by Anne Barbour
“Papa was particularly delighted by this find, because his friend Colonel Foster was a devotee of the early Spanish masters. He was already in possession of a Ribera and a Herrera and had frequently expressed a desire to acquire a Zurbaran. Papa had paid a ridiculously low price for the painting because the provenance was a trifle shaky, but he was sure it was genuine and planned to pass on the savings to the colonel. I, on the other hand, was not sure. Everything seemed correct—the craquelure, the brushwork. It was entitled Woman at the Window and portrayed a village woman in her home, peering out into the street from behind a white curtain. Still, there was something about it.... The palette—that is, the choice of colors—seemed strangely muted. In addition, he usually painted religious subjects. And the woman herself . . . Oh, I don't know. . . . Several subtle details seemed wrong to me—the features seemed to me clumsily drawn. For another thing, the painting lacked the costume detail that to me is a Zurbaran trademark.
“I urged Papa not to sell the painting to Colonel Foster, but he pooh-poohed my concerns. He was even a trifle irritated that I questioned his judgment. He did sell the painting to the colonel, and even at the vaunted savings, it was still expensive.”
Adeline interrupted in strident tones. “Helen, dearest, I do apologize for breaking into your story, but this is not at all the way the incident unraveled in Evora. I fear you are not being truthful.”
Helen swung on her. “On the contrary, Adeline. I am being completely truthful for the first time.” She turned back to Edward. “Colonel Foster was inordinately pleased. He hung the painting with great ceremony in his home and gave several parties in honor of his ‘bargain.’ The colonel, by the way, considered himself quite the art expert. He would expound to his guests on the genius of Zurbaran and how it was evidenced in Woman at the Window. The superior brushwork was noted, the exquisite perspective, the subject's expressive eyes and so on and on and on.
“Then, about three months later, a man was arrested in Italy for forgery. In his possession was a list of the ‘masterpieces’ he had created, and on this list was the Zurbaran. It was the talk of the art world for months.”
Helen shivered.
“At first, there was no blame laid at Papa's door. He was a victim of the forger as much as anyone else. Even the man who sold him the painting was not accused of criminal intent. However, Colonel Foster was furious. Papa recompensed him for the price he had paid for the painting, but his pride had been wounded. He had boasted to everyone he knew of his great find—of his acumen in snapping up a genuine Zurbaran at a nominal price. He went after Papa like a wounded bear lashing out in a mindless rage. He bullied the local magistrate into issuing an arrest order for fraud. The constabulary actually came to our home and hauled Papa away in handcuffs!
“He was devastated. Papa—is not a strong man. He—he needs to be liked and respected. When his friends and those in his profession turned their backs on him ... In a very short time, I saw him deteriorate from a smiling, happy person of consequence, confident in his abilities and sure of his continued success, to a shambling wreck of a man, afraid to answer the door and able to respond only vaguely to everyday business concerns.”
Helen paused. She had not taken her gaze from Edward's face since she began her discourse, and now it seemed as though everyone else in the room had vanished. She spoke only to him as she continued.
“It was then that I went to the magistrate and told him that it was I who had sold the painting to Colonel Foster. Oh, Papa had arranged for the delivery, I said, but I was the one who had purchased it from Senhor Albondandez, and I who had insisted we sell it to the colonel—even though I suspected it was a forgery. I went to the colonel, as well, and explained that Papa was not to blame for his misfortune—it was all my doing. I even said I had created false certificates of ownership and history to support my fraud.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Edward. “Surely your father did not allow this. Did he not dispute your false confession?”
Again Helen paused. This time, she was almost unable to begin again. She shook her head and replied in a broken whisper, “No, Papa said nothing. He had become angry with me when the fraud was discovered, intimating that I should have done more to prevent his selling it to the colonel. When I went to him privately to tell him of my intention to take the blame, he put up only a token protest.
