The House in Grosvenor Square (6 page)

It was no longer a proper tour, as people began to scatter to areas of interest. Ariana slowly circled the first floor again, with the merchants eagerly following. She had no wish to make extensive alterations, of course. Just a few touches here and there would do. An artisan jotted notes whenever she stopped to suggest a new theme for a bit of statuary or bit of plasterwork—there were more nudes and pagan scenes than she had formerly realized. The men treated each of her suggestions with the utmost gravity and understanding.

Mrs. Hamilton tried to maintain distance from Miss Forsythe, but she determined to remain with her and observe her doings. She wished to know of any impending changes in her domicile—the master's domicile to be precise. It offended her mightily that the lady was evidently authorizing alterations in a dwelling that was already perfect. Moreover, she wasn't even the mistress yet!

In the dining room, Ariana noticed the medallions alongside the windows, all of which bore similar Romanesque carvings of goddesses in flimsy robes.

“I have just the thing to replace these,” one man said, picking up on her tastes. “The same style of elegance and craftsmanship but with a decorated wreath surrounded by ornament and little cherubs.”

“As long as the figures are properly draped, sir. I will not countenance,” Ariana said, choosing her words carefully, “an absence of clothing, even in a cherub.” Her cheeks flamed crimson, but there she had said it!

“Very good, ma'am.” He made a note on his pad. “Shall we replace all four of these panels with the new design, then?” He eyed her expectantly. “You do of course want uniformity.”

“Of course,” she said sagely, though uniformity had never before occupied her thoughts.

“Ma'am, I have just the designer to meet your needs,” said another man stepping forward. “Tell me which figures are acceptable to you; Moses, King David, or members of the Holy Family, perhaps?”

“Yes. Yes, any or all of them sound fine to me,” she said with relief.

Eagerly he added, “My man does freestanding sculptures as well. Pointing to a corner that held a Roman bust of a soldier, with its style of peculiarly blank eyes, on a columnar pedestal, he continued, “Shall we say a bust of the head of St. Peter here?”

“Make it Mary Magdalene,” she replied, without having known that she would have such a preference. My, but this was interesting. She was discovering her own tastes. And she did have them. She had preferences that had never been known as there had never been an opportunity to exercise them before.

A loud crash from the hall interrupted them. When they turned to see what had happened, they saw that Mrs. Hamilton, with a set mouth, was already investigating. Without missing a beat, the merchant added, “And in that corner, ma'am, we can replace that coldish looking statue with a very good bust of the mother of God. Wouldn't you agree?”

Did she agree? The mother of God? He meant the mother of Jesus. That would be Mary. She saw no cause to disagree and mumbled, “Yes, fine.” The shopkeepers were making it all quite easy for her. “Very good, ma'am,” was the standard reply.

Of a bas-relief Roman soldier in a chariot, she asked, “Can you make this Elijah in a chariot of fire? You need only add some flame effects, remove the helmet, and add hair and a beard.” The man jotted furiously onto his pad, nodding his head.

In the study he suggested replacing the huntress Diana with the two hounds, pointing at a relief panel on one wall. Ariana looked thoughtfully at the area.

“Make it Nimrod.”

“Nimrod the hunter? Oh, excellent, ma'am!” He eyed her with true admiration.

Where there were cupids or eros or mythical beasts, she asked for angels.

For every alteration suggested, the shopkeeper or artist suggested another. And all her decisions were met with praises of the highest regard—her taste was splendid, her choices, remarkable. The house would be a masterpiece and supremely fitting for the Paragon and his bride.

When Mrs. Bentley approached, Ariana asked, “What was the loud crash, Aunt Bentley?”

The older lady sniffed. “A bust, I'm afraid. Some soldier or statesman of
Rome, I warrant. Beatrice is too young for town. I was right on that account! Rushing around like a hoyden in this house. Mr. Mornay, I daresay, is bound to be out of countenance.”

But Ariana had gone back to the pattern book before her, as though unconcerned.

“Does it not concern you?” her relation asked. “A fine sculptured bust, ruined?”

Ariana look up briefly. “We were getting rid of it, in any case, ma'am.”

“We?”
She gave the merchant a shrewd look, which he did his best to ignore. “Hmmm.” She studied her niece thoughtfully. “I maintain it must be acceptable for a lady to make a few changes in her future abode, but pray, do not forget whose house you are in. Mr. Mornay should no doubt be consulted before you institute any grand—”

“But, Aunt, I mean to surprise him!”

“What?
You?
”

Ariana tried not to take offense at her aunt's tone. Surely she did not understand that just because Ariana didn't drool over fashion or millinery as her aunt did, it didn't have to follow that she had no taste at all.

“Everything is of the first water, my gel, and without Mornay here, I daresay you must be conservative in your plans.” When Ariana did not respond, she added, with a little asperity, “Do you not think so?”

