by S K Rizzolo
This could be true. It probably was true, considering that her father had lived comfortably for years on an allowance provided by his older brother, an allowance that allowed him to pen his massive histories and political treatises about the rights of man. Eustace Sandford had, in turn, used this same wealth to provide for his daughter. The thought filled her with shame.
“Our conversation has strayed beyond my intent,” said Garrod, his eyes still on her face.
She nodded, but something prompted her to say, “You have explained all this to your daughter?”
Garrod’s brows shot up, but he said, “Let me show you something, Mrs. Wolfe.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and extended his palm. He held a gilt-framed miniature about three inches wide. It showed a dark brown, liquid eye with impossibly long lashes. Penelope shifted it in her hand, and the sun picked up flecks of gold and green in the painted surface.
Garrod said, “I had it painted soon after Marina’s birth by a miniaturist who had come to the island, hoping to make his fortune. It’s good work, isn’t it, ma’am? I rely upon you to tell me, as you are the wife of a talented artist yourself. I regret I didn’t have Joanna’s full portrait painted. She was a lovely creature. Marina is much like her.”
“Miss Garrod’s mother is dead?”
“No, I don’t think so. She works as a nurse in Port Royal. I used to show the miniature to Marina when she was a little girl. It comforted her, her mother’s eye watching over her.” His voice thickened. “In truth, it comforted us both. I’ve been rather lonely, Mrs. Wolfe. But it is years ago, and I have my daughter to concern me. We must put these matters aside.”
Penelope wondered whether it was as easy as that for him, but she shook off the thought and tried to enjoy her surroundings. They wandered down the paths for a while, exchanging comments, until, unluckily, Lewis posed a question about the heating mechanism. Garrod’s face lit up. He led them out a side door and toward the rear of the building, where he indicated a large water pipe. It split into two pipes, one leading into the hothouse, the other terminating in a valve beside a window at ground level.
“This pipe brings water from a nearby stream, Mr. Durant,” Garrod explained. “One channel nourishes the greenhouse plants through tubes controlled from within.”
“And the other?” Lewis asked.
“Let me show you.”
They approached two cellar doors with ornate brass handles. Garrod pulled them wide, revealing stairs that led down to a room beneath the hothouse. He and Lewis descended, and Garrod looked up mischievously at Penelope, daring her to follow. With some reluctance, she went down the steps to be hit by a wave of hot, stale air. A brick furnace with an oblong cast iron boiler mounted above it dominated the tiny room. Next to the furnace sat a coal bin. Garrod reached out a hand to assist her to stand at his side.
Garrod said, “My greenhouses are heated by steam from this boiler. We once used smoke from coke fires, but the odor and filth were a nuisance. Steam is cleaner, not to mention more economical and gives more regularity of temperature. The smoke from the stove is vented through a flue, and the steam rises through a pipe and carries radiant heat to the floor and walls of the house. At any time, we can throw open a valve in the hothouse, and my tender plants are bathed in warm moisture. The furnace uses coal or even plant clippings to boil the water, which is fed to the boiler from the cistern by means of another valve. As the water in the boiler dissipates in steam, a float descends, opening the cistern’s valve to replenish the supply. When the level rises again, the valve shuts. Simple and ingenious.”
He indicated a large metal cistern that sat high on the wall. There was a small window placed above it; next to that, a pipe disappeared into the ceiling. A ladder leaned against the side of the reservoir, which Lewis climbed to peek over the rim.
Garrod watched him complacently. “The level in the cistern can be checked from the window and refilled without entering the cellar. The ladder allows access for service.”
“No danger of fire?”
“None, Mr. Durant. The boiler is maintained to avoid undue stress. There is an added safety valve as well as a valve for admitting atmospheric air to equalize the pressure. In fact, steam heating requires less attention from the gardeners. They may go eight or ten hours together without a drop in temperature requiring their attention to the apparatus.”
Sighing inwardly, Penelope attempted to show an interest. “It seems a marvel.”
