Gather Ye Rosebuds (20 page)

Barry’s trunks had been dragged from the wall into the middle of the room, for easier searching. The contents were flung about at random. The jackets had the lining ripped out. A dozen candles had been arranged in a circle around the trunks, giving the scene a mystical air. They had burned low, indicating a long burning, but at least he had extinguished them before leaving. I sighed wearily, and Weylin uttered a few words never spoken in church.

“Just when I thought Steptoe was beginning to shape up.” I scowled. “He was quite helpful last night when I was making Brodagan’s posset. I should have been suspicious that he was awake at two o’clock in the morning. How did he get up here? Brodagan locked the door, and she had the only key.”

I picked up a ripped jacket, and there on the floor beneath it sat Brodagan’s key ring, with the brass shamrock she carries for good luck.

“How did he get hold of this? It was in Brodagan’s room.” Even as I spoke, I realized his ruse. “He knew I was preparing her laudanum. He went into her room and stole the keys, bold as brass, while she slept soundly.” I wondered if he had sneaked a few drops into my own milk as well. That would account for my deep sleep, but I did not mention that. “Borsini is still at Parham, you say?”

“Yes, and Steptoe has not visited, for I have Borsini watched around the clock. He did not stir from the house last night.”

“They might be meeting now! Go back to Parham. You’ll catch them red-handed.”

“If they are meeting, I’ll know about it. As I said, Borsini is watched.”

I just shook my head in confusion. “At least we are rid of Steptoe once and for all. He won’t have the gall to show his nose here after this.”

Weylin said, “Let us have a look around his room. He may have left something to tell us where he was going.”

I led him to Steptoe’s room. Steptoe had packed hastily, leaving half his clothes behind. We searched them for clues, but of course, he was too crafty to leave anything but lint in the pockets.

“This is the dressing gown he was wearing last night,” I said, lifting the green robe, which had been tossed on the end of the bed in his haste. “Quite the peacock! I wonder where he stole this.”

“Peacock?” Weylin said, offended. He took the garment and examined it. “He told my valet this got grease spilled on it when it was sent down to be pressed. I shall have a word with my valet about this.” He frowned at the garment. “Perhaps it is just a tad gaudy,” he said sheepishly. “The yellow trim is the culprit.”

“Let us go downstairs and have some coffee. I was just about to have breakfast when you arrived.”

We went below and found Mama at the breakfast table. “Mary told me about Steptoe,” she said. “Did you find anything interesting abovestairs?”

Weylin said only that Steptoe and Borsini appeared to be in league in some mischief, without mentioning Barry, and told her of Steptoe’s depredations in the attic.

“I am shocked at Borsini,” she said. “He always seemed such a nice lad, except for that foreign streak, of course. I never could get used to being a
signora.
And you say Steptoe planned to sell what he found to Borsini?”

“For a hundred pounds,” I said.

“If it was something small enough to be hidden in the lining of a jacket, it sounds like a piece of paper,” Mama said. “Whatever could it be? Something to poor Borsini’s discredit, I don’t doubt. Steptoe could mail it to him.”

Weylin set down his cup with a clatter and jumped up. “You’re right. And the mail will be arriving any moment. I must go.”

I did not think Steptoe would part with the item without getting his hundred pounds in his hand, but Weylin tore out of the house. Mama and I remained behind to talk over the matter. This was done in a vague way, as I did not want to tell her my suspicions of Barry. We discussed whether we should send for the constable. Since Steptoe had not stolen anything, and had, in fact, run off with a month’s wages owing to him, we could not see what charges we could lay against him.

“Whatever he is up to, we are well rid of him,” she said.

The next item of business was to get Brodagan shipped off to the tooth drawer. The pain had eased, and she was in no mind to part with her tooth, but in the end we bullocked her into it.

“I shall go with you, Brodagan,” Mama said. “You will not be alone in your agony.”

I made sure I would have the chore of escorting Brodagan, and wondered at Mama pitching herself into such an unpleasant situation. I soon found the reason.

“You will know what to tell the constable when Weylin has Borsini arrested, Zoie,” Mama said. “They are bound to come here asking questions, as you and Borsini were such bosom bows. It will be better if you handle it. You will know what to say.”

