The Hidden Legacy

by Julie Roberts

  Meredith felt she was being dragged back to her past life but she didn’t want to think about her real family.

  Meredith opened her eyes. What had awakened her? Mingled with the darkness was a smell of ale and then the bedcovers moved as a figure bent over her. She screamed. A hand clamped over her mouth.

  ‘If you make a sound, I’ll kill yer.’ He took his hand away.

  The intruder was a man – a small man and he held the covers tightly so that she couldn’t move. His smell was suffocating and she turned her face aside.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  His unshaven cheek scraped her neck and his wet lips touched her ear as he whispered, ‘I can get in ’ere to yer anytime I like, Miss Sanders. I have a message for yer, “Find the painting.”’ He coughed, the phlegm gurgling in his throat; when the spasm passed he laughed. ‘As a little bonus for me trouble, I could climb in beside yer. But not this time … if we meet again, who knows?’ His weight lifted from the bed, the door clicked shut, and he was gone.

  How had he got into the house so quietly, how had he unlocked the outside doors? His breath had been like poison, his bony fingers icy cold. Worst of all was his croaking voice and those awful words; she had no doubt who had sent him, Madame Lightfoot. Meredith was paralysed with fear, then reaction set in and she shivered. Her teeth started to chatter, she had no control over her body. All she wanted was to hide from the smell of the man, hide from his words – next time he would lay with her; she pulled the covers over her head.

  She needed Clemmie. Could she tell her about this man? If she began, she would have to confess Frederick’s past. No, she must deal with this herself. But she had no idea where the painting was or how to go about finding it. The minutes passed. She got up and listened at the door, but could hear nothing. She opened it just an inch then wider until she could see out. The landing had no window and was pitch black; what if he was waiting to touch her mouth with his wet lips, pull her nightgown from her body and touch her skin? Meredith stepped back and closed the door. A cold wind blew the curtains into the room and she rushed to close and lock the window. She clutched her nightgown to her neck; he couldn’t have gained entry this way; she was on the second floor. She got back into bed and pulled the counterpane over her head again. Gradually she relaxed and turned on her side, drew her knees up, still clutching the covers, safe inside her burrow, safe from the ferret as she waited for any sound to tell her he was coming back – a creak from the stairs, the rattle of her door handle? The silence was as terrifying. She peeped outside to look at her clock on the bedside cabinet. Three o’clock. Again at four o’clock. Finally, she drifted into a troubled sleep of shadowy images, but only the face of Madame Lightfoot showed clearly in her dream.

  A voice awakened her. ‘Meredith? What are you doing under the bedclothes?’

  She was hot and tangled in a mass of rumpled sheet and blanket. Her nightgown was twisted around her like a corkscrew. What was she to say to Clemmie? What plausible lie sounded real?

  ‘Just trying to keep out the morning sounds. Rattling carts are no substitute for the birds.’

  Did she sound normal? She pushed the covers aside and looked at her housekeeper. There was nothing in Clemmie’s expression that gave rise to any trouble. How did he get in? She would have a good look at the windows and doors later. Right now, she needed her cup of tea and give no indication of how she really felt. Clemmie must never know what happened last night.

  Two hours later, Mr Fox’s coach set her down at Tallow House. The front door was opened by Mr Simms. ‘Good morning, Miss Sanders.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  Sarah was waiting in the hall. ‘Good morning, Miss Weston. You are indeed wearing a pretty dress for your portrait. The morning light is perfect. Shall we get started right away?’

  ‘Yes, please. Before I grow up any more and Papa will not recognise me.’

  The child’s matter-of-fact manner surprised Meredith. Did she not miss her father? Or had Mr Fox taken over the role so easily she only missed him on special occasions, such as now when she would sit for her portrait? She wasn’t sure how to handle this very grown-up child and thought it best to let the comment pass.

  ‘Then let us hurry before you grow another inch.’ They ran up the stairs hand in hand, both eager to start, but for a different reason. This commission could be her first step to establishing a name for herself and her studio.

  Meredith selected a canvas from the chest’s drawer. How strange that there was one the correct size. Had Mr Fox forethought this commission? How could he have, unless he could see into the future? What a ridiculous thought she reprimanded herself as she set up the easel.

  Sarah sat on the window seat with a rag doll on her lap, her blue dress the exact colour of her eyes and the sunlight heightening her fair hair. ‘I want you to sit very still, Sarah. It won’t be easy, but I need to make sure I get your proportions correct. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I can be very still. Dilly and I want Papa to see me just the way I really am.’ Her smile matched the pleasure in her eyes. ‘Uncle Adam is such a nice man. Do you not think so, Miss Sanders?’

  Meredith held her pencil poised ready, but lowered it. ‘Yes, he is. You are very fortunate to have such a thoughtful uncle.’ She stared at the blank canvas, wondering again why Mr Fox had insisted that she paint his niece.

  Thirty minutes later, Sarah’s voice broke her concentration. ‘Am I sitting still enough, Miss Sanders? My back and neck are aching now.’

