Rose Trelawney (22 page)

This was all I knew of Kitty’s late history. I went to London, learned after four days close investigation not only who had the original Giorgione portrait, but what he had paid for it, where he had acquired it (from Mr. Uxbridge, of course). To clinch the matter, I got a letter from him stating these facts, which I was to hand over to Mr. Morley, thus positively confirming Uxbridge as a villain. Morley’s own part in the affair was unclear, but, of course, the actual working law of Christian ethics is that we are all guilty till proven innocent. In any case, he had proved himself incompetent to handle the collection, and the courts must appoint another person for the job. A hope burgeoned within me that Kitty would apply for it, that I would once and for all rid my life of her opprobrious presence. I was giddy with joy at the prospect, willing to give her any ridiculous sum in settlement of her life-tenancy with me.

I remembered setting out from the Mayhews’ with the letter in my reticule, spurning the offer of using their carriage as they would have need of it themselves. I remember Dolly’s raised brows when I descended the stairs for the trip wearing a rough cape, round bonnet and old shoes, with matching gown of unbecoming cut beneath.

“I borrowed them of your housekeeper,” I told her, laughing. “A disguise, you see, to fool Mr. Gwynne I am not rich. A trick I learned of Kitty. She never wears jewels or furs when she goes to haggle for a painting. She claims it raises the price to learn it is a museum after it, and I daresay she is right. She always strikes an excellent bargain, in any case.”

“He’ll never believe you could afford a lithograph, let alone an Italian masterpiece,” Dolly Mayhew pointed out.

“My conversation is to convince him I am extraordinarily
genteel,
love, but my limited means are all spent on my passion—art. He’ll believe the color of my money right enough,” I replied, showing her the roll of bills I had got at the bank.

“You shouldn’t carry such a sum about with you, Beth,” Mr. Mayhew cautioned.

“Pooh, rolled up in a handkerchief in the bottom of my reticule, who is to know it? My poor appearance must divert suspicion that I carry a small fortune on me.”

They drove me to the stage, saw me off, and I settled in to enjoy my masquerade. The first move I made once we were moving was to remove the wedding ring from my finger and put it in the capacious pocket of the cape. I would go to Mr. Gwynne as a Miss Mayhew, borrowing a name from my hosts, who were in fact active in a small way in the art world. I did not in the least mind traveling without a companion. My peregrinations across Europe with Papa had robbed me of foolish fears, which Kitty chose to call a sense of propriety. It was a long, dull trip. Leaving in the afternoon, I was not due to reach Gillingham till the next evening, after a sleep-over at Guildford, which we reached after dark the first day of travel. I expected to travel in a style befitting my station, not my cape, an expectation in which I was sorely out. A private parlor was not available for a young lady traveling unchaperoned and plainly outfitted. I had dinner in the common room, jostling elbows with a red-faced cit who would have picked me up for the night if I had not given him a few sharp setdowns. The next indignity was worse by far.

I was to share a room with a woman, (and I don’t mean
lady).
With a storm threatening, though not yet broken in full force, there were more people putting up for the night than expected, and there was no private room available for me. In the worst days of traveling with Papa I had not sunk to this, but I was soon given to understand the alternative was to take to the streets at nine-thirty alone, to seek another bed if I declined this offer, so I took the room, to be shared with Miss Weir—either an actress, or worse. She had a painted face and used vulgar, at times even profane, language. She shared my table as well, coming to terms with the cit very early on in the proceedings. Early enough that he picked up her bill, and she ate like a horse.

Sleep was difficult in the unaired chamber with unaired bed, but at least Miss Weir had still not entered when I finally dozed off at some time after midnight. It began to seem I was to have the room to myself after all, with Miss Weir sharing the cit’s. It suited me fine. She did come in at some time during the night, however, for in the morning her bleached hair was seen strewn over the pillow across the room from me.

My roll of money I had under my pillow. The first thing I did was to check for it, and it was all there. I was not sure, though I suspected, she watched from under her eyelids as I counted it. Now, of course, I know fully well she watched, and my hunch that she had rifled my reticule was also likely accurate. She had left open the little kidskin bag in which I carried powder and hairpins and comb.

