Gather Ye Rosebuds

Chapter Fifteen

As I lay in bed staring at the invisible ceiling, I reflected on the curious situation we had uncovered.

I liked to think that Andrew, Lady Margaret, and Barry had enjoyed some happy days at Lindfield. I understood now why they had all stuck close to the house. They just wanted to be together, away from the prying eyes of the world. Lady Margaret doted on the boy, the locals said. That suggested that she, at least, had enjoyed having her son back. I could not like that my uncle was sunk to posing as their servant. As Lady Margaret had become Mrs. Langtree, why could he not have been Mr. Langtree, and Andrew their son? Did Andrew know he was their son, or did they tell him he was “Mrs. Langtree's” nephew?

Both Mama and I looked like hags when we went down to the private parlor in the morning. A sleepless night is enough to destroy a lady's face, and when shame and worry are added on top, it is hard to keep up any countenance at all. I was not too unhappy to find the parlor unoccupied.

When we entered, the waiter said, “His lordship had breakfast early and has left for London. He said to inform you that he would be gone for a few days, madam."

My first reaction was relief. The inevitable had been staved off temporarily. Then I thought of Cousin Andrew, and knew we could not let Weylin go about his business unchecked.

As soon as we had ordered breakfast and got rid of the waiter, I said, “We must stop Weylin, Mama."

"I shall write and tell him what I believe to be the truth, Zoie, for I cannot face a trip to London at this time."

"Would you not like to see Cousin Andrew?” I asked.

"I would, but I am less eager to see Lord Weylin. Best to tell him the truth in a letter, and let him digest it before we have to see him again."

The letter was much discussed over breakfast. After our plates were cleared away, we asked for pen and paper, and Mama wrote her explanation in a simple, straightforward way. She expressed regret, and the hope that Lord Weylin would not treat Mr. Jones harshly. Whatever of the others, he, at least, was an innocent victim. When we were satisfied with the letter, she gave it to the waiter for posting to Weylin's London residence.

"Can we go home now?” Mama asked weakly.

I would have liked to take an unaltered sketch of Barry to Mrs. Sangster for confirmation that he was Mrs. Langtree's servant, but Mama looked so worn, I could not ask her to stay longer. We called our carriage. You may imagine my chagrin when I saw that wretch of a Steptoe sitting saucily on the box beside Rafferty. Steptoe lifted his hat and said, “Good morning, ladies."

When Rafferty let down the stairs, he said to Mama, “He asked if he could hitch a lift. I hope you don't mind, ma'am?"

"It is no matter,” Mama said. She was beyond caring.

We did not talk much on the way home. I noticed Mama's frown dwindle to a bemused smile about halfway along the road, and knew she was thinking of Cousin Andrew. I thought of him, too, wondering what he was like, and whether the Weylins would acknowledge him. Of course Mama would. Irish families are close, and if the Duke of Clarence can vaunt his dozen or so by-blows, why should we hang our heads in shame at claiming one?

"We shall invite my nephew to Hernefield for a visit after this is all cleared away, Zoie,” Mama said as the carriage arrived home. “A pity you were in such a rush to dismantle the octagonal tower. He might have liked to use his papa's room."

I had lost my enthusiasm for art lessons since learning Count Borsini was a fraud. I would dismiss him, and continue with my work unaided, but as the tower was already dismantled, I would use it as my studio. It was good to be home, even if the future was uncertain. I was even happy to have Brodagan jawing at us again.

"I see Steptoe is back like a bad penny,” she said. “I hoped we'd seen the back of him.” She said a deal more; there was no fault in the world but Steptoe had it. “Where has he been? That is what I would like to know, and I will. The gander's beak is no longer than the goose's when it comes to rooting out the truth. If it was a wrong he was doing you, melady, it'll come back on him in time."

There would be a breaking and bruising of bones belowstairs, but I had other things to worry about. I went straight up to the attic and searched through every box and bag Barry had brought home with him, hoping to find some confirmation or contradiction of Mama's suspicions.

Lady Margaret must have answered those letters he had written to her. She may even have written to him when he was in India. That was my major activity for the next two days. After going through everything twice, I was convinced Barry had not kept the letters, or anything else of an incriminating nature.

His death had not been sudden. He had faded away slowly over a period of two weeks-ample time to be rid of the evidence of his past sins. Barry had, presumably, told Andrew of his mother's passing. I wondered how the poor fellow had heard of his father's death. It seemed wrong that the newly found son had not attended the funeral of either parent. As I thought of these things, Andrew began to seem like a real person to me, with worries and troubles of his own.

