Gather Ye Rosebuds

by Joan Smith

  “Borsini has his own carriage,” I said.

  Borsini looked surprised at Weylin’s eagerness, but he did not object. “We have not settled when I shall come for your lesson, Miss Barron,” he said. “Shall we say the day after tomorrow, if the weather is fine? You will want to give your studio time to dry, and be aired out before using it.”

  “You may come tomorrow. I should prefer to paint outdoors, if the weather is good.” The studio required a chaperon. I had not yet confirmed when Mrs. Chawton wished to begin her lessons, and in any case, I wanted to get Borsini alone to discover what happened at Parham, and at his studio with Weylin. I felt in my bones that Weylin was only making sport of the man. I had not expected this petty streak in him.

  I sent off for the gentlemen’s carriages, with a little twinge of embarrassment that Borsini’s vehicle was so humble. It looked like a toy beside Weylin’s crested traveling coach and team of four. When I saw what Weylin was driving, I realized he had not been to Parham yet. He had stopped here even before going home. That suggested some urgency, yet he was leaving without saying a word about Mr. Jones.

  Brodagan was once more on duty at the door. While she carried on her à suivie flirtation with Borsini, Weylin said, “Where is Steptoe? Have you dismissed him?”

  “No, I waited to hear from you first. We must talk. When can you come back?”

  “I am flattered at your eagerness, Zoie,” he said, chewing back a mischievous grin.

  “You are delighted at thinking you have proved Borsini a fraud, is what you mean. He knows very well when Van Dyck was painting. He just did not wish to embarrass you.”

  “Well now, that is the mark of a real gentleman. But I shall taste his papa’s wine, and read the label on the bottle, before I am satisfied.”

  “I cannot imagine what you have against the poor man. What harm has he ever done you?”

  “That is what I am trying to discover, Zoie. But if he is a count, I’ll eat my hat.”

  Borsini escaped from Brodagan and joined us. “I really must paint that woman!” he said, flushed with success. “It would take El Greco to do her justice. There is such delightful malice in her visage. An original.”

  “I think you would enjoy to paint Lady Weylin, too,” I said.

  Weylin shot a questioning look at me. He was uncertain whether that was a slur on his mama, or an effort to land the commission for Borsini. “That will be up to Mama,” he said, and headed out the door with Borsini.

  I was obliged to call out after him, which annoyed me. “You have not said when you will come back, Weylin.”

  “The road goes both ways, Zoie. If you are eager for my company, you know where I live. Mama don’t bite, you know, even if she does occasionally bark.”

  I slammed the door and uttered a few words not learned in the schoolroom. Brodagan sailed out from the saloon, where she had been stacking the tea tray. “It is good to see Count Borsini making a few decent friends,” she said, with something strangely like a smile. “Lord Weylin would recognize quality when he was hit in the face with it.”

  “Yes, I am afraid he would,” I said, and went back up to look at the studio.

  It was pretty clear that Weylin planned to expose Borsini as a fraud. Whatever clients the count had managed to round up would leave him. He would be forced to remove from Aldershot to Bath or some town farther away, where no one had heard of him.

  I was certain the Palazzo Borsini had always been at Venice. Yet if he actually had wine from the Borsini vineyard... As I pondered this, it occurred to me that Borsini had got hold of wine with such a label, and transferred his imaginary palazzo to a villa in Tuscany. That would account for it.

  It was a foolish thing to do, but an artist led a precarious existence. Adding a title to his name would bring in a few clients, and he was not doing anyone any harm. So why had Weylin decided to ruin him? Was it possible he was jealous? That, while flattering, did not ring true. Weylin’s real interest during the visit had been on Borsini, not me.

  When I went downstairs, Mama had returned from her shopping trip. I told her of Weylin’s visit. Her face blanched. “What happened in London?” she demanded.

  “He could not tell me in front of Borsini. They left together. I expect Weylin will return, sooner or later.”

  “Surely he will come back this evening. Was he angry?”

  “No. He behaved more... mischievously,” I said. “I cannot make heads or tails of it, Mama, but he did not seem angry.”

