100. A Rose In Jeopardy (4 page)

“A round of your best ale for everyone!” he shouted to the innkeeper, who was watching from behind the bar.

Then he looked across and saw Rosella standing by the door.

“Who’s this?” he asked, his small eyes glinting at her. “Could it be Lady Luck herself? Is it this pretty little angel who’s making the dice fall my way?”

Rosella backed towards the door, blushing fiercely.

Whatever did he mean? She had no interest at all in the dice game and, to her horror, all the men were looking at her now and laughing.

“Hey there!” the man with the moustache called. “Don’t you run away now, sweetheart. Stay and bring me more luck!”

The others were shouting out to her too, telling her to stay.

She looked around in desperation for her coachman and saw that he was making his way towards her through the crowd, a tankard of beer in his hand.

“Forgive me, my Lady,” he said, looking rather shamefaced. “I just couldn’t ’elp but drink ’is Lordship’s ’ealth.”

But Rosella did not listen to what he was saying.

“Please, I wish to go back to New Hall at once,” she told him, as she was desperate to escape from the hot and crowded inn.

“Of course, my Lady.”

The coachman set his tankard down on a table.

“I’ll bring them ’orses right away.”

And he hurried off towards the stables.

Now the man with the moustache was being lifted up by several ostlers so that he was standing on the bar.

“I should like,” he began and swayed a little to one side. “I should like to drink to my very lovely little angel over there who’s been helping me to win so much money!”

He took another large gulp from his glass of beer and continued drunkenly,

“And I mustn’t forget to propose a toast to – the man who brought me here to this delightful inn and who suggested a little game of dice before luncheon. My very good friend – here’s to his Lordship!”

Another cheer rent the air and everyone raised his glass or his tankard to join the fair-haired man’s toast.

And then Rosella saw that there was another man who had been sitting at the corner table, a man with thick mutton-chop whiskers.

Rosella thought he must have been very handsome once, as he had strong aristocratic features. But now his hair was streaked with grey and his cheeks were lined and heavy, giving him a bad-tempered expression.

‘This must be ‘his Lordship’,’ Rosella thought, as the man raised a hand in acknowledgement of those who were toasting him.

Then a waiter brought him a large platter of meat and vegetables and the irritable-looking Lord bent his head over it and began to shovel the food into this mouth.

With relief Rosella heard the coachman calling her name from the yard outside. The horses were harnessed up and the coach was ready for her to depart.

“Well, my Lady, there’ll be some surprised faces back at New Hall when they ’ear our news,” the coachman said, as he gave her his arm to help her up into the coach.

Rosella did not take notice of what he was saying. She only wanted to return home and retire to the peaceful sanctuary of her bedroom.

As the carriage swayed along the graceful country lanes, Rosella lay back on the cushions, closed her eyes and tried to picture again the masked woman in the pink dress and the mysterious stranger who had approached her from the shadows of the vast ballroom.

Who was he?

She had only caught the very merest glimpse of him when she had the strange vision in the shop, but if she kept trying, she might just be able to remember his face.

“Lady Rosella!”

The coach had come to a halt and someone was opening the door.

Rosella blinked and saw Mrs. Dawkins gazing at her anxiously.

The housekeeper’s face was now flushed and her normally immaculate white cap was slipping sideways as if it had been caught in a high wind.

“Are you feeling quite all right, your ladyship?” she asked. “I can’t believe that you have drifted off to sleep! Why, the coachman has only just told me who has come to town and who will be here at New Hall very shortly.”

“What? I don’t – ” Rosella stammered.

“
Lord Brockley
!” Mrs. Dawkins exclaimed. “He’s here! He’s come to Hampshire without letting us know. And the coachman says he’s taking his luncheon at the inn and he’ll be here for tea! How we shall get everything ready for him in time, I really don’t know.”

Rosella’s heart seemed to turn right over.

“Did you see him?” Mrs. Dawkins asked, her hand on Rosella’s arm. “What was he like?”

