Gather Ye Rosebuds (17 page)

It seemed hard that he should steal Borsini away as well. I disliked, too, the offhand way he did it, without even consulting me first. Of course, a portrait of the countess might indeed do Borsini’s reputation a world of good, so I tried to be happy for him. I took the letter down to Mama. When she had digested it, we had a long talk. It was not Borsini or Weylin’s high-handedness that interested her.

“So Weylin has found out the truth,” she said, with a little sigh of relief. “He is not so out-of-reason cross as I feared. When he finds my nephew, we shall invite Andrew here for a visit. What would do the lad more good is if Weylin would take an interest in him. He could make him an MP, or get him a position with the government. You must talk Weylin into it.”

“I doubt Weylin will put himself out for an illegitimate cousin,” I said.

“At least he does not plan to hound Andrew for the money. I believe Weylin is right in thinking there were extenuating circumstances. Perhaps Barry did not know Lady Margaret was enceinte when he went to India. He was never that bad.”

“He certainly knew they were not married when he seduced her, Mama! That is bad enough.”

“So he did, but so did she know it. It is for the lady to maintain proper conduct. This is not all Barry’s fault.”

Brodagan brought the tea tray, and by the time we had taken tea, Mama was waxing quite cheerful. She spoke as though it were all settled that Andrew would be a part of both families, yet we hadn’t the least notion what sort of a man he was. I hoped she would not be too disappointed.

The evening seemed endless. Until the clock chimed ten times, I was on pins and needles, listening for the sound of a carriage approaching, or a knock at the door. At ten I knew it was too late to hear from Weylin, and went up to bed.

* * * *

The morning brought new hope. It was a fine, sunny day. Soft balls of cloud looked like whipped cream against the blue sky. I made a careful toilette, and sat in ladylike idleness all the morning long in the saloon, listening once more for the sound of the door knocker. Mama busied herself preparing the guest room for her nephew, whom she was rapidly turning into the son she never had.

Over lunch the talk was all of Andrew. Would my mount suit him, she wondered, or should she look about for a larger one? A gentleman would require a mount. But perhaps he already had one. She would wait until he came, and if he wanted one, he could choose it himself. She would have him ride over that west pasture, and see if it needed tilling. Papa used to speak of it. Perhaps Andrew would want the double-pedestal desk from the study in his bedroom. The desk presently there was only a token. She would have Brodagan arrange it that very day.

“For goodness’ sake, Mama, it is not even certain he is coming. Before you give him Papa’s desk and my mount, let us see if he wants to visit us—and whether he is the sort of man we want in the house. God only knows how he was raised. He may be a Captain Sharp or a heathen, for all we know.”

“I am sure he was raised a gentleman,” Mama said.

“What makes you so sure? It was Macintosh who arranged his adoption. He would hardly look fondly on his wife’s by-blow.”

“He was teaching school, Zoie, so he must be educated.”

“He was not teaching at Eton or Harrow. It was a poor boys’ school, probably for orphans. He was living in one room. Barry was astonished at his low circumstances.”

“Yes, dear, but Andrew would have smartened himself up by now. Barry gave him all that money.”

“Yes, and so did Lady Margaret. Whatever else he is, he certainly knows how to look out for his own interests.”

“Zoie, that is uncharitable! Remember, he is your cousin.”

“And you remember he is only your nephew, Mama. Next you will be saying you ought to leave him Hernefield.”

“Oh, not the whole thing, Zoie,” she laughed. “Only a stipulation that he can always be assured of a home here.”

“Let us wait until we have met him, before taking him on as a tenant for life,” I said. I was beginning to hope Weylin did not succeed in finding the elusive Andrew Jones.

One can sit still, waiting, for only so long. The walls of Hernefield were beginning to weigh down on me. As Borsini was painting Lady Weylin, Lord Weylin was quite at liberty, but he did not bother to drive the few miles to Hernefield. He was out in his reckoning if he thought I was going to sit home all day long waiting for him. After lunch, I drove into Aldershot to call on Mrs. Chawton. She was not at home. I stopped at the art supply shop while I was there, to purchase some pigments and my extra easel. Rafferty let me down at the shop.

