The Painter

by Mary Kingswood

  He strode up to her, and, despite the defiant words, she backed hastily away from him until she could go no further and her back was to the wall.

  “You know nothing at all about her,” he hissed. “She has not the slightest ambition to become a countess, I assure you, and you wrong her greatly to speak so. Yes, I listen to her because she speaks with dignity, whereas you have never had an ounce of dignity in your life, Drusilla. You are a veritable Hell-cat, and lucky I still allow you over the threshold. I am not surprised you never married, but it would have done you a world of good to be taught a little conduct by a husband, and punished when you overstepped the mark, as you all too frequently do. I am utterly tired of your constant lectures, as if I were a child to be hounded into good behaviour. Such stratagems are not effective with children and they are certainly not effective with me. I am two and thirty years old, in possession of all my faculties and, as you continually remind me, a peer of the realm. I think I may order my life as I please, without reference to you or anyone else who accords me so little respect. Felicia points out all my weaknesses and failings, just as you do, but she does not harangue me or scream at me like a fishwife. She teaches by example. Since she herself is good and honourable and open-hearted, I wish — I very much wish — to be more like her. I try to model my behaviour on hers, and although there is still a long way to go, I believe there has been some progress. You have long wanted me to enter society once more, so you should be pleased that I am entertaining neighbours and holding a ball and—”

  “A ball!”

  “—going to London for the opening of Parliament.”

  “London!” she said, faintly.

  “And yes, I shall consider marriage, in the fullness of time. Not yet, perhaps. Let me take just one step at a time.”

  “But not her!”

  “Why the devil should I not, if I wished to?”

  “You will ruin this family if you do, Fin. You will be beyond all hope of redemption. She is patently unworthy to be the wife of an earl.”