Who had raised him? Was he what we call a gentleman? He had been teaching in a boys’ school, so at least he had been educated. It was difficult to form any idea of his appearance. Lady Margaret was blond and soft-featured and plump. Barry was tall and dark and lean. Whatever the physical attractions of his youth, by the time I met Barry, he had hardened to a somewhat bitter man, with his skin tanned by the tropical sun of India.

Yet there had been occasional flashes of a warmer personality lurking below the surface. Sometimes when we had company, Barry would expand a little on his experiences in India, especially if the company included ladies. And when he chaperoned my lessons with Count Borsini, he and the count often fell into lively conversation, as two well-traveled gentlemen will do. Barry used to speak of his Indian adventures, and Borsini told tales of his life in Italy.

It would soon be time for another lesson with Borsini. To avoid it, I wrote to Aldershot and told him I no longer felt the need of his tutelage. I thanked him very civilly for past help, but made quite clear the lessons were over.

Steptoe continued on with us, without any change in salary. He was a reformed character, and we were too distracted to want the bother of finding a replacement. By Sunday, Weylin had still not returned from London. The length of his visit caused considerable worry at Hernefield. He had not deigned to reply to mama's letter, so we had no idea what course he was following. It did not even occur to us to apply to Parham for information. We had no idea whether he had informed his mama what was afoot.

On Monday the painters came to paint my studio. I went upstairs with them to give instructions. Brodagan could not miss the opportunity to order two grown men about, and went with us. She cast one look at the floor and said, “I told Steptoe to see this carpet was rolled up and put away. They'll destroy it with paint drops."

"It hardly matters, Brodagan. It is already a shambles."

"A shambles, is it? It is a deal better than the wee scrap of rug in my room."

"We'll not harm it, misses,” the painter in charge assured her, “for we'll lay this here tarpaulin over it.” As he spoke, he took one end of the tarpaulin, his helper the other, and they placed it carefully over the shabby old carpet.

They opened the container of paint and began stirring it up. It looked a very stark white. I left them to it, and went belowstairs just as Mama was putting on her bonnet.

"I am driving into Aldershot, Zoie,” she said. “I want to get new muslin for Andrew's sheets. And perhaps new draperies for the blue guest room. They have got so very faded."

"We are not sure he will come, Mama, but the new sheets and even draperies will not go amiss. I shall stay home to keep an eye on my studio. This paint looks very cold. I may change the shade after they have done half a wall."

"I shan't be long."

She left, and I took my pad to the garden to try my hand at sketching the gardener, who was working with the roses in front of the house. As there was no convenient seat, I sat on the grass and studied the gardener a moment, choosing the most artful pose for my sketch. It would be a full-length action drawing. He changed position so often that it was difficult to draw him. As he only gave us two afternoons a week, I did not like to disrupt his work and ask him to stand still.

Borsini had been teaching me a new exercise for drawing people in motion. It involved moving the pencil in quick circles to suggest movement. He was quite a dab at it, but when I had tried, I ended up with a whirl that looked like the onset of a tornado. I tried this technique again, and began dashing off an arm composed of circles. The gardener moved; I sketched more quickly. The more quickly I sketched, the larger the arm grew, until in the end I had executed yet another tornado, whirling off the edge of the page.

I was interrupted by the sound of an approaching carriage. I thought it was Weylin, and my heart raced, but when I looked to the road, I saw it was a jaunty little gig, drawn by a single nag. Mrs. Chawton drives such a rig, but hers is black. This one was a more dashing affair altogether, in dark green, with a handsome bay pulling it. As it came closer, I saw the man holding the reins was a gentleman, to judge by his curled beaver and blue jacket. Cousin Andrew!

I hurried forward, and saw that it was Count Borsini. He usually rode a hack, or in bad weather, we sent the carriage for him. My annoyance with him gushed forth. If he had come to try to talk me into continuing the lessons, I would let him know his game was up. He drew to a stop and lifted his hat.

"Buongiorno, Signorina Barron. How do you like this, eh?” he asked smiling in his old conning way. “What a pleasure to have the reins of a carriage between my fingers again. I have missed it. At the Villa Borsini I used to drive Papa's team."

I had always found him attractive. Really quite handsome, and his charm and his few foreign phrases made him appear dashing. He has chestnut hair and blue eyes. His features are regular, his physique adequate, though on the slender side.

"You must be doing well for yourself, Borsini,” I said, running an eye over the rig. “Very handsome."

