Resurrection Row (12 page)

The vicar began to speak, then became increasingly unhappy with what he was saying, stopped, and began again quite differently. There was no other sound but the rain, swirling in blusters, and the far rattle of branches in the wind. No one else spoke.

Finally he became desperate and finished at a positive shout: “—commit the body of our brother—Augustus Albert William Fitzroy-Hammond—to the ground”—he took a deep breath, and his voice rose to a shriek—“until he come forth at the resurrection of the just, when the earth yields up her dead. And may the Lord have mercy on his soul!”

“Amen!” came the response with infinite relief.

They all turned and made with indecent haste for the shelter of the lychgate.

When they were crammed together underneath it, the old lady suddenly made a startling announcement. “There will be a funeral breakfast for anyone who cares to come.” She issued it rather as a challenge, a defiance to them to dare not to.

There was a moment’s silence, then a murmur of thanks. Hastily they stepped out into the rain again and splashed through the water now running down the paths and climbed into their respective carriages, sitting wrapped in wet clothes, trouser legs and skirt hems sodden, while the horses clopped back through the Park. On any other occasion they would have trotted, but it would be unthinkable for one to hurry leaving a funeral.

Back at home again, Alicia found the servants prepared to receive, although she had given no such instructions. Once, in the hall, she caught Nisbett’s eye and saw in it a gleam of satisfaction. It explained a great deal. One day she would deal with Nisbett; that was a promise.

In the meantime she must force herself to behave as was expected of her. The old lady might have invited them, but she was the hostess because this had been Augustus’s house, so now it was hers. She welcomed them in and thanked them for coming, ordered the footmen to bank up the fires and dry out as much clothing as possible, and then led the way into the dining room where the cook had prepared an array of suitable dishes. It was hardly the day for cold food, even as rich as game pies and salmon, but at least someone had thought to provide hot, mulled wine. She doubted it was the old lady; probably Milne, the butler. She must remember to thank him.

Conversation was stilted; no one knew what to say. All the sympathies had already been expressed; to say they were sorry yet again would be so jarring as to be offensive. Major Rodney made some mumbled remark about the weather, but since it was midwinter, it was hardly a subject for surprise. He began on some reminiscences about how many men had frozen to death on the heights Sevastopol, then trailed off into clearing his throat as everybody looked at him.

Miss Priscilla Rodney commented on the excellence of the chutney that was served with one of the pies but blushed when Verity thanked her, because they both knew that Priscilla made infinitely better herself. It was not the cook’s strength; she was far more skilled with soups and sauces. She always put too much pepper in pickles, and they bit like a cornered rat.

Lady Cumming-Gould seemed satisfied merely to observe. It was Virgil Smith who rescued them with the only viable conversation. He was staring at a portrait of Alicia over the fireplace, a large, rather formal study set against a brown background which did not flatter her. It was one of a long succession of family portraits going back over two hundred years. The old lady’s hung in the hallway, looking very young, like a memory from a history book, in an empire dress from the days just after Napoleon’s fall.

“I surely like that picture, ma’am,” he said, staring up at it. “It’s a good likeness, but I guess it don’t flatter you with that color behind it. I sort of see you inside, with all green and the like behind you, trees and grass, and maybe flowers.”

“You cannot expect Alicia to trail out to some countryside to sit for a portrait!” the old lady snapped. “You may spend your days in the wilderness where you come from, Mr. Smith, but we do not do so here!”

“I didn’t exactly have the wilderness in mind, ma’am.” He smiled at her, completely ignoring her tone. “I was thinking more of a garden, an English country garden, with willow trees with all of those long, lacy leaves blowing in the wind.”

“You cannot paint something blowing!” she said tartly.

“I reckon a real good artist could.” He was not to be cowed. “Or he could paint it so as you could feel as though it was.”

“Have you ever tried to paint?” She glared at him. It would have been more effective had she not been forced to stare upwards, but she was nearly a foot shorter than he, and even her voluminous bulk could not make up for the difference.

“No, ma’am.” He shook his head. “Do you paint, yourself?”

“Of course!” Her eyebrows shot up. “All ladies of good breeding paint.”

A sudden thought flashed into his face. “Did you paint that picture, ma’am?”

