3 Great Historical Novels (12 page)

Rhia closed her drawing book and ran her hand over its red cloth cover. It contained designs and sketches of ideas. Now, the ‘letters’ to Mamo were interspersed with drawings of ivy on stonework and winter roses. It felt odd writing at first, but now it seemed the most natural thing in the world. She even wondered if Mamo had always intended that this was how the pretty pen with its shining knot-work would be used.

There was a light rap on the door and Antonia appeared carrying a breakfast tray.

‘You are dressed already,’ she said, surprised.

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Nor I. Laurence left an hour ago for China Wharf. Isaac has offered to collect us in his carriage. I thought I’d make sure you had time to dress, but I can see that I needn’t have worried.’ She took the tray to the table and stopped still when she saw Rhia’s painting.

‘Is this your work?’

Rhia nodded.

‘But, this is
accomplished
! I had no idea. I am quite astonished. So delicate. Such inventiveness. You have an eye, my dear.’

Rhia was pleased to be praised by someone like Antonia, who clearly had an eye herself. She joined her at the table and squinted to assess the worth of what she had painted. The leaves
were in different shades of blue, more like spiralling arabesques that whorled across the page like candle flames in a draught.

Antonia was leaning over the table, examining the design more carefully. ‘Extraordinary that one colour can have so many moods.’

Rhia nodded in agreement. ‘I once bothered a dyer until he would name every blue in his workshop, probably in the hope that I would go away.’ She pointed out different jars in her box. ‘This is pearl blue and that one mazarine and that is ultramarine. The names were given to different shades of Indian indigo by the dyers of the last century. Before that there was only woad.’

Antonia was listening intently. ‘Wasn’t that what the Irish painted themselves with before going into battle?’

‘It was. To frighten off the Romans. Perhaps we should try it on the English …’ Rhia trailed off, remembering that she was talking to an Englishwoman, but Antonia was smiling.

‘You are well-read,’ was all she said, and she didn’t seem displeased.

‘Too much so, according to my father. When he is angry he says that no man will have me. And I
have
made him angry rather a lot.’

‘Some men are at loss to know what to do with a woman who can think for herself. They cannot help it. They are bred to believe that they are our intellectual superiors, and to be proven otherwise would topple their world from its perch. But topple it we must! I hope that you will never consider marrying a man who does not want you to think for yourself.’ Antonia was quiet for a moment, looking at the blue arabesques. ‘Do you have others?’ Rhia nodded and unearthed her binder. She had been unable to bring herself to leave behind all her paintings, they were like a journal; each one reminding her of the
day it had been created. Antonia examined design after design, exclaiming over knot-work roots, brightly coloured vines and twirling ribbons of lilies. She said she loved them all, so Rhia showed her the chintz from Thomas. Antonia seemed quite in awe as she trailed a finger along the golden feather of a bird, and then a bough laden with jewels of fruit.

‘How wonderful,’ she breathed finally. ‘My dear, this is a treasure. You must never part with it!’

They ate a little bread, though neither had the stomach for it, and then waited in the entrance hall until they heard bridles clinking outside.

Rhia was intrigued by Isaac Fisher immediately she stepped into the carriage. He wore a flat-brimmed hat and the white neck tie that made Quaker gentlemen resemble clergymen. He was large, though not corpulent, and the shoulder length hair beneath his hat was greying brown. His gaze was distant, but his handshake firm. He only spoke to ask where Laurence was, and after Mrs Blake explained that he had left early to supervise the casket bearers, they rode across London Bridge in silence.

In the small, overgrown churchyard of St Andrews, there were perhaps a dozen gentlemen in black hats and coats, but Rhia recognised only Mr Dillon. He stood a short distance from those gathered at the grave. She suspected his presence was more than a mark of respect for a man he had barely known. Did he expected to find some clue here, amongst her uncle’s mourners, or did he already know why Ryan had taken his own life? He caught her eye and bowed deferentially.

The casket bearers arrived and discharged their sombre duty impeccably. Rhia was glad that she had decided not to be present when Ryan’s body was nailed shut into his coffin. It was kind of Laurence to offer to oversee the formalities, particularly as he seemed a little nervous about doing so.
Rhia would only have feared for her uncle’s comfort and the lack of air within the casket. It was foolish but she could not help it.

