Gather Ye Rosebuds (21 page)

“Good for you, Brodagan. Was it very bad?” I asked.

“If hell has worse pain than a tooth drawer, then I’ll sin no more. I mean to get to heaven by hook or by crook.” She turned to Mama and said, “I want to make a confession, melady. I didn’t make dust rags out of that bit o’ worn muslin off the blue guest room bed as you told me to, but made myself up a petticoat. It’s been lying heavy on my conscience. I’ll rip the petticoat up this very day and make it into dust rags, for a life of sin is not worth the torment.”

“Any worn muslin in this house is yours to do with as you see fit, Brodagan,” Mama said, with tears in her eyes. To me she added, “Was ever a lady blessed with such honest servants, Zoie? I swear they deserve halos, every one of them.”

Brodagan was much touched, and fell into tears. Mary joined in, and soon Mama was weeping as well. I felt a tear ooze out of my own eyes, and before we all drowned, we sent Brodagan off to bed. Mama went with her, which postponed telling her about Barry’s having been married. She would be delighted to hear it, but the affair was so complicated that I wanted to ponder all its implications before telling her.

No, there is no point being evasive with you so late in my story. Like Brodagan, I shall confess the whole truth. I hoped to contrive some way for Andrew Jones (whom I believed to be Borsini) to keep his mama’s fortune. Surely she had earned it. Macintosh knew of her condition when he married her, and the fact that she was already married had not inconvenienced him much. His own son was already well provided for. Why should Andrew not have a piece of the pie? Mama might feel differently, however, so I would tread softly.

I was so upset that I could not settle down to painting or any other occupation, and decided to take a canter through the meadow to ease the tension. This would also give me a view of the Weylins’ park. If anything of interest was transpiring, it was transpiring at Parham. All I saw was a couple of gardeners out scything the grass.

The major subject at luncheon was Brodagan’s condition and our own shortage of servants. Brodagan’s jaw was swollen up like a turnip. She wanted to work despite it; Mama forbade it; Mary and Jamie between them could hardly slice the mutton, much less cook it. The fire in the kitchen stove had gone out, and who was to answer the door if we had any callers? In the middle of our cold luncheon, the servants arrived from Parham. I had forgotten all about Weylin’s offer to send them, but they were more than welcome.

Mama became tongue-tied in their presence. It was for me to ask the footman to see to the stove, and assign the female servants to Mary for instructions. As soon as lunch was over, Mama went abovestairs to see that Mary had done the rooms, for she disliked Weylin’s servants to see the house dusty and the beds unmade.

“He knows we need help, Mama. That is why he sent his servants to us.”

“Yes, dear, but servants from Parham! I would not want them to think us slovenly.”

She went upstairs to make her own bed and dust her toilet table. I sat by the window, waiting. It was not long before Weylin and Borsini arrived. I do not know what caused it, but Borsini had lost his second-rate air. He was wearing the same jacket, but when he alit from Weylin’s crested carriage, he walked with a more confident air. He and Weylin might have come from the same egg. That hint of obsequiousness that always hung about him was gone. His head was held high and his shoulders were straight. He looked as if he belonged in that carriage. He and Weylin were talking and laughing like old friends.

I admitted them, as the footman was too busy tending to the stove to act as butler. I knew by the mischievous light in Weylin’s eyes that he was happy about something. When Borsini came in, he just smiled a moment from the doorway, then came forward, put his arms around me, and kissed my cheek.

“Cousin!” He beamed. “I have been wanting to call you that these five years. Now you know the whole!”

“I still have a few questions,” I said, leading them to a seat, but I was happy to hear Borsini was indeed my cousin, and not an impostor.

“It is the money you are concerned about,” Borsini said. In the past, he would not have been confident enough to put himself forward in this manner. He would have waited for Weylin to explain, or at least looked to him for permission. “The fact of the matter is, that ten thousand pounds did not come from Macintosh. It was Margaret’s dowry. We do not see—Weylin and I—why it should go to Angus Macintosh. He has more than enough.” He continued in this vein.

Although I listened closely (and agreed heartily), my eyes often strayed to Weylin. His composure told me he had accepted Borsini as his cousin. He read my unspoken question, and explained the reason.