  “She is worth a thousand of you,” he spat. “Ten thousand. A hundred thousand. Get out of my sight, Drusilla. I am sick of your sanctimonious chattering. Footman! Footman! Clean up this mess.”

  ~~~~~

  Fin imagined he had seen the last of Drusilla for a while, but she was made of sterner stuff that took no offence, even at being called a Hell-cat, and compared unfavourably with a governess. She did not attend prayers in the chapel, but she arrived, attired in full evening dress, half an hour before dinner.

  “We shall need another cover, Bagnall,” Fin said. “We are in the Italian Room tonight, Drusilla.”

  “The Italian Room? Why, when you have a—? Well, as you please, naturally.”

  That was progress, that she had not questioned him endlessly about it. “I did not expect you to come tonight,” he said, “and so I thought the round table would be more suitable for the small numbers.” And the dining room was filled with memories of Felicia, but he did not mention that. Good memories, but still they weighed on him and reduced his spirits, and tonight he was determined to be a sociable host. Felicia would wish it so.

  Drusilla nodded, although her lips were clamped shut in the effort not to protest. He knew what she would say — that the imposing dining room, with its gilded pillars and mirrors and the glorious painted ceiling, was a more fitting setting to entertain a marquess. But Arnwell was not likely to be impressed, and the Italian Room was altogether a more charmingly intimate room.

  All afternoon, Fin had pondered how he would make his apology, but it had not occurred to him that he would be called upon to utter it quite so soon. But he knew how Felicia would do it — with simple words, and sincerity.

  So he said quietly, “I am glad to see you here again, after the way I behaved this morning. I was an absolute bear, and I apologise unreservedly.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise, and she inclined her head slightly, but made no reply. By rights, she had some apologising to do too, but he had no expectation of it. Arnwell arrived just then, and the moment passed.

  The evening was a success. Felicia’s painting, so full of light and movement, was admired by all, even Drusilla, and Arnwell was touched to find himself depicted there, as well as Felicia herself, and Fin. Juliana and Margarita spotted their mother and father there, too, and although Margarita cried a little, the girls were happy to have such a charming remembrance of their parents.

  At dinner, Drusilla sat between Arnwell and Cotham, and managed to be civil to both in equal degree. Fin had his two wards on either side of him, and Juliana, at least, was easy to talk to. The slightest of enquiries would induce a stream of information requiring little response. Margarita was less forthcoming, but she had her favourite topics which he was beginning to know. Her horse, the dog and anything to do with art were subjects on which she could speak with fervour. Miss Farrell and Miss Durward, the two governesses, were sensible, well-mannered women, although it grieved Fin to see them there when it should be Felicia.

  “Have you heard from Miss Oakes?” he asked Margarita.

  “Oh yes! She wrote when she first arrived in Southampton, and described the hotel where she was staying. Then she wrote again when she moved to her cottage. May we write to her? Miss Farrell said she has a new life now and might not be interested in what we are doing anymore, but I think she would.”

  “I should think that Miss Oakes must be wondering how you are getting on, and would be reassured to know that you are happy and progressing in your studies,” he said. “It is my considered opinion that she would be pleased to receive a letter from you. She must miss you.”

  “We miss her too,” Margarita said.

  “Margie!” Juliana said, glaring at her. Then, turning to Fin, she said with rigid formality, “We are very content with our new governesses, my lord, and are grateful to you for providing them for us. And to Lady Drusilla, also,” she added hastily, realising that Fin had had very little to do with it.

  He smiled at them with understanding. “I am sure you are, Juliana, but you may be very happy with the present arrangement and yet still regret the loss of Miss Oakes. There is no disloyalty in that.”

  “No, indeed,” said Miss Farrell. “Your feelings do you credit, girls, but do eat up, Margarita. It is most impolite to keep the rest of the table waiting. Juliana, sit up straight, dear.”

  When the table was being cleared ready for the second course, Fin leaned down to whisper in Margarita’s ear. “Miss Oakes was very special, was she not? We all miss her.”

  She nodded and smiled conspiratorially at him.

  When the ladies had withdrawn, Fin moved round the table to take Drusilla’s seat between Arnwell and Cotham, Bagnall left the port on the table and he and the footmen withdrew. They talked at first on indifferent topics — the harvest, the new miller, Cotham’s sermon, his scholarly treatise on the Ancient Greeks and their culture, an oak tree that had come down in the village blocking the Ashbourne road temporarily — but after a while, Cotham withdrew and Fin returned to the subject that was never very far from his mind.

  “Have you heard from Felicia lately?”

  The marquess shook his head. “Not a word, but Warborough must write, surely?”

  “Not to me, and not much to Drusilla, either. There has been no word for weeks, and I should like to know that she is well and safe.”

  “Safe!” Arnwell said. “Is there any reason to suppose otherwise?”

  Fin had not intended to mention it, but now that the word had slipped out, why not? Who better to discuss the matter than Arnwell, who knew both Felicia and Buckley. So he told him all about the coded letter that he had uncovered, and the translation of it.

  “It can only refer to Buckley, would you not agree?” he said eagerly. “And therefore it must be Felicia whose safety is at issue, and surely she is safe, since she is gone to Hampshire and Buckley to Lincolnshire. Do you not think it must be so?”

  Arnwell frowned, stroked his
chin, tapped his disfigured hand on the table. He reached for the decanter, refilled his port glass and sipped.

  “Who could have written this letter?” he said eventually. “A message in code, a means of communication used only by your father and a few close friends. Who?”

  “There were six that I know of. Three are now dead, and one might as well be, one had to make a run for the continent and the sixth gambled away a good part of his fortune and has lived quietly in the country ever since. None of them have kept in touch since my father died twelve years ago.”

  “His friends, yes, but who else? Who within the family?”

  “No one that I know of.”

  “You do not recognise the hand?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Hmm. Yet there is one in the family, at least, who understands the coded system — Warborough. His brother. So who else do you suppose might know of it?”

  “He was never close to anyone else in the family, besides his brothers, so—” Fin’s blood ran cold. “Percival? No!”

  “Why not? If that thieving, murdering Hell hound is still in the world somewhere, why might he not be still in communication with his brother? He cannot write directly to Warborough for some reason — perhaps someone might recognise the hand — so he directs the letters to you, knowing you will not open it, but if anyone else should, such as a secretary, the contents will be unreadable.”