Laurence was at the front of the queue of bearers, his hand resting beneath the front of Ryan’s coffin as gently as if he were carrying a precious object. The priest seemed vaguely inattentive and kept trailing off as though he had forgotten where he was or what he was doing. The service was brief. Before the casket was lowered into the earth, Rhia stepped forward and draped her crêpe tabard over it. As the dirt was shovelled carelessly into the grave, Laurence came to stand by her side. They watched until only a corner of ribbon was poking through the brown dirt. It was the green velvet ribbon disappearing into the gaping earth that was Rhia’s undoing. The irrevocability of it. Her knees suddenly felt like aspic. Antonia rested a hand beneath her elbow, and each held the other up a little straighter than they could have managed alone.

The mourners stirred when the last clods of earth were in place, and two men approached. The taller had the self-assured air of a successful gentleman and looked aristocratic. His companion was slight and a little stooped, and more modestly attired. Rhia took him to be a clerk.

‘Good morning, Mrs Blake,’ said the tall gentleman. ‘And this must be Miss Mahoney?’

Rhia saw Antonia’s hand flutter to her hair before it was corrected. Who was this man who made the Quaker self-conscious? Antonia composed herself quickly and smiled her gracious smile.

‘Yes, this is Miss Mahoney, Ryan’s niece, and this is my husband’s cousin, Mr Blake.’ Antonia introduced the gentleman as Mr Montgomery, a mercer of Regent Street, and his associate as Mr Beckwith. Rhia had not heard Antonia Blake
use formal titles before. Was she doing this for Mr Montgomery’s benefit? And if so, what of her Quakerly values? Rhia extended her hand, which Mr Montgomery took. His clear hazel eyes met hers for only a moment, but she felt a small thrill at their intensity. It must be useful, as a mercer, to have such an effect on women – his clientele being largely female. He turned to Laurence.

‘Ah, Mr Blake, I heard you had moved to London. Your reputation precedes you. I understand you are making great advances in the photogenic field.’

‘Indeed I am,’ said Laurence. ‘If you would like a portrait or a personalised calling card, I am at your disposal.’ Even Laurence seemed a little in awe of the man.

‘But Mrs Blake has already taken my portrait! Or rather, she took a group portrait in her garden in the spring.’ Mr Montgomery turned his handsome face back to Antonia. He was in the region of fifty and had an abundance of pewter hair and a toffee-cream complexion. The corners of his eyes were crinkled to suggest he often smiled. Mr Beckwith barely raised his eyes. He was either painfully shy or overcome by emotion. Perhaps he had been fond of Ryan.

‘I have done nothing with the negative yet,’ said Mrs Blake eventually, softly. ‘It is not transferred.’ It was clear that she did not want to talk about the portrait, which made Rhia even more interested in it.

‘My deepest commiseration for your loss, Miss Mahoney,’ said Mr Montgomery. ‘Your uncle was very well liked. He will be missed. Sadly, Mr Beckwith and I have a pressing engagement elsewhere and cannot attend Cloak Lane, but I would very much like to make your acquaintance. I know it is abominably short notice, but you must, all three, agree to be my guests this Saturday for supper.’

‘That is gracious,’ said Antonia. She looked at Rhia, flushing. Laurence was clearly pleased, so Rhia nodded.

‘Splendid! Shall we say eight o’clock?’ Mr Montgomery strode away through the churchyard with Mr Beckwith hurrying behind him. He looked rather magnificent, with his polished leather top hat and black mourning coat. It must be English broadcloth. The quality, Rhia had to admit, was superior even to that woven in Wicklow. His patent boots and the silver tip of his walking stick flashed in the sun, affirming that he was a man who had money and who liked to spend it. There was something reassuring about this.

The vision of the ribbon in the brown earth would not leave Rhia as they returned to Isaac’s carriage. It was a symbol of renewal, she decided, and of hope. If today were a cloth, it could only be green velvet.

At Cloak Lane, Beth and Juliette wore starched white aprons and caps, they curtsied and took top coats and hats and showed guests down the hall.

