Gather Ye Rosebuds (16 page)

“Miss Barron,” Weylin said, with a curt, graceless bow. His eyes moved to Borsini, taking in his paint-smeared hands, his jacketless body, his smiling face, and condemning the whole without uttering a word.

“Allow me to present Count Borsini, my art teacher,” I said. “Count Borsini, this is my neighbor, Lord Weylin.”

Borsini performed a flourishing bow, then stuck out his hand, as Weylin had extended his.
“Scusi,”
Borsini said, noticing the paint on his fingers. My own were daubed as well.

“We need turpentine,” I said, and escaped to fetch it and a clean rag, while Brodagan helped Borsini on with his jacket.

“Doing a little redecorating, Miss Barron?” Weylin asked, while we wiped away the paint.

“This will be my studio,” I explained. “Count Borsini was kind enough to help me choose the color.”

“One would obviously require assistance for such a demanding task,” he said, with a satirical glint in his eyes.

“Yes, I am happy I consulted him, for the painters were using a horrid, cold white. It takes the artist’s touch.”

We all went belowstairs for tea. I was happy to see Borsini controlled his passion for Latin tricks. He did not sprinkle his conversation with Italian phrases, or call Weylin
signor,
or whatever the Italian word for milord might be. I had noticed before that these Latin airs were confined to ladies. When he conversed with Barry, for instance, he spoke only English, with a light accent.

Of course, I was on nettles to hear what Weylin had to say about London and Mr. Jones, but that conversation must wait until Borsini had left. He stuck like a barnacle. I think he sensed a potential client in Weylin, and was at pains to charm him. He spoke of the medieval architecture of Parham, and inquired minutely into its history. Strangely, Weylin seemed equally interested in the artist, while paying only a polite minimum of attention to myself.

“As you are an artist, you might be interested in the Van Dycks at Parham, Count,” he said. “Van Dyck painted a few of my ancestors in the last century.”

Borsini opened his mouth to correct that erroneous date. Of course, he knew perfectly well Van Dyck had painted in the seventeenth century, but he was too polite to reveal Weylin as an ignoramus. “That would be charming, milord. Do you have any Italian paintings? They, of course, are of interest to me. My papa has some wonderful Titians. The loggia at Villa Borsini has a mural ascribed to Raphael.”

Weylin smiled like a cat. He thought he was proving Borsini a fake. “I believe I can show you a few Renaissance pictures worth the trip,” he said. “Your papa’s villa, Count—just where is it, exactly?”

“In Tuscany,” Borsini said. “We have vast vineyards in Tuscany.” He did not say a word about the palazzo in Venice.

I was sure that villa in Tuscany had begun life as a palazzo in Venice. I had mentioned at the time my surprise to hear there were vineyards in that watery spot.

“I do not recall ever seeing a Borsini wine,” Weylin said, looking innocent.

“The English prefer claret, or sherry.” Borsini smiled forgivingly. “My papa sent me several cases of his excellent Chianti, if you are interested to try it, Lord Weylin.”

“I should like that very much. Is your schedule quite full at the moment, Count, or would it be possible for you to execute a small commission for me?”

Borsini smiled in delight. “I can always make time for such patrons as yourself, milord. Is it a portrait of yourself, or some member of your family, you wish for?”

“Actually, it is my mama’s pug dog,” Weylin said. “Mama’s birthday is not far off, and I require a present for her.”

“Count Borsini does not paint dogs!” I said angrily.

Borsini just gave a tight little smile. “Lord Weylin wishes to see an example of my skill, before committing himself to a portrait. Am I right, milord?” Weylin did not deny it. “It is not necessary to waste time painting a dog. Come to my studio in Aldershot.”

“Why did you set up shop in Aldershot, when your noble connections would assure you plentiful patrons in London?” Weylin asked. His suspicious tone cast aspersions on Borsini’s claim to a title.

“My preferred customers nowadays are trees, milord, which are plentiful in this delightful neighborhood.”

“Surely trees do not commission portraits?”

“When I need money, I shake the family trees,” Borsini said, smiling tenaciously throughout this rude catechism. “I have no trouble finding customers for my landscapes as well.”

“I shall call at your studio tomorrow,” Weylin said.

“That will be satisfactory. I am at liberty between two and five.”