Miss Weir loaded on to the stage in the morning, though she had not been on from London. She was at pains to take a seat by me, and I at pains to keep my reticule on the side farther from her, though to tell the truth the person on my other side, a rough-looking man who fancied himself a Lothario, was not much better. What uncouth types one meets on the public conveyances! I had grown out of the custom of such low means of getting around since marrying John.

We lost a wheel at Winchester. The weather was worsening, snow flying and a wind rising. There was some talk of stopping the coach, but while we had dinner the wheel was fixed and it set out again to continue to Salisbury. The road was open that far, and it was said we might have to stop the night there. I had decided to hire a private chaise and go on to Gillingham the next morning in that. We passed through a little place called Wickey, a mere dot on the map with no buildings of any particular interest, but a rather pretty little church tucked in at the corner of the main street. I was happy to see Miss Weir descend from the stage five miles out of Wickey. I was nervous the whole time she was there beside me, trying to make talk, and smelling so strongly of a cheap scent. The Lothario on my other side also descended, leaving me a whole banquette to myself.

The coach coming from the west was also stopped a little farther ahead, with some passenger crawling down into the storm. Some local farmer who would have to walk some distance through fields to his home I supposed. I lounged in the corner, trying to get comfortable enough to have a nap, but still making sure I had my reticule tucked against my side. There was a man across from me who looked no better than he should be. I noticed the catch was undone, and did it up quickly. Some little uneasiness was always with me, carrying so much money in cash, and I checked the bottom of my reticule once more to ensure its safety. To my utter horror, the handkerchief was gone! In a flash I knew who had stolen it. Not Miss Weir after all, but Lothario. Her accomplice certainly, though they had been careful not to be seen talking together.
He
I had not suspected of anything but flirting, and he had managed to get into my reticule while she distracted me with her chatter. They had been off the coach for about fifteen minutes, but in the snow we were making poor time, and I thought we had not covered more than a mile. I immediately ordered the coach to be stopped. I hopped down and ran after them, back towards that little place called Wickey.

I was angry as a hornet at having been duped by the pair, wondering how I would catch them. They were likely at the inn, drinking up my money. I would go to the constable’s office and have him arrest them. I could describe the handkerchief in which the money was wrapped, with my initial worked by myself, knew exactly the denomination of the bills, too. I regretted I wore such an unimpressive outfit, but meant to succeed despite it. I hurried through the cold night, my anger keeping me not only warm but hot. I suppose they must have been craftier than I thought. Must have lingered along the roadside in case I discovered my loss early on, and waited to assail me. This seemed at first unwise behavior, surely making a bolt was their best bet, but as I considered it, I decided it was greed that led them to their course. Since I kept a close enough eye on my reticule, they knew I would miss the money soon and go after them. I had a rather fine watch pinned to my gown, and carried a chased silver pillbox with stones inset bought by John in France, and a few elegant trifles worth some money. They might have been led to believe from Miss Weir’s rifling of my purse that the straw case I carried held more treasures. Actually it had only a change of undergarments and a decent gown and shoes, which I had planned to put on as soon as I had got Gwynne’s painting at a good price.

In any event, they were waiting for me, hiding behind a tree to leap out on me, silently as shadows, as I hurried past. I think it was the man who actually hit my head with some hard object, while the girl grabbed my reticule and straw bag from my hands. When I came to, lying in the ditch under the tree, the watch was gone, too. Nothing was left me but my clothing, not even my memory.

I had it back now clearly enough. The gaps in my story were due to Kitty’s involvement at Grafton’s. The fear was a trace of the horror I felt when I saw them appear out of the black night, and the anger was at losing the money, maybe at losing the memory, too, at such a crucial point. What had happened to Kitty and Miss Grafton? Kitty, no shrinking violet, had obviously made sufficient waves that Uxbridge had to get rid of her, but how Miss Grafton came to be likewise stolen away I could not fathom. I
did
know, of course, that Kitty would be wondering why I had not come galloping to her rescue weeks ago, all the while I sojourned merrily at Granhurst.

