Nine Buck's Row (18 page)

“I'm positive, dear.”

I went upstairs to fetch the kitten, but he wasn't in the bedroom. I called him, but there was no answering mew. I was vaguely alarmed. Scrappy usually stayed in my room, playing with his ribbons, toying in his sandbox, waiting for his milk. I searched the sitting room and Maggie's room, then went downstairs. He was no where to be found. Colleen said she hadn't seen him anywhere on the second floor. Mrs. Henderson was scouring pans in the kitchen. She hadn't seen him either. Frankly upset now, I went out to the courtyard, thinking he might have slipped out when someone opened the screen door. The courtyard was empty.

“Scrappy!” I called frantically.

I went back upstairs, trying to still my panic. I was standing in the hall, my face pale, tears of frustration on my lashes, when Daniel Lord came up the backstairs carrying a bag of groceries. He looked concerned when he saw my expression.

“I say, is something wrong?”

“Scrappy. I can't find him. I've looked everywhere.”

“Have you looked in the studio?”

“No, but—”

“I may have left the door open when I went out, and I know for sure I left a plate of sardines on the table.”

I followed him up the attic stairs. Scrappy was curled up on the worktable, a contented expression on his face, a noticeable bulge in his stomach and an empty plate beside him. He purred sleepily and closed his eyes, not at all interested in us.

“Oh dear,” I began. “Your food—”

“There were only two or three sardines left. Not enough to hurt him.”

“I was so worried.”

Daniel Lord smiled, setting down his sack of groceries. He was wearing his doeskin breeches and a silky beige shirt, his dark blond hair neatly combed and still rather damp. He seemed amused by the kitten's misdeed, his blue-gray eyes full of good humor.

“Let him be,” he said. “Can you stay for a while?”

“I shouldn't.”

“Why not? Have you something terribly important to do?”

“No—”

“Still afraid I might hurl you on the sofa and have my way with you?”

“You're outrageous, Mr. Lord.”

“I know. Isn't it dreadful? I should be terribly sober and serious, but it's quite impossible. Particularly when I'm with a pretty girl. If you'll have some tea with me, I promise not to kiss you. Unless you'd like for me to, that is.”

He spoke in a teasing banter, his hands resting lightly on his hips. His breezy charm and jaunty smile were refreshing, an antidote to Nicholas Craig's grim manner, yet there was something vaguely disturbing about him. I was intensely aware of his maleness. Daniel Lord might be flippant and disarming, but he was undoubtedly a rake, irresistible to a certain kind of woman.

“I've alarmed you,” he said in that rich, melodious voice. “I've been around riff-raff too long. Forgive my irreverence, Susannah. I shall try to be very proper. We'll talk of only the most edifying things. No more gallantry.”

“Maggie tells me you've been gone,” I said, changing the subject.

“Ah, yes,” he replied, strolling across the room to put the kettle on. “Duty calls occasionally. Great bother. One must keep up a pretense of family loyalty, even though one loathes it.”

“You were visiting your family?”

“You're very inquisitive,” he said lightly.

“Forgive me.”

“I've gone to considerable lengths to create a romantic image of myself—bohemian artist living in an attic, unconventional, light-hearted, free from care. If you knew all the dull, dreary facts the effect would be spoiled, wouldn't it? Would you really like to learn I was the son of a blustering country squire or the scion of a family of bankers? Come, Susannah, don't spoil my fun. Let me indulge in my little game.”

He dumped tea into the kettle and began to search for cups, moving in a jaunty, loose-gaited stride. I wondered if he really were from a wealthy but stultifying family. Maggie said that he spent a great deal of time away from his room. He might be gone for a week, always returning with no explanation whatsoever. I remembered the tweed suit and high, stiff collar he had worn the first time I saw him, conventional garments quite unlike the clinging doeskin breeches and billowing beige shirt. If he had found a way to elude a stuffy background and follow his own bent, it was to his credit. It would require a certain amount of courage.

