by Joan Smith
“I don’t see why Miss Rose need stay abovestairs,” Abbie said. “Everyone in the village and for miles around has already seen her. At a party with dancing, they will have other things on their minds.”
“Carousing and sluicing and flirting,” Annie agreed. “I can hardly wait. If Marion pukes on the new carpet I’ll box her ears.”
“I leave it up to you ladies,” Sir Ludwig said, knowing full well we would rush on with plans for the party, “but I think it should be cancelled.”
“Good. What do you plan to do about replacing the curtains and rug, then?” Annie demanded. “We can’t let anyone into such a place of rack and ruin. When will you buy them?”
“In about ten years,” he replied, glancing with satisfaction at the mouldy draperies and thin carpet.
“Ludwig!” she shouted. “Take a look at this carpet. “Look at it!” He glanced down, with very little interest. “It’s threadbare!” she yelled.
“Nonsense, it is a trifle faded.”
“It’s full of holes, is what it is.” Annie got down on her hands and knees to stick a finger under surface threads, which ought to have had half an inch of wool on top of them. She broke a couple in the process, forming indeed a hole where her fingers invaded the underweave. “See that! Holes!”
He looked a little more closely. “It can be turned,” he decided.
“It’s shabby, Lud,” Abbie took it up. “It should have been replaced years ago.”
“Why didn’t you replace it then?” he asked, his tone becoming quite noticeably German, which is to say shouting. “I have enough to do looking after the farms and stables and orchard, without worrying about a damned carpet.”
“And the drapes?” Annie asked, advancing towards them with her poking fingers, ready to invent holes if she could not find any.
“I don’t want pink curtains,” he decreed stubbornly. As he was capitulating so far, I don’t see why he could not have done it with a little better grace. But then the Germans are too closely allied to their English cousins to take defeat lightly. The French hide their spleen better, I think, and the Italians can manage to make you think you’ve done them a favor by beating them in an argument. Of course, I don’t recall ever arguing with a female Italian.
“I hope you’re satisfied,” he said, looking daggers at me.
“I?” I asked, my face a mask of astonishment. “What has all this to do with me?”
“It is odd no one noticed the disarray of the room before your arrival.”
“So it is. I am convinced its disarray must have been outstanding for some several years before my coming. But if the refurbishing were my idea, you must know I would have begun with the paintings. I would have removed Messrs. Stubbs and Gainsborough and replaced . . .”
“No!” He stomped from the room with a wrathful eye to the satinwood cabinet. I thought he was gone to his study to sulk, but it turned out he was only changing out of his tea-stained trousers. An unaccustomed fit of dandyism on his part, or more likely an excuse for his returning so soon. At this point we women found it wise to discuss other things than the redoing of the Saloon. We had pretty well agreed on our decor during his absence, especially rose draperies, which would not be called pink by any of us. We played a hand of cards that evening, the first time we had done so. I was rather good at it, and so was Abbie. It was both unfortunate and unfair that the two worse players should get matched to take us on, but it was an amusing and lively game for all that.
It was Abbie’s idea to play for rose curtains, as a sort of joke to humor the German back into smiles. As this went down with no ill humor, I placed a bid on one of the Stubbs, and had ousted them both along with Gainsborough before the evening was over, at which time we were reminded the game had only been in fun. Sir Ludwig repeated several times that Annie was in league with us against him.
“Ha, I haven’t played cards in an age,” she excused herself. “I’m becoming addlepated, like Rose.” She smiled so sweetly on me that it was impossible to take offense.
In fact, in spite of all the bickering and arguing that went forth in the house, it was by no means an unpleasant atmosphere. It was homey—I was treated like a member of their small family, and acted like one. No formality survived beyond the first few days. I suppose that is why I was happy, despite my predicament, and why the days flew past so quickly. Annie never stayed up late. Soon she was yawning and taking her leave of us. As soon as she was gone, Kessler said to Abbie it was time for her to go, too, as she must be tired from her trip. Since it was perfectly clear he wanted some privacy with me, I did not make the missish suggestion of going with her.
“What is it you want?” I asked when we were alone.