She froze to glacial rigidity. “Certainly not! We do not paint commercially, Mr. Smith!” She invested the idea with the same disgust she might have had he suggested she took in laundry.

“All the same, you know”—Somerset Carlisle eyed the picture critically—“I think Virgil is right. It would have been a great deal better against green. That brown is quite muddy and deadens the complexion. All the tones are spoiled.”

The old lady looked from him to Alicia, then back at the picture. Her opinion of Alicia’s complexion was plain.

“No doubt he did the best he could!” she snapped.

Miss Mary Ann joined in the conversation, her voice lifting helpfully.

“Why don’t you have it done again, my dear? I am sure in the summer it would be quite delightful to sit in the garden and have one’s portrait painted. You could ask Mr. Jones; I am told he is quite excellent.”

“He is expensive,” the old lady said witheringly. “That is not the same thing. Anyway, if we get any more pictures done, it ought to be of Verity.” She turned to look at Verity. “You probably are as good-looking now as you will ever be. Some women improve a little as they get older, but most don’t!” She flashed a glance back at Alicia, then away again. “We’ll see this man Jones—what is his name?”

“Godolphin Jones,” Miss Mary Ann offered.

“Ridiculous!” the old lady muttered. “Godolphin! Whatever was his father thinking of? But I am not paying an exorbitant price, I warn you.”

“You don’t need to pay at all,” Alicia finally responded. “I shall pay for it, if Verity would like a portrait. And if she would prefer someone other than Godolphin Jones, then we will get someone else.”

The old lady was momentarily silenced.

“Godolphin Jones seems to be away at the moment, anyway,” Vespasia observed. “I am informed he is in France. It seems to be the obligatory thing for artists to do. One can hardly call oneself an artist in society if one has not been to France.”

“Gone away?” Major Rodney sputtered in his drink and sneezed. “For how long? When is he due back?”

Vespasia looked a trifle surprised. “I have no idea. You might try sending to his house if it is important to you, although from what my own servants say, they have no idea either. Being unreliable seems also to be part of the professional character.”

“Oh, no!” Major Rodney said hastily, grabbing a game pastry and dropping it. “No, not at all! I was merely trying to be helpful!” He picked up the pasty again, and it fell apart on the tablecloth. Virgil Smith handed him a napkin and a plate, then helped him scoop it up with a knife.

The old lady made a noise of disgust and turned to look the other way. “I suppose he is a competent artist?” she said loudly.

“He fetches a very high price,” Miss Priscilla replied. “Very high, indeed. I saw the portrait of Gwendoline Cantlay, and she told me what she had paid for it. I must say, I thought it a great deal, even for a good likeness.”

“And that is about all it is.” Carlisle’s mouth turned down. “A good likeness. It catches something of her character; it would be hard for a likeness not to, but it is not art. One would not wish for it unless one was fond of Gwendoline herself.”

“Is that not the purpose of a portrait?” Miss Mary Ann inquired innocently.

“A portrait, perhaps,” Carlisle agreed. “But not of a painting. A good painting should be a pleasure to anyone, whether they know the subject or not.”

“Overrated,” the old lady nodded. “And overpaid. I shall not pay him that much. If Gwendoline Cantlay did, then she is a fool.”

“Hester St. Jermyn paid something similar,” Miss Priscilla said with her mouth full. “And I do know dear Hubert paid a good deal for the picture Mr. Jones painted of us, didn’t you, dear?”

Major Rodney colored painfully and treated her to a look of something close to loathing.

“I’ve seen the one of Lady Cantlay.” Virgil Smith screwed up his face. “I wouldn’t buy it if it were on sale. It seems kind of—heavy—to me. Not like a lady should look.”

“What do you know about such things?” the old lady snapped derisively. “Do you have ladies wherever it is you come from?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t reckon you would call them ladies,” he said slowly. “But I’ve seen a few over here. I think Miss Verity is surely a lady and deserves a portrait that says so.”

Verity blushed with pleasure and treated him to one of her rare smiles. Alicia found herself suddenly liking him very much, in spite of his manners and his plain face.

“Thank you,” Verity said quietly. “I think I shall like to have a portrait done, in the summer, if Alicia does not mind?”