Daniel Lord served the tea. I sat down on a straight-backed chair, and he lounged on the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Sunlight streamed through the skylight, the wavering rays filled with whirling motes. The studio was incredibly cluttered, and there was a strong smell of dust and turpentine. I noticed a small easel standing in the light, a cloth draped over it. On the floor beside it were paint-smeared rags and a palette with great blobs of dried color.

“You're doing another painting?” I asked.

“Afraid so.”

“A landscape?”

“Another sultry lady,” he replied.

“I'd love to see it.”

He shook his head slowly. “It's vulgar, nothing I'd care to show off. You'd be disappointed. Another sullen beauty with seductive eyes—” There was a discontented expression on his face, and he seemed to forget my presence for a moment, lost in thought.

“Don't you like to paint women?” I inquired.

“I'd like to paint you,” he said heavily, studying my face. He set down his teacup and stroked his neat, dark blond moustache, his eyes memorizing my features.

“A proper Victorian study of a pure young maiden. Quite a challenge. Yes, I can see it—would you pose for me?”

“Now?”

“I'd like to do a preliminary sketch in charcoal. It would take only a little while. If the sketch is good—come, let's attempt it. It isn't difficult to pose.”

He got up and led me over to a small raised platform directly beneath the sunlight, pushing me firmly down on the cushioned stool. He stepped back a few paces, tilting his head to one side, then laid his fingers on my temples, turning my head to the left. I made no protest, intrigued by the idea of having my portrait done. He arranged several locks of hair over my shoulder, then bent down to alter the drape of my skirts.

“Perfect. Gainsborough would have loved you, Susannah. If I can only capture that virginal aura—” He frowned, studying me. “We really need a nosegay of flowers, but I have it, the kitten! You'll hold the kitten in your lap.”

He scooped Scrappy off the worktable and placed him in my lap. Scrappy curled himself up in a ball and laid his head on my knee, purring contentedly. Large sketch pad and box of charcoal in hand, Daniel Lord sat in a chair several yards away, crossed one leg over his knee, propped the pad against it and began to sketch, the charcoal stick making a soft rustling sound as he worked.

“You're really quite beautiful,” he said. “Fine bone structure, rich coloring, magnificent hair. Have you an admirer, Susannah?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“That's surprising. Your little friend—what's her name? Millie? She seems to have a bevy of men flocking around her. I find it odd that a girl like you should be so fond of a flashy piece like her.”

“Millie's my best friend—”

“I meant no offense. She just seems an unsuitable companion. You have breeding, intelligence. I shouldn't think you'd have much in common with her.”

“Millie has a heart of gold.”

“I'm sure she does. Raise your chin just a little bit. No, not that much. There. It seems incongruous to find you living on Buck's Row. You should be in a silk-paneled drawing room, or wandering across a lawn with a basket of flowers. Does your guardian intend to keep you here much longer?”

“We're going to Surrey as soon as he finishes his research.”

“That's right—he's doing some sort of survey, isn't he? He should send you away. The East End is no place for you. Sordid streets. Garbage. Terrible things happening—”

He sketched for a few minutes more and then ripped the sheet from the pad, frowning. He wadded it up and threw it across the room, standing up and wandering over to stare moodily down at the courtyard.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, surprised by his sudden change.

“It's no use,” he said. “I thought perhaps I might be able to capture that aura, but it came out all wrong. It was a good idea. Romney might have done it, or Gainsborough. I've spent too much time painting trollops.”

I gathered Scrappy in my arms and stood up.

“I—I think I'd better go,” I said quietly.

“Forgive me, Susannah. These moods come over me ever so often. Every artist has them. Frustration. Discontent. It'll pass. You've been very patient.”

He looked terribly unhappy, his eyes more gray than blue now, cloudy. He stood at the window a moment longer, his shoulders hunched, and then he sighed heavily, shaking off the mood. He walked to the door with me, as jaunty as ever. I turned in the doorway, Scrappy nestled against my bosom, and Daniel Lord stood very close. A slight draft eddied up the stairwell. His thin silk shirt fluttered against his chest, the sleeves billowing. He studied my features thoughtfully.

