The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne (14 page)

Mr. Dillon remained skeptical. She reassured him that she could not afford to lose the horse any more than he wanted to lose his employer. Before he could object further, she walked the thirty feet to the blue door.

A stout woman dressed in a simple fawn dress, white cap, and apron, opened the door. Emma explained that she wanted to speak with M. J. Lyon.

Not bothering to accept the offered card, the woman turned on her heel and walked away. Emma did not know if that had been a dismissal or an invitation. Deciding to assume the latter, she followed the old-fashioned full skirt into a room that must have been intended as a dining room for this house.

An assortment of tables cluttered the space, and stacks of papers filled the bookcases. Women bent over those tables, dipping brushes and little bundled rags into pans of colors, then daubing at engravings set in front of them.

Murmurs filled the chamber as the women spoke to one another. Emma heard enough to know the women were all French. Some very sumptuous garments and wigs could be seen beneath their aprons and caps. She guessed they were
all émigrés, aristocrats, and other wellborn women who had fled a France that had become dangerous to them and their families.

Her guide left her and squeezed between tables and chairs to the back of the chamber. She said something and pointed. Another woman had been bending over one of the tables, talking to a worker, and her head now rose. Marielle Lyon, the woman who had delivered that wagon to Emma, peered across the space at her visitor.

She made her way to where Emma waited. “How did you find me?”

Emma opened her reticule and removed the folded mezzotint that Cassandra had purchased. “A friend knew who you might be from my description. Once I said your hands were stained with inks, she guessed you were the woman behind the name on this print.”

Marielle made a face. “I did not think the whole world knew that this studio belongs to me. I must find another name.”

“She has been friends with some of your countrymen. That is how she knew your identity. It is not the whole world that knows.”

“Enough know. Too many, perhaps. Soon the print shops will not take the images made by so many French women.” A question from a nearby table regarding color distracted her. She stepped over, scrutinized the print, and shook her head.
“Plus ici.”
She pointed at the paper.

She returned to Emma.

“The rags put the color on evenly and well,” Emma said. “I did not realize it was done like that.”

“It is our way. We call it
a la poupee
.” She paused, to translate. “With the little doll.”

The bundled and tied rags did look like little dolls. Emma watched while feminine hands dabbed away. She wondered if any of the satirical prints were being made.

“So, you are here,” Marielle said. “If you come to ask about that man, I have seen him. I do not think he can tell
you anything. He is—how do you say—a lickey. One who does as another bids.”

“A lackey. Did you learn nothing at all from him?”

“
Rien
. I told him you want to speak to him, and would pay him well.” She smiled impishly, and suddenly looked much younger. “Your house is very fine. I think you will not mind a few coins, if necessary, yes?”

“Not at all.” Emma dug into her reticule and plucked out a few shillings, assuming the mention of a few coins was a hint as well as a report. “Thank you for your kind help. Please write to me, if he tells you he is willing to meet me. Tell him that I need to know the details of the arrangement. Say also that I want to resolve the matter of the great prize, and request instructions on how to do so.”

Marielle accepted the money without comment, then turned away to return to her work. “I will inform you if he agrees. I think I will see him again. He is about sometimes.” She waved toward the street beyond.

“I have come about something else too,” Emma said, stopping her.

Emma explained her idea that Marielle might recommend some of her countrymen to Fairbourne’s, if they had good paintings they wanted to sell. “I will give you ten percent of whatever is Fairbourne’s commission,” she said.

Marielle thought it over. “Twenty percent. You will have these paintings not at all without me.”

Marielle might claim to be of aristocratic blood, but she could bargain like a street peddler. “Twenty, then.”

“You must promise secrecy. They are proud people often, and do not want it known that they must sell their heritage to eat.”

“Fairbourne’s is well-known for discretion.”

“Some come here at night across the sea. They will have no documents for what they bring. Like that wagon.”

Indignation jumped inside Emma, but expressing any feelings of insult would be comical, with this woman of all people. Fairbourne’s had accepted that wagon, hadn’t it?
Who was she to start getting particular about documents of paintings smuggled in by refugees?

“Good paintings have recorded provenances,” Emma said. “I will need the history of ownership up until the current owner. The best collectors know to ask for it, and to be suspicious of old masters that suddenly appear with no references or pedigree.”

“Much like some people, you mean.” Marielle gave one of her little shrugs. “Eh,
il est compliqué le faire
, but I will see what can be had.”

Emma left, hoping she had struck some kind of bargain with this young woman who, according to Cassandra, had appeared suddenly, with no references and suspect pedigree. She prayed her message would get to the man with the wagon. She also hoped that Marielle would cajole some good art out of the émigrés.

She could not be sure either would happen, however. In fact, she might never see or hear from Marielle again. She would need to enhance the auction in other ways too, and soon.

E
mma was not able to go to the auction house for two days. Obediah sent messages both mornings to say Lord Southwaite had come, so she should stay away. Obediah added to both notes his worry about being able to play his new role persuasively with the earl. It seemed that Southwaite had taken to inviting conversation about the attributions and qualities of the paintings now hanging in the exhibition hall.

Vexed with the catalogue’s delay, Emma turned her mind to other problems, such as whether to include that wagon’s contents in the auction. She would prefer to know more about her father’s arrangements before committing such a crime. In particular, she desperately wanted some indication that her theory regarding the “prize” was accurate. If no further information came to her, she would have a hard decision to make.

