The Grenadillo Box: A Novel

by Janet Gleeson

  I looked deeper into his eyes and thought I caught a flicker of something. What was it? Fear? Anger? Guilt? Whatever it was, I knew I didn’t believe him. But before I could pose any further interrogation, a lady’s voice was heard floating from the yard outside. Its tone was deep and melodious, with a faintly foreign timbre. She was arguing hotly with the apprentice boy, Craggs, who could be heard attempting—vainly—to halt her progress.

  “Madam, I would beg you to wait in the showrooms while I call Mr. Chippendale to attend you. This is his private residence, he does not receive his patrons here,” he stuttered, as her voice drew ever closer to the front door.

  “Do you not know me, boy? I am Madame Trenti. Your master will be enchanted to receive me wherever I chance upon him.”

  “Nevertheless, madam, you would be more comfortable in the showroom. Mr. Chippendale will come directly to you.”

  She ignored him. Having rattled the door loudly, she swept past the unfortunate servant girl who answered it. Observing the parlor door ajar and Chippendale and me within, she announced herself with a rustle of petticoats and a twitch of the plume upon her hat. We stood respectfully. La Trenti, as she was billed in Drury Lane, was appareled in a wide hooped petticoat that filled the narrow doorway entirely. Craggs was hopping up and down in the hall, for he could not politely get past her to effect the correct introductions.

  “Mr. Chippendale, sir, Madame Trenti demanded that I bring her to you. She would not wait in the shop,” he blurted from behind her ballooning skirts.

  Madame Trenti smiled alluringly, turned herself sideways, and edged through the door. In the center of the room she unfastened her cloak, like a flower opening its petals, to reveal a petticoat of buttercup yellow beneath a robe of purple tabinet. She smiled at Chippendale, revealing a row of faintly yellow teeth. “I trust you were expecting me.”

  He bowed low over the outstretched hand she proffered, his face a model of politeness. “Indeed, madam, I am, as always, honored to receive you. I trust you will forgive our modest surroundings, for there is something of great importance I have to show you.”

  “I am all impatience. Does it concern my furnishings?”

  “Madam, I have concocted for you a design of such splendor as would make a monarch reel. Have you acquired a suitable residence?”

  “There is a vacant mansion in Soho Square…. I am in discussion.”

  While the design was sent for, Madame Trenti, with my assistance, eased herself into the best chair the room could provide. Meanwhile Chippendale flattered her zealously.

  “Your Cordelia I’ve heard was a triumph.”

  “The critics were kind. Did you attend?”

  “I did not need to attend to hear the thunderous applause. It reverberated throughout the city.”

  “You are too generous. But yes, in truth, I believe my reputation does increase.”

  “No critic can do justice to the universal acclaim you so richly deserve for your radiance and your talent…”

  A shaft of wintry sunlight flooded the room and fell on her face. Once she must have been a beauty, but now her skillful application of powder, rouge, and patches could not mask the shrinking flesh. I was reminded of a mannequin doll sent back and forth from Paris clad in miniature versions of the latest modes, whose paint had chipped with passing years.

  When the designs were brought, Chippendale passed them to her one by one, explaining the significance of every pen stroke. “The drawings, madam, are for the king of all furniture: I speak, as I am sure you have guessed, of a writing cabinet…a cabinet of such curiosity and complexity as will cause everyone who sees it to marvel.”

  She rustled her skirts with impatient delight as he explained his vision. Every detail of the cabinet had been delineated; it was as real to him as the chairs on which they sat. “Picture yourself, madam, in the best room of your mansion, dressed in your finest silk, displaying this masterpiece to your callers, teasing them to discover the secrets held within. To an accomplished actress such as yourself I hardly need explain how such an extravagant prop will charm them, intrigue them…”

  “Indeed, Mr. Chippendale, it sounds most enticing. Pray show me how it will operate.”