“I'd have liked to have gotten that face on canvas,” he said. There was a curious sadness in his voice.

“Perhaps you can try again some other time,” I replied.

He shook his head. “It would be useless. I haven't the ability. Run along, Susannah. Take care of yourself. I have the feeling I won't be seeing you again.”

“You're going to leave Nine Buck's Row?”

“More than likely. I can't go on fooling myself for much longer, can I? I'm not much of an artist. I've just proved that. Roles are forced upon us. We have to play them.”

“I don't quite understand what you're saying.”

“Naturally not. Pay no attention to me. I've had a bad day. It's been a pleasure seeing you again. You're very innocent. I like that. I admire it. Most women are—not like you. You're a rarity.”

He smiled and thrust his hands into his pockets, strolling nonchalantly back into the room, and I went on downstairs, thoroughly bewildered by the whole incident. Daniel Lord was a most unusual young man … most unusual.

12

The invitation arrived Monday afternoon, personally delivered by a servant in a black suit, his nostrils sniffing with disdain as he looked up and down Buck's Row. Nicholas Craig was out, so I took the large creamy envelope myself. The servant climbed into his carriage and drove away, eager to be gone from such a shabby neighborhood. I hurried into the shop, showing Maggie what he had brought.

“It looks like an invitation,” she said.

“It is,” I replied. “I'm sure of it. From Lady Cordelia Belmount. She's giving a ball on the twenty-fifth. See the back of the envelope—‘Belmount House, Kensington Gardens.' It's bound to be an invitation.”

“Very likely,” Maggie agreed.

“He won't go, of course,” I said glumly. “We met her at the theater. She invited us then. He said he had no time for anything so frivolous. She wanted me to come, too. Her nephews will be there. She wanted me to meet them.”

Maggie laid her hand over mine, squeezing it gently.

“You have your heart set on going, don't you?”

“Ever since she invited us that night at the theater, I thought—but he's never mentioned it since. He's much too busy. He has to work on that blessed report. There's not a chance in the world he'd go.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” Maggie said firmly, a determined look in her eyes.

Maggie put the envelope in the pocket of her apron. The bell over the door rang and a customer came in. I took Scrappy out to the courtyard, determined to forget all about it. I put him down, and he scampered away to examine a caterpillar that had fallen from one of the trees. There were footsteps coming down the narrow passageway that led to the courtyard from the street. I stood up, brushing my skirts. It was probably Daniel Lord coming back from some afternoon errand. He always came around to the courtyard and went up the backstairs so as not to disturb anyone in the house. I hadn't seen him over the weekend, but I knew he hadn't moved. That had probably just been a fancy. Perhaps he would be in a sunnier mood today.…

It wasn't Daniel Lord. It was Millie.

She stepped hesitantly into the courtyard, looking extremely nervous. I hardly recognized her. Coppery red curls were stacked on top of her head, fastened with a black velvet ribbon. The new hair style made her look older, and there were shadows under her eyes. She was wearing a dress made of the red silk patterned with tiny black flowers. The bodice was tight, and the skirt was very full, billowing over her petticoats. A black feather boa was wrapped around her arms.

“Millie!” I exclaimed.

She looked at me with startled eyes.

“Why didn't you come in the front door?” I asked.

“I—I thought you might be back here. I was going to go on up to your room if you weren't.”

“You look—different.”

“It's the dress,” she said, eyes flashing brightly. “Isn't it smashing? I—I came to show it to you. That's why I came. I wanted you to see my dress. Do you like it, Suzy? Do you think it's too bold? I feel ever so grand.”

“It's rather flamboyant—”

“Do you like my hair this way? Doesn't it add years?”

“Where did you get the boa?”

“Oh—I bought it. Second hand. Quite inexpensive. I've been meaning to come and see you, Suzy, but I wanted to wait until the dress was finished. It took me over a week to make it.”

“I came to see you twice. You weren't in either time.”

“Oh? I wonder why. Perhaps I'd gone to the store. What have you been
doing
, Suzy? We've got loads to talk about. There's Scrappy. Come here, precious—”

“Millie, is something wrong?”