Gather Ye Rosebuds

by Joan Smith

  “I have not told Mama yet. I was waiting for a reply to my note before calling on you.”

  Why had I not thought of that! I should have answered his note. “Do you not plan to acknowledge Andrew, then?”

  “That must depend on what sort of fellow he is. I shan’t introduce a scoundrel into the house as a relation and friend.”

  “I wish you will tell Mama so! She is refurbishing a guest room for him. She speaks of buying him a mount.”

  Weylin stared in dismay. “Good God!”

  “Oh yes. She even speaks of allowing him a right to reside at Hernefield in her will. I half hope he is a recognizable scoundrel, or she will disinherit me entirely.”

  He laughed lightly. “In that case, you must come to stay at Parham, Zoie. You will be home this evening?”

  “Yes. Mama is having her crones in for cards, but I only play when Mrs. Vale cannot come. She is coming this evening. Shall I expect you to call?”

  “That was my intention.”

  Borsini rejoined us as the clerk brought out my parcel. “Let me carry that to the carriage for you,” Borsini offered.

  “You finish up your purchase, Borsini,” Weylin said. “I shall escort Miss Barron.”

  I looked for a hint of jealousy in Weylin’s manner, but could find only impatience. Weylin carried the oils, the clerk carried the easel, and we three went out to the carriage. I was happy to know Weylin would call that evening, but still mystified by his dancing such assiduous attention on Borsini.

  Only a few days ago he had scoffed at Borsini’s claim of having been commissioned to paint the Prince Regent. He had spurned his artistic talent and questioned his title. Now suddenly he had not only commissioned Borsini to paint his mother, he had actually moved him into his house. And he had done it before going to the studio to judge the merit of his painting, too. I could only conclude Weylin had satisfied himself as to Borsini’s right to his title. Or as this was so unlikely, I thought perhaps Lady Weylin had taken an unaccountable liking to the artist. She now had two pets to occupy her— Bubbums and Borsini.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My foolish pride enjoyed the idea of entertaining Lord Weylin in one corner of the saloon while Mama’s friends played whist in the other. The old cats had begun teasing me about still being single. Last week, when I had been mending my stockings by the lamp table, Mrs. Monroe, whose tongue is sharp as a bodkin, had jokingly asked if I was making myself a cap. Whatever Weylin’s real motive in coming, the ladies would be in a frenzy to know if it was a courting call.

  I took pains with my toilette. The Grecian gown was set aside for a more conservative gold lutestring, which cast a warm glow on my cheeks, and contrasted nicely with my black hair. I took a book of poetry to my usual chair beside the lamp, mentally admiring the artful picture I would present to Weylin when he was shown in.

  The first disappointment was that Steptoe did not announce Lord Weylin wished to see Miss Barron. He came and hissed in my ear, “His lordship is outside, wanting a word with you.”

  “Pray send his lordship in, Steptoe,” I said, loudly enough that it might have been overheard at the card table, if Mrs. Monroe had not been arguing in an auctioneer’s voice about whose turn it was to serve.

  “He wants a private word,” Steptoe said. “When he heard the ladies cackling, he said, ‘We shan’t disturb them. Is there a quiet corner somewhere, Steptoe?’ I put them in the study.”

  “Them? Who is with him?” The only person I could think of was Lady Weylin. That would be a feather in our cap indeed! The countess seldom stirred from her sofa.

  “Count Borsini,” Steptoe hissed.

  How were we to have any private conversation with Borsini present? Surely Weylin had not told Borsini about Andrew Jones! My poetic smile had dwindled to a scowl when I followed Steptoe from the saloon and into the study.

  I found the gentlemen in the jumbled little study, the worst room in the house. Mama had removed the double-pedestal desk to Andrew’s room, as threatened. In its place sat a poky, battered table that hardly had room for the writing pad and three inkpots. The only seating was four wooden chairs.

  As soon as we exchanged greetings, I said, “I cannot imagine why Steptoe put you in here. The place is a mess. Mama is just rearranging the furniture. Let us go into the saloon.”