“I’m worried about this fellow who was hanging around the grounds today and asking questions in the village. I don’t want you out alone, not even in the gardens or park. I’ll go into Wickey tomorrow and speak to Mulliner again, ask around at the inn and see if I can find out anything about him. I wish you will try to remember if there is anything might help us. This story about the captain, for instance. Do you think there’s anything in it?”
“I couldn’t tell you what Bath looks like, and I seem to remember places. Certain details of buildings and so on, I mean. I dream sometimes about Scotland. You mentioned that Miss Smith’s last post was there.”
He nodded, considering this. “Do you think you might come from there?”
“I don’t know. In my dream it was the highlands and sheep, not Edinburgh. And there was a kitten, too.”
“Not much help,” he said.
“No, except that Kitty . . . Oh, it’s nothing. It is just that a couple of times I called Miss Wickey Kitty.”
“It sounds rather like it—the same sort of a sound, I mean.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Does the name Knightsbridge sound familiar at all?”
“I don’t like the name.”
“Liking it is not the point. Does it seem familiar?”
“I suppose I would not have taken it in irrational dislike if I had never heard it before.”
“Possibly you know Mrs. Knightsbridge, then, and have reason to dislike her.”
“Possibly. I wonder if Ivor . . . You didn’t happen to ask the name of Mrs. Knightsbridge’s husband?”
“She signs herself Mrs. J. F. Knightsbridge. Wrote a very pretty letter, praising Miss Smith to the skies, her industry, knowledge, agreeable temperament. Making it quite unlikely Miss Smith is yourself,” he added in a bantering way.
“We had already agreed the mole and crooked tooth invalidated my claim to the name, had we not?”
“Mmm, and the wrinkles and crowsfeet.”
He seemed in some danger of falling into admiration of my new gown again, so I recalled him to business. “I wish I could get over to Gillingham and see the Grafton place. Oh, did you see the other door of the Medici triptych?”
“Yes, Gwynne was all excited about it. Seems to think old Cosimo himself might have been the model for Saint Joseph. He is more than ever convinced the doors are a matching pair.”
“What did Saint Joseph look like? Why did Gwynne think Cosimo posed?”
“Had a pointy nose and a protruding chin.”
“That sounds like Cosimo, all right. I wish I could see it.”
“Yes, a pity we daren’t risk taking you there, for they have an open house on Monday morning, and will give an interested party a guided tour of the gallery almost any time, with a little notice.”
“As Mrs. Lantry’s story proves I am not Miss Smith, would it not be possible for me to go?”
“I don’t like it. Someone is after you. It might be someone connected with that place—a servant or what have you. I feel strongly your story is wound up with the Grafton business. Till we find out who you are, I would rather keep you under close wraps here. Whoever you are, and whatever you are involved in, you seem to be in danger. The fellow who struck you down, who knows what he might have done if he had suc
ceeded in knocking you completely unconscious? Ladies have a way of vanishing in this affair. We don’t want you to disappear.”
“I begin to wonder you don’t. I am a shocking nuisance to you. Battening myself on total strangers.”
“Nonsense. We have never had such a romantical visitor before. Jailbirds and female drunkards were our most entertaining guests till you came along. We are all enraptured with you, Rose Trelawney, with your bumps and bruises. And home improvements,” he added pointedly.
“How unjust! You know Annie said . . .”
“Yes, and I know as well Annie has not been in the attics for a decade, and hasn’t noticed whether the Saloon has a carpet or not for the same length of time.”
“You must own it is past time that antique was lifted.”
“It is very kind of you to take such an interest in us. I fully expect I will see a new mulberry jacket hanging in my closet for the New Year’s party. This one I wear, it will not have escaped your notice, is not this season’s cut.”
“No, nor last year’s either,” I answered very civilly. “I had thought it to be of an age with the carpet.”
“I can’t discard it. My mama, when she was alive in 1795, used to be very fond of it,” he assured me. Quizzing, of course.
“I doubt her fondness would have endured so long as your own. If you have no more insults or jibes, I shall retire now. Run along and say good night to Adeline. She worries if I am too late.”
“You remember what I said, Rose?” he reminded me. “You have not worn out your welcome at Granhurst yet. We don’t want you to vanish on us before you have redone the dining room.”
