100. A Rose In Jeopardy (8 page)

“I’m almost up, Carlton. I was just admiring the wonderful view of the gardens.”

Lord Brockley came to join him at the window.

“Ah! I might have guessed,” he said.

And, as he too looked down on Rosella, making her way through the Rose Garden, a thoughtful expression came over his face.

“Thomas – wait,” Rosella called out, as she saw the gardener’s boy hurrying down the drive through the misty summer rain.

“My Lady?”

Thomas stopped in his tracks and turned to face her, raindrops clinging to his thatch of fair hair.

“I have not seen you for so long,” Rosella said. “Is everything all right with you?”

Thomas hesitated a moment before he replied,

“Yes, it is, my Lady.”

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“I am going to the bookmakers to place a bet for his Lordship.”

“But surely that is not your job, Thomas.”

Thomas looked uncomfortable.

“Well, my Lady. Things ’ave changed ’ere. I don’t spend so much time in the garden. I have other duties. The gentlemen are always findin’ things for me to do.”

Rosella sighed.

That would explain why there were so many weeds pushing up through the path that wound through the Rose Garden and why dead heads still clung to the bushes.

“My Lady, you should not be out in this weather, you’ll get soaked,” Thomas remarked.

Rosella could feel cold water leaking through the sole of her right shoe and big drops were sliding from the edge of her umbrella and splashing onto the grass.

“You are right, Thomas. I suppose I had better go in and you must go on your errand.”

She watched him walk away down the drive and wondered why Lord Brockley had not thought to order the pony and trap for Thomas, for it was several miles into Winchester.

Or why, indeed, he had not sent his friend Mr. Merriman to run the errand.

Mr. Algernon Merriman, who, at this very moment, was lounging languidly on the sofa in the drawing room, doing absolutely nothing except to recover from too many helpings of roast beef and gooseberry pie at luncheon.

She had seen him there every afternoon for the last week, sipping brandy – ‘for my digestion’ as he liked to say and reading the newspaper.

If Rosella was there, he would ask her to read to him. She had never known a man so lazy – or so greedy.

Even Lord Brockley seemed somewhat impatient and exasperated with the slothfulness of his companion.

But in truth, Rosella reckoned, she preferred Mr. Merriman like this.

For sometimes, when he saw her, he would rouse himself and become full of energy and enthusiasm, which was very unpleasant.

This was the reason that Rosella was out in the Park now despite the rain, as she simply could not bear to be in the same room as Algernon.

Over the last week he had followed her everywhere, calling her endlessly ‘my little angel’ and constantly trying to kiss her hand.

She shivered at the memory of his plump fingers against hers and then the wind shook the tree above her and icy drops slid down her umbrella, soaking her dress.

The rain was falling more heavily now and Rosella was getting very cold from standing around so long in it.

Perhaps if she was very quiet, she might be able to creep into New Hall by the back door and escape to her bedroom without anyone noticing her.

At first her plan seemed to be working. Rosella slipped through the back door and was just about to go up the narrow back staircase, which was usually only used by the servants, when Mrs. Dawkins came out of the kitchen.

“My Lady!” she called. “Thank goodness. You’re wanted in the study.”

Rosella’s heart sank. The study! So Lord Brockley wishes to speak to her.

What could he possibly have to say? She had kept out of his way all week and, although she had caught him watching her sometimes with his hooded eyes, he had not made any further remarks to her about her fortune or the necessity of her finding a husband.

She had kept Pickle out of earshot in her bedroom and she had been quiet and respectful at table, despite the rude and unpleasant behaviour of him and his companion.

Every evening after dinner she and Mrs. Dawkins had helped the drunk and helpless Algernon safely to his bedroom door.

Surely there could be nothing for Lord Brockley to criticise in her behaviour.

“Does he look – angry, Mrs. Dawkins?” she asked.

“For once, he seems quite cheerful,” Mrs. Dawkins replied with a little sigh.

Several new lines had suddenly appeared on the housekeeper’s face, giving her an anxious tired appearance.