“I just couldn’t say,” Rosella replied, picturing the man with the mutton-chop whiskers wolfing down his plate of food at the inn. “I think I saw him, and – he seemed a distinguished-looking man, but I did not speak to him.”

“Distinguished-looking. Oh, my!” Mrs. Dawkins’ eyes were bright with excitement. “I must get back to the laundry and make sure that the maids have ironed enough sheets. The coachman says that his Lordship has brought a gentleman with him from London for company.”

Rosella’s heart felt a sudden chill.

Not only would there be a new Master at New Hall – and one who did not look like a kind and pleasant man, but the other gentleman, who had so rudely shouted at her in the bar of the inn, would be coming with him.

Her despondency must have showed on her face, as Mrs. Dawkins apologised for asking so many questions.

“Your Ladyship, I am being quite out of order,” she said, straightening her cap. “You must be hungry after your trip into town. I will order luncheon for you directly.”

“Please don’t bother, Mrs. Dawkins. It’s such a hot day and I really am not hungry at all. I shall go up to my room and lie down for a little.”

“And be sure to put on one of your prettiest gowns for tea,” the housekeeper added, as she hurried away to the laundry.

There was no one but Pickle, who was sitting in his cage in the drawing room, to hear how unhappy Rosella was feeling and he was just settling down on his perch for his afternoon nap, tucking his head under his grey wing.

She left him to doze in peace and ran up the stairs to her bedroom.

She tossed her parasol onto the bed and was just about to take her shoes off to lie down, when one of the pictures on her bedroom wall caught her eye.

It was a portrait of a young man, not much more than a boy, wearing a cloth wrapped around his head like a turban and a blue jacket and trousers sewn all over with little jewels.

This portrait had been in Rosella’s family for many years. It had been given to her Papa by her grandfather.

She had asked many times who the young man was, but no one could tell her. Aunt Beatrice had thought that Grandpapa might have brought the painting back from one of his travels in Italy, but that was all she knew about it.

Rosella liked the portrait so much that she had been allowed to keep it in her bedroom.

Even as a little child she had loved the way that the young man was smiling broadly and how he seemed to be beckoning with his hand, as if inviting her to step inside the picture and join him.

But this time, as she looked at him, her heart was racing with excitement.

For, just behind the young man’s head, she could see the painted outline of a huge chandelier – just like the one she had seen in her vision.

And now, as she jumped up to look more closely, she realised that the young man in the turban was standing in the very same ballroom where she had seen the beautiful woman in the pink dress!

“Oh, goodness! How strange all this is!” she cried, gazing at his face. “If only you could talk to me. Who are you? And where are you?”

His smiling lips looked as if they were about to open and speak to her. But, of course, he was just a picture and, although she waited a while, he could tell her nothing.

Rosella turned away and went to lie down.

*

The smells wafting from the slow-moving waters of the River Thames and drifting between the high walls of the nearby warehouses were strong and unpleasant on this very hot afternoon and Lord Lyndon Brockley entered the narrow doorway of the pawnshop with some relief.

“Yes, sir?” the bent old man behind the counter looked up at him with interest.

Lyndon gazed at the racks of coats and cloaks that hung behind the old man and at the glass case full of gold chains and brooches and shiny pocket watches.

He had never been inside a pawnshop before and he had just thought it might be a useful place for him to pick up a change of clothes – a disguise – so that if he bumped into anyone he knew, they would not recognise him.

He had not really thought of all the people who had fallen on hard times and who had come here to pawn not just their valuables but even their clothes for a little cash.

How many of these people, he thought, would ever be able to come back and claim their possessions?

There was a sad smell of poverty and unwashed shirts lingering in the shop and he turned to leave.

“Hold on, sir,” the old man called out. “What is it you need? All sorts come here for our help.”

Lyndon shook his head.

“Nothing, really. I made a mistake.”

The shop door rattled and a thin young girl came in, her arms piled high with a mass of black garments.

Lyndon stood back to let her pass and she went up to the counter and dumped the clothes on it.

“There!” she said. “What’ll you give me for ’em?”