He turned toward her in the confined space, and she took a step back. He stood too close, seeming to loom over her in the half light. She put a hand to her brow to brush away the sweat that trickled down the back of her neck and dampened the neckline of her gown. Distracted by his inspection of the reservoir, Lewis hadn’t observed her uneasiness.
“I’ve thought of everything,” said Garrod. “Chaos ever threatens in life, but a farseeing man may often prevent it. We had terrible losses from hurricanes in Jamaica, but always we rebuilt, stronger than before. Let’s just say, I protect what is mine. I have labored too long to see it wasted or destroyed.”
She wondered if this philosophy helped him manage his daughter and somehow doubted it. “Tell me more of this work you wish me to do for you. I am to relate something of your history? Offer an outline of your business affairs?”
“Something like that. You must understand, Mrs. Wolfe, that we West India merchants are engaged in a war against those who would discredit us in the court of public opinion and destroy our way of life. I’ve been honest with you. I am certain you will represent me fairly.” He fixed her with his intent gaze, and Penelope thought with a sinking heart that John Chase had been right to discourage her from accepting Garrod’s commission.
To change the subject, she said, “I hear voices.”
He started. “What? Oh, yes, sometimes you can hear people talking in the glasshouse through those ventilation grills set above the boiler. It must be the gardeners making their rounds.” They heard footsteps as the voices moved away. Garrod’s eyes were still on her face, uncomfortably probing.
“We should continue our tour,” she said.
“Of course, ma’am.” He motioned her to the stairs.
***
Penelope and Lewis hesitated on the threshold of Garrod’s drawing room. Though still thin and pale after his ordeal in Newgate prison, her brother wore an air of easy confidence. With their father’s gift of money, Penelope had sent him to a tailor, so she was pleased with his evening gear. This was the first time they had appeared together at a formal gathering, and the sight of his upright form in a skin-tight tailcoat, white waistcoat, and black breeches created a lump in her throat.
“Ready?” he said with a grin, offering her his arm.
The room was hung with crimson and gold satin. Gilded columns supported a painted ceiling where mythological figures lounged at perpetual ease. Windows, which opened to a terrace and flower garden, covered one wall. Occasional tables, sleek sofas, and a grand pianoforte basked in the evening sun. This same glow glanced off the mirrors and bathed the room’s occupants, making them into a living portrait, a tableau vivant of beings from another world. Contrasting her surroundings to the barren lodgings she shared with Lewis, Penelope felt her pulse quicken. Courage, she told herself, and pasted a smile on her face.
“Mrs. Wolfe,” said Hugo Garrod. “Allow me to make you known to my family.” Garrod drew them further into the room, pausing first before an older lady, whom he introduced as his sister Anne Yates.
Mrs. Yates curtseyed, holding out her hand. “Welcome to Laurentum, Mrs. Wolfe, Mr. Durant. Beatrice, Marina. Come greet our guests.”
Beatrice Honeycutt rose from a sofa against the wall. About thirty years old, she was the niece Garrod had adopted after her own parents died in Jamaica. Unlike him, she’d guarded her pink-cheeked complexion from the rigors of the West Indian climate. She would never be descri
bed as beautiful—her nose was too thick and decisive, her eyes with their sparse eyelashes too faded—but she was a woman of obvious breeding. As she greeted Penelope and Lewis, she revealed an awareness that seemed at odds with her rather bovine appearance.
“Where’s Marina?” said Beatrice, looking around.
“Here I am,” said the girl, who’d been poised at the far end of the room. She came forward. Tonight Marina Garrod wore a gown that made her appear a wood sprite. Her greeting was subdued, delivered in a barely audible voice, but she directed a searching look at Lewis, which he could not fail to observe. Remembering the laughing, vital girl who had dashed off on her father’s arm to see the waterworks at Vauxhall, Penelope was puzzled.
“That’s an interesting bracelet, Miss Garrod,” she said, unable to think of anything to say. In truth, the ornament warred with the delicate greens of her dress; the black spots on the garish red beads were shiny like onyx. Penelope moved closer to get a better view.