It was a busy place, since all the ladies had taken up watercolors. The oil pigments, less in demand, were kept in a special nook at the rear of the shop. I slid past the watercolor ladies, speaking to a few of them whom I recognized, and continued toward the nook. As I approached it, I spotted Borsini, bent over the shelves, selecting paints.

“Borsini, what are you doing here?” I exclaimed.

“Signorina
Barron! What a delightful surprise. I have come to buy supplies for my portrait of Lady Weylin. You have heard of my commission?”

“Indeed I have. Congratulations.”

“I am sorry to have to postpone your lesson.” As he was not painting this afternoon, I wondered why he had not slipped my lesson in. “Lady Weylin will not want to sit both morning and afternoon,” I said.

“She prefers mornings, when she is rested.”

“Then you can come to me one afternoon.”

Lord Weylin appeared from behind the rack of pigments. “Miss Barron! I thought I recognized your voice.” He bowed.

I curtsied. As I was “Miss Barron,” Weylin became “Lord Weylin.” “Lord Weylin. I did not realize you were interested in painting.”

“Mostly in Mama’s portrait,” he replied. “Borsini has kindly agreed to stay with us for the two weeks of the sitting. I drove him to town as he will require a larger carriage to transport his clothing and supplies.”

Borsini moving into Parham for two weeks? This was condescension of a high order. Even stranger was that Weylin should turn his carriage into a tranter’s wagon, and become Borsini’s servant.

Bereft of a sensible reply, I said, “I see.”

“I have been to Borsini’s studio,” Weylin continued. “He showed me some of your work. Very nice.” The only work of mine Borsini had was a couple of sketches of myself.

Borsini said, “Lord Weylin particularly liked a seascape I painted at Brighton. You know the one, Miss Barron, with the bathing houses.”

Borsini had painted several scenes of Brighton, which he sold to tourists as a souvenir of their visit to the seaside. He dashed these potboilers off quickly to make money. They were pretty, but not what a connoisseur would purchase.

I exchanged a secret smile with Borsini. “Oh yes, I recall the seascapes. Lord Weylin has chosen well.”

Borsini feared I would say more, and rushed in to ask how my studio was coming along.

“The color you chose is excellent. The painters are just finishing up. I have come to buy oils and another easel. Like you, I shall have more than one work going at a time.”

“I want to show you some new brushes they have just got in,” Borsini said. “Fine badger-hair brushes. I cannot like those cheap pig-bristle ones you still use from time to time, Miss Barron. They leave their mark in the pigment. They are too hard.”

Weylin followed along as we examined the brushes. When Borsini had talked me into three of the expensive sort, the talk turned to easels. Weylin’s nose was out of joint at being ignored.

When my selections were made, he said, “You had best pick out your pigments, Borsini. I shall bear Miss Barron company while her purchases are being wrapped.”

Borsini bowed and said, “I look forward to resuming our lessons soon,
signorina. Buongiorno.”

As
soon as we were alone, Weylin said, “You had my note?”

“Yes. I am surprised to see you dawdling about the shops. I thought you would be looking for Andrew. Mama is very eager to meet him.”

“I have hired a man to trace Jones. I am no sleuth. The job requires an expert.”

“That leaves you free to chaperon Borsini.”

“I happened to be free for an hour,” he said with a shrug.

“It did not occur to you to call at Hernefield?” I snipped. “Mama was very upset at your note. It would have made it easier if you had come in person.”

“You showed her the letter, then? I was not sure you would want to worry her with the details.”

“Of course I showed it to her. She has a right to know.”

“I have not told Mama yet. I was waiting for a reply to my note before calling on you.”

Why had I not thought of that! I should have answered his note. “Do you not plan to acknowledge Andrew, then?”

“That must depend on what sort of fellow he is. I shan’t introduce a scoundrel into the house as a relation and friend.”

“I wish you will tell Mama so! She is refurbishing a guest room for him. She speaks of buying him a mount.”

Weylin stared in dismay. “Good God!”

“Oh yes. She even speaks of allowing him a right to reside at Hernefield in her will. I half hope he is a recognizable scoundrel, or she will disinherit me entirely.”

He laughed lightly. “In that case, you must come to stay at Parham, Zoie. You will be home this evening?”

“Yes. Mama is having her crones in for cards, but I only play when Mrs. Vale cannot come. She is coming this evening. Shall I expect you to call?”