  “This looks perfectly comfortable,” Weylin lied, and showed me to one of the wooden chairs, before taking one himself. I daresay he read the question in my eyes, for his next speech concerned Borsini. “Mama retired early. I could not leave Borsini rattling around the house alone.”

  “You have prepared your canvas for the portrait, have you, Borsini?” I asked civilly, to suggest what other occupation he might have found for himself.

  “I put the gesso on it this afternoon. It is all ready to go,” he replied.

  The three of us sat staring at one another like strangers at a coach stop, waiting for a carriage. “Would you care for a glass of wine?” I said, to break the silence.

  They agreed, and I rang for Steptoe. The wine was brought and drunk, with very little conversation. As we could not speak of Andrew, the talk turned to painting. Borsini described the pose and costume he would use to paint Lady Weylin. I was not surprised to learn she would be painted lounging on her chaise longue, with Bubbums at her feet.

  “That should look very natural,” I said.

  Weylin’s lips moved in amusement, though I did not mean any offense. “Borsini was telling me you two met in Brighton,” he said.

  “Yes, a few years ago,” I agreed. Weylin looked surprised.

  “Five years ago,” Borsini said.

  “Was it really that long ago? My uncle was with us, so it cannot have been more than five years.”

  “Your uncle had just returned from India,” Borsini reminded me. “Do you not recall he wanted his portrait taken, but decided to wait until his complexion had faded somewhat?”

  “Yes, I believe you are right. How time flies.” But not tonight. The visit seemed to drag on endlessly and boringly.

  Borsini inquired once again about the progress of my studio, and I repeated that I was satisfied with the color.

  “Perhaps I could see it?” he suggested.

  Happy for anything to do, I stood up to take him abovestairs. He said, “Steptoe will show me up. There is no need for you to disturb yourself.”

  “Let us all go,” Weylin said at once, just when I hoped for a few moments alone with him.

  “There is nothing to see,” I assured him. “Borsini just wants to check on the color of the walls.”

  “I shan’t be a moment,” Borsini said, and disappeared through the door.

  As soon as he was gone, Weylin said, “Do you think it wise to let Borsini upstairs alone?”

  “He is not alone. Steptoe is with him.”

  “All the worse!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Steptoe called at Parham this afternoon. He did not actually come to the door, but sent a note. Borsini met him in the meadow. I happened to see them from my bedroom window. It happened shortly after we returned from Aldershot.”

  “Steptoe pestering Borsini? What is the wretch up to now?”

  “I haven’t the least notion. But when I mentioned to Mama that I was coming here, Borsini pitched himself into coming with me, without the least encouragement from me. This sudden enthusiasm to see the studio—it could be a ruse to have a private word with Steptoe.”

  “Then let us sneak up behind them and listen!”

  We darted out of the study. At the end of the hall, I noticed the door to the butler’s little room was ajar. No one was visible, but the shadows of two men were cast on the floor. Weylin took a step forward. I held him back. “Go quietly!”

  We tiptoed closer. Steptoe was speaking in a low, urgent voice. “I tell you I saw it with my own eyes.”

  Borsini asked, “When? How long ago?”

  “Just before he died. I have ransacked the house since t
hen, looking for it. I fear he destroyed it.”

  “He would never do that. There is a fiver in it for you if you find it and bring it to me.”

  “A fiver!” Steptoe jeered. “Make it a hundred and you’ve got yourself a deal, mate.”

  “Very well, a hundred. Let us go above and look for it.”

  We leapt away from the door as the shadows moved. When they came out of the room, I said, as though surprised, “Borsini! You have not gone up to the studio after all. Lord Weylin and I had decided to join you. You may stay here, Steptoe, in case Mama needs you.”

  Borsini looked as guilty as a cat with cream on his whiskers. Steptoe, more hardened in crime, just scowled. They had no alternative but to go along with my suggestion, however. I got a lamp and took the gentlemen up to glance a moment at the walls of the studio. One could get very little idea of the color at night, by the light of one lamp.

  “I should return tomorrow, in daylight,” Borsini said. Behind his back, Weylin lifted his eyebrows at this suggestion.

  “Perhaps that would be best,” I agreed.

