The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (12 page)

He had answered their raillery defiantly, writing in the preface to his volume, “I am not afraid of the fate an author usually meets with on his first appearance, from a set of critics who are never wanting to show their wit and malice on the performance of others. I repay their censures with contempt.”

What I did not until now comprehend was that to publish his book he had required financial assistance, which his usual backer, a Scottish merchant, having recently advanced a large sum for the setting up of the St. Martin’s Lane premises, could not provide.

Chippendale gazed at the tongues of fire consuming the coals. He appeared to have almost forgotten my presence and was speaking candidly, confessionally even. “Soon after the opening of this new emporium, Henry Montfort presented himself—a discerning patron of the arts, in great need of a quantity of furnishings. As is my habit in such instances, I journeyed to Cambridge to take measurements and discuss his requirements in greater detail. The preliminary sketches I drew impressed him, and his flattery encouraged me to confide that I wished to publish a book of my drawings. He was interested in providing the necessary backing and offered the entire sum required. His terms were reasonable, the interest modest. The only security he demanded was the original drawings from which the engravings were made.”

He paused and stared at me as if trying to gauge my reaction to what he was saying. I met his eye impassively, saying nothing.

“All this took place two years ago. Since then, as you know, the publication has been remarkably successful and the loan was repaid as agreed.
But the drawings were never returned.
” Here he paused and breathed deeply, as if he were battling inwardly with himself. “Each time I raised the matter Montfort stalled, citing some new commission that had yet to be completed, that bore no relation to the original agreement. I was anxious to give no offense, for Montfort was powerful enough to do inestimable damage to my reputation. Yet I also knew that unless I capitalized on the success of the first edition and published a second, my competitors would follow my lead and gain ground on me.”

Against my better judgment I was drawn into Chippendale’s dilemma. “But what did it matter if he had the drawings? You had the engraving plates. You could make a new edition from those, surely?”

“But the drawings Montfort had in his possession were virtually my entire collection of designs,
far more
than those that were eventually published in the
Director.
Many of these drawings were unique, for I’d made no copies of them; among them were some of my finest, most ingenious ideas, which I intended to use for the second edition. It would take years for me to repeat them all, by which time I’d have lost my advantage over my competitors.”

“But why did Lord Montfort not keep to his agreement and return the drawings?”

“Montfort, as you have remarked, was an unpredictable and often unreasonable patron. He was also an avid collector who took great delight in amassing treasures for his house. He realized when the book made its mark that the original drawings for it would be of great value, a trophy in his collection. Perhaps he intended to try to buy them from me. As for the other drawings, the unpublished ones, I believe when he saw how urgently I wanted them he held on to them as a lever to get the library completed speedily and to his satisfaction. Doubtless, were it not for his death, he would now have returned them.”

I thought this highly unlikely but didn’t trouble myself to say so, for it was neither here nor there now. “Did anyone else know of this arrangement?”

“No one save Montfort and myself. There were letters of agreement between us, some of which I have here,” he said, pointing to his bureau. “And so to the solution I have in mind—the reason I’ve confided in you, Nathaniel.”

“What do you mean?”

“The death of Montfort is unfortunate as regards my payment for the library, but it puts a new—happier—complexion on the matter of the drawings. There is no reason now for them to be withheld. I have ample documentation to prove my case. I wish you to return immediately to Horseheath Hall with these documents and a letter from me, show them to the attorney Wallace, and recover my drawings. Then my unhappy predicament will be resolved.”

I scratched my earlobe. “There is another matter that may hinder the immediate return of the drawings.”

“What, pray, is that?”

“It concerns Partridge.”

“Partridge has nothing to do with it.”

“I am certain he does, sir. Have I not already told you I found him dead in the grounds of Horseheath Hall? In any event I have learned that a few days before his death Partridge called on Lord Montfort.”

Chippendale’s brows knitted together; his voice was biting. “Impossible. He wouldn’t have dared.”

“It seems he did. According to Miss Alleyn, Lord Montfort’s sister, he came expressly to Horseheath to request a loan to establish himself in business. Her story is borne out by the fact that some of his drawings were mingled with yours in the library when Lord Montfort’s body was found.”

If my revelation unsettled Chippendale, it was only for an instant. “But what does this matter, since neither Partridge nor Montfort is here to plague us?”

I clenched my fists on the armrests of the chair so tightly that my knuckles bleached. Violence boiled within me. How I longed to take him by the collar and shake him till his brains rattled in his skull; instead I struggled to contain myself and put on an air of detachment. “Partridge’s death confuses the issue. The justice, Sir James Westleigh, may wish to hold all the drawings until both deaths are resolved.”

Chippendale snorted like an angry bull. “So Partridge thwarts me even in death. He deserves the end he met.”

My head trembled. I lowered my gaze to examine my boots. I couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, so intense was the loathing I felt for him at that moment. “Sir,” I said, “why was it that Partridge believed Lord Montfort might assist him? Why did he need assistance? Particularly when you told me he was on his sickbed?”

There was a long pause, during which I scrutinized him intently. Unable to meet the gaze I leveled at him, Chippendale rose from his seat and walked to the window. It gave out onto the street, where a noisy vendor was waving his arms about, touting oranges to passersby. When he turned back his expression was bland and ingenuous. “I’m as ignorant as you on the matter.”

I looked deeper into his eyes and thought I caught a flicker of something. What was it? Fear? Anger? Guilt? Whatever it was, I knew I didn’t believe him. But before I could pose any further interrogation, a lady’s voice was heard floating from the yard outside. Its tone was deep and melodious, with a faintly foreign timbre. She was arguing hotly with the apprentice boy, Craggs, who could be heard attempting—vainly—to halt her progress.