“That was my intention.”

Borsini rejoined us as the clerk brought out my parcel. “Let me carry that to the carriage for you,” Borsini offered.

“You finish up your purchase, Borsini,” Weylin said. “I shall escort Miss Barron.”

I looked for a hint of jealousy in Weylin’s manner, but could find only impatience. Weylin carried the oils, the clerk carried the easel, and we three went out to the carriage. I was happy to know Weylin would call that evening, but still mystified by his dancing such assiduous attention on Borsini.

Only a few days ago he had scoffed at Borsini’s claim of having been commissioned to paint the Prince Regent. He had spurned his artistic talent and questioned his title. Now suddenly he had not only commissioned Borsini to paint his mother, he had actually moved him into his house. And he had done it before going to the studio to judge the merit of his painting, too. I could only conclude Weylin had satisfied himself as to Borsini’s right to his title. Or as this was so unlikely, I thought perhaps Lady Weylin had taken an unaccountable liking to the artist. She now had two pets to occupy her— Bubbums and Borsini.

Chapter Eighteen

My foolish pride enjoyed the idea of entertaining Lord Weylin in one corner of the saloon while Mama’s friends played whist in the other. The old cats had begun teasing me about still being single. Last week, when I had been mending my stockings by the lamp table, Mrs. Monroe, whose tongue is sharp as a bodkin, had jokingly asked if I was making myself a cap. Whatever Weylin’s real motive in coming, the ladies would be in a frenzy to know if it was a courting call.

I took pains with my toilette. The Grecian gown was set aside for a more conservative gold lutestring, which cast a warm glow on my cheeks, and contrasted nicely with my black hair. I took a book of poetry to my usual chair beside the lamp, mentally admiring the artful picture I would present to Weylin when he was shown in.

The first disappointment was that Steptoe did not announce Lord Weylin wished to see Miss Barron. He came and hissed in my ear, “His lordship is outside, wanting a word with you.”

“Pray send his lordship in, Steptoe,” I said, loudly enough that it might have been overheard at the card table, if Mrs. Monroe had not been arguing in an auctioneer’s voice about whose turn it was to serve.

“He wants a private word,” Steptoe said. “When he heard the ladies cackling, he said, ‘We shan’t disturb them. Is there a quiet corner somewhere, Steptoe?’ I put them in the study.”

“Them? Who is with him?” The only person I could think of was Lady Weylin. That would be a feather in our cap indeed! The countess seldom stirred from her sofa.

“Count Borsini,” Steptoe hissed.

How were we to have any private conversation with Borsini present? Surely Weylin had not told Borsini about Andrew Jones! My poetic smile had dwindled to a scowl when I followed Steptoe from the saloon and into the study.

I found the gentlemen in the jumbled little study, the worst room in the house. Mama had removed the double-pedestal desk to Andrew’s room, as threatened. In its place sat a poky, battered table that hardly had room for the writing pad and three inkpots. The only seating was four wooden chairs.

As soon as we exchanged greetings, I said, “I cannot imagine why Steptoe put you in here. The place is a mess. Mama is just rearranging the furniture. Let us go into the saloon.”

“This looks perfectly comfortable,” Weylin lied, and showed me to one of the wooden chairs, before taking one himself. I daresay he read the question in my eyes, for his next speech concerned Borsini. “Mama retired early. I could not leave Borsini rattling around the house alone.”

“You have prepared your canvas for the portrait, have you, Borsini?” I asked civilly, to suggest what other occupation he might have found for himself.

“I put the gesso on it this afternoon. It is all ready to go,” he replied.

The three of us sat staring at one another like strangers at a coach stop, waiting for a carriage. “Would you care for a glass of wine?” I said, to break the silence.

They agreed, and I rang for Steptoe. The wine was brought and drunk, with very little conversation. As we could not speak of Andrew, the talk turned to painting. Borsini described the pose and costume he would use to paint Lady Weylin. I was not surprised to learn she would be painted lounging on her chaise longue, with Bubbums at her feet.

“That should look very natural,” I said.

Weylin’s lips moved in amusement, though I did not mean any offense. “Borsini was telling me you two met in Brighton,” he said.

“Yes, a few years ago,” I agreed. Weylin looked surprised.