He smiled in an attempt to dilute my worries, which served rather to heighten them. “Good night,” I said.
“Good night, Rose.”
Chapter Nine
I had a good deal to worry me as I lay in bed that night. I had never supposed for more than five minutes I was actually Miss Grafton. I could bear not being a great heiress, and of course was relieved to learn I was not a hired companion. But who on earth was I? I felt at home enough here at Granhurst, with servants to do my bidding. Ordering them about came naturally to me, which augured my being accustomed to having them. But at times little things occurred to me—mere details really, but details that spoke of a different sort of life. The house was somewhat disorganized due to its having no real mistress, only Annie and Abigail. Dusty chambers and outmoded curtains also seemed natural to me. ‘When money is less tight,’ I would think, as natural as breathing, ‘they will be changed.’ But money was not tight at Granhurst. How did I know so surely that if the Green Saloon were fixed up it would give a good impression, make any callers less suspicious of the state of the rest of the house? Why was I surprised to see Abigail wore better underwear and nighties than day dresses? My own choice would have been to keep up a good appearance. This seemed almost a fixation with me, giving an appearance of affluence, and that must surely be a concern of one who is uncertain of her place in society.
This was really only a minor concern; of greater worry was my relationship with Sir Ludwig. I was using him, manipulating him, and knew it. Knew perfectly well that if I smiled prettily and joked him, he would give me whatever I wanted. Yes, I was intimately acquainted with the tricks of getting what I wanted from a man who admired me. Was not this the carrying on of a common lightskirt? Taking money from him for my little luxuries and vanities was second nature to me. I was an adept at it, no beginner. The awful idea was taking hold that I was nothing other than a lady of pleasure. It explained too my showing up under such odd circumstances, and no one raising any hue and cry over my disappearance. I had been kicked out by my latest patron, put back on the streets in the gown in which I had come to him, but wearing beneath some of my acquired finery. Even my knowledge of the world might be explained in this manner. A follower of the drum, trailing her skirts across Europe looking for greener pastures. When my luck was up, I had servants and a good home, when it was down I tried to keep up appearances for the sake of attracting a new patron.
All this was damning enough to keep me awake past midnight, but there was worse knowledge waiting to condemn me. Knowledge of so intimate and personal a nature I hardly know how to put it into words. I was no stranger to physical desire. I felt a rising interest in Sir Ludwig that was surely never felt by a maiden. I wanted him, and knew he felt the same. I knew what was in his mind when he cast those surreptitious glances at me, and was excited rather than frightened as I ought to be, if I were a real lady. Marriage could account for this, perhaps, but I wore no wedding ring.
Was I no better than I should be, then? What a euphemism! A good deal worse than I should be, and at such pains to give the impression I was an innocent miss. But surely I was being hard on myself. It was all conjecture after all. I turned resolutely over and commanded sleep to come.
In the morning, it was back to the French lessons for myself and Abbie. Life was to go on as much like normal as was possible in such upset times. Sir Ludwig, we knew, was going into Wickey to see what he could discover of the mysterious man from Bath. (My last patron, come back to reclaim me?) He discovered so little as to be hardly worth the trip. The caller, according to Mulliner, had been a middle-aged man of neat but plain appearance, of middle size and height, with graying-brown hair and driving a hired carriage. He had been well-spoken without giving any air of being scholarly or educated to an outstanding degree. No squint, mole or deformity to pinpoint such a nondescript person any more exactly.
“That description would fit a million men in England,” Sir Ludwig said, dissatisfied. “Mr. Gwynne or Morley, for instance, though we know it was neither of them. It also fits Mr. Uxbridge, incidentally. I had Mrs. Lantry give me a rundown on his appearance. He had no distinguishing characteristic whatsoever. ‘Not a fellow that would ever stand out in a crowd’ was the way she summed him up.”
“Did Morley say he would notify the police about Mr. Uxbridge’s part in the affair?” I asked him.
“Certainly. He had already been in touch with the local constable, and had spoken to Bow Street a couple of weeks ago, when his niece disappeared. They are trying to find the girl, but doing it quietly in accordance with Morley’s wishes. We must be in touch with them as well, I think.”
