyed, uncertain, as alien in that decadent bower as a wild animal. I felt instinctively madame had decorated this chamber herself. It was too sophisticated and too richly appointed to suit April, or the image of her I had seen in the gallery, at least.
I hardly knew where to begin looking. What I was after was some evidence of Rosalie’s fate, some personal items such as the silver buttons Molly had. Madame’s jewelry would be either with her or locked in a vault, but outside of the mourning ring, I had not a great deal of interest in it. I sped silently to her vanity table. It was lined with crystal pots, spray perfu
mes, gold-backed hand mirror, brush, comb and a dozen aids to beauty whose function I could not even imagine. I began opening drawers, rummaging quickly and carefully, so as to leave no trace of my search. Madame had more gloves, silk stockings, elegant hand-worked lingerie and handkerchiefs than the normal lady would require in a lifetime. Each drawer was scented with her cloying perfume.
Finding nothing informative there, I went next to the larger dresser, to discover her petticoats, a host of whalebone corsets, horsehair crinolines, camisoles, shawls and oddments of feminine apparel. But again, there was nothing related to Rosalie. Her wardrobe was next. The woman was a clothes-horse, a very demanding one. Everything was of the finest, carefully hung, the out-of-season garments covered with dust sheets. A shelf above held hat boxes, and below, shoes and riding boots of all sorts were ranged in order. It would take a week to go through the pockets of all the gowns, the toes of the shoes, the bottoms of the hat boxes.
There were so many possible places of concealment that I despaired. The excess, the positive glut of personal possessions overwhelmed me. The poor relation had her fill of all the pretty things at last. There was something childish in it, almost pitiful. And in it all, the room at large, there was nothing to indicate an interest in anything beyond her own body and its beautification. There were no mementos of friends or relatives, no little framed picture of the remembered Mama, who would delight in her success, no letters scattered about the desk. It reminded me strangely of a setting for a stage play, all show and no heart.
I glanced around at the opulence, the overly fanciful decor, wondering where else to look. There was only the bed left. I went to it, ran my fingers over the smooth richness of the satin counterpane, drawing it down to lift the pillows and feel beneath them. There was a lace-trimmed handkerchief beneath one, folded neatly, unused and again scented. The soft feather tick beneath was as luxurious as all else in the chamber. Beneath the feather tick was a firmer mattress. I lifted the edge of the feather tick, exploring beneath it with my fingers. I touched some small, rough, hard things, that felt like pebbles. Full of hope and curiosity, I extracted them for examination. They sat in the palm of my hand, resembling three blobs of glass, but rougher, with some squarish edges. The surface was frosty-looking, rather rough. I had seen such things along the beaches, in various colors. One was the size of an eyetooth, one slightly larger, and one about three times that size. They felt rather heavier than chunks of glass.
I could make nothing of it… Perhaps they were good-luck pieces madame had picked up somewhere. I returned them to their nest, and pushed my fingers in farther, feeling for the touch of some other foreign object. My fingers poked at the edges of something hard and straight. I knew before it came out it was a book. My heart beat faster, hoping it might be a diary, a black-and-white admission in madame’s hand of guilt. As though anyone would be fool enough to keep such a thing!
It was only a little volume about historical jewelry, a subject that was bound to interest madame. The pages were yellowed, the binding of maroon leather cracked at the edges of the spine. The name J. P. Brown was inscribed in faded ink on the flyleaf, with the date 1830, and the words “Campo Grande.” I assumed this was a place, a city. If so, this Mr. Brown must have been living abroad, for the words sounded vaguely Latin, Spanish or Italian.
These finds were hardly illuminating, but as I could find nothing else, I decided to take the book back with me to my room for a closer study. I did this immediately. The book was called Jeweled Heirlooms of the Western World. It had illustrations, descriptions and stories about some of the most famous pieces for the past five hundred or so years. I found many of the items, especially the crown jewels from the various countries, to be not only lacking in beauty, but downright ugly. They were too large, too ornate, too garish to suit anyone but a monarch. It was strange madame thought highly enough of the book to keep it by her, hidden like a treasure, under her mattress.
There was one chapter on mourning jewelry through the ages, which I looked at with quickening interest because of my recent involvement with the Arnheim mourning ring. It mentioned the old custom of a deceased relative’s leaving in his will funds for the purchase of a piece of mourning jewelry. A ring was often selected for this memento. It was interesting, but hardly helpful.
I remembered Mrs. Steyne’s saying the ring had been obtained in Italy, on a honeymoon. With this in mind, I turned to the section on Italian jewelry.
The Italians were great lovers of ornamentation. From popes through Medicis and Borgias, they had commissioned priceless bibelots by the greatest artists. These objets d’art did not necessarily serve the single function of ostentatious display. The Borgias, for example, had been known to use a gift of jewelry as not only a bribe or reward, but actually as a murder weapon. I looked with eagerness across the page to see how this was done, and found myself reading about a harmless pin box. The lack of coherence sent my eyes flying to the page number, to see a page had been carefully removed.