  ‘Can you manage a few more minutes?’ Meredith studied Sarah’s mouth and the soft fullness of her lips. She stood back to assess her work on the easel. There was something missing; the breathing, living subject had a sparkle. It had been there that first day in her gallery, a bubbling child encouraged by Mr Fox to express herself with confidence.

  ‘That will suffice for today. We can spend the rest of the morning in the garden.’

  ‘Oh, yes please. I’ll take my sketch book down and draw another flower.’

  ‘You go on. I’ll put the canvas away and follow you shortly.’

  Sarah ran out of the door, her aches and pains forgotten. Meredith relaxed, aware now that she too had a pain in her shoulders and neck. The first sitting had gone well. But when she applied the oils, could she bring out Sarah’s childishness and not make her too mature? Experience told her the portrait would never look perfect until she had brushed her last stroke. That aside, she was not comfortable with the thought of prying eyes seeing her work, assessing her ability. She removed the canvas from the easel, wrapped it in a cloth, and leant it against the wall. Not hidden, but it made her feel better. With her own sketch book and charcoal in hand she left to find Sarah.

  Meredith declined to stay at Tallow House for lunch. She did not want such a personal situation to become a habit. This would not be good for her professional relationship that she wished to maintain with Mr Fox. Sarah was a delightful child, but somewhat strong willed and Meredith did not think Miss Fox would approve such an informal arrangement.

  Meredith left Clemmie darning her stockings and went down to the gallery. The quiet room should have soothed her, but instead made her think about the risks she was facing. No clients were coming; no enquiries about her tuition. She went to the window and took Frederick’s last letter to her from her pocket. In the afternoon light she opened the folded paper.

  I have taught you all I can. It is time for you to go to London and let the people see your talent.

  Dearest girl, have faith in yourself …

  She had visualised wealthy clients browsing her paintings, discussing with them their views on oils versus watercolours, demurely smiling as they made an offer. But the reality was that no one had come, except Mr Fox.

  Her allowance of one hundred pounds a year would never cover her living costs in London. Mr Fox’s commission money would help, but once that was spent, what then? On top of this was the h
orror of the missing Turner. She paced the boards; time was slipping by.

  She locked the street door. There was only one room that had not been thoroughly sorted, the attic that Frederick had used as a study. She had shied away from going through his personal papers, but could there be a clue there to his secret life?

  Meredith climbed the narrow stairs to the dark-panelled attic. The small window let in little daylight to brighten the knotted wood floor that supported only a desk and chair strategically placed on a square mat. It would be impossible to work without a candle on a dull day but the afternoon was sunny and sitting down at the desk she took the first sheet of paper off a spiked holder.

  After thirty minutes Meredith yawned, bored with reading receipts for brushes, canvases and pigments. Some were years old, while others were dated just before he died. Obviously Frederick did not have the clerks’ meticulous mind for order and filing. There were three drawers each side of the desk and she pulled open the top right-hand one to find it bulging with more receipts. The second drawer was the same, the third drawer was locked. Where was the key? The opposite three were the same – full of papers. Meredith pulled hard on the locked drawer, but there was nowhere other than the desk for the key to be. She pulled handfuls of receipts out and piled them on the desktop. In the bottom left drawer she touched a key – it fitted the locked drawer and turned on a well-oiled mechanism. Inside was another key, except this one was a door key – the number six scorched into the leather tag. She ran her hand inside the drawer and pulled out several receipts that were not for artists’ materials. These receipts were for the rental of a room at The Grapes Inn, Aldgate.

  Aldgate was some distance from Ludgate Hill. Why would Frederick rent a room when he had the gallery and the rooms above? Why? Only one answer came to mind. This could be where he did his unlawful artistry.

  She would have to go to this inn, but how could she get to Aldgate? She could walk, take a hackney, but the area would bring her nearer to Blackfriars, nearer to where she had vowed never to return. This brought as much fear as the man who had sneaked into her bedchamber last night.

  Footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs. She swept the papers back into the drawer and put the key in her dress pocket. A moment later Clemmie came in. ‘Mr Fox sends his respects and requests a few moments of your time. I have asked him to wait in the gallery.’

  What did he want? What possible reason could he have to call? ‘Tell him I shall be down directly. I need to wash my hands.’

  ‘Is everything all right? He isn’t becoming a nuisance, is he? I can tell him you are indisposed.’ Clemmie straightened and her plump figure took on the stance of a boulder that would be hard to move.

  ‘Everything is quite in order. I expect he wishes to discuss Miss Weston’s sitting. I’ll come down.’

  When she entered the gallery, Mr Fox was looking at the watercolour landscape Madame Lightfoot had praised. He turned and bowed. Meredith curtsied and waited for him to speak.

  ‘Is that the countryside you have been living in, Miss Sanders?’

  ‘Yes. I could see that from the garden of Appleton House. There is so much space and light there, so different from the city. I have not yet become accustomed to the crowded streets and constant noise.’

  ‘I hope soon to buy a property in the country; Sarah should not be in London during the summer months. Would you recommend Harlington?’

  Meredith went to the painting. She would like to be there now, safe in the home she loved, never knowing Frederick’s dark secret. But that was not possible. She had given up the tenancy when she left.