Lyndon noticed that the garments, coats and jackets and trousers of black wool looked old but well made.

The old man shook his head.

“Where did all these come from?”

“The Mistress gave me them.”

“A fine story,” the old man retorted. “Next thing I know, I’ll have the Constable here going through my stuff and doing me for handling stolen goods. Be off with you!”

“But – ” the girl’s grey eyes filled with tears.

“Out!”

The old man then shoved the pile of clothes off the counter, pushing them at the girl so that she staggered and almost fell.

Lyndon caught the girl’s arm to steady her and then followed as she stumbled out onto the street.

“Are you all right?” he asked her, as she seemed so upset.

“The Master died last night, bless ’im, poor old thing,” she sighed and gave a little sob. “And the Mistress said I should take ’is clothes, as she don’t want ’em in the ’ouse no more.”

Lyndon noticed that the girl was wearing a white parlourmaid’s apron and cap.

“Who is – was – your Master?” he asked her.

“Signore Goldoni!” she replied and a large tear slid down her thin cheek. “The best violin player you’ve ever ’eard, till he got poorly and took to ’is bed.”

She must be telling the truth, Lyndon thought.

“Don’t you have a family that you could give them to?” he asked her. “Your Papa or a brother perhaps might like them?”

She gave a squeak of laughter through her tears.

“What for? These are gentlemen’s things. Look at this great black cloak. I can’t see me Pa wearin’ that when ’e goes to the docks to look for work. And me brothers are just little ’uns still. No we need the money, mister. Ma’s just got a new baby and Pa’s bin laid up with a bad back. They must be worth a bit.”

Lyndon took the black cloak from the top of the pile and held it up. It was very long and fastened at the neck with a loop of thick gold chain.

No one would recognise him if he wore something like this.

“Did the Signore wear a hat by any chance?” he asked.

The girl nodded.

“It’s ’ere, somewhere,” she said. “A great big old floppy thing!”

Lyndon then reached into his pocket and took out a handful of coins.

“Here,” he said. “I’ll take the things. Please give my best regards to your family – and my condolences to the Signora Goldoni!”

The girl’s mouth fell open with astonishment.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you, sir,” she cried.

She gave a little curtsy, clutching the money to her heart and her face was so full of delight that Lyndon had no doubt that she was telling the truth about the clothes.

As she hurried away up the narrow street, he looked around at the towering warehouses for a deserted doorway where he might hide and effect his transformation.

There was no time to be lost.

“
Hello, hello! What shall we have for tea?
” Pickle was squawking, sounding uncannily like Aunt Beatrice.

Rosella smiled and pushed her finger through the bars of his cage so that he could nibble on it with his beak.

The parrot was usually allowed out of his cage at teatime to fly around the drawing room and play hide-and-seek amongst the curtains.

But that did not seem such a good idea today with Lord Brockley and his companion about to arrive. Pickle was nervous with strangers until he became used to them.

It would not be a good introduction to his new Master if he flew up onto the top of the pelmet and would not come down.

“They are very late,” Mrs. Dawkins said, standing by the cake stand that she had set down on a small table. “Something must have happened to delay his Lordship.”

Next to the cake stand stood a large plate of thin cucumber sandwiches, from which Mrs. Dawkins herself had carefully cut the crusts and they were beginning to curl up in the heat of the afternoon.

Rosella looked at the gold clock on the mantelpiece and saw that it was almost half-past five.

The housekeeper twisted her hands nervously.

“What do you suppose has happened to them?” she moaned. “I do hope that nothing is wrong.”

“I am sure his Lordship will be here very soon,” Rosella replied encouragingly.

What had happened, she was quite sure, was that someone at the inn had bought another round of beer for everybody and then someone else had done the same thing and this had detained Lord Brockley.

Pickle suddenly shook himself and sneezed loudly,

“
Bless you, my dear
!” he called out.

Rosella laughed at him, then she noticed that he had his head on one side as if he was listening to something.

His hearing was particularly good, often very much sharper than Rosella’s and after a moment, she realised that he had now picked up the clatter of hooves in the distance.