If she considered it necessary to auction the wagon’s contents, she would then have to find a way to do so without Southwaite suspecting what it really was. She could not avoid him seeing all the wine once the auction’s preview
nights were prepared, but until then she preferred not being quizzed on it.

Deciding that she might solve two problems with one solution, she had Maitland carry in the books and objets d’art from the wagon so she could spend her Southwaite days, which were becoming annoyingly numerous, working on a potential part of the catalogue at home.

“I may have a new patron for Fairbourne’s,” Cassandra announced the second afternoon while they pretended they were going to order hats at a milliner’s. Neither of them could afford this shop’s fine wares right now, but Cassandra always received groveling service due to her position in society. Emma was not above having some fun by hanging on to Cassandra’s skirt hem.

“I hope he has a good collection,” Emma said as she picked through a basket overflowing with sumptuous ribbons. “Who is it?”

Cassandra studied a fashion plate showing an exotic turban. “Count Alexis von Kardstadt of Bavaria,”

Emma lost all interest in the ribbons. “Do you mean it? You know him? I read that he was sending his collection to England for sale, since France is not hospitable these days, but I just assumed that Christie’s—”

“As did Christie’s assume. However, his man called on my aunt soon after he disembarked, and she actually received him—it has been months since she accepted a caller—and it turns out Alexis’s servant remembers meeting me when I traveled with my aunt. I took advantage of the connection and suggested that he consider Fairbourne’s for selling the collection.” She glanced over. “I do get ten percent, correct?”

“Of course.”

Cassandra removed a bonnet that she had donned and tossed it aside. She primped her raven curls in the looking glass. “Unfortunately, I am going to have to remove one of the jewels from my consignment. The ruby necklace with the tiny pearls.”

“You dangle the chance of rarities with one hand while snatching away a certain sale with another, Cassandra. Why are you taking away one of the best pieces?”

“My aunt needs it. That was why the factor came to call, and why she received him. Count Alexis has asked for it back, so she needs it back from me too. It is a family item that the count should not have given away.” She picked up a lustrous raw silk cloth patterned in blue and red and began trying to tie a turban cap around her crown. A shopgirl hurried over to help.

Emma waited until the elaborate folds and turns were done and the girl had left. “Are you saying that your aunt and the count were…good friends?”

“It appears so.”

“Isn’t he much younger than she is? He only wed recently.”

“Mmmmmm. Family jewels given impetuously in passion are now needed for that young wife.” Cassandra kept turning her head while she admired the turban from this angle and that in the looking glass.

“Is that intended as a bawdy double entendre?”

Cassandra looked startled, then burst out laughing. “In both meanings my aunt is sympathetic, and I cannot refuse her, since she is generous enough to allow me to live with her. So I need it back. Hopefully you will get a wonderful collection that will far surpass my jewels in attracting the best of society.” She touched the red and blue silk lovingly. “I think that I will have this made.”

“You cannot afford it.”

“Once the count’s man visits Fairbourne’s tomorrow, and you convince him to consign with you, I will have expectations beyond what comes from my jewels.”

“Tomorrow!”

“I told him that Mr. Riggles would meet with him tomorrow morning. I decided there should be no delay. We don’t want him talking to Mr. Christie first, do we?”

No, they did not. Only Mr. Riggles could never convince this factor to entrust the collection to Fairbourne’s, and
Emma was not sure that her participation would help or even be agreeable to the man.

For the first time, she seriously doubted whether she would be able to keep Fairbourne’s alive. The loss of her father’s connections and reputation had effects both large and small, and she could no longer ignore them. He would have met with this agent of the count, and impressed him with his charm, expertise, and manner. He would have entertained this man in ways that she, a woman, never could.

Nor could another man take his place. That truly discouraged her. Even Mr. Nightingale would have been overwhelmed tomorrow, and young Mr. Laughton, if she sent for him and he came, would appear a schoolboy struggling to learn a foreign language in such negotiations.

Her heart thickened while she lined up all the circumstances that weighed against her chance for success. They overwhelmed her resolve and confidence. She was going to fail, and Robert’s birthright would be lost when she did. Maybe Robert himself would be too.

She normally held back considerations of all that might mean, but the weight on her spirit sent her mind in that direction now. If Fairbourne’s closed, Robert’s disappointment upon returning would be horrible to see, especially if her own inadequacies had caused it. Even if the money from the sale waited for him, it would take years to rebuild the business.

Would their deep bond even survive it? She and Robert had always been very close, partners in play and in crime when children and mutually sympathetic to life’s hurts as they got older. He had comforted her during her first tendre for a man who never realized she existed, and she in turn had understood his disappointment when Papa had forbade his pursuit of an actress. Robert had understood the awkwardness of having regular contact with society, all the while knowing society would never accept them as equals. Papa had walked that odd line with aplomb, but both she and Robert had felt the chasm deeply.

She ached for some proof that Robert still lived and she might have him back one day. Images of that reunion tortured
her with their impossible hope for happiness. She hated not knowing for certain that she was right, and dreaded placing one foot in the wrong place on the perilous path she felt she was walking. And now, with this opportunity to succeed with at least one part of her plan, she worried deeply that it would disappear because she could not hide that Fairbourne’s survived as only a shadow of its former self.

Unless…

A possible solution entered her mind. It became a faint flame illuminating the darkness of her mood. It flickered while she watched the shopgirl pin the turban’s fabric and fit it to Cassandra’s head.

The idea was outlandish. It would never work. She had no choice except to try, however.

*     *     *