The fire was lit in the drawing room, at the centre of the house. Rhia had not yet seen this room in use. Like any drawing room, it was a statement of the prosperity of the household, but it seemed out of place in the Blake household. The carpet was deep rose and the curtains heavily patterned damask. The furnishings were teak and mahogany upholstered in red velvet, and the walls were papered in dark green. The room was conventional and did not have Mrs Blake’s lightness of touch. Rhia felt, instinctively, that this room had been Josiah’s and that it had not been used since he died.

Several gentlemen, whose names Rhia immediately forgot, approached her and offered sympathy and condolences and murmured a few kind words about Ryan. They drifted off to
converse quietly in huddles by the fire, on the ottoman or by the windows.

Antonia brought her tea in a cup and saucer of pink china, so fine that it might have been made from a sea shell. Neither of them spoke for a time. Rhia was puzzling over the drawing room and Quakerism. For all of the simplicity of their faith, the Blakes unashamedly embraced the accessories of wealth.

‘You must be thinking about Ryan,’ Antonia coaxed.

Rhia almost felt guilty that she was not. ‘No. Is it true that Lloyds and Barclays are Quaker banks?’

Antonia looked puzzled. ‘Yes.’ She nodded slowly. ‘But affluence can be a consequence of ethical trade as much as large-scale production. The real error is in being without charity, which is, after all, what God intended for us.’

‘How can you know what God intended? He has not been in direct conversation with anyone for almost two thousand years!’

Antonia had the good grace to smile before she said she must fetch more of Beth’s barberry tarts and ginger loaf cake. Rhia suddenly longed to be like her; to believe in something wholly and unquestioningly; to follow a creed that made sense of life and death, instead of hovering between the worlds of the living and the dead. On the other hand, wearing grey and brown for the rest of one’s life seemed a high price to pay for unwavering faith.

Laurence and Dillon appeared and were, for a time, deep in conversation with Isaac Fisher. When Antonia went to the kitchen, Dillon approached Rhia. He was dressed respectfully in black, but his boots were as narrow and pointed as ever.

‘May I speak with you for a moment, Miss Mahoney?’

‘Of course.’ She wished he wouldn’t, as her tone probably implied. She was tired. She caught Laurence watching from the
other side of the room, frowning, though he smiled quickly when their eyes met. She felt unsure of herself and wished someone would bring out a fiddle or tell a joke about Ryan. She could not help admiring Mr Dillon’s apparent disregard for social graces.

‘It is remarkable that your arrival in London should co incide with your uncle’s death,’ he began, and she braced herself. ‘Is it possible that the circumstances which brought you here were connected to his … situation?’

Rhia felt a surge of anger which seemed to fortify her. ‘If you think my arrival in London somehow contributed to my uncle’s—’ She didn’t manage to finish before Mr Dillon interjected.

‘That is not what I said. I only wondered if you could tell me more about the circumstances that brought you here.’

Rhia bit her lip and felt foolish. ‘If you must know, my family’s business in Dublin collapsed and I have come to London to find a position as a governess.’

‘A
governess?
’

It was evident that he did not think her suited to the profession. Perhaps he thought her too shallow or not cultivated enough? She clenched her teeth. ‘Yes, a
governess
.’

‘I see.’

She thought she saw the shadow of a smile and that did it. ‘I have some questions of my own. Please tell me what your business was with my uncle and why you are so interested in his affairs?’

‘It is a fair question,’ he agreed. ‘I only wish I could be of more assistance to you. As to your uncle’s estate, by law, the property of someone who commits self-murder should immediately be seized by the Crown. The gentlemen from Scotland Yard who visited China Wharf have now issued a report to the
coroner. There is, however, a period in which the circumstances of death can be attested.’ He had neatly side-stepped her question.

‘What is there to attest?’

‘That is what I intend to discover. Perhaps your uncle felt he had no choice but to take his own life. Meanwhile neither you nor your family will be allowed access to the will or any of your uncle’s assets and neither will his lawyer be permitted to release documentation of his legal holdings.’

‘I had not given such things any thought.’

Mr Dillon looked surprised. Did he not believe her?

‘There is one other matter,’ he said. ‘I think Mr Blake has told you that we failed to find the letter. I blame myself, in part, for having to ask you this, but please cast your mind back to last week when we went to your uncle’s rooms. I should have told you at the time not to touch or move anything. Was there
anything
, Miss Mahoney, that you noticed; that seemed out of the ordinary or out of character?’