  “Perhaps a young gallant might press this catch, remove a section of the façade, and reveal a hidden arcade, which thanks to the judicious positioning of mirrors will seem to stretch to infinity. Next he will discover the hidden niche in which a figurine is concealed. Then the grand finale…”

  “A grand finale?”

  “You will step forward. You will turn this column, which will trigger a movable panel here, behind which some truly astonishing secret will be concealed.”

  She was quivering visibly, fluttering her hands with childlike expectation.

  “And what might that be?”

  Chippendale held up a calming hand. “That, madam, is a matter for discussion and thought.” He paused emphatically. “I believe it should be something precious yet personal. Perhaps a miniature in enamel, or a musical figurine in your form that dances…”

  “Or a jewel of some description,” said she, warming to his theme. “How magnificent it will be. I can hardly bear to wait. How long will it take to execute?”

  “It is begun already, but still it will take a matter of some weeks, madam—for as you can see it is an object of great, indeed, I daresay, unparalleled complexity.”

  Her face fell a little. “And the price?”

  “Such a unique and extravagant piece will of necessity require the best materials and craftsmen of the highest skill…”

  She nodded her head briskly and handed the drawings back.

  “Then let us talk of it later. I would not think of money in the face of such beauty. Let us consider instead the decoration. You have a talented craftsman,” she said. “The young man to whom I spoke on my last visit. The foundling. He will surely be capable of this work. I am convinced from the last piece you supplied that his carving rivals the best in Europe, and is unmatched in this country.”

  “Madam, the craftsman of whom you speak, Partridge, is as you so rightly say an expert carver. But therein lies his greatest skill. You will see from these drawings there is little carving in this. The decoration is inlaid with marquetry and cast metal mounts. Pictures made from wood. Golden statues. An unfamiliar method of decoration these last decades, but one that will be intoxicating in its beauty.”

  Her face puckered with disapproval. “I would not wish anything that is outmoded.”

  “It is a style that already holds France, and will rapidly return to these shores. With this cabinet in your rooms you will be regarded as fashion’s founding goddess rather than her slavish handmaiden.”

  She looked only slightly appeased. “Nevertheless I desire that Partridge work on it. If he can carve with such genius he can surely cut out shapes from wood with similar inspiration.”

  “Mr. Partridge is no longer with us.”

  There was a silence as she fixed him with her olive green eyes and raised a perfectly arched mouse-hair brow. “I am astonished to hear it. Where is he?”

  Chippendale regarded her smoothly. “He has left London.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He means Partridge is dead,” I interrupted coldly.

  Madame Trenti turned to me, gasped in astonishment, and turned back to Chippendale. “Are you quite certain? Is there not some mistake?” She reached into her muff, withdrew her salts, and sniffed them loudly before leaning back in her chair and half closing her eyes.

  Chippendale’s eyes were blazing now, and his voice, when he addressed me, was chilling. “Nathaniel, do you not have duties to attend to? You are not required here and may leave us if you please.”

  I am not a man who delights in physical violence, yet I confess that at that moment my earlier desire to jump at him returned more forcefully, and it was all I could do to prevent myself from flooring him. In truth the reason I held back was mainly that I was afraid; I was fearful of my m
aster, afraid of insulting him and incurring his further fury. And so I held on to what remained of my dignity. I drew myself up to my full six feet two inches and bowed briefly to Madame Trenti, who was still lying back in her chair wafting her bottle beneath her nose. “Good day, madam,” I said and turned on my heels without saying a word more to my master.

  For an hour after returning to the cabinetmakers’ workshop, I sat at my desk and wrestled with a large-scale working drawing on which I was detailing the construction and dimensions of a circular table. I was still seething and spoke to none of the other craftsmen working in the same room. From time to time, however, I broke off my calculations to glance out of the window to the yard below. At midday I saw the rear door to Chippendale’s residence open. Chippendale emerged, alone.