"Papa's wine did well last year. We even sold some to the Vatican-a great honor. Papa sent me a little bonus. I have come to see if you would like a ride in my chariot."

Occasionally I had an outing with Borsini, besides my lessons. These outings were chaperoned by my uncle, and usually involved art in one way or another. We had been to a few exhibitions, and he took me to other artists’ studios a few times. Once he went shopping for art supplies with me, as he did not approve of the brushes I used. We had never before gone out driving unchaperoned, just for pleasure. Of course, he had not had a rig before, so he could hardly ask me.

"Actually, I am busy,” I said.

He looked across the grass, spotted my sketchpad, and picked it up. “Good! I am happy to see it is only Borsini you are abandoning, and not your art.” That was his only verbal reproof, but his soulful eyes made me feel like a murderer. He glanced at the tornado and shook his head. “You have not got the knack of this technique. It is like this. Prego?" He took the pencil from my hand, whirled it about for a moment, and with absolute sleight of hand had soon done a good likeness of the gardener. I could almost see the man's movements in those whirling circles.

Whatever Weylin might say, Borsini was a good artist. What if the prince had not commissioned him to do his painting? What if he did need the money? Was that not a reason to continue the lessons, rather than cancel them? Perhaps Cousin Andrew's position influenced my thinking. I often thought of him, a poor fellow, cast off to shift for himself, until he was rescued.

Borsini handed the sketchpad back, smiling at me. “I think you could still use a few lessons, signorina," he said. “If it is the money-psh!” he tossed up his hands in disdain. “As I said, I have come into a few hundred pounds. I would be happy to go on teaching you without payment. It is a shame to stop, just when you are making such strides."

"I shall have to think about it, Borsini."

"I hope I have not done something to offend you?"

"No, of course not."

"Grazie," he said, with an elaborate bow that would look absurd if performed by an Englishman. It involved clutching the heart, as if to quell its rampage.

"How is our-your studio coming along?” he asked, in a wistful sort of way. It was Borsini who first suggested I ought to have a studio. I think he had been looking forward to it quite as much as I.

"The painters are at work on it this minute. I meant to check. The white they are using on the walls looks very stark."

"You don't want a dead white. A little yellow, or red addolci-how would you say-softens the effect."

"Will you come and have a look with me?"

"Delizioso! I shall just run my gig around to the stable."

I asked the gardener to take care of the gig, and we went into the house together. Steptoe was not at the door to admit us. He was gradually returning to his uppity ways, but his days were numbered. Brodagan had been peeking out the window at Borsini, with whom she had fallen in love, and came to meet us. He flirts with her, and even tackles a brogue, to please her.

"Brodagan, me old flower,” he said, handing her his hat. “Have you missed me?"

"When did I ever have time to miss anyone?” she asked, in her grim way. “Between answering the door and cooking and cleaning and fixing up melady's studio, I wouldn't have time to miss my own self."

"Ah, but we would all miss you if you left us, me darlin',” he said with a laugh.

"I'll fetch you a cup of tea,” Brodagan said. She simpered, curtsied, and went happily on her way, carrying his hat as if it were a priceless crown.

Borsini looked after her retreating form. “Whatever of our lessons, signorina, you must let me paint Brodagan. It would be a crime for posterity not to have a picture of that steeple she has constructed atop her head. I adore her."

"And she dotes on you, Borsini."

"She will bring us tea strong enough for a mouse to trot across. That is the way they take it in Ireland, no?"

"And at Hernefield. The studio is on the third floor. It is a bit of a climb,” I said, leading him up the stairs.

Borsini looked all about him as we reached the landing. It was the first time he had got abovestairs, but I think he might have quelled his curiosity. When he saw my displeasure, he said, “I was just wondering which is your room, Miss Barron.” "Signorina" usually settles down to “Miss Barron” after a few minutes conversation.

"You cannot see it from here,” I said, continuing toward the narrower staircase leading to the octagonal tower. The smell of paint came down the staircase to greet us. At the top, a blinding wall of white stared at us like a snowbank.

Borsini made a strangled sound in his throat and hid his eyes. “The glare! The glare! It is blinding! Fermata! Stop this vandalism at once!"

The painters looked at him as if he were mad. He darted forward and snatched the paintbrushes from their hands. “It will be winter in your studio twelve months of the year if you continue with this crime against the human spirit. Yellow. Bring me a golden yellow pigment, bright as the sun, and I, Borsini, shall create a color to bring warmth to this studio."

Already the studio seemed warmer. I decided I would continue my lessons for the time being.