“My ruse was successful. Colonel Foster, unwilling to appear vindictive against a young woman, dropped his charges, and the magistrate, perhaps from the same motivation, declined to put forward a prosecution. The colonel was still furious with Papa, perhaps even more so, because I think he suspected the truth of my ‘confession.’ “
Helen, feeling her knees would no longer support her, sank into a chair.
“After that. Papa's business—not surprisingly—declined rapidly. The tragedy first of Chris's death and later that of Trixie sent him farther down his path of destructive withdrawal. Even the birth of William could not pull him from his depression.”
“The situation must have been extremely difficult for you, as well,” Edward said softly.
Helen glanced down at her hands, clutched tightly in her lap.
“Yes, it was. For my friends, too—some of whom I had known since childhood—abandoned me. Some of those close to me continued to visit—for awhile—but they were no longer warm and open in our conversation, and soon it was as though they had vanished from the face of the earth. In addition, my commissions dwindled to nothing. Papa had a fairly comfortable reserve—and his investments assured that we would not descend into poverty, but it was soon obvious that we would have no funds coming into the house for the foreseeable future.”
Stanford Welladay, apparently unable to contain himself any further, spoke at last. “And I suppose that is when you conceived the notion of presenting Chris's by-blow as the heir to the Camberwell title.”
Both Edward and Helen turned to face Uncle Stamford, but it was Edward who lashed out. “Uncle, if you cannot keep your tongue between your teeth, kindly leave the room.”
Unbelieving, Mr. Welladay stared back at his “nephew.”
Helen continued. “I cannot deny that it was while I was rather frantically attempting to solve our fiscal difficulties that the notion to bring William home came to me. I don't know why I had not thought of it earlier, because surely it was more than logical and proper that the child should be brought to the notice of his father's family—even with little proof of the legitimacy of Chris and Trix's union.”
A muffled titter was heard from the direction of Mrs. Belker's chair. Again she placed her finger tips against her carmine lips. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said with an unmistakable smirk, “but everyone in our circle knew just what must have been in your mind when you made such hurried preparations for a trip to England.”
Helen opened her mouth, but again, Edward was before her. “Mrs. Belker, I shall say to you, as well, kindly keep your comments to yourself. Miss Prestwick had graciously given her permission for you to remain through what must be an intensely difficult discourse, but if you speak once more, I shall have you removed.” He turned back to Helen. “And your father?” he asked in a softer tone. “What did he have to say to your, er, plan?”
This time it was Barney who chimed in. “Him?” She snorted. “Why he said scarcely a word. He just sat in that big armchair of his and looked up at her in that pathetic way he'd adopted since the ‘incident’ and waved a hand as if to say, ‘Do whatever you want. Just don't bother me.’ “
Helen drew a quick breath in protest, but Edward forestalled her with a lifted hand. “Do go on, Helen. Finish your story.”
Helen stared at Edward with painful intensity. All during her recital, she had tried to judge his reaction to her words. Twice he had risen to her defense when she was heckled by Uncle Stamford and Adeline Belker, and she thought she had discerned a certain empathy in his eyes. But now, his gaze held only a waiting bleakness. And his words now did not sound promising
. She shrugged.
“There is not much more to tell. As you know, I did embark with my scraps of evidence. And you were kind enough to launch an investigation, and—”
“I did so because of the facts you laid out before me.” Edward's voice held no softness now, only a cool detachment. “I, of course, did not realize that you had determined to omit certain other facts that might color my judgment.”
Helen gasped. Dear God, did this mean he meant to dismiss her and her claim, and William along with them— and Barney as well?
As though reading her mind, Edward rose.
“I have not decided what to do about your revelation, Miss Prestwick, but,” he turned to his guests, “I have decided on one issue, at least. Mr. and Mrs. Belker, it is obvious to me why you came here.” He shot a penetrating glance at Uncle Stamford. “Having accomplished your purpose, you may leave—now.”
This statement brought simultaneous gasps from husband and wife and Mr. Welladay as well. “But we have just arrived!” exclaimed Milo Belker, his voice high with indignation. “We are your guests.”