“Let us say four-thirty,” Weylin said. I looked to Borsini, hoping he had got what he wanted, and would now leave us. I was out-of-reason cross when it was Weylin who rose and said he must be leaving.

“Oh, do stay, Weylin!” I said. “Have another cup of tea.”

“Another time, Miss Barron.” Then he turned to Borsini. “Are you free now, Count? Are you quite happy with the color of Miss Barron’s studio? Perhaps you would like to see the Van Dycks—and the Titians—while you are in the neighborhood. I shall tell my groom to take you back to Aldershot. No need for Miss Barron to have her team harnessed up.”

“Borsini has his own carriage,” I said.

Borsini looked surprised at Weylin’s eagerness, but he did not object. “We have not settled when I shall come for your lesson, Miss Barron,” he said. “Shall we say the day after tomorrow, if the weather is fine? You will want to give your studio time to dry, and be aired out before using it.”

“You may come tomorrow. I should prefer to paint outdoors, if the weather is good.” The studio required a chaperon. I had not yet confirmed when Mrs. Chawton wished to begin her lessons, and in any case, I wanted to get Borsini alone to discover what happened at Parham, and at his studio with Weylin. I felt in my bones that Weylin was only making sport of the man. I had not expected this petty streak in him.

I sent off for the gentlemen’s carriages, with a little twinge of embarrassment that Borsini’s vehicle was so humble. It looked like a toy beside Weylin’s crested traveling coach and team of four. When I saw what Weylin was driving, I realized he had not been to Parham yet. He had stopped here even before going home. That suggested some urgency, yet he was leaving without saying a word about Mr. Jones.

Brodagan was once more on duty at the door. While she carried on her
à
suivie
flirtation with Borsini, Weylin said, “Where is Steptoe? Have you dismissed him?”

“No, I waited to hear from you first. We must talk. When can you come back?”

“I am flattered at your eagerness, Zoie,” he said, chewing back a mischievous grin.

“You are delighted at thinking you have proved Borsini a fraud, is what you mean. He knows very well when Van Dyck was painting. He just did not wish to embarrass you.”

“Well now, that is the mark of a
real
gentleman. But I shall taste his papa’s wine, and read the label on the bottle, before I am satisfied.”

“I cannot imagine what you have against the poor man. What harm has he ever done you?”

“That is what I am trying to discover, Zoie. But if he is a count, I’ll eat my hat.”

Borsini escaped from Brodagan and joined us. “I really must paint that woman!” he said, flushed with success. “It would take El Greco to do her justice. There is such delightful malice in her visage. An original.”

“I think you would enjoy to paint Lady Weylin, too,” I said.

Weylin shot a questioning look at me. He was uncertain whether that was a slur on his mama, or an effort to land the commission for Borsini. “That will be up to Mama,” he said, and headed out the door with Borsini.

I was obliged to call out after him, which annoyed me. “You have not said when you will come back, Weylin.”

“The road goes both ways, Zoie. If you are eager for my company, you know where I live. Mama don’t bite, you know, even if she does occasionally bark.”

I slammed the door and uttered a few words not learned in the schoolroom. Brodagan sailed out from the saloon, where she had been stacking the tea tray. “It is good to see Count Borsini making a few decent friends,” she said, with something strangely like a smile. “Lord Weylin would recognize quality when he was hit in the face with it.”

“Yes, I am afraid he would,” I said, and went back up to look at the studio.

It was pretty clear that Weylin planned to expose Borsini as a fraud. Whatever clients the count had managed to round up would leave him. He would be forced to remove from Aldershot to Bath or some town farther away, where no one had heard of him.

I was certain the Palazzo Borsini had always been at Venice. Yet if he actually had wine from the Borsini vineyard... As I pondered this, it occurred to me that Borsini had got hold of wine with such a label, and transferred his imaginary palazzo to a villa in Tuscany. That would account for it.

It was a foolish thing to do, but an artist led a precarious existence. Adding a title to his name would bring in a few clients, and he was not doing anyone any harm. So why had Weylin decided to ruin him? Was it possible he was jealous? That, while flattering, did not ring true. Weylin’s real interest during the visit had been on Borsini, not me.

When I went downstairs, Mama had returned from her shopping trip. I told her of Weylin’s visit. Her face blanched. “What happened in London?” she demanded.

“He could not tell me in front of Borsini. They left together. I expect Weylin will return, sooner or later.”

