Gather Ye Rosebuds (3 page)

“Do not say such things, Zoie!” She daubed at her eyes. “One dislikes to speak ill of the dead, but I do think this was not very nice of Barry, and after I was kind enough to give him a home, too. He did it black on us, Zoie, and that’s the truth.” Mama slips into the old Irish expressions when she is upset.

“It is pretty clear that Uncle Barry was pulling the wool over our eyes for years. I have no reluctance to speak ill of him. I always thought he was sly. It would not surprise me if he had his fingers in the till in India.”

“Now, that is not true. They caught the fellow who did it. Barry left the company with a clean record and a full pension.”

“Perhaps, but do you not remember how he used to keep a very sharp eye on the post? He’d be waiting for the delivery, and snatch up his letters, slipping them inside his jacket before anyone got a look at them. They were orders from his gang, I expect.”

“I always thought they were from Surinda. There was a strong musky scent in the hall after he took the letters away. He certainly had something to hide. And with all his treachery, he did not even end up rich,” Mama said, “but left me to pay for his coffin.”

Chapter Three

Once Steptoe learned our secret, the only person in the house with any vestige of control over him was Brodagan. He was becoming bossy even with her, which brought her to the saloon to complain. We took her into our confidence regarding the necklace and asked for her forbearance at this time. She was marble-constant, as usual. Brodagan would not complain if we murdered the archbishop.

“You may be sure as soon as the matter is straightened out, he will be dismissed,” Mama promised.

“My sorrow!” she declared, black eyes gleaming fiercely. “A viper in our own bosom. Him in his grand black suit, looking like his nose would bleed if you said boo to him. He’s no better than a thief hisself, squeezing money out of a widow. He wants the good wine brought up to his cubbyhole, if you please. I’d sooner part with my eyes than let him have Mr. Barron’s good claret.”

“Since Mr. Barron no longer has need of it...” Mama said.

“That old rack-pot is to have ambrosia then, while the rest of us belowstairs make do with small beer?” Brodagan asked, with a gimlet glance that would cut forged steel.

“I think Brodagan would like a bottle of the claret, Mama,” I said, as Mama was not quick to take her meaning.

“You do not have to ask, my dear Brodagan,” Mama said, and won a smile from the Turk. “Naturally you must do as you wish.”

Having won her point, Brodagan said piously, “I never touch a drop, melady!” She continued, “That scarecrow has had the spite in his nose for us ever since he came here, only because we lack a handle to our names. ‘His lordship did it this way,’ says he, and ‘Her ladyship did it that way,’ as if he was quoting the Bible. Why did he leave Parham and go to the Pakenhams? That is what
I
would like to know. And within a year or two, he hopped along to us. Sure it was a dark day when you hired the likes of that grasshopper, melady.”

“So it was, Brodagan,” Mama agreed, “but he looked well, you know, and had worked at Parham.”

“If you call sitting on your haunches swilling wine work,” Brodagan said. “I, with my bad tooth roaring like a lion in my mouth, still have the laundry to get folded, and the bread to knead, and my own apron which I pay for myself to iron before this head sees the pillow.”

“Could Mary not—”

“Mary O’Rourke is as much help as a bucket with a hole in it, even if she is my own niece,” she said, and left. Brodagan always got the last word.

* * * *

Over breakfast the next morning, Mama and I discussed our attack on Parham. As I was to broach the Book Society plan to Lady Weylin, I would be doing most of the talking. When I suggested that Mama slip the diamonds into some convenient hiding place, however, she turned as white as milk and said she really did not think she could. She was bound to drop them, and Lady Weylin would think she had stolen them. She did undertake to distract Lady Weylin for a few moments with some talk of roses, however, while I did the deed.

At ten-thirty we set out for Parham in the carriage. Our meadow abuts theirs. It would be only a quarter of an hour’s walk across the park, but as we required the dignity of a carriage to call on a countess, we went by the road, a distance of two miles.

To enter the wrought-iron gates, guarded by a pair of snarling griffins, was already enough to shatter one’s confidence. The closer we drew to the house, the larger and more impressive it grew. Parham was built in the days when homes were fortresses. A tall tower rises high on either end of the facade, with a crenellated roofline holding them together. Although the house has been updated over the centuries, the front still has a forbidding aspect.