“Like eyes watching you, isn’t it?” Marina said in a clear, carrying voice that caused Beatrice to break off in the middle of her sentence. “I wear it to watch those who look at me.”
Beatrice’s fingers closed around the girl’s wrist. “So that’s why you hid your arm behind your back when we came down for dinner, you naughty girl. Where did you get that? I thought your bead necklace had been broken.”
“I restrung some of the beads to make a bracelet. Some were lost, thanks to my maid’s clumsiness when she pulled on the necklace too roughly and snapped the string. Leave it alone, Beatrice. It’s mine.”
“Of course it is, my love. Only it clashes.”
“You don’t like it because it reminds you of my bond with the poor black slaves. That is just why I do like it. I’ve no objection to being ranked with my brethren.”
Everyone froze. Anxious to smooth over the awkwardness, Mrs. Yates broke into a flow of chatter. “Marina, I did tell you that the ornament is inappropriate. Dear Beatrice understands what is fitting and elegant in dress.” To Penelope, she said, “Indeed both my girls—for I call them such and play no favorites—would put no mother to blush for their manners or appearance.”
“You’ve no children of your own?”
The cordial smile faded. “No, Mrs. Wolfe. My husband was killed in the first American war. I don’t know what I would have done without Hugo all these years.”
The moment passed, but Penelope began to notice a growing tension in the room—the feeling they all waited for something. Clearly annoyed, Hugo Garrod kept looking at the door. Occasionally, a fuming silence overcame him, and there was a distinct edge in his voice as he initiated a hushed conversation with Mrs. Yates.
At length he addressed Penelope and Lewis: “My sister can be relied on to help me make your stay a pleasant one. She knows my ways well.”
“I am housekeeper here, ma’am,” said Mrs. Yates, smiling affably. “I would have welcomed you earlier, but Mr. Garrod has his own notions. What you must have thought of me I cannot imagine.” She peered at Penelope out of a round face dissolved in wrinkles and tilted her head, sending a wreath of gray curls bouncing under her cap.
“Nonsense, Anne,” Garrod said. “You are far more than housekeeper here.”
“I fancy I know my place.” Her smile robbed the words of offense. She bustled off to attend to the needs of the other guests, about a dozen in number, most of them business associates, judging by the conversations Penelope overheard. Some were very young gentlemen, the sons of planters sent to England to be educated. As he presented her to several of these boys, Garrod explained that it was part of his duty as Agent for Jamaica to watch over the young people in their parents’ absence.
Penelope took a nervous sip of her sherry. “Where is Mr. Chase? Has he arrived?”
Her host nodded toward the window, where John Chase stood, surveying the company. In his good-humored way Garrod said to Beatrice and Mrs. Yates: “What do you think of our genuine Bow Street Runner?”
“He looks quite fierce,” said Beatrice, making a comical face. “I don’t think he approves of our grandeur.”
“Mr. Chase?” Penelope said. “You won’t easily read his thoughts in his face, but he is not likely to bite you, Miss Honeycutt.” She excused herself to approach her friend.
“What?” he said when she had inspected his appearance.
“Why, it’s marvelous, John. It suits you. Why did you do it?”
“A managing female got her hooks into me.”
The managing female—whoever she was—and Penelope had to repress a surge of curiosity on that score—had cut his hair quite short so that it emphasized the bones of his face, making him appear a decade younger. His straggling, gray queue had seemed such a part of him that she had never imagined he might actually chop it off one day, but she wasn’t lying that the new hairstyle suited him. The gray was mixed with the remains of brown so that Chase appeared quite distinguished. He was also wearing a coat she hadn’t seen before, and there was the faintest hint of extra color in his cheeks.
“You’re very fine.” Her eyes quizzed him. “Where have you been all day? I’ve missed you.”
“Familiarizing myself with my surroundings and attempting to make the acquaintance of my charge. And you?”
“Lewis and I enjoyed a tour of Mr. Garrod’s domain. Our pleasure extended even to an introduction to the marvels of the boiler room that keeps his plants warm. Lewis was far more taken with the perfections of the machinery than I could ever be.”