No rough edges remained to indicate a hasty or accidental removal. The page had been carefully cut out. The thought inevitably occurred that the Arnheim mourning ring had been written about. Mrs. Steyne had not said the ring had been designed for the Palin bride; it had been purchased in Italy. It might have been an antique. Was it possible it was actually a legacy of Lucrezia Borgia, a ring used for murder?
This was an intriguing conjecture. Supposing madame chanced across the book, learned the ring’s secret, and decided to put it to use.... Of course it was all conjecture. The page might have been missing when she got the book, or might not mention the Arnheim mourning ring at all. For that matter, the “legend” might be wrong. The book mentioned many such legends, all of which sounded childishly foolish. The Kohinoor diamond, for example, was accounted a bad-luck stone, but it was all superstition.
In order to assess this matter, it would be necessary to see the missing page. I jotted down the publisher’s name, fortunately a London publisher, though the book was some fifty years old. I doubted a copy would still be available, but I was obliged to try. It was unlikely I would ever find the page torn from this copy in any case.
I wished to return the book to its hiding place before Mr. Palin came back to the house, so I did it then, sneaking into the room like a thief in the night, to slide it back under madame’s feather tick. My fingers encountered the three glasslike pebbles again. With my head full of diamonds and precious gems, I extracted them for another examination. Was it possible they were diamonds, rough, uncut diamonds? That seemed more likely to me than that madame was indulging in fanciful superstition, which she derided in the servants. I had to do some research into the matter of diamonds.
I hastened back to my room, thence to the nursery, to go to the window and see Bobby sitting proudly erect on the back of a Welch pony, with his father holding the lead line, every bit as proud as the boy. Surely Mr. Palin was no part of what had happened here, to Rosalie. In my mind, I had shifted all the blame onto madame, done it by degrees, during those hours he had been in the nursery. It was Mrs. Palin who went to the moors, where Rosalie too was known to go; Mrs. Palin who had offered her the mourning ring; Mrs. Palin who had written to me outlining the lying tales of my sister running off to America.
None of the suspicious behavior fell on him, and as to the carriage that had left the night Rosalie disappeared, Bess had not seen who went in it. It could have been Mrs. Palin, or Martin. I should have looked in Martin’s room! No time for it now. The pony turned, and Mr. Palin lifted the child down. They were coming back. I must wait till tomorrow.
Chapter Sixteen
Mr. Palin dined out with neighbors that evening. When his valet, Laver, a fellow who was some kin to Mrs. Steyne, joined the housekeeper in her rooms for a visit, I went quickly upstairs, but could not get into Martin’s room. The hall door and the door adjoining madame’s were both locked. I went to my own room and wrote Aunt Harriet another letter, to be mailed from Widecombe on Saturday. I r
equested her to send me the page only from Jeweled Heirlooms of the Western World, if she could find a copy, and to have the reddish-brown ointment enclosed analyzed at a chemist’s shop. I wrapped it in oilskin for safekeeping. I would have to keep a sharp eye out for my cream-colored envelope from Aunt Harriet, but the danger of its falling into the wrong hands was no greater than having the chemical analysis done locally. If the ointment was poison, the whole town might know it within an hour. I needed more privacy than that.
In the morning, it was back to the nursery with Bobby, a part of my day now that gave me great pleasure. The work on Rosalie’s behalf had become a duty I performed almost against my will. I was hardly eager to solve the mystery and to have to leave Palin Park, as I would probably have to do. Aunt Harriet would not consent to my remaining, nor was it at all likely Mr. Palin would go on making me welcome if I revealed his bride as a murderer.
At such disheartening moments as this, I tried to believe what had happened to Rosalie was an accident. The buttons defeated me, the buttons and the lies sent in madame’s letter. My little consolation was that at least Mr. Palin was not touched by these two circumstances.
In the afternoon, I found myself glancing often at my watch, wondering when Mr. Palin would come. “What do you want?” Bobby asked, when he saw me draw out my watch for the third time within half an hour. I realized with a guilty start that I was anticipating his visit with more excitement and pleasure than I should be. My cheeks were flushed, my heart racing a little, in a way that had nothing to do with satisfaction that the father was appreciating his son.
As though he knew I was waiting, Mr. Palin came in at that moment. His first gesture was a walk toward Bobby with his hands out, but his first look, from the doorway, was to me. It was more than a glance; it was a long, lingering look that made me at once happy, embarrassed, self-conscious and shy. I had very little familiarity with men. Aunt Harriet’s was a female household, with only the one male servant to tend to the heavy chores. I told myself this was why I was so acutely aware of his presence, but knew it did not account for it all. I had not felt this guilty joy on the doctor’s visits to Upper Grosvenor Square, or the solicitor’s, or even at the attentions of Mr. Rupert. It was more than a lack of ease. It was a deep, burning, heady, agitating thrill. To add to it, I had been feeling recently that Mr. Palin shared my emotions to some extent.