  Fin reluctantly saw the logic in it. “But then why would he ask about Buckley and Felicia? It must be about them, for who else left here recently, who else might not be safe? Who else would Uncle Giles know about? Why would Percival care what happens here, if he even survives?”

  “Oh, he survives,” Arnwell said grimly. “That… that devil watched my house burn to the ground with my wife and all my children inside, and calmly opened my safe and stole twenty thousand pounds. Whether he started the fire or not, he left them to die, and then ran away. He is alive, I am sure of it, and I hope he is enjoying his life in this world for he will surely burn in the next. He will burn, just as my lovely Alexandria did.”

  He stopped, shaking, and covered his face with his good hand. Fin watched helplessly, not knowing what to say. What would Felicia do? He remembered her simple words at Shotterbourne when the conversation had become awkward… always simple words.

  “I am so sorry,” Fin said.

  Arnwell lifted his head, and looked straight at him, the tears in his eyes clear to see. “Finlassan, I do not know the answer to your mystery, and perhaps only your uncle can reveal it, but on the other matter that troubles you, there I can offer some advice.”

  “What other matter?”

  “The question of Felicia Oakes. Do not delay, that is what I would say to you, for every day wasted in dithering is a day lost. If I had known that last year how little time remained to me with my beloved Alexandria, I would have savoured every moment. Follow your heart, Finlassan. I said as much to that oily upstart Buckley — marry where your heart is, I told him, and I tell you the same now.”

  Fin’s world spun. Was that how the marquess saw it, that he was in love with Felicia? “Marry her?” he croaked. “You are mistaken if you see anything more than… more than…” Was it true? Could it possibly be true? “No…”

  The marquess chuckled. “You are obsessed with her, Finlassan. How many times have you mentioned her this evening, and I would wager you thought of her a hundred times more. You are head over heels in love with the girl. Go and find her, talk to her and settle the matter once and for all. And while you are there, you can ask that devious uncle of yours why he is receiving coded messages from a lily-livered scoundrel like Percival Warborough.”

  24: In Pursuit

  Amongst Felicia’s earliest and most frequent visitors was Mr Giles Warborough. He always arrived bearing gifts — flowers, bottled apricots, brandy, a cheese knife and some sheet music, to all of which she smiled and thanked him effusively. He then sat in the back parlour, drinking Madeira and eating whatever Eliza had baked that day, or else walked about the garden admiring the beans and melons. He was endlessly fascinated by tales of Felicia’s childhood, and insisted on sitting in the old schoolroom while she described its former arrangement and the lessons she was taught.

  Sometimes he brought Mrs Pollard and Jane with him. He had rented a barouche from the Dolphin, and on fine days he took the ladies out for a drive in the countryside, which often ended at Boscobel Cottage. Then there was an impromptu picnic in the garden, or a walk through the woods where Mr Warborough gallantly escorted Jane and Mrs Pollard quizzed Felicia about her noble friends. Felicia was now a person to be cultivated, it seemed, despite her lowly origins.

  “So grateful to you for introducing Mr Warborough into our humble circle,” Mrs Pollard gushed. “So gentlemanly, but one would expect no less from the son of an earl. Do you make a long stay in Hampshire, Miss Oakes? You must be longing to return to Derbyshire.”

  “I am permanently settled here,” she said.

  “But your charges! The dear little girls! You will be needed, I make no doubt.”

  “Not at all, unfortunately. The Miss Kearneys have two governesses, both far more qualified than I.”

  “Kearney, eh. So they take their father’s name rather than their mother’s. A pity. Dulnain is a far more distinguished name. Who has ever heard of the Kearneys?” When Felicia made no reply, she went on, “But I am certain you will be returning to Hawkewood Hall in the fullness of time, Miss Oakes. The earl’s wards may not need you as a governess, but perhaps you will be needed in some other capacity? You look innocent, but his lordship’s attentions are most marked. Why else would he send you here in a post-chaise and four, accompanied by his own uncle, a footman and a maid?”

  Felicia was too much astonished at the accuracy of her information to take umbrage at the assumption. Had Mrs Pollard been listening to the servants’ gossip at the Dolphin Hotel? At least now her sudden friendliness was accounted for, if she believed that Felicia would shortly become a countess.

  “I assure you, ma’am, you are entirely mistaken in supposing that Lord Finlassan’s consideration arose from any motive other than kindness towards an employee.”

  Mrs Pollard smiled knowingly and smoothly changed to a less personal topic of conversation, leaving Felicia assailed by doubt. Fin had never been noted for his kindness, so perhaps there was more to it. Not marriage, clearly, for a bastard could hardly marry an earl, but something else, perhaps. Something less savoury? No, impossible. He had never shown the least hint of desire towards her, honourable or otherwise. His generosity was exactly as it seemed.

  Once she had begun to use the front parlour again, Mr Warborough asked if he might look at it.

  “I am fascinated by your Miss Armiger,” he said. “Such a curious person to have charge of a young child, for she seemed most unsuited to such a position. I should like to see her private domain, that I might understand her better.”

  Felicia could not see the purpose to understanding a woman who had been dead for twelve years, but she willingly allowed him into the front parlour and watched as he thumbed through the books on the shelves and examined the pile of yellowed newspapers.

  “Ah, the Gazette!” he cried. “Such dull books… sermons, history, more history, ancient history… a great reader of history. More sermons, a book about Greece, works by Homer, Plato, Euripedes, Aristotle…”

  “No novels,” Felicia said, much struck.

  “Hmm? No, she cared nothing for novels. More Homer, Socrates, Anaximander… Who is Anaximander?”

  ‘She cared nothing for novels.’ What an odd thing to say, almost as if he had known her.

  When the visit was over, Felicia returned to the front parlour and drew out the notebook she had found, reading over the inscription. ‘The History of Miss Margaret Pickering, being an account true in every particular of her humble birth, her education, her rise to a distinguished and responsible position, and her present circumstances, including many adve
ntures and trials of her fortitude.’

  She was now certain that notebook was no novel, for why should anyone write a novel who never read one? In which case, it must indeed be a true account of a real person, a friend of Miss Armiger’s… or Miss Armiger herself? Yet it was so hard to read! With a sigh, she found her Greek primer, and settled down to work.