  “Then he has managed to get poor Andrew’s money away from him; depend upon it.”

  This seemed entirely likely, and I was surprised I had not thought of it myself. It was yet another offense in Weylin’s dish. Whenever he deigned to return, he would hear a few things to turn his ears red.

  Mama showed me the new drapery material, a pretty royal blue sateen, that would enliven the blue guest room. We tried to cheer ourselves by imagining Andrew’s future visit, but our hearts were not in it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lord Weylin did not call that evening. I had a note from Mrs. Chawton informing me that the first meeting of the Book Society would take place at her house at eight. I had been looking forward to it with keen pleasure, but wrote putting it off in expectation of seeing Weylin. When I went in search of a servant to deliver my message, Steptoe made a hissing sound from the hallway, and beckoned me to him.

  “I am not a snake, Steptoe. If you wish to speak to me, pray use the King’s English. What do you want?” I demanded.

  He handed me a note. “From his lordship,” he said with a leer. “His footman left this billy doo, with instructions to give it to you on the sly, miss.” He put his finger to his lips and said, “Mum’s the word.”

  “This is not a billet-doux, but an ordinary note,” I said, and snatched it from his fingers. My heart was racing, but whether it was from annoyance with Steptoe or anticipation of my billet-doux, I could not determine.

  “I wager it’s an invitation to tea, miss.” Steptoe smirked. “I wonder why his lordship wanted secrecy.”

  The note was sealed with wax. I examined it to see Steptoe had not read it before me. The seal did not appear to have been tampered with. I gave him the note for Mrs. Chawton and told Mama I was going up to my studio, as I wanted privacy to read my note.

  Was it a billet-doux? That would explain Weylin’s efforts to discredit Borsini, if he feared I was romantically interested in the count. I did not go to the studio, but to my bedroom. My fingers were trembling as I broke the wax seal. The letter was long enough to require two sheets of paper.

  I read:

  Zoie. I am sending this to you privately. It is for you to decide how much to tell your mama. I did not find Andrew Jones in London, but I spoke to his lawyer. There is documented evidence that Jones is the illegitimate son of my aunt—and your uncle. My aunt did not make any other will than the one read at Parham. She arranged to hand over her worldly goods to her son before dying. Naturally I shall not interfere in the arrangement. It seems reasonable to assume that your uncle’s missing money was also given to Jones.

  I have heard from Mrs. Riddle, Lady Margaret’s companion. She confirmed that my aunt gave birth to a male child six months after her marriage, and the family set about the story that it was a legitimate miscarriage. Apparently Mr. Macintosh was aware of Margaret’s condition when he married her. He made the stipulation that the child be put out for adoption, and arranged the matter himself. My aunt was not told where the baby went, and promised not to try to find him. One can feel some sympathy with her. She must have been at her wits’ end when McShane shabbed off, leaving her with child. I can forgive her; whether you can forgive your uncle is another matter. I own I find it difficult.

  That is no reason to punish Mr. Jones, however. I am making queries to find him, to see if he needs any further assistance. As we agreed at Tunbridge, this matter will be kept entre nous. If you have any questions, you can find me here. I shall be at Parham for the n
ext while. Please let me know whether you are telling your mama or not, so that I shall know what to say—and what not to say—when I meet her.

  On a happier note, Mama likes your Count Borsini amazingly. She (and Bubbums) are to sit for him. He has agreed to begin her portrait tomorrow afternoon, canceling all lessons for the present, and has asked that I make his apologies to you. He will not be able to keep his appointment. I felt sure you would not object, as this will do his career good. We might get the prince to sit for him yet!

  I hope the news regarding your uncle does not distress you overly much. There may have been extenuating circumstances. I have not told Mama any of this yet, so if you are speaking to her, please bear it in mind.

  Your servant, Weylin.