I was likely closer to her now than I had been in all that time. My kidnapper was Uxbridge, obviously. Oh yes, a little undistinguished man who would never stand out in any crowd! Funny that description had not struck me as pertinent, but then he had acted his part so well, feigning reluctance to have me with him when he must have known all the time I was in desperate straits, friendless, alone, running. Must have followed me—us—from Granhurst to the Bay House, and been awaiting a chance to get at me.

Did Sir Ludwig know it, and was that why I had been held a virtual prisoner? But still I could conceive of no reason why he should have turned against me. I was guilty of no more than attempting to get a good price for my missing madonna from Mr. Gwynne—a standard business procedure. What did he think I had done, that he should condemn me as a bitch and threaten me with ten years in prison? Something worse than wear a poor cape when I could have afforded a better, surely.

I puzzled over this for several moments, trying to see where he went wrong. He knew I was Mrs. Knightsbridge—had called me so in a manner that was not hesitant or reluctant. He knew. Knew who I was, then, but not what I was. He still thought it possible I was involved in the kidnapping and double-dealing of Uxbridge. He must have thought I was running
to
Uxbridge—that I was the man’s accomplice. I could think of no better reason.

If he succeeded in following my trail, he would be certain of it, going with Uxbridge to Wight. Certain, too, to follow us, I thought with a wave of relief. How long would it be likely to take? Where he had dashed off to the night before I had no idea, unless it were back to Morley for some help in the ransom business. I tried to struggle out of my bonds, rough prickly cords that scratched my wrists and ankles. They were very securely tied, indeed. I wiggled my hands about till my wrists were raw, and still hadn’t loosened the knots perceptibly.

Dawn was filtering through the dusty partitioned window. The navy blue rectangles became indigo, pearl gray, settling in to a dirty white eventually. It was going to be that kind of a day. I was thoroughly chilled, my muscles cramped, my stomach empty and growling, my head thumping, and most of all my temper was exacerbated with frustration at my helplessness. Why did no one come to give me food? Did he plan to starve me to death? Had he done the same to Kitty and Miss Grafton? Or were they in this same building with me, locked in some other chamber? He would not have his victims scattered around the countryside, involving various keepers. No, we—if we were all still alive—had been spirited to this quiet, out-of-the-way little island, off the beaten track. An excellent prison really, but I fancied the prison that could long hold me was yet to be built.

Chapter Sixteen

It was somewhere close to noon before a slovenly dame unlocked my door and placed a
mess of potage on the floor in a cracked bowl. By that time I had long since got out of my ropes and had been banging on the floor, walls and shouting through the broken window, all without a single sign of reaction from anyone, I might add. I began firing questions at her, but observed that her surliness was due as much to intoxication as ill humor. She had been swilling gin since breakfast, to judge from the reeking odors coming from her mouth and her haphazard manner of looking around. She did not appear to notice that I had slipped my bindings. Not a helpful word did I get out of her, nor was there anything in the room to use for a weapon. She was so large and rough looking that I didn’t quite dare tackle her empty-handed.

Kitty had somewhat better luck, perhaps because Miss Grafton was there to help her. It was about an hour later that I heard a soft tapping at the door. I had no notion of replying, as I thought it would be my jaileress, and I preferred her to open the door to ascertain I was still within, on the off chance that I might manage to fell her. The bowl of potage, still on the floor, was a possible club. I was hungry, but not quite that hungry. The taps were soon followed by whispered words. “Beth—Beth, is it you?”

Who would ever have thought I would be happy to hear Kitty Empey’s voice? But I was. I bounded to the locked door and began shouting excited questions to her.

“Hush! Be still—you’ll be heard,” she said, very much in her old domineering way. “We’ll try to get the door open. Lorraine has a key she took from another chamber door. It might fit.” There were already the clicking sounds of this expedient being tried, and before long the door opened with a squeak. Kitty and a young girl dressed in black stepped in, the former looking very much like herself, except that her gown was the worse for wear, and her complexion had either suffered or she had been wearing rouge for the past several years. This latter was by no means impossible. I had often suspected it.