  We all went back downstairs to the study. The visit was over, and Mama’s card partners had not even seen Weylin. He gave me a meaningful look and said, “You recall I was to have a word with your mama, Zoie. I shall just leave a note for her. You will see that she gets it.” He disappeared into the study a moment, and handed me the note when he returned.

  His eyes told me the note was for me. I accompanied them to the entrance, Steptoe saw them out, and I returned to the saloon to read my note.

  He had jotted only one sentence. “Meet me in your rose garden in thirty minutes.” A tingle of anticipation trembled through me. For twenty-five minutes I sat gazing at the poetry book, while my mind roamed far and wide over this new mystery. Borsini was looking for something in this house. Something that was worth a hundred pounds to him. Something that Steptoe had seen before Uncle Barry died. What possible interest could Borsini have in my uncle?

  I could only think the “something” was an item Borsini could turn into cash and Steptoe could not, or Steptoe would keep the item for himself. That left out jewelry or any fancy bibelot Barry had picked up in India. Or was it something that cast a doubt on Borsini’s character, or even identity? His papa’s palazzo had a way of roaming about Italy. Perhaps my uncle had chanced across something that did discredit to the artist. A piece in the paper announcing he had been arrested? There had been several occasions when Borsini had to cancel our lesson.

  Had he sold forged pictures as originals, or ruined a highly born daughter he was giving lessons to? Any of these was possible. It would explain Borsini working in a small town like Aldershot, where he did not meet anyone important. That had always seemed strange to me.

  In twenty-five minutes I went to the library, to slip out by the side door into the rose garden. I noticed then that Steptoe was not on duty. He had certainly gone upstairs to have a look for whatever it was Borsini wanted. I did not think it likely he would find it. Whatever it was, he had been looking for it ever since Barry’s death.

  I went to the kitchen and asked Brodagan to find Steptoe and see that he returned to his duties, as Mama might want him at any time.

  “I know where he’ll be, melady, for he spends more time in them trunks of your uncle’s old clothes than the moths do. He is up to something, the twisty creature.”

  “Lock the attic door, Brodagan, and do not let Steptoe up there under any circumstances.”

  “Aye, and I’ll hide the ladder in the shed, or he’ll break a window and fly in like a bat.”

  I turned to leave, but she stopped me with a complaint. “Do you see what poor sort of a cake I have to put on the table for melady’s guests? Didn’t it rise up light as a cloud, but when that gossoon of a Jamie dropped a big log on the floor, the cake fell till it looks like an omelet.”

  The cake was a good six inches high. “It looks fine.”

  “Fine, is it? I am ashamed to put it on the table. It looked fine before Jamie dropped the log. There’s six eggs and two cups of flour wasted. I only hope melady’s guests are hungry enough to eat it.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  I escaped, before she could start on the inadequacies of the cold cuts and bread, and hastened to the rose garden.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The night was warm and balmy. Moonbeams cast a wan light on the garden, bleaching the pink and yellow roses to white, and turning the bushes a sinister black. As if to make up for stealing the garden’s color, night enhanced its perfume. The very attar of roses hung heavy on the air. On such a night did Romeo beguile his way to Juliet’s balcony.

  My attention was diverted by the sound of hoofbeats from the park. A dark shadow appeared over a rise of ground. It advanced swiftly, revealing itself as Weylin, mounted on his black gelding, coming to me by moonlight. A lady would have to be withered and sere not to feel a frisson of anticipation at such a sight.

  I went forward to meet him. He hopped down from his horse, wearing not a romantic smile but a scowl.

  “I should have given myself longer than half an hour,” he said, breathing heavily. “I had the devil of a time getting away from Borsini. What must the clunch do but go to the stable, to say good night to that spavined jade of his.”

  “There was no hurry,” I assured him.

  He dropped onto a stone bench to recover his breath. I sat beside him and said, “The roses smell lovely, do they not?”

  “I daresay. It is difficult to tell, with the scent of the stable—and on my good jacket, too.” He actually lifted his arm and sniffed at his sleeve.

  This effectively destroyed the romantic mood of moonlight and roses. I said curtly, “What do you make of Borsini and Steptoe sharing a secret, Weylin? I have been pondering it this half hour, and cannot make up my mind.”