“Conservative?” Ariana smiled. “Aunt Bentley, I want above all things to be conservative.” She pointed at bas-relief nudes on the wall. “I have ordered a new panel here,” she said, with a satisfied look.

“You're replacing this? Why, what's wrong with it?” the lady asked, mystified.

Mr. Pellham had come in earlier, overheard some of the dialogue, and was smiling, understanding instantly how it was. And then Mrs. Bentley caught on and looked with alarm at her niece. “My gel, this is the classical style! No one thinks of this as anything but art. No one pays any attention to it at all, I daresay!”

“Then no one shall notice I've changed it,” she replied.

Her aunt made a grimace. “What else have you authorized?”

“The addition of angels, a few paintings, and plasterwork. That sort of thing.”

Mrs. Bentley stared at her niece. It seemed so unlike Ariana to take charge of anything so momentous as changing the Paragon's dwelling—even if she was soon to share it—that all she could do was stare for a moment.
The
girl is growing up, that much is evident. All the better,
she thought.
Marriage and children will be easier for her.

Resigned, Mrs. Bentley accepted Mr. Pellham's arm and followed her niece to the kitchens to complete their tour of the house. They saw a beautiful and very respectable library and Mr. Mornay's handsome study, a business office, the butler's closet, the wine cellar, and now the servants' hall and kitchens. Everyone was tired, and so Ariana requested a tray of cold meats and scones. They went back upstairs to a morning room to enjoy it.

The shopkeepers, all except the plasterers and sculptors, were disappointed with the results of the time they had spent at Grosvenor Square that day and left dispiritedly. The plate manufacturer had tried admirably to persuade the young bride-to-be that it was entirely fitting for a new dinner service to be made, but Ariana was growing dismayed at all the changes she had authorized. Thinking of the expense, she wouldn't hear of it. He flew to Mrs. Bentley, who offered the opinion that Ariana should indeed order new plates with a matching tea and coffee service, at the least. A fat catalogue of designs was produced. The Mornay coat of arms was suggested, but Ariana declined it. Too masculine.

Mrs. Herley and Mrs. O'Brien could not remain impervious to this discussion and offered their opinions. All three women tightly surrounded Ariana and strained to see the catalogue she held. Ariana could not stand up to the force of the three ladies and conceded to a Staffordshire set with a soft floral pattern, which she would customize by having the scrolling initials P and A incorporated into the design. Her heart beat faster at saying the initials. It was so exciting that she would soon be Mrs. Mornay. She, a married woman! Phillip, her husband!

Afterward Ariana dismissed all the merchants, thanking them for their time, and settled down to enjoy another round of refreshments with her guests before they were off. Mrs. Bentley, though she sorely needed a cup of tea, made some excuse and left the room. Mr. Pellham followed her. When she began to climb the stairs to the servants' quarters, he did likewise.

Mrs. Bentley continued on to the housekeeper's room and sat down abruptly on the bed. In fact she tried to bounce on it, all the while displaying a little, dissatisfied expression. Mr. Pellham looked on with no surprise whatsoever. Mrs. Bentley always had a reason for what she did. He might not understand it, but he knew if she deemed it necessary to bounce upon the housekeeper's bed, then it must be necessary.

Mrs. Bentley, frowning, rose and began to sternly examine the room.
She noted the size of the fireplace, the quality of the bedding and curtains, the fine desk, rocking chair, and carpet.

“Mr. Pellham,” she said, “would you be so kind as to sit upon this bed for one moment?” With his usual amiability, he murmured, “But of course, Mrs. B.” He went and sat on the bed.

“How do you find it?” she asked.

“Perfectly comfortable, Mrs. B.”

“Humph!” said the lady. “Thank you, Mr. Pellham.”

“Not at all, Mrs. B.”

Before leaving the premises, Mrs. Bentley accomplished one more deed that had been on her mind. She took the housekeeper aside to tell her that Molly, employed in the kitchens, was a scurrilous, untrustworthy servant. She related what had occurred at Hanover Square and Molly's ignoble hand in it. Mrs. Hamilton was shocked by the disclosure and said she would keep a sharp eye on the little servant.

“Mrs. Hamilton,” replied Mrs. Bentley firmly, “what you needs must do is dismiss her. I shudder at the thought of my niece being in the same household as that dishonest creature. Do you understand?”

“I do, ma'am.” Her tone was apologetic. “I will speak to the master about it and, with his leave, do as you suggest.”

Mrs. Hamilton watched the group leave, with a feeling of relief. This new information about Molly intrigued her. Under normal circumstances, she would certainly have dismissed the servant at once, but she remembered that the master had brought the girl to the household and would therefore need his express leave to do so. Perhaps (this made her smile inwardly),
perhaps
she had stumbled onto information that might be very useful in the future. Molly would surely want to keep her place. Though she was a scullery maid, there was the possibility of working her way up in such a household. Mrs. Hamilton herself had started in the kitchens as a young girl. Which meant Molly would be eager to do exactly as Mrs. Hamilton directed.