  I read the note twice, then read it again to see if there was anything that should be kept from Mama. As she already knew, or believed, that Barry was deeply involved, there seemed no harm in showing her the letter. Despite Steptoe’s leers and smirks, there was no air of romance about it. Weylin did not even say he would call. I would find him (by which he meant a note) at Parham if I had any questions. That indicated that, while he was willing to forgive my uncle, he had no wish to strengthen the acquaintance with the family.

  It seemed hard that he should steal Borsini away as well. I disliked, too, the offhand way he did it, without even consulting me first. Of course, a portrait of the countess might indeed do Borsini’s reputation a world of good, so I tried to be happy for him. I took the letter down to Mama. When she had digested it, we had a long talk. It was not Borsini or Weylin’s high-handedness that interested her.

  “So Weylin has found out the truth,” she said, with a little sigh of relief. “He is not so out-of-reason cross as I feared. When he finds my nephew, we shall invite Andrew here for a visit. What would do the lad more good is if Weylin would take an interest in him. He could make him an MP, or get him a position with the government. You must talk Weylin into it.”

  “I doubt Weylin will put himself out for an illegitimate cousin,” I said.

  “At least he does not plan to hound Andrew for the money. I believe Weylin is right in thinking there were extenuating circumstances. Perhaps Barry did not know Lady Margaret was enceinte when he went to India. He was never that bad.”

  “He certainly knew they were not married when he seduced her, Mama! That is bad enough.”

  “So he did, but so did she know it. It is for the lady to maintain proper conduct. This is not all Barry’s fault.”

  Brodagan brought the tea tray, and by the time we had taken tea, Mama was waxing quite cheerful. She spoke as though it were all settled that Andrew would be a part of both families, yet we hadn’t the least notion what sort of a man he was. I hoped she would not be too disappointed.

  The evening seemed endless. Until the clock chimed ten times, I was on pins and needles, listening for the sound of a carriage approaching, or a knock at the door. At ten I knew it was too late to hear from Weylin, and went up to bed.

  * * * *

  The morning brought new hope. It was a fine, sunny day. Soft balls of cloud looked like whipped cream against the blue sky. I made a careful toilette, and sat in ladylike idleness all the morning long in the saloon, listening once more for the sound of the door knocker. Mama busied herself preparing the guest room for her nephew, whom she was rapidly turning into the son she never had.

  Over lunch the talk was all of Andrew. Would my mount suit him, she wondered, or should she look about for a larger one? A gentleman would require a mount. But perhaps he already had one. She would wait until he came, and if he wanted one, he could choose it himself. She would have him ride over that west pasture, and see if it needed tilling. Papa used to speak of it. Perhaps Andrew would want the double-pedestal desk from the study in his bedroom. The desk presently there was only a token. She would have Brodagan arrange it that very day.

  “For goodness’ sake, Mama, it is not even certain he is coming. Before you give him Papa’s desk and my mount, let us see if he wants to visit us—and whether he is the sort of man we want in the house. God only knows how he was raised. He may be a Captain Sharp or a heathen, for all we know.”

  “I am sure he was raised a gentleman,” Mama said.

  “What makes you so sure? It was Macintosh who arranged his adoption. He would hardly look fondly on his wife’s by-blow.”

  “He was teaching school, Zoie, so he must be educated.”

  “He was not teaching at Eton or Harrow. It was a poor boys’ school, probably for orphans. He was living in one room. Barry was astonished at his low circumstances.”

  “Yes, dear, but Andrew would have smartened himself up by now. Barry gave him all that money.”

  “Yes, and so did Lady Margaret. Whatever else he is, he certainly knows how to look out for his own interests.”

  “Zoie, that is uncharitable! Remember, he is your cousin.”

  “And you remember he is only your nephew, Mama. Next you will be saying you ought to leave him Hernefield.”

  “Oh, not the whole thing, Zoie,” she laughed. “Only a stipulation that he can always be assured of a home here.”

  “Let us wait until we have met him, before taking him on as a tenant for life,” I said. I was beginning to hope Weylin did not succeed in finding the elusive Andrew Jones.