He snorted. “You’d better go do the pretty. I’ll speak to you later.”
“Aren’t you dining with us?”
“Do you think our host would sit down at table with a Runner? I’m here to play watchdog; that’s all.”
“That’s the outside of enough. As if you weren’t as much the gentleman as Mr. Garrod. More, I’d say.”
“Stubble it, Penelope,” Chase recommended.
Chapter Six
Dinner was announced, and Penelope went into the dining room on Hugo Garrod’s arm. The dining room was a large chamber paneled in mahogany and dominated by a huge table covered in snowy damask. Two chandeliers hung from a richly decorated ceiling. Along one side of the room opposite the wall of windows, a long sideboard displayed Chinese porcelain and plate. The meal was an elaborate affair with three courses, all offering an array of dishes, including a turbot, a sirloin of beef, and two haunches of venison. Garrod had included some exotic dishes for his guests to sample: spears of pineapple; pepper pot, a meat and vegetable soup; and cassava bread, made, Penelope was informed, from a starchy root that formed a portion of the slave diet on West Indian plantations.
Penelope was seated next to her host with Lewis placed at the foot of the table next to Marina. Garrod’s daughter sat, her food untouched. Her other dinner partner, a portly merchant, tried to draw her out, but she did not respond. Garrod, though engaged in conversation, watched his daughter. They all did. Penelope had noticed this attention in the drawing room too: Garrod constantly calling upon Marina to step forward and assume her role of hostess. But the girl had hung back, and she hung back still, answering in monosyllables and addressing most of her attention to the food she wasn’t eating. Was she shy? No, it was more than that. Somehow she made everyone at the table feel her presence and exerted a kind of power from withholding herself. One time, and one time only, Penelope saw her look up at the sound of Lewis’ voice speaking to Beatrice Honeycutt, and for an instant the mask cracked. A different young woman peeked out. Then Marina went back to her plate.
Garrod poured the claret. “A glass of wine with you, Mrs. Wolfe?” He gave one of his wide, disarming smiles.
She lifted her glass. “Thank you, sir.”
“Would you oblige me by coming to my study tomorrow morning?”
“Certainly. I am eager to start work.”
“No, ind
eed, ma’am. You misunderstand. There is not the least urgency. I mean for you to enjoy yourself while you are with us. An hour or two spent discussing our task, nothing more. You shall give yourself over to leisure.” He paused. “I have something planned for this evening that I hope will please you. A small surprise.”
“You are too kind,” said Penelope firmly. “You have done quite enough for me and Lewis already.”
She was not sorry when it was time to address the neighbor on her other side, a man about forty years old with a sharp nose, pronounced brow, and inquisitive eyes. Just in time she recalled his name: the Reverend Samuel Tallboys—the local vicar, a noted West Indian scholar, and Mr. Garrod’s old friend. Even though Mr. Tallboys had greeted her politely in the drawing room, she’d noticed that Lewis was accorded nothing more than a nod and a distant bow. Granted, her brother was the illegitimate son of a courtesan who’d had the poor taste to get herself murdered, but that could not excuse ill manners.
Now Tallboys addressed Penelope. “Hugo tells me you have a daughter, Mrs. Wolfe. You’ve left her in the city. Not too hot and uncomfortable for the child at this season, I trust?”
“No, sir. Sarah enjoys daily exercise in the park with her nursemaid. The heat rarely troubles children.”
He nodded, seeming to cast about for a new topic. “Your father lives in Sicily? I hear there’s been rather an uproar there.”
The clergyman referred to the struggle to implement the new Sicilian constitution adopted under the direction of the British envoy, this despite the opposition of Ferdinand, the exiled King of Naples, who had fled to his other domain in British-protected Sicily to escape the reach of Napoleon. Unfortunately, the various factions of Sicilians could not agree to finance the fledgling government. They were steeped in feudalism, so her father always said of his adopted home.
“My father seems to despair of the new constitution even as he works to prop it up.”
“Is that why he hasn’t come to your aid in your recent troubles? Forgive me, ma’am, but I read about you in the papers.”