M
r. Mornay came home early that evening to a house astir with servants.

“Good afternoon, sir.” Frederick greeted the master with a mild look of trepidation. Mr. Mornay saw a couple of chambermaids go hieing from one room into another and looked in surprise at his butler, who said only, “Mrs. Hamilton would like a word with you, sir, at your soonest convenience.”

When Mrs. Hamilton had been summoned to Phillip's study, he bade her come in and looked up from his desk expectantly.

“I beg your pardon, sir” she began. “But I thought you'd want to know.” She hesitated, nervously wringing a handkerchief in her hands.

“Well?”

“After Miss Forsythe was here, I found, sir, that a silver candlestick has gone missing.”

He raised an eyebrow. This gained his full interest and he put his head back to listen more attentively. “Perhaps it is being cleaned.”

“I checked with all the servants, sir. That candlestick was there before I took her around, but now 'tis gone. I have the entire household searching for it, sir, but it's no good. It isn't here!”

He looked back down at the stack of papers on his desk. “I'll look into it, Mrs. Hamilton. Thank you.”

“Yes, sir.”

The woman remained standing there, so he added, “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, sir. I believe it might interest you to know that Miss Forsythe ordered new relief panels for the dining room.”

This was a surprise, but he showed no change outwardly. “Very good. Thank you.”

“And for the parlour and the gallery and library.”

“
Very well
.”

“And the Roman bust in the hall near the drawing room was broken to pieces, I'm afraid, by one of the guests.” She hurried on. “And statuary has been removed from the dining room and other areas for the purpose of measuring new ones.”

“
One
of the guests? Who else was here? Mrs. Bentley, I suppose?”

At the sight of Mr. Mornay's mild scowl, Mrs. Hamilton's heart lightened. “There were eight people in all, sir.”

“Eight?” He was surprised but said nothing, merely returning to his magazine before him, thinking for a moment. “You mentioned new sculpture. Did Miss Forsythe state her objection to the old ones?”

She cleared her throat. He looked up.

“They were immodest, sir. According to Miss Forsythe, they were pagan or lacking grace.”

“Immodest?” He had to think for a moment, and then he quickly ducked his head down again.

“Very good, Mrs. Hamilton. Thank you. That will be all.”

“Mr. Mornay, sir?”

He looked up again. She was waiting for him to lose his temper. Of course she had no desire for it to happen on her account, but on account of Miss Forsythe's meddling with his interior decoration. When he realized his housekeeper was waiting for some kind of encouragement, he asked, “What is it, Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Forgive me, sir,” she said, “but I feel it necessary to inform you of this as well.” She looked uncomfortable to the extreme but continued, “Miss Forsythe expressed an interest, sir, in occupying…the master bedchamber.” She said this with a perfectly straight face, though her discomfort was evident.

“She wishes to oust me from my own bedchamber?”

“No. Forgive me, sir. She wishes to
share
your bedchamber.”

His face didn't betray the least change, but inside his heart took a leap. Here was the biggest surprise yet. Didn't women always want their own bedchamber? The deep ache instantly accosted him. There was no appearance of the famous temper. “I'll speak to her about it.” His eyes went back to his periodical.

Mrs. Hamilton's mouth pursed in disapproval, but there was nothing
else she could do. In her opinion, and she had many of them, this business of sharing a bedchamber was evidence of ill-breeding. It was her understanding that the highest members of society kept separate bedchambers. It didn't mean that they always slept apart, but that they
could
. This had been further proof, in her opinion, of a serious shortcoming in the future mistress. Not that she needed proof.

She kept her eyes carefully averted from her employer's as she continued, “Shall I do anything about the broken sculpture?”

He looked up. “How did it break?”

“The younger Miss Forsythe was…scampering about like a hoyden, sir, and it fell.”

He pushed out his chair and sat back, his arms behind his head comfortably. The idea of Ariana sharing his bedchamber had put him in a thoroughly optimistic mood. Far from being displeased over the broken statuary, or the apparently large-scale changes in his dwelling which were to occur, he was actually feeling quite generous. “Unless it can be fixed, there is nothing that can be done, Mrs. Hamilton. I'll see that your wages are compensated for the trouble today, however.”

She stared at him stupidly for a moment. He didn't seem to understand that she had been reporting on his betrothed with the purpose of arousing his wrath. In fact he wasn't the least bit put out and had offered her extra wages! She remembered herself enough to curtsey and say, “Thank you, sir.”

His placid eyes met hers, and he asked, “Is there anything else?”

“No, sir. Good day, sir.” Her words were tinged with disappointment.