  One can sit still, waiting, for only so long. The walls of Hernefield were beginning to weigh down on me. As Borsini was painting Lady Weylin, Lord Weylin was quite at liberty, but he did not bother to drive the few miles to Hernefield. He was out in his reckoning if he thought I was going to sit home all day long waiting for him. After lunch, I drove into Aldershot to call on Mrs. Chawton. She was not at home. I stopped at the art supply shop while I was there, to purchase some pigments and my extra easel. Rafferty let me down at the shop.

  It was a busy place, since all the ladies had taken up watercolors. The oil pigments, less in demand, were kept in a special nook at the rear of the shop. I slid past the watercolor ladies, speaking to a few of them whom I recognized, and continued toward the nook. As I approached it, I spotted Borsini, bent over the shelves, selecting paints.

  “Borsini, what are you doing here?” I exclaimed.

  “Signorina Barron! What a delightful surprise. I have come to buy supplies for my portrait of Lady Weylin. You have heard of my commission?”

  “Indeed I have. Congratulations.”

  “I am sorry to have to postpone your lesson.” As he was not painting this afternoon, I wondered why he had not slipped my lesson in. “Lady Weylin will not want to sit both morning and afternoon,” I said.

  “She prefers mornings, when she is rested.”

  “Then you can come to me one afternoon.”

  Lord Weylin appeared from behind the rack of pigments. “Miss Barron! I thought I recognized your voice.” He bowed.

  I curtsied. As I was “Miss Barron,” Weylin became “Lord Weylin.” “Lord Weylin. I did not realize you were interested in painting.”

  “Mostly in Mama’s portrait,” he replied. “Borsini has kindly agreed to stay with us for the two weeks of the sitting. I drove him to town as he will require a larger carriage to transport his clothing and supplies.”

  Borsini moving into Parham for two weeks? This was condescension of a high order. Even stranger was that Weylin should turn his carriage into a tranter’s wagon, and become Borsini’s servant.

  Bereft of a sensible reply, I said, “I see.”

  “I have been to Borsini’s studio,” Weylin continued. “He showed me some of your work. Very nice.” The only work of mine Borsini had was a couple of sketches of myself.

  Borsini said, “Lord Weylin particularly liked a seascape I painted at Brighton. You know the one, Miss Barron, with the bathing houses.”

  Borsini had painted several scenes of Brighton, which he sold to tourists as a souvenir of their visit to the seaside. He dashed these potboilers off quickly to make money. They were pretty, but not what a connoisseur would
purchase.

  I exchanged a secret smile with Borsini. “Oh yes, I recall the seascapes. Lord Weylin has chosen well.”

  Borsini feared I would say more, and rushed in to ask how my studio was coming along.

  “The color you chose is excellent. The painters are just finishing up. I have come to buy oils and another easel. Like you, I shall have more than one work going at a time.”

  “I want to show you some new brushes they have just got in,” Borsini said. “Fine badger-hair brushes. I cannot like those cheap pig-bristle ones you still use from time to time, Miss Barron. They leave their mark in the pigment. They are too hard.”

  Weylin followed along as we examined the brushes. When Borsini had talked me into three of the expensive sort, the talk turned to easels. Weylin’s nose was out of joint at being ignored.

  When my selections were made, he said, “You had best pick out your pigments, Borsini. I shall bear Miss Barron company while her purchases are being wrapped.”

  Borsini bowed and said, “I look forward to resuming our lessons soon, signorina. Buongiorno.”

  As soon as we were alone, Weylin said, “You had my note?”

  “Yes. I am surprised to see you dawdling about the shops. I thought you would be looking for Andrew. Mama is very eager to meet him.”

  “I have hired a man to trace Jones. I am no sleuth. The job requires an expert.”

  “That leaves you free to chaperon Borsini.”

  “I happened to be free for an hour,” he said with a shrug.

  “It did not occur to you to call at Hernefield?” I snipped. “Mama was very upset at your note. It would have made it easier if you had come in person.”

  “You showed her the letter, then? I was not sure you would want to worry her with the details.”

  “Of course I showed it to her. She has a right to know.”