“Of course not,” Alicia agreed. “I shall make inquiries to find someone.” She was aware of Virgil Smith looking at her. She was a handsome woman and she was used to admiration, but there was something more personal in his gaze, and she found it uncomfortable. She wanted to break the silence, and she rushed to find something to say. She turned to Vespasia. “Lady Cumming-Gould, can you recommend anyone who might paint Verity pleasingly? You must have been painted many times yourself.”

Vespasia looked a trifle pleased. “Not lately, my dear. But I will ask among my acquaintances, if you wish. I am sure you can do better than Godolphin Jones. I believe he is very highly regarded by some, or so the price he fetches would indicate, but I agree with Mr. Smith; he is somewhat heavy-handed, a little fleshy.”

The old lady glared at her, opened her mouth, met Vespasia’s unflinching stare, and closed it again. Her eyes swept over Virgil Smith as if he had been an unpleasant stain on the carpet.

“Precisely,” Carlisle said with satisfaction. “There is an abundance of portrait painters about. Just because Godolphin lives in the Park, that is not a reason to patronize him, if you prefer someone else.”

“Gwendoline Cantlay had two pictures done,” Miss Priscilla offered. “I cannot imagine why.”

“Perhaps she likes them?” Miss Mary Ann suggested. “Some people must, or they would not pay so very much money.”

“Art is very much a matter of taste, isn’t it?” Alicia looked from one to the other.

The old lady snorted. “Naturally. Good taste—and bad taste! Only the vulgar, who know no better, judge anything as a matter of money.” Once more her eyes darted to Virgil Smith and away again. “Time is the thing—whatever has lasted, that is worth something! Old paintings, old houses, old blood.”

Alicia felt embarrassed for him, as if she were both receiving the hurt herself, and at the same time responsible for it because the old lady was part of her family.

“Pure survival alone is hardly a mark of virtue.” She surprised herself by speaking so vehemently and with something that could only be regarded as insolence by the old lady, but she wanted to contradict her so badly it was like a bursting in her head. “After all, disease survives!”

Everyone was staring at her, the old lady with a look as if her footstool had risen up and smitten her.

Somerset Carlisle was the first to react. “Bravo!” he said cheerfully. “An excellent argument, if somewhat eccentric! I’m not sure Godolphin would appreciate it, but it just about sums up the relationship between art, survival, and price.”

“I don’t understand.” Miss Priscilla squinted painfully. “I don’t see the relationship at all.”

“That is precisely what I mean,” he agreed. “There is none.”

The old lady banged her stick on the ground. She had been aiming at Carlisle’s foot and missed. “Of course there is!” she snapped. “Money is the root of all evil! Bible says so. Do you argue with that?”

“You misquote.” Carlisle was not daunted, and he did not move his feet. “What it says is that ‘the love of money is the root of all evil.’ Things are not evil; it is the passions they stir in people that may be.”

“A piece of sophistry,” she said with disgust. “And this is not the place for it. Go to your club if you have a taste for that kind of conversation. This is a funeral breakfast. I would oblige you to remember that!”

He bowed very slightly. “Indeed, ma’am, you have my sympathies.” He turned to Alicia and Verity. “And you also, of course.”

Suddenly everyone remembered this was the third time they had attended such an affair, and Major Rodney excused himself rather loudly in the awkwardness that followed. He took his sisters by the arms and almost propelled them out into the hallway, where the footman had to be sent for to bring their coats.

Vespasia and Carlisle followed; Virgil Smith hesitated a moment by Alicia.

“If there is anything I can do, ma’am?” He looked uncomfortable, as if he wanted to say something and could not find the words.

She was aware of the kindness in him, and it made her also feel a little clumsy. She thanked him more hastily than she meant to, and with a faint color in his face, he followed the others out.

“I see your Mr. Corde didn’t come!” the old lady said spitefully. “Other fish to fry, maybe?”

Alicia ignored her. She did not know why Dominic had sent no word, no flowers or letter of sympathy. It was something she did not want to think about.

On the morning of the interment Dominic had been in two minds as to what to do. He had got up and dressed, intending to go, as a support to Alicia in a time which was bound to be extremely trying for her. Verity was too young and too vulnerable herself to afford much comfort, and he knew the old lady would, if anything, make matters worse. No one would find his attendance odd; it was a mark of respect. After all, he had been invited to the original funeral.