  “I have no proof, but I shall share my suspicions with you. I think it is Borsini who has been posing as my aunt’s son, Andrew Jones.”

  The notion was so bizarre, and so unexpected, that I emitted a snort of laughter. “Why do you say posing as their son? Did the lawyer not have proof of it?”

  “He has proof a son exists, but that is not to say the man visiting at Lindfield is the true son.”

  “If that man was Borsini, he would hardly assume the persona of an Italian count. You recall Andrew Jones was found in Ireland, teaching in a boys’ school.”

  “Teaching art,” Weylin said, and wrinkled his brow, as if that proved anything.

  “Barry’s letter did not say art.”

  “One of the letters mentioned it. You did not read them all. I have been over them with a fine-tooth comb. When did Borsini turn up in Brighton?” When he answered himself, I realized it had been a rhetorical question. “Five years ago, shortly after your uncle arrived at Hernefield. Who introduced Borsini to you? Your uncle. I have weaseled this information out of Borsini. Is it not true that McShane met Borsini first?”

  “Yes, it was my uncle who took Mama and me to his exhibition, but—”

  He lifted an imperious hand to silence me. “But me no buts until I have finished, Zoie. I have already conned all your objections. I believe I can answer them. Here is what I think happened. Your uncle knew long ago, before he ever left Ireland, that Margaret was enceinte. He made it his business to learn that the child was put out for adoption. When he returned from India a quarter of a century later, virtually penniless—”

  “He had five thousand pounds.”

  “That is hardly enough to retire comfortably—but it was enough to hire Borsini to pose as his and my aunt’s long-lost son, and diddle her out of her fortune.”

  “This is a monstrous accusation!” Yet I remembered Steptoe’s sly grin, and his talk of Barry and Jones being involved in criminal doings. Steptoe knew Borsini was Jones, and had gone to Parham to threaten or bargain with him.

  “Hear me out! Your uncle came to England; then, hot on his heels, Count Borsini appears at Brighton. Your uncle takes yo
u to Brighton, to his studio. Within months, Borsini suddenly transfers his business to Aldershot—hardly the art mecca of Europe! Matters are arranged in such a manner that Borsini is a regular visitor at Hernefield, where he and your uncle can connive at their scheme. Lady Margaret is an aging, lonely, well-dowered lady, eager to believe she has found her long-lost son. I doubt she conducted any strenuous inquiries into Borsini’s past.”

  I listened in astonishment to this outlandish story. Yet there was enough truth in it to pique my interest. “You have not explained how this English bastard ended up as an Italian nobleman. Are we to believe the real Count Borsini is a part of this plot?”

  “There is no Count Borsini. They got the name from a wine bottle. Borsini is as Irish as poteen. He has the typical looks of the black Irish. He knows half a dozen Italian words, and imitates the accent, to cozen the ladies. Your uncle probably did find him teaching school in Ireland. He had to come from somewhere.”

  “You’re mad. Why would Borsini pose as an Italian at all? That was an unnecessary complication.”

  “That was to divert suspicion. Who would ever connect an Italian count to McShane or Lady Margaret? Borsini was in close contact with you and your mama. You would not look for a resemblance to your uncle if you believed him a foreigner.”

  “No, and we would not find any resemblance if we looked till the cows came home.”

  “He has dark hair like McShane, and blue eyes like Margaret. I don’t know whether Margaret was aware of the double life of Borsini. He says he never met her, but even if he did, he would say it was a pose to allow father and son to meet without arousing suspicion.”

  “If my uncle conned your aunt out of her fortune, how does it come he died penniless?” I demanded.

  “I can only assume he was a demmed poor manager. His Indian career supports the theory. I daresay Borsini ended up with the lot. I don’t claim to know all the details. They may have had a safety box, each having keys. Whichever died first, the other got the money.”

  “There is not much doubt which would die first. My uncle was an old man. Why would he go to all the trouble of bilking your aunt, and go on living like a pauper, just to hand the money over to a stranger? If there is any shred of truth in this unlikely tale—and I don’t believe it for a moment—then Borsini is their real son.”