“Andrew has proven to my satisfaction that he is Margaret’s son. Macintosh wanted him out of Scotland, and sent him to Ireland. He felt Andrew would feel at home there, since it was where his father was from. Andrew showed me the adoption papers and birth certificate the Joneses left him when they died. He knew he was adopted, but Mrs. Jones told him he was the son of her cousin, who died in childbirth.”

“They were fine people,” Borsini said. “Not well off, you know, but honest and hardworking. Mrs. Jones was unable to have children. They are both dead now. In fact, they were getting on when they adopted me.”

“Andrew’s life is chronicled from the beginning to the present,” Weylin said. “He has his school diplomas from St. Patrick’s Academy in Dublin, and a letter of reference from the school where he taught. From the time he left there, we know where he was. First in Brighton, and later at Aldershot.”

“It was Barry’s idea that I settle close to Hernefield,” Borsini added. “I always called my real parents by their Christian names. To me, Mama and Papa are the folks who raised me. Margaret was afraid her secret would come out if we were seen together here, and approved Barry’s idea of the little cottage near Ashdown Forest. Even there she insisted on hiding that we were all one family. In public, I was her nephew, and Barry was our butler, but of course, within the cottage we could be ourselves. We enjoyed some happy hours, telling each other all that had happened to us over the years. I thought you might tumble to it, Zoie, that my absence for a week every quarter coincided with your uncle’s trips—ostensibly to London.”

“It never occurred to me. But why did you not tell us, Borsi— Andrew? You could have depended on Mama and myself to keep your secret.”

“Many’s the time I was within a breath of it. It was Margaret who demanded secrecy, because of her bigamy. That is a serious crime.”

“Why did Margaret not go to India with Barry?” I asked. “Did she know she was enceinte when he left?”

Andrew shook his head in frustration. “I have heard them argue about it for hours on end. It was a challenge for power, cousin. She knew he had made arrangements to go to India when she married him. She thought she could convince him to stay in Ireland. He had no home to take her to, and was too proud to live off her money. He felt he could make his fortune in India. He was sure she would cave in and go with him at the last minute. He gave her an ultimatum: I am going. Meet me at the dock. She didn’t show up, and he left without her. Neither of them knew that I was already more than a gleam in his eye.”

“That would have changed things, I daresay.”

“I like to think so,” he agreed. “Shortly after Barry left, Margaret returned to England. When she discovered her condition, she panicked. Old Weylin was dead set against her marrying Barry. He wouldn’t let him inside the door. They met at an assembly, and arranged trysts away from the house where she was visiting. Poor Margaret didn’t know what to do. It seems Macintosh had offered for her a year before. He showed up at Parham just when she was at her wits’ end. She confided to him that she was enceinte, and he offered to marry her. What she did not tell him was that she was already married. She never did tell him. She wrote to Barry informing him what she had done, and said that if he told anyone of their marriage, she would kill herself. Since she had no idea where Macintosh had sent me, Barry let the matter rest.”

“How did he find you then?” I asked.

“He read any English journals that came his way and eventually learned of Macintosh’s death. He thought Margaret would be in touch with him then, but years passed and she did not write. When there was that little trouble over the missing money—Barry was completely innocent, and he proved it—but he was unhappy in his work then, and decided to come back to England and try to straighten matters out. He paid a visit home to Ireland first, and while there, he heard of the Joneses having adopted a boy at about the time I was born. He traced me to the school where I was teaching art. You never saw any resemblance between us, cousin, but I do look a little like him. Margaret says I have her eyes. Barry thought so, too. Well, the upshot of it was that he got in touch with Margaret, and her companion was able to provide the name of the fellow who took me away the night I was born. It took a deal of work, but eventually it was established that I was taken to an orphanage in Dublin, and adopted by William Jones.

“I felt some kinship with Barry even before he told me. He struck up a friendship with me, you know. We used to go out a bit together in Dublin. He professed an interest in my art, said I should go to England and set up a studio. Then when he told me the whole, we both got serious about it.”

“Why did you decide to become Count Borsini?” I asked.