“I feel we ought to have brought cannons,” Mama said.

We were not met with guns, but by a butler whose manner made Steptoe look like a friendly pup. Never have I seen eyebrows rise so high, nor heard such arrogance in a servant’s tone.

“You wish to speak to her ladyship?” he exclaimed, as if we had said we wished to shoot her.

“If she is not too busy,” Mama said apologetically.

I refused to be browbeaten by a servant. “It will only take a moment,” I said, and lightly elbowed him aside to walk in. Mama darted in after me.

We were familiar with the grandiosity of the entrance from our few other visits at election time. There was a deal of marble, of exotic carved paneling, of paintings and busted Grecian statuary. Of more interest, there was a doorway leading to the Blue Saloon, where her ladyship sat, thumbing idly through a magazine, with a pug dog at her feet. The butler shunted us into an inferior small parlor used for tradesmen, and said he would inquire whether her ladyship was at home.

“Try the Blue Saloon,” I suggested.

For ten minutes Mama and I waited. We discussed hiding the diamonds in that parlor, but decided against it.

“They might suspect us,” she whispered. “It will be best to leave it in a room Lady Margaret used.”

“If she refuses to see us, I shall stuff them down the side of this settee before I rise.”

Eventually the butler came and said, “Her ladyship can spare you a moment now.”

We rose and followed him into the Blue Saloon. It was a regular furniture display room, holding every grand thing you can think of. Persian carpets, brocade window hangings, a plethora of carved mahogany, and a positive glut of bibelots.

Lady Weylin reclined at her ease on a striped satin settee. She looked up from petting her ugly little tan pug and said querulously, “It is the Barrons, is it not?” We had been neighbors forever. We admitted to being ourselves and advanced into the holy of holies.

It has often been remarked that people resemble their pets, and it was certainly true in this case. Lady Weylin had a broad, short face with widely spaced eyes, a pug nose, and a wrinkled forehead. She had fallen into a sluggish tan complexion and an excess of flesh from lack of exercise. Her toilette, a fashionable gown of wheat-colored lutestring with a lace shawl, was unexceptionable.

She lifted the pug from her lap onto the sofa beside her and waved a hand toward two hard-backed chairs. These offered no likely hiding place, but we sat down.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, very much the grande dame.

Mama was completely capsized by her manner. I braced myself to be ingratiating and said, “We are setting up a Book Society, Lady Weylin, and wondered if you would be interested.”

“Who is ‘we’? You and your mama?”

“Myself, and some ladies from Aldershot,” I replied.

“Ah, Aldershot,” she said, as if it were a leper colony. “And what, pray, is a Book Society?”

I swallowed the urge to ask whether she was not familiar with a book and explained Mrs. Chawton’s plan—the dues to buy books, the reading by each member, and eventual discussion.

When I had finished, she cocked her head to one side and said, “Rubbish! You will only put the circulating library out of business. If you and your friends, Miss Barron, have time and money to squander, you might better devote them to charitable works. Reading novels is harmful to girls. It puts ideas in their heads.”

“Surely that is the proper place for them, ma’am.” I felt a sharp kick at my ankle from Mama.

“Not in ladies’ heads. If you had been employing your time more usefully, you would not still be single at your age. You would have better things to do than reading books.”

Having met with not only an outright refusal but an insult as well, I was left with nothing to say, and directed a look to Mama. It was difficult to leap straightway into discussing roses, which was the only thing Mama felt capable of discussing. To pave the way, I said, “What charitable works did you have in mind, ma’am?”

“Helping the poor, of course. That is what charity is—helping the less fortunate.”

This was hardly news to me, but I plodded on, while my eyes skimmed the room for a vase or vessel to hold the booty. “Lord Weylin is active with the orphans’ school, I believe.”

“Yes. Weylin is home—but of course, you knew that.”

Her tone suggested that was why I, the old unmarried one, had come—to try my hand at attaching him. I resented her barbs, but could not dwell on them. My eye alit on a small blue and white Chinese vase on a table near the doorway. We had one like it in the blue guest room at home. Lady Weylin would certainly not bestir herself to accompany us to the door, but I would be directly in her line of sight. Dare I risk it? “Yes indeed. I had heard he was home,” I said.