She turned to leave, but he called her back.

“You do understand, Mrs. Hamilton, that Miss Forsythe will be your mistress, and, as such, she has my complete authority to do as she wishes?”

She curtseyed again. “Yes, of course, sir.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“Not at all.”

“Very good.” As she turned to go once more, he said, “I'll eat supper early. Have Fotch ready for me, say, in one hour.”

“Very good, sir. Will you be taking supper in the dining room, sir?”

This drew a mild scowl. “I'll take it here, as I often do.” He looked at her searchingly again. She seemed a bit pigeon-headed today. When he was alone, he often ate in his study. The dining room, he reserved for company.

Mrs. Hamilton said, a little in her defense, “I thought you might wish to see what work has already begun, sir.” The room in fact was rather a
mess at the moment, for workers had gone straight to it, already removing panels and pieces of bas-relief for Ariana's changes. And she had forbidden the maids to clean up the area as yet, hoping that the disarray might upset her fastidious master.

“I'll see it when it's finished,” he said, without lifting his head again. He set his magazine down and began to sift through the mail. More charitable requests? How was it that every asylum, hospital, or medical society suddenly knew his direction? It was as if attending the service at the orphanage had opened a floodgate leading directly to his house. He went through the latest stack quickly, picked out one he thought might use his donation to the best effect, and left a note for his man of business.

Disgruntled, Mrs. Hamilton made her way back to her chamber slowly.
Something
had to be done to ensure that life went on as before at Grosvenor Square. Not only was the master smitten with Miss Forsythe—that much was evident—the rest of the staff was too. Only she, Mrs. Hamilton, seemed to understand that situations were in peril. Life was about to undergo a vast disruption. And she would have to set things right. At least there was Molly, she reflected, to somehow use for her purpose.

Mr. Mornay had said nothing about her being replaced with a new housekeeper. She knew enough of her master to realize that he would give proper warning if such a thing were to occur. This should have softened her heart toward Ariana, but it did not. Mrs. Hamilton expected that the young lady was just crafty enough to keep her plans to herself until she was safely installed as his wife.
I am no fool. I know how the world works. Good thing I led the tour—it was a great opportunity to keep preparing for my future
.

She would need to survive on much less wages than she was making at present—perhaps none. The silver candlestick would fetch a pretty price, of that she was certain. But it wouldn't be enough. In fact, it would take a lot for Mrs. Hamilton to feel that she had been compensated for losing this situation. Working for Mr. Mornay had by far been the best paying and most gratifying work of her lifetime. Servants from other households treated her with great respect when they understood her prestigious situation. She would need good savings, not only to make up for its loss but to prevent ending up at Draper's, as her mother had.

Besides, even if the future Mrs. Mornay did not plan on dismissing me, no
doubt my influence and authority are about to be severely diminished. It will never be the same. The mistress will now be consulted on all domestic matters, even if I am required to put them into effect. My own opinions are to be subject to that young chit's! How can it be borne? How do other housekeepers bear it?
It was a mystery to her.

The candlestick had been a sudden brilliant revelation. There were plenty of pawn shops about. No difficulty should be encountered on that head, moving goods for cash. And, of course, in this house there were many, many goods available.

As Ariana stepped down from the carriage, arriving home after the visit to Grosvenor Square, three ladies who had been standing near the house hurried toward her. She stopped in surprise. Mrs. Bentley had gone off with Mr. Pellham on a small errand, and the others had returned to their homes. Even Beatrice was not with her, as she had gone to stay with the O'Briens at her aunt's insistence. (Sometimes there was just no changing that woman's mind!)

So when the threesome converged on her in front of the house, she was by herself.

“I say, Miss Forsythe!”

A footman had opened the door to the house, and Haines appeared. He saw the women and a worried look came over his face.

“Miss Forsythe! We beg your pardon,” the speaker said, already breathing hard because she was not young, “for accosting you in the street this way. But you see,” she continued, glancing at her companions, “'twas the only method we could find to gain audience with you.”

“You might have called upon me at any time, I assure you,” Ariana said, touched by their earnestness.

“Oh, my dear,” spoke the lady in the middle. She was a bit plump in form, had a kindly, grandmotherly sort of face, but looked weary beneath a pretty bonnet. “We did try, you must know. Either I or my friends here left at least a dozen cards. I hoped you would return a call,” she said, huffing a little, “but I am not often in London, and I suppose if you tried, I was not in residence.”

Ariana glanced at the open door and said, “Please, let us talk inside.”

The three women looked at each other with unreadable expressions. One spoke up. “Miss Forsythe, we beg your pardon, but we understand that our company is not welcomed by your aunt.”

The girl's eyes underwent one of their intriguing colour changes, turning bluish-green. “Indeed?” she asked. “Are you certain?”