“Madam, I would beg you to wait in the showrooms while I call Mr. Chippendale to attend you. This is his private residence, he does not receive his patrons here,” he stuttered, as her voice drew ever closer to the front door.

“Do you not know me, boy? I am Madame Trenti. Your master will be enchanted to receive me wherever I chance upon him.”

“Nevertheless, madam, you would be more comfortable in the showroom. Mr. Chippendale will come directly to you.”

She ignored him. Having rattled the door loudly, she swept past the unfortunate servant girl who answered it. Observing the parlor door ajar and Chippendale and me within, she announced herself with a rustle of petticoats and a twitch of the plume upon her hat. We stood respectfully. La Trenti, as she was billed in Drury Lane, was appareled in a wide hooped petticoat that filled the narrow doorway entirely. Craggs was hopping up and down in the hall, for he could not politely get past her to effect the correct introductions.

“Mr. Chippendale, sir, Madame Trenti demanded that I bring her to you. She would not wait in the shop,” he blurted from behind her ballooning skirts.

Madame Trenti smiled alluringly, turned herself sideways, and edged through the door. In the center of the room she unfastened her cloak, like a flower opening its petals, to reveal a petticoat of buttercup yellow beneath a robe of purple tabinet. She smiled at Chippendale, revealing a row of faintly yellow teeth. “I trust you were expecting me.”

He bowed low over the outstretched hand she proffered, his face a model of politeness. “Indeed, madam, I am, as always, honored to receive you. I trust you will forgive our modest surroundings, for there is something of great importance I have to show you.”

“I am all impatience. Does it concern my furnishings?”

“Madam, I have concocted for you a design of such splendor as would make a monarch reel. Have you acquired a suitable residence?”

“There is a vacant mansion in Soho Square…. I am in discussion.”

While the design was sent for, Madame Trenti, with my assistance, eased herself into the best chair the room could provide. Meanwhile Chippendale flattered her zealously.

“Your Cordelia I’ve heard was a triumph.”

“The critics were kind. Did you attend?”

“I did not need to attend to hear the thunderous applause. It reverberated throughout the city.”

“You are too generous. But yes, in truth, I believe my reputation does increase.”

“No critic can do justice to the universal acclaim you so richly deserve for your radiance and your talent…”

A shaft of wintry sunlight flooded the room and fell on her face. Once she must have been a beauty, but now her skillful application of powder, rouge, and patches could not mask the shrinking flesh. I was reminded of a mannequin doll sent back and forth from Paris clad in miniature versions of the latest modes, whose paint had chipped with passing years.

When the designs were brought, Chippendale passed them to her one by one, explaining the significance of every pen stroke. “The drawings, madam, are for the king of all furniture: I speak, as I am sure you have guessed, of a writing cabinet…a cabinet of such curiosity and complexity as will cause everyone who sees it to marvel.”

She rustled her skirts with impatient delight as he explained his vision. Every detail of the cabinet had been delineated; it was as real to him as the chairs on which they sat. “Picture yourself, madam, in the best room of your mansion, dressed in your finest silk, displaying this masterpiece to your callers, teasing them to discover the secrets held within. To an accomplished actress such as yourself I hardly need explain how such an extravagant prop will charm them, intrigue them…”

“Indeed, Mr. Chippendale, it sounds most enticing. Pray show me how it will operate.”

“Perhaps a young gallant might press this catch, remove a section of the façade, and reveal a hidden arcade, which thanks to the judicious positioning of mirrors will seem to stretch to infinity. Next he will discover the hidden niche in which a figurine is concealed. Then the grand finale…”

“A grand finale?”

“You will step forward. You will turn this column, which will trigger a movable panel here, behind which some truly astonishing secret will be concealed.”

She was quivering visibly, fluttering her hands with childlike expectation.

“And what might that be?”

Chippendale held up a calming hand. “That, madam, is a matter for discussion and thought.” He paused emphatically. “I believe it should be something precious yet personal. Perhaps a miniature in enamel, or a musical figurine in your form that dances…”

“Or a jewel of some description,” said she, warming to his theme. “How magnificent it will be. I can hardly bear to wait. How long will it take to execute?”

“It is begun already, but still it will take a matter of some weeks, madam—for as you can see it is an object of great, indeed, I daresay, unparalleled complexity.”

Her face fell a little. “And the price?”

“Such a unique and extravagant piece will of necessity require the best materials and craftsmen of the highest skill…”

She nodded her head briskly and handed the drawings back.

“Then let us talk of it later. I would not think of money in the face of such beauty. Let us consider instead the decoration. You have a talented craftsman,” she said. “The young man to whom I spoke on my last visit. The foundling. He will surely be capable of this work. I am convinced from the last piece you supplied that his carving rivals the best in Europe, and is unmatched in this country.”

“Madam, the craftsman of whom you speak, Partridge, is as you so rightly say an expert carver. But therein lies his greatest skill. You will see from these drawings there is little carving in this. The decoration is inlaid with marquetry and cast metal mounts. Pictures made from wood. Golden statues. An unfamiliar method of decoration these last decades, but one that will be intoxicating in its beauty.”

Her face puckered with disapproval. “I would not wish anything that is outmoded.”

“It is a style that already holds France, and will rapidly return to these shores. With this cabinet in your rooms you will be regarded as fashion’s founding goddess rather than her slavish handmaiden.”

She looked only slightly appeased. “Nevertheless I desire that Partridge work on it. If he can carve with such genius he can surely cut out shapes from wood with similar inspiration.”

“Mr. Partridge is no longer with us.”