  I put down my quill and rule and hurried out through the narrow passage from the yard to the street. By the time I arrived, Madame Trenti had already stepped into her sedan chair, the door was fastened, and her bearers were set to convey her hence. She caught sight of me careering towards her. “Mr. Hopson?” she said, leaning carefully out of the window so her plumage did not catch. “Is it I you seek?” She seemed to have recovered from her shock at the news of Partridge’s death, for she gave me a glance that was practically flirtatious.

  “There was something you said, madam. I wondered if I might presume upon you to explain it.”

  “What was it?”

  “When you spoke of Partridge, you called him ‘the foundling.’ This was a matter of which he rarely spoke. I am intrigued to discover how you knew of it.”

  There was a long interval before she smiled beguilingly at me. “I too had intended to interrogate you more on the matter of Mr. Partridge. But first, pray tell me, why was it that Mr. Chippendale seemed so averse to our discussion?”

  The suddenness of her question caught me by surprise. I didn’t know how I should respond. But before I could stutter a reply, she waved her fan at me. “Have I baffled you, Mr. Hopson? Perhaps the matter is of no consequence. In any event what I wished to say was this—news of Partridge’s death came as a profound shock. He was more to me than you know. Come to my lodgings tomorrow afternoon and we will satisfy each other’s curiosity.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sleet was falling from a pewter sky as later that same afternoon I made my way to the Strand to call on Alice. I need hardly mention that I went with my spirits in a lather of confusion. I had fretted about our postponed outing. I prayed she would have received the hastily written note explaining the reason for my absence. How would she greet my sudden reappearance? Would she chastise me for my failure to keep to our rendezvous? Would she feign indifference, and treat me with the businesslike detachment she had always employed until our last encounter? Each time I turned the matter over in my mind these wretched anxieties consumed me.

  The warehouse, an imposing brick-built edifice four windows wide and three stories high, stood at the northern reaches of the Strand, beyond the Exeter Exchange, between a draper and a bookseller’s. I entered through a cavernous hallway devoid of all furnishings but strewn with boards, planks, splinters, and shavings, in short, wood of every form. A narrow corridor led me into a small office, where I found Alice seated at an old oak table with a lighted lamp before her. From the number of handwritten sheets strewn around, it seemed she was in the midst of writing a letter.

  I cleared my throat and gently, so as not to startle her, announced myself. “Miss Goodchild, how pleasant to see you again.”

  She looked up suddenly, then sprang to her feet. “Mr. Hopson! What an unexpected entrance. I didn’t hear you knock.”

  My heart lightened unmistakably. “Perhaps that is because in my impatience to see you I forgot to do so.”

  “Are you well after your journey from Cambridge? Your note reached me—and Fetherby the driver tells me you encountered great sorrows there. I mean the death of your friend Partridge.” I fancied I saw color flood her complexion, and there was understanding in her voice.

  “I’m glad you knew where I was, even though I wish it had not been Fetherby who told you of what had transpired.” Fetherby was employed by Chippendale to transport goods to and fro. I could not imagine anyone less suited to relay such delicate information.

  “The loss must grieve you greatly. I too was shocked by the news of his death. Partridge visited here from time to time, when he had particular requirements.”

  I nodded, grateful for her sympathy. “The reason I’ve come so speedily to see you,” I declared, remembering how I’d postponed even Molly Bullock’s lusty embrace, “is that I’m anxious to find out what I can about this object.” I removed the temple box from my pocket and passed it to her. “I wondered if you could identify the wood. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

  She placed the box close to the glass shade of her lantern before taking a magnifying glass and bending over it to examine the pattern of the wood, looking in turn at the flat-grained roof, the turned columns, the carved capitals and cornice. After some minutes she shook her head slightly, drew back from the light, and handed the box back. “The light is too poor to be certain, but it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen either—although I’ve no doubt if my father were here he’d know it.”