“That was Margaret’s idea. She said I had noble blood, and would have better luck in my career if I claimed a title. That meant being a foreigner. I could not claim to be a Frenchie, since I cannot parlay the bongjaw well enough. Very few Englishmen speak Italian, so I became Count Borsini. I remember the night we chose the name. Barry and I were having a bottle of wine in the rooms I hired in Brighton. It was from the Borsini vineyards, so we decided I would be a younger son of Count Borsini.”

“And you made the mistake of putting those vineyards in Venice,” I reminded him.

“Ah, you remember that faux pas. I was hoping you had not noticed it.”

“Did you never plan to tell us who you are, Andrew?” I asked. “When both Barry and Margaret were dead, surely there was no reason to keep quiet.”

“I have wanted to tell you forever, but I could not find the marriage certificate. Without that, I felt very little claim on your friendship—a mere by-blow. You would be ashamed of me. I hoped that setting up your studio might provide an excuse to search Barry’s room. I knew he had the certificate, for he showed it to us once at Lindfield. Margaret was touched that he had kept it all those years. Then yesterday Steptoe got in touch with me. He had seen me in Lindfield. The scoundrel had been spying through Barry’s belongings when Barry was still alive, and saw the marriage license. Barry interrupted him before he had time to read the bride’s name. Steptoe has been searching for it ever since, but he could not find it.

“He knew Barry met me in Tunbridge when he was supposed to be in London. He never spotted Margaret. She kept pretty close to the house. I don’t believe Steptoe ever figured out what was going on. Being a thief himself, he suspected only financial chicanery, but there was nothing illegal in Barry selling the jewelry he brought home from India. A fine emerald necklace, a sapphire ring, a few other pieces. Margaret sold the diamond necklace herself, and claimed it was stolen, to avoid questions. Barry dealt with a different jeweler.”

I missed a golden opportunity to hold my tongue and said, “Mr. Bradford, at the Kashmir Jewelry Shop.” Weylin gave me a questioning look, but Andrew spoke on.

“That is right. I see you have been investigating, cousin. Margaret and Barry wanted to see me comfortable in the world. They preferred to arrange all the transfers by cash, to be rid of the complications of a will, which was bound to cause trouble. I did not urge them to do it. Money is not important to me. I don’t need much, though I daresay I shall set myself up in a little higher style now that you folks are acknowledging me. Anyhow, I agreed to pay Steptoe a hundred pounds if he could find the marriage license.”

“I wonder why Steptoe left without finding it,” I said. “It is unlike him to walk away from a hundred pounds. He must have assumed Barry destroyed it.”

“I wager he did not leave empty-handed,” Weylin said.

“He did not take the silver or any jewelry at least.”

A little later, Mary came bobbing into the saloon to say Mama was arranging the blue room for Mr. Jones, and did I know what happened to the little blue and white jug that used to sit on the bureau. It was gone.

“No, I have not seen it, Mary.” Saint Brodagan has a heavy hand. In her new state of grace, she would no doubt confess to having broken it, if asked nicely. I said to Weylin, “That is the little jug like the Ming vase you thought I was trying to steal at Parham. I mentioned it to you.”

“Ah yes, the Ming vase made in Italy.” Then his smile stretched to a wicked grin. “Steptoe!
That
is what he ran off with! He mistook it for a genuine Ming. I knew he had not gone empty-handed. He will be disappointed when he tries to hawk it.”

Borsini—I must remember to call him Andrew—was smiling softly. “Preparing a guest room for me?” he asked. “Then she is willing to acknowledge me?”

“Willing and eager, even though she is unaware of that wedding certificate,” I assured him. “She has bought sateen for new curtains for your room.”

“You will have uphill work trying to pry Andrew loose from Mama,” Weylin warned. “He is a prime favorite there, too.”

Mama soon joined us, and the story was gone over again. She was completely enthralled with her new nephew.

“I always felt there was something in Borsini—did I not say so, Zoie? I always felt—but it was those
‘signoras’
that put me off a little. You must call me Aunt Flo, Andrew. Come and tell me if you like the blue room, or if you would prefer your papa’s octagonal tower. Zoie can have her studio in another room.”

Knowing my keen interest in my studio, Andrew said at once that blue was his favorite color. I heard him assuring Mama as they went toward the staircase that he was never comfortable in an odd-shaped room.