London was a long eighty-five miles away, with unpleasant weather and the roads far from good in this season. I felt guilty indeed to be putting Sir Ludwig to so much trouble on my behalf. I had felt an instinctive dread of advertising in papers, but getting the police to work in private was acceptable to that phantom that ruled my emotions. He was to leave that same afternoon, as making the trip in one day was impossible in this weather.
As things turned out, his trip was unnecessary. Bow Street came to us after luncheon in the body of one Mr. Jethro Williker. Just like Misses Smith, middle-aged men of unobtrusive appearance abounded in our case. Mr. Williker was such an other. His way of expressing himself I would not have described as ‘well spoken,’ but in other ways he was very average. Kessler spoke first to him, but within a quarter of an hour a message was sent to me to join them. I then knew only that a gentleman had been shown into Sir Ludwig’s study, and was on pins and needles to learn if his business had to do with me. My first view of him made me think he was the mysterious gentleman from Bath. I was soon undeceived. I was told his business at once.
“Mr. Williker is from Bow Street, and has some interesting news on Mr. Uxbridge,” Ludwig said.
Williker stared into my eyes as though by sheer will power he would make me reveal things unknown even to myself. I was never scrutinized in such a way before or since. All the while he spoke, he stared at me. “He’s a charlatan—a confidence man,” Williker began. “I was on to his case even before the kidnapping. Lord Nevins set me on to him, became suspicious of Uxbridge, he did. Sold him a painting at a very good price, a Memling it was, which he said he was selling for a client. Lord Nevins, he thought nothing of it; then, when the fellow turned up on his s
tep three weeks later with another painting, he became suspicious. That’s when he came to us, to see if we knew anything about said paintings. Well sir, I won’t conceal the fact we didn’t know a thing about them. I’m not what you’d call a connesoor myself, but I know how to conduct an investigation as well as any and better than most. The Royal Academy I went to direct, and sought an interview with Mr. Benjamin West himself, and was granted same very condescendingly, I might add. Them works, he told me, quick as winking, come from the collection of the late Sir Rodney Grafton, which information I took direct back to Lord Nevins. ‘Well, I never heard the Grafton collection was up for grabs,’ says his lordship. Nor was it. Our first thought was that Uxbridge had stolen the paintings outright, but the executor, a Mr. Morley, he said it was no such a thing. Mr. Uxbridge was a sort of adviser. Nothing a body could do about that, but that wasn’t the end of Mr. Uxbridge’s story.”
He settled back in his chair comfortably and went on. “If he’d kept to selling the real and authentic goods he’d have got clean away with it—clean away, but what did the fellow do but try to palm off a forgery on Sir Geoffrey Carlisle, who knows more about pictures than you and me and Michelangelo put together. A Georgieown it was, Italian painter. A very sly way he set about it. He showed him one picture which was the real goods, then took it away while Sir Geoffrey made up his mind, and delivered a fake. Carlisle threatened to have in the law, and our friend Uxbridge raises his hands and says it’s all a terrible mistake. He’s brought the wrong picture, a copy that had been made up, and promptly trots back with the original. Then doesn’t he turn around, Uxbridge, and try to sell the copy to another chap, who as luck would have it knew of Sir Geoffrey’s recent purchase. Well sir, the fat was in the fire then. A warrant was sworn out for his arrest and my investigation turned up some pretty smelly deals.”
“When did all this happen?” Ludwig asked.
“Started as early as September when the first picture was taken to Lord Nevins, but Uxbridge’s career goes back a long ways beyond that. His usual way of proceeding is to get himself on the right side of a party with a good bit of artworks he doesn’t know the value of, and insinuate himself into confidence. Usually by offering to buy some small piece, then bit by bit he gets to taking over, stringing the cove along he can get him a very good price for the works, which he sells off at a fair price, giving the owner a part of what he gets. Widows and such like are his usual dupes. It was the business of the forgery that did him in. As long ago as December 4 I made a trip to Shaftesbury to deal with Mr. Uxbridge, but his housekeeper told me he was in London. Very well, says I to myself, I’ll pick him up in London, but neither hide nor hair of him did I find. Then on the sixth we got the letter from Mr. Morley about his niece being gone, and I began wondering if there wasn’t some connection between the two things.