“But you must not keep him waiting any longer – I have been looking for you for ages.”

Rosella handed Mrs. Dawkins her wet umbrella and made her way to the study.

“Come in!” Lord Brockley’s deep voice growled, as she tapped on the door.

She stepped inside, her heart beating fast and stood on the carpet in front of him.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she began, her voice a little shaky, as it always was when she had to speak to him.

“I am very pleased,” he said, after a long pause, “to have found a solution to two difficulties which have been bothering me this last week.”

His hooded eyes gleamed at her through the fog of cigar smoke that always surrounded him.

“I am sorry, sir. I don’t understand,” Rosella said, holding herself as straight as she could, as her knees felt very weak.

“
You
are one of my difficulties, Rosella. You have no fortune. No place to go. And – if you stay here in this house, an unmarried girl of good family, there will be talk – scandal even.”

Rosella’s skin prickled with unease.

Lord Brockley was still talking,

“I don’t much care what people think, but I could do without the fuss and bother of it all.”

“I would not dream of causing any – trouble – ” she stammered.

“I should hope not,” Lord Brockley replied. “I have been watching you. You are a good girl. You rise early, you don’t over-indulge at table and you do everything you are asked to do, you are happy to be seen and not heard.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But you are still a problem for me. I am plagued with so much indolence, intemperance and unpunctuality. Unecessary irritations preventing me from enjoying myself while I am here at New Hall. I think you could help me to stop all this. Would you do that, Rosella?”

“Of course, sir,” Rosella replied, although she was not at all sure what he meant.

“Excellent.” he smiled benignly. “Then surely your own good qualities of industry, restraint and punctuality will cure these irritations. Is that not common sense?”

“I – suppose so, sir.”

“You would like to stay here at New Hall, would you not?”

“Oh, yes!” Rosella’s heart gave a great leap of joy.

“Of course you would.”

Lord Brockley stood up and pulled the tasselled cord that hung by the fireplace.

A young parlourmaid came to the door.

“Tell Mr. Merriman I want him,” he said, “you will find him, no doubt, half asleep in the drawing room.”

The parlourmaid bobbed a curtsy and hurried off.

“May I go now, sir?” Rosella asked.

“No! You may not leave. I don’t think you have understood. If my solution to the problem is to be carried out, it is absolutely necessary that you stay.”

Lord Brockley gave short bark of laughter and went to the door.

“Ah – Merriman!” he greeted his friend, who was just about to come in. “She has agreed. I shall leave you to it!”

And with that Lord Brockley left the study.

*

It was getting dark and the wharf was quiet now – the sailors were either resting on board or enjoying a night off in one of the many inns and taverns around the docks.

Lyndon walked slowly along by the river, keeping to the shadows.

He did not want anyone from
La Maschera
to recognise him. But the beautiful ship was silent and no lights shone, just one lantern at the masthead.

He gazed up at the figurehead, the lovely carved woman with the jewelled mask over her eyes.

In the twilight she looked even more mysterious than before, as the rays from the ship’s lantern cast alluring shadows over her face and glinted on the mask.

Who was she? Someone real or a character from a story?

Lyndon closed his eyes and pictured row upon row of old buildings, their painted and gilded shutters reflected in the dark waters of the canals that flowed beneath them.

The Palazzos of Venice – he had seen so many paintings of them and now he longed to see them for real and see too the famous masked balls he had read about.

Maybe in Venice there were a great many beautiful masked women just like the voluptuous figurehead.

He could dance with these masked beauties, hold them in his arms, perhaps even kiss one of them and he would never have to know who they were and never have to give them his heart, as he had done to Marian.

He had felt afraid at first of the strange magnetism that seemed to be drawing him to the City that rose like a mirage out of the Venetian lagoon.

But tonight he felt braver. Why should he not give in to this mysterious attraction?

He left the silent
La Maschera
and headed back to the crowded bar of the inn where he was staying.

The sailors who came regularly to drink rum at the inn had grown used to the frequent comings-and-goings of the mysterious black-cloaked man and they shouted out to him to come and join them.