I felt I got the better of the bargain. I would rather face a den of lions than Brodagan at the tooth drawer’s. In honor of the occasion, Brodagan wore a freshly starched steeple, with a voluminous black cape over her shoulders, though the weather was warm. She was supported by Mama’s arm on one side, Mary’s on the other, as she went moaning through the hall.

She stopped at the door and took one last look around. “In case I never see you again, melady, I’ll take my leave of you now,” she said to me, in sonorous accents. “It has been an honor to serve you.” I gave her a parting hug.

Mary said bracingly, “Why you’ll be back before you can say one, two, three, with that malign tooth out of your head once for all, and your heart light as a thrush.”

“Light as a thrush, is it?” Brodagan said. “I only hope it’s light enough to fly to heaven.”

“Here, have a sip of your medicine,” Mary said, and handed her a little bottle of brandy she had brought along to brace Brodagan for her ordeal.

With Steptoe, Brodagan, Mama, Mary, and John Groom gone, the house was left with only Jamie, the backhouse boy, and myself. I should have asked Mama to bring one of the Coughlin girls home to help out. They are local girls who work mornings at a dairy farm, but are always glad to find extra work for the afternoon.

I went to the kitchen, where Jamie was piling dishes into the wash pan. He seemed to know what he was about, so I left him to it and went back upstairs. I would sit in the saloon to act as butler. Rather than twiddling my thumbs, I went upstairs to fetch my sketchpad and pencils. I noticed the door to the octagonal tower was ajar. Steptoe! If he had done any damage to my studio, I would call the constable.

I ran upstairs, but the room had not been disturbed. Sunlight spilling in at the windows glowed on the light walls. I could not complain of any lack of brightness. Quite the contrary. My two easels and chest of paints and brushes had been brought up. The easels lay on the floor, the parcel of supplies on the chest of drawers. The painters had removed their tarpaulin, revealing the aged Persian rug. I could not remove it by myself, but I could measure the room for its new linoleum covering. I stood a moment, wondering what color would suit. Perhaps a darker shade, to conceal the inevitable spatters of paint, and to give some relief from those brilliant walls and windows.

Yet in winter, the windows would show a gray sky, so perhaps... What I really wanted was to ask Borsini’s opinion. I would miss my old friend and mentor. I could not believe he was in league with that hound of a Steptoe. I could believe he really was Barry’s son. That would have pleased me greatly—but then, how did Steptoe fit into such an innocent scenario as that?

While I stood in the stillness of the tower room, I heard from below soft, stealthy footsteps along the hallway. It was not Jamie’s quick feet, but a man’s tread, moving quietly, as if he had no right to be there. My heart clenched in fear. I was alone in the house, but for Jamie, in the kitchen below. He could not know the man had entered, or he would have notified me. This intruder had got in uninvited. Steptoe... or worse—a stranger. A ne’er-do-well who thought the house deserted, and had come to see what he could pick up. When he saw me, he might lose his mind and attack.

The soft steps proceeded down the hall. I heard a few doors open, then the steps came closer, and stopped. My ears suggested he was at my bedroom. After a moment, the footsteps began again, faster now, heading for the stairs to this tower room. I crouched behind the chest of drawers while the footsteps mounted swiftly, no longer using caution, almost as if he knew he had me cornered alone up here. My throat ached from the strain, and my heart banged erratically. There was not a single thing I could use for a weapon.

The footsteps ran into the room. “Zoie!
Zoie!”
a voice called, rising in alarm. It was Weylin!

I stood up then, my fear giving way to anger. “Weylin! What the devil do you mean, sneaking about the house like a burglar! You frightened the life out of me.”

“Zoie?” His face was white with strain. There was an answering anger in his tone. “Why are you hiding? Why did no one answer the door? I knew Steptoe was gone and Brodagan
hors de combat,
so I let myself in. I called and called, without an answer. I could not imagine what had happened. I was afraid you had all been poisoned, or had your throats slit. Are you all right?”

“Of course I am all right.”

“But where is everyone? You were not alone when I left half an hour ago.”

I explained about Mama and Mary taking Brodagan to the dentist’s, and of course, he already knew of Steptoe’s departure.