“They are my guests as well,” put in Uncle Stamford. “And I think I am more than nobody at Whitehouse Abbey.” He puffed out his pudgy chest and glanced at his sister. Lady Camberwell twittered distressfully.
“I have not reached a decision on your part in all this,” said Edward deliberately. “In the meantime, I suggest you remain silent.”
Uncle Stamford opened his mouth but immediately closed it again and sank back in his chair.
“Very well,” said Mr. Belker, drawing the shreds of his dignity around him like a tattered coat, “the missus and I will be departing the premises first thing in the morning.”
“You will leave now.” Edward's voice was sheathed steel.
“But it's four o'clock in the afternoon. We cannot possibly make London by nightfall. We shall have to . . .” He stopped short, quailing before Edward's expression. He turned to his wife. “Come, Adeline dearest,” he said with the merest quaver in his voice. “It is time we took our leave of this inhospitable menage.” He shot Uncle Stamford a darkling look, then, with his wife on his arm, strode from the chamber. Next to him, Adeline's brassy curls shook with a combination of fear and indignation. Her lips compressed, she flounced in step with Mr. Belker through the Drawing Room door.
At their departure, an appalled silence filled the chamber. Helen looked at each of the family members in turn. To her surprise, they had not risen as one demanding her immediate departure from the Abbey. Artemis, from her chair near the tea table, rose, her blue eyes snapping.
“Just imagine the nerve of those two p-perfectly dreadful people!” she sputtered. “I believe they came here just to tattle on Helen.” She swung toward her uncle. “Surely you did not know what they were going to do!”
Across from her. Lady Camberwell gasped once more. “Of course he did not. It must have been the merest chance. Was it not, Stamford dearest?”
Gauging the mood of his audience, Stamford ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Why, of course not,” he fairly bellowed. “When I learned they were from the same village as Helen, I merely thought what a treat it would be for her to—”
“That will be enough, Uncle,” snapped Edward. “Please do not insult me by trying to convince me of your innocence in this matter. I shall deal with you later. In the meantime—I have matters to discuss with Miss Prestwick.”
If Aunt Emily had noticed the change from “Helen” to “Miss Prestwick,” she said nothing but sniffed dolefully, “Yes, what about Miss Prestwick?” She shifted her gaze to Helen. “I must say, Hel—Miss Prestwick, I had come to believe in your tale, and—and to love William as my own flesh and blood. But I have to say that your— confession has created grave doubts.” She put a handkerchief to her eyes.
Mr. Welladay, apparently unable to restrain himself in the face of this new opportunity, spoke again.
“What did I tell you, Ned? I knew nothing of what the Belkers would say, of course, but doesn't this all bear out what I've been saying? The Prestwick woman,” he snarled, pointing, “is nothing but a scheming hussy—oof!”
This last was occasioned by the gentleman's abrupt descent into a nearby chair. It was, perhaps, too much to say that he had been struck, but he was left in no doubt as to Edward's intent as he pushed him with more than a modicum of force.
“Welladay,” Edward grated. “I swear if you open that large, fat mouth of yours one more time I shall close it for you most emphatically, despite your blubber and your general age and decrepitude. Now, get out.”
With a cry, the dowager hurried to minister to her brother. With murmured words of comfort, she helped him from the chair and, motioning to a wide-eyed Artemis, assisted him from the room.
The silence in the Drawing Room after their departure seemed to swirl threateningly around Helen like a flock of birds of prey.
She stared at Edward, who still stood directly in front of her. He had not only defended her against the Belkers’ accusations, but he had taken her side against Stamford Welladay's vicious slander. Could this mean that he did not plan to expel her and William from the Abbey? Did it mean he believed what she had revealed? That he would place no blame on her for the situation in which she had found herself in Evora—or the fact that she had not told him about it? She firmly suppressed the faint whisperings of relief that stirred within her. Lord knew she deserved some sort of punishment—not for her supposed transgressions in Portugal, but for her concealment of her tribulations from Edward. Surely, he ...