“Don’t be a stranger!” one man yelled. “Sit down, take the weight of your feet. I’ll stand you a pint of ale.”

Lyndon squeezed himself onto the wooden bench next to the man.

The ale, when it arrived, was dark in colour and tasted very strong, but he found that he quite liked it.

And it felt very good to be in the company of these friendly sailors, who seemed to want nothing from him but that he should enjoy himself.

He had drunk two pints of the ale and was feeling rather merry, when the brawny man leaned over and said,

“You’re a good fellow, sir, there’s no doubt. But you’re a man of mystery! What brings you here and why do you stay among us? What is your business?”

Lyndon felt suddenly reckless.

“I am seeking a passage to Venice,” he replied.

“Ah,” the man sighed. “Venice! The most beautiful City I ever saw.”

Another sailor, a thin man sporting a gold earring, leaned across the table.

“We’re bound for Venice. We sail on the evening tide in three days’ time,” he declared in a Scottish accent.

Lyndon fumbled in one of the pockets of his cloak and pulled out a couple of the gold coins the Contessa had given him.

“Here,” he said. “I’ll come with you, if I may!”

The thin sailor’s eyes widened as he saw the gold and he scooped up the coins at once.

The brawny man laughed.

“Good job your cloak is black, sir. For it be coal they be a-carryin’!”

Now Lyndon saw that there were smears of black dust on the face of the sailor with the gold earring, but he did not mind having to share the voyage with such a cargo.

Now he had made the decision, his heart felt light and his veins sang with anticipation.

“It be
The Grace Darling
,” the brawny man said. “You’ll find her down at the end of the wharf.”

He turned to the other man.

“Now, Jock! Don’t you go runnin’ off with that gold! Mind you go and tell the Captain you’ll be carryin’ a passenger. And that he’s paid you a more than fair price for the voyage.”

The sailor grinned and reached across the table and shook Lyndon’s hand.

“Come by
The Grace Darling
tomorrow and speak to the Captain yourself,” he suggested. “He’ll be right glad to take you.”

And Lyndon, his head swimming with ale and with the cloudy vision of Venice rising up out of the water, got up from the table and stumbled up the stairs to his room.

He did not know how he was going to get through the next three days, as he simply could not wait to be on his way.

*

Algernon Merriman had put on weight in the last week, Rosella thought, as the buttons on his waistcoat were straining to burst open.

But he seemed rather more sprightly than usual, as he paced up and down, rubbing his plump hands together.

“Well, well, my little angel,” he called, his small eyes gleaming. “This is a very happy day!”

“Good afternoon, sir,” Rosella said politely. “I am glad you are feeling so cheerful.”

For a moment she wondered if he had won some money at cards or had placed a lucky bet.

Algernon nodded eagerly.

“Oh yes. I have seldom felt more joyful than I did just now, when his Lordship told me that you would be agreeable to his plan!”

“Of course I must always respect his Lordship’s wishes,” Rosella replied slowly. “But – ”

“Then you might look just a little more pleased,” he exclaimed. “It’s not every day a girl like yourself with no prospects and such a shy violet as you are too gets a chance like this!”

He seized Rosella’s hand in his, pushing his face up close to hers.

She looked down to avoid his eyes that were gazing at her in a way that made her feel really uncomfortable and noticed there was egg stain on his bulging silk waistcoat.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” she said, trying to free her hand.

“You are going to be my wife, young lady! His Lordship’s suggestion and one which – I must say – I find utterly delightful!”

He crushed her hand against his lips and called her his little angel several times in a breathless passionate tone that made Rosella’s skin crawl.

“But I could not – ”

She tried once again to escape from him.

“Ah, ha!” Algernon rolled his eyes upwards. “You divine little thing. You are so modest, so exquisitely shy, that you make me want you more than any other girl I’ve ever seen.”

She managed at last to snatch her hand out of his.

“I do
not
wish to marry you,” she asserted. “I did not understand what Lord Brockley meant – I could never marry you!”

Algernon pursed his lips and shook his head at her in a childish teasing manner.