“Weylin would not be interested in your Book Society.”

“We had not planned to ask him, ma’am.” Her manner was so brusque that I wanted to escape at once. I would risk the Chinese vase. “I shall tell the ladies you are not interested, then,” I said, gathering up my gloves and reticule. Mama did likewise, looking a question at me.

The pug opened its mouth to give a desultory yap. Lady Weylin began patting it and talking baby talk. “Does Bubbums want to go into the garden? Good doggy.” Then she turned to me and said in a less friendly tone than that used with her dog, “You may tell Seeton on your way out to come for Bubbums.”

I willed down the automatic “thank you” that rose up at being given permission to do her errand. What I should have done was tell her to call Seeton herself. I rose with a chilly nod and said, “Mama, are you ready to go now? We have taken enough of Lady Weylin’s valuable time.” I allowed my eyes to glare at Bubbums. Mama was more than eager to escape.

“Good day, Lady Weylin,” she said.

Lady Weylin nodded but did not bestir herself to reply. We began pacing the considerable distance to the door, while she resumed the more agreeable conversation with her pug. I pointed to the Chinese pot and whispered, “I shall drop the necklace in there. You fall a step behind me and cover my back in case she looks.” I slid my hand into my pocket and palmed the diamonds.

I had to walk a step to the right to make the drop. With Mama concealing me as best she could, I reached for the vase. My closed hand was just above it when Mama hissed in my ear. I looked up and saw Lord Weylin hovering at the doorway, not two yards from me.

He has a finely carved face, as sharp and thin as a steel sword. His lean body was stiff with pride. A sleek cap of caramel-colored hair gleamed in the light. A pair of black eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. From beneath them, his stormy gray eyes stared at me as if I were a thief or a murderess. He stepped into the Blue Saloon.

“Are you interested in Chinese porcelain?” he asked, in a voice that implied,
Were
you planning to pocket it, miss?

A flood of heat rose to my face, staining it scarlet. “Just an admirer,” I managed to get out. “We have got a little jug just like this at home.”

His long fingers reached possessively and lifted the vase beyond my reach. It was about eight inches high, and of a curious flat shape, decorated with a dragon and scrolled pattern. “Indeed? I am amazed, for I was given to understand that mine was unique.”

“Ours is a little larger, I believe,” I said, for I wanted to outdo him in something.

“The forgers often make such mistakes, for they do not have the original to work from, but only a picture. What you have, if I am not mistaken, is one of the Italian forgeries from the last century. This original is from the Ming dynasty, circa 1500. It was during the Yuan dynasty that white translucent porcelain with the blue underglaze was first used. This style reached its peak during the Ming period.” His long fingers caressed the vase lovingly as he spoke.

I said, quite at random, “Very nice.”

“And very valuable,” he added, carefully returning it to its table. “You ladies are leaving?” His snakelike gaze turned to include Mama in the question.

“We are just on our way out, milord,” she said.

He did not ask why we had come, but those raised eyebrows told me he was wondering, and I mentioned the Book Society. “Your mama was not interested,” I said.

“We shan’t send you off empty-handed, miss...” Perhaps the raised eyebrows indicated an uncertainty as to our identity. “Miss Barron,” he said, apparently recognizing us. “We have all sorts of books no one reads. I shall have some sent to Hernefield for you ladies to enjoy.”

We had not come hat in hand, begging, but I was so eager to get away that I said, “Thank you,” in a choked tone, and lunged for the doorway, with Mama scampering behind me.

As we left, I heard Lady Weylin complain loudly, “I asked her to send Seeton in. Really, the chit has no manners.”

Seeton condescended to get the door for us. “Her ladyship would like to see you, Seeton,” I said, and left with what dignity I could.

“How horrid!” Mama exclaimed, when we were safely out the door. “I never felt so unwelcome in my life. She had the tea tray right beside her, and did not even offer us a cup. Rag-mannered, I call it.” I had not noticed the tea tray. “I don’t suppose you managed to drop the diamonds?”

“No, Lord Weylin came too soon. He thinks I was trying to steal that ugly old vase. Did you see the way he glared at me?”