Her wild ruminations were brought to a halt as Edward spoke.
“Now, then, I believe we have something to discuss. Miss Prestwick.” Neither his tone nor his demeanor, both as cool as polished metal, lent any credence to Helen's rising hope. She stepped back.
“Edward,” she began. “I can understand your anger. I can only say that I am so sorry—”
“For what?” he asked, in a deceptively quiet voice.
“Why—for deceiving you. For not telling you at our first meeting about the scandal over Woman at the Window." She searched his face in vain for a clue to his feelings, meeting only that same distant courtesy—and something else at the back of his gaze that she could not define. “Edward, please believe me. I wanted to tell you. I wanted that desperately, but I was so afraid—”
“Afraid?”
For the first time, Helen detected a note of emotion in Edward's voice. Yes, there was a definite hint of anger behind that one word.
“Afraid of what?”
“Why—why, afraid that you would not believe me. I did not see how you could believe me! I feared that the revelations of my supposed fraud would destroy whatever trust had grown between us. I was afraid that you would disbelieve my entire claim on William's behalf and that—”
“And that I would drop my investigation into your claim and simply boot the two of you—no, the three of you— from Whitehouse Abbey?” Edward's voice was still quiet, but, as Helen had envisioned in her most agonizing moments of reflection, his eyes no longer laughed into hers with the warmth of a sunny afternoon. They were cold and distant.
“Well—yes,” admitted Helen, feeling as though a large, heavy stone had been dropped into the pit of her stomach.
“I see.” Edward moved his hand wearily. “Well, let me relieve your mind, Miss Prestwick. Perhaps I am the most trusting fool in Christendom, but I do believe your touching story of devotion to your father. Until his claim is proved or disproved, William will remain at Whitehouse Abbey. You and Miss Barnstaple may remain as well.”
Helen should have been relieved by these words, but the manner in which they were spoken caused a churning sense of dread to grow within her.
“Edward, please believe me—I wanted desperately to tell you my whole story. If my only concern had been me, I should have done so without hesitation. But I had William to consider.”
Edward turned away from her and paced for several seconds before th
e hearth. When he spoke again, his voice was a rasp. “I can certainly understand your concern. What I do not understand is your fear that—that even if I was convinced that you had perpetrated a fraud against Colonel Foster, I would toss you and William and Barney out of Whitehouse Abbey, and consign your bits of evidence to the flames and halt my investigation into William's claim.”
“But—but . . .” Helen could only stammer.
Edward resumed his pacing. “You know,” he began, and Helen could fairly feel the tension radiating from him. “I had thought we were friends. You made it abundantly clear that you wanted no more than that from me, and I had— well, I accepted friendship with you instead of ... It gave me a measure of consolation that you—that you at least liked me and considered me—well, your confidante. And yet. . .” He turned to face her again, and now his eyes were wells of pain. “You thought—you just assumed that, even given the compelling evidence you had produced ... It was not legal proof, but, by God, William's resemblance to Chris was assurance that at the very least he was Chris's child—and that, coupled with the wedding ring and the portrait and all the rest, was enough to convince me that a proper investigation should be launched. You assumed I would shut William out of his very possibly legal claim to the tide just because one of his maternal relatives was a felon?”
The chill that had begun in the pit of Helen's stomach suddenly engulfed her. Dear God, she had never thought of that! But why not? She was perfectly aware that Edward was not the sort of man to back out of a commitment because of an irrelevant act on the part of another party. No matter what her suspicions of Edward when she had first entered Whitehouse Abbey, she knew him now. She trusted him. And now she had destroyed whatever trust she had engendered in him.
The realization hit her with the force of a killing blow that all her protestations of concern over William's fate at the hands of Edward Beresford were so much smoke in the wind. She had concealed her part in the Woman at the Window scandal simply because she did not want Edward to think badly of her.