“I shall send a few girls over from Parham,” he said. “And a footman. Your mama should not have left you here alone. You are as white as a sheet. I don’t feel any too stout myself. Let us go below and have a glass of wine.”

“A good idea. I just came up to get my sketchpad and pencils. My studio door was ajar. I feared Steptoe had been up, but if he was, he did not find anything. All my uncle’s things have been removed.”

“I wonder...” He looked all around the room. “We do not know for certain that Steptoe found what he was looking for. Is it possible McShane hid it in this room? Under a loose floorboard, or slid down the wainscoting?” He looked at the shabby old carpet. “Or under that? Of course, you would have looked there.”

My interest quickened. “No, actually, the painters had the tarpaulin over this precious floor covering, to prevent splattering it.”

Weylin glanced to see if I was joking. “No doubt Steptoe has had a peek,” he said, looking a question at me.

“I want to remove it in any case. Will you help me?”

We each took a corner and began rolling. The paper was right under the middle of the carpet. I have no doubt Steptoe had lifted the corners as high as he could and peered under, missing the paper by inches. We both saw it at once, and reached for it. I beat Weylin to it by a second.

The ink was faded, but still legible. We took it to the window to read. It was a marriage certificate, dated 1790, from St. Agnes’s Church in Duleek, Ireland. The signatures were Barry McShane and Lady Margaret Raleigh. The witnesses were Laurence McShane, a cousin of Barry’s, and Mrs. Riddle, Lady Margaret’s companion. We examined the document in silence, then looked at each other in perplexity.

“But how is this possible?” I exclaimed. “Your aunt was married to Mr. Macintosh.”

“I believe it is called bigamy,” Weylin said, in a choked voice. “The old devil! And here I have been calling your uncle a scoundrel for having abandoned her.”

“I don’t understand. If they were married, why did she not go to India with him, especially as she was having his child? This makes no sense, Weylin.”

“Aunt Margaret hated the heat,” he said. “Chilly old Scotland suited her down to the toes. I wager she balked at the last minute.”

“Then she cannot have known she was enceinte.”

“Yes, that might explain—though not forgive it. She thought she could talk McShane out of going to India.”

“And he probably thought she would follow him. Mama always said he was mule-stubborn.”

“I daresay she was afraid to tell her papa what she had done—married your uncle, I mean. Grandpa Weylin was a Turk, with lofty ambitions for his daughters. So she got an offer from Macintosh, and married him up in a hurry to escape to Scotland, to hide her sins from the family. I fancy that is what happened.”

“I wonder when Barry discovered all this. It must have been much later, after he had taken Surinda Joshi as his mistress.” Weylin looked a little startled at this. “He kept an Indian woman for years in Calcutta. Mama was always afraid he would marry her. Now we know why he did not.”

We took the document down to the saloon and had a glass of wine. After much discussion, I said, “This is all very interesting, but is this marriage certificate what Borsini and Steptoe were looking for? If Borsini is the legitimate son, he would not want to hide the fact. Quite the contrary. And if he is not, but only an impostor... well, the marriage certificate hardly makes any difference.”

“If Lady Margaret was not Macintosh’s legitimate wife, then she has no right to her widow’s portion. It will revert to Macintosh’s son. She handed the ten thousand over to the man she believed was her son, so he would certainly be eager to hide this little piece of paper.”

“Yes, I see what you mean. What should we do about it?”

“I shall have a word with Borsini. With this to hold over his head, he may be more forthcoming. I’ll run along now. And for God’s sake, Zoie, lock the door. I nearly had a heart attack when I thought you were dead.”

He sounded wonderfully worried. “So did I, when I thought you were a burglar sneaking up on me. And I without a single weapon at hand to bludgeon you into submission.”

“No blunt instruments will be necessary.
This
will always keep me in line,” he said, and stole a quick kiss before parting.

Chapter Twenty-one

Brodagan returned home half an hour later with her steeple knocked askew and her face red from brandy and the tooth drawer’s mauling. She was smiling despite it all.

She held the offending tooth in her hand. “I’ve lost my last night’s sleep over this fellow, melady,” she said. “To think such a wee scrap of bone could torture a body worse than the rack and thumbscrews. It’s into the fire with Mr. Snaggle Tooth, and good riddance, say I.” So saying, she tossed the offending article into the grate.