  ~~~~~

  Fin’s journey south was as fast as four horses and good roads could make it, but it still felt tediously slow. Now that he had made the decision to find Felicia, he was impelled to do so at once, immediately, without delay, and every change of horses, every toll-gate, every stop for food or a few hours’ rest fretted him beyond endurance. They drove for every hour of daylight, stopping only when Padgett grumbled that it was too dark to see his own whip, let alone the horses, and then Fin merely paced about his room until the first lightening of the pre-dawn skies. He was so exhausted that he slept in the carriage, waking with aching head and a furious temper. If only he could fly there, like a bird, and not crawl on the earth like some accursed snail.

  Eventually they reached Southampton and the Dolphin Hotel, but the news was not good. Yes, Miss Oakes had stayed there briefly but she had left and they had no knowledge of where she had gone.

  “Boscobel Cottage, man. She lives at Boscobel Cottage.”

  “I regret, my lord, that I have no knowledge of such a place.”

  “Well then, what of Mr Giles Warborough, my uncle? He is here, is he not?”

  “Unfortunately, he is not. He moved out shortly after Miss Oakes, I know not where.”

  “But I write to him here,” Fin said. “What happens to those letters?”

  “We take such missives back to the post office, my lord. Mr Warborough’s man no doubt collects them from there.”