“Surely he will come back this evening. Was he angry?”

“No. He behaved more... mischievously,” I said. “I cannot make heads or tails of it, Mama, but he did not seem angry.”

“Then he has managed to get poor Andrew’s money away from him; depend upon it.”

This seemed entirely likely, and I was surprised I had not thought of it myself. It was yet another offense in Weylin’s dish. Whenever he deigned to return, he would hear a few things to turn his ears red.

Mama showed me the new drapery material, a pretty royal blue sateen, that would enliven the blue guest room. We tried to cheer ourselves by imagining Andrew’s future visit, but our hearts were not in it.

Chapter Seventeen

Lord Weylin did not call that evening. I had a note from Mrs. Chawton informing me that the first meeting of the Book Society would take place at her house at eight. I had been looking forward to it with keen pleasure, but wrote putting it off in expectation of seeing Weylin. When I went in search of a servant to deliver my message, Steptoe made a hissing sound from the hallway, and beckoned me to him.

“I am not a snake, Steptoe. If you wish to speak to me, pray use the King’s English. What do you want?” I demanded.

He handed me a note. “From his lordship,” he said with a leer. “His footman left this billy doo, with instructions to give it to you on the sly, miss.” He put his finger to his lips and said, “Mum’s the word.”

“This is not a billet-doux, but an ordinary note,” I said, and snatched it from his fingers. My heart was racing, but whether it was from annoyance with Steptoe or anticipation of my billet-doux, I could not determine.

“I wager it’s an invitation to tea, miss.” Steptoe smirked. “I wonder why his lordship wanted secrecy.”

The note was sealed with wax. I examined it to see Steptoe had not read it before me. The seal did not appear to have been tampered with. I gave him the note for Mrs. Chawton and told Mama I was going up to my studio, as I wanted privacy to read my note.

Was it a billet-doux? That would explain Weylin’s efforts to discredit Borsini, if he feared I was romantically interested in the count. I did not go to the studio, but to my bedroom. My fingers were trembling as I broke the wax seal. The letter was long enough to require two sheets of paper.

I read:

Zoie. I am sending this to you privately. It is for you to decide how much to tell your mama. I did not find Andrew Jones in London, but I spoke to his lawyer. There is documented evidence that Jones is the illegitimate son of my aunt—and your uncle. My aunt did not make any other will than the one read at Parham. She arranged to hand over her worldly goods to her son before dying. Naturally I shall not interfere in the arrangement. It seems reasonable to assume that your uncle’s missing money was also given to Jones.

I have heard from Mrs. Riddle, Lady Margaret’s companion. She confirmed that my aunt gave birth to a male child six months after her marriage, and the family set about the story that it was a legitimate miscarriage. Apparently Mr. Macintosh was aware of Margaret’s condition when he married her. He made the stipulation that the child be put out for adoption, and arranged the matter himself. My aunt was not told where the baby went, and promised not to try to find him. One can feel some sympathy with her. She must have been at her wits’ end when McShane shabbed off, leaving her with child. I can forgive her; whether you can forgive your uncle is another matter. I own I find it difficult.

That is no reason to punish Mr. Jones, however. I am making queries to find him, to see if he needs any further assistance. As we agreed at Tunbridge, this matter will be kept entre nous. If you have any questions, you can find me here. I shall be at Parham for the next while. Please let me know whether you are telling your mama or not, so that I shall know what to say—and what not to say—when I meet her.

On a happier note, Mama likes your Count Borsini amazingly. She (and Bubbums) are to sit for him. He has agreed to begin her portrait tomorrow afternoon, canceling all lessons for the present, and has asked that I make his apologies to you. He will not be able to keep his appointment. I felt sure you would not object, as this will do his career good. We might get the prince to sit for him yet!

I hope the news regarding your uncle does not distress you overly much. There may have been extenuating circumstances. I have not told Mama any of this yet, so if you are speaking to her, please bear it in mind.

Your servant, Weylin.

I read the note twice, then read it again to see if there was anything that should be kept from Mama. As she already knew, or believed, that Barry was deeply involved, there seemed no harm in showing her the letter. Despite Steptoe’s leers and smirks, there was no air of romance about it. Weylin did not even say he would call. I would find him (by which he meant a note) at Parham if I had any questions. That indicated that, while he was willing to forgive my uncle, he had no wish to strengthen the acquaintance with the family.