  I was disappointed, and my face must have showed it. “May I leave it with you and return tomorrow when you have viewed it in daylight? I don’t wish to inconvenience you, but I fear there’s no one better qualified to recognize it.”

  My crestfallen expression must have moved her, and I suppose she may have been a little flattered by my high opinion of her talents. She returned her attentions to the box, narrowing her eyes as if searching her memory for something. Suddenly her face cleared and she looked back at me. “Perhaps there is something I can do…. If you wait while I finish this letter, I’ve something to show you that may assist you.”

  For the next half hour, I sat in a chair while she continued with her letter. It was no hardship for me to wait. Her mind was obviously rapt in writing, and she ignored me so completely that I passed the time happily, studying her at my leisure. She was simply dressed in a well-cut cloth jacket and petticoat of deepest blue that served only to accentuate the fineness of her figure. Her hair was piled up in a white gauze cap with a single thick ringlet falling from one side onto her shoulder, where it shone like well-seasoned mahogany. She wrote fluently, forming her letters in generous loops, stopping only occasionally to dip her pen and gaze at the lamp as she searched for the right word or phrase, or referred to a page written in crabbed script beside her.

  I should confess here that my interest in Alice had already led me to discover a little of her family circumstances from George Fetherby, the aged and garrulous carter. According to his information, Alice’s father, John Goodchild, had left London to attend to his interests overseas, following the sudden death of his wife. Alice, though little prepared for trade, had been left in charge of the London side of the business.

  “Do you write to your father?” I inquired, when she looked up after some time and caught my eye.

  “Every week. There’s much to master in this business.”

  “That’s most commendable. And does he reply as regularly?”

  She lowered her eyes to her script. “His letters are dependent on the whims of the weather and merchantmen returning from the colonies. He does his best.”

  Some minutes later she put down her pen, assembled her sheets in order—there were six in all—addressed them, and sealed the package.

  “Come,” she said, putting the letter she had written in her pocket, “I will send my brother to dispatch this and then you will have my full attention. Let’s hope what I have to show you will be worth your patience.”

  She led the way through the warehouse proper, past hulking pyramids of boards, to the rear. A large oak double door, with a smaller entrance set in it, opened to the yard and her Dutch-gabled cottage beyond. Drawing back the bolts of the small aperture, she gathered her sk
irts in one hand and, without a backward glance, ran nimbly through the arrows of sleet to her front door. I lumbered behind, spattering my knitted stockings with globules of mud in my effort to keep pace.

  Her brother was already returned from his school. He had the parlor fire roaring and was now seated beside it, busily constructing a ship’s model. The hull had been carefully carved, and the masts had been stepped. He was fixing the cotton rigging.

  “That’s an impressive piece of work.”

  “A replica of the Indiaman The Duke of Portland, on which my father sailed,” he declared proudly.

  “I believe it was Mr. Partridge who gave him the idea,” said his sister. “He came to the yard one day quite recently when Richard was at home and listless. Partridge distracted him with his suggestion of building the model and helped him begin it.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “He had a generous disposition, and no family of his own, and always profoundly regretted it.”

  “I didn’t know it,” said Alice. “How very tragic his short life was.” She hesitated for a moment, looking at me as though she wished to ask more. Then, perhaps fearing her curiosity might be misconstrued, she turned to her brother and gave him the letter to post. There was an Indiaman due to leave as soon as the tides and winds were favorable, and she was anxious her letter should be on it.

  No sooner had he left us than she took a key from the wooden box on the side table, handed me a lit candle, and led me back across the hallway to a small oak-paneled drawing room. The chill struck me as I entered. After the warmth of the blazing parlor fire, the air in here was cold and damp. No fire had been lit, the shutters were drawn, and the furniture veiled by dust sheets.

  “My father sat here every evening to read while my mother did her needlework,” she said, a shadow crossing her face. “These days my brother and I almost never come in here. That was why I nearly overlooked what I want to show you. It is this.”