  ‘Yes, I would.’ She sensed his presence close behind her.

  ‘Would you sell that to me?’

  Meredith wanted to say no. It belonged to her past that she didn’t want to let go. So why had she put it in the gallery to sell? How ridiculous to get sentimental over a painting someone wanted to buy. Could it be because he was intruding into her life, again! The price was three guineas and that, together with her teaching fee, would cover her expenditure until her midsummer allowance. She stepped sideways and turned to him.

  ‘Of course, they are all for sale.’ Her abrupt words sounded rude.

  ‘Thank you.’ His reply was as abrupt.

  ‘Do you wish to take it now?’

  ‘Yes. I came to pay your advance fee for Sarah’s portrait. She was so excited and told me how much she enjoyed her sitting. It seems you have found a special place in her heart, Miss Sanders. I thank you for that.’

  His praise was unexpected and lifted her spirits. She badly needed some good news after the discovery of the mystery key.

  ‘Miss Weston is a lovely child, Mr Fox. I hope I can do justice to her loving and happy nature.’

  She lifted her painting off the wall and placed it on the desk. Sitting down she took a sheet of paper, ink and quill from the drawer. This was her first bill of sale for one of her paintings. Not to just any person, but to Mr Fox. She hoped he didn’t notice her hand shaking as he put his gold coins into a little basket on the desk. When the ink dried she handed him the folded sheet.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fox. You are my first client. This is a memorable moment.’

  She felt compelled to look at him and his dark eyes looked directly into hers as he said, ‘And a memorable moment for me, Miss Sanders. I shall hang your painting in my study. If I am asked who the artist is, I shall say, Miss Sanders of Ludgate Hill.’

  His words made her cheeks hot and to avoid answering she said, ‘I have a question I should like to ask, if I may?’ And before she lost her nerve, ‘Do you know a place called The Grapes Inn at Aldgate?’

  Mr Fox frowned and without answering, walked over to look out of the window. With his hands clasped behind his back he asked. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  Meredith’s skin tingled. She should not have said anything. What a fool! But who else could she ask? It seemed a simple question; all she wanted was a yes or no.

  ‘I’m sorry I troubled you, Mr Fox. Thank you for your patronage. Will you please tell Miss Weston I will come tomorrow for another sitting? The light is perfect at the moment. Good day to you, sir.’

  Mr Fox did not move. ‘I asked why you wanted to know. It is not an establishment suitable for a lady. Nor a gentleman either.’

  She had made a mistake. Why had she opened her mouth and let out words she would not give him an answer to?

  ‘It is of no matter, I am just curious, I must have heard the name somewhere.’

  Mr Fox turned and walked over to her. ‘Curious? Why should you be curious about a tavern inn? I’m sure you have not been in the company of any such person who would frequent such a place. Please, answer my question.’

  She went and locked the door. This conversation needed to be kept secret. ‘Would you come into my studio?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘If you so wish, Miss Sanders.’

  Meredith led the way and closed the door. Her mouth was dry and when she tried to speak no words came out. She coughed politely behind her hand and tried again.

  ‘I find myself at a great disadvantage, sir. I know very little about you, but you are the only person I feel able to approach. There is a very personal matter that I wish to speak of. I must ask for your sworn oath that you will not repeat our conversation.’ There, she had put her trust in a stranger, although in some ways her employer.

  Adam Fox walked towards her and stopped close enough to take her hand. ‘I swear not to repeat this conversation. But I am intrigued as to what a lady of your standing can have in common with The Grapes Inn.’ He raised her hand and kissed her fingers. ‘You have my oath, Miss Sanders.’

  Meredith stepped back, needing space from this man who was about to hear her most dreadful secret. ‘As you know I was brought up in the country. Frederick was an artist of immense talent; my achievements are to his credit. I will not allow one wrong word said against him.’ Her throat tightened, this was all so very d
ifficult to tell him. ‘He travelled to London often and would be away for long periods of time. Mrs Clements and I never travelled with him. He left his entire estate to me, including these premises.’ She paused, waiting for a response, but Mr Fox made no comment and she continued, ‘On Wednesday afternoon a Madame Lightfoot came to the gallery …’ She stopped.

  ‘You keep referring to your father by his given name? Why?’ His voice was sharp, his mouth a line of disapproval.

  Should she be honest, but that would involve her telling him about her real past. She kept to her lie. ‘He preferred it.’ Meredith’s heart beat faster; lies were not what she wanted to tell Mr Fox. Oh dear, everything was becoming so complicated.

  ‘Please, go on, Miss Sanders. So far your life story has been interesting. This all seems hardly worth subterfuge.’ He waved his arm towards the closed door. ‘What other mystery in your life do you wish to divulge?’

  ‘Madame Lightfoot implied that Frederick was a forger of paintings. That he had hidden an original Turner, borrowed, sort of, from the Royal Academy. It must be returned to her by the end of next week.’ There, she had told him.

  ‘And where does The Grapes Inn come into this?’ Mr Fox did not move or give any indication of his thoughts. But his eyes never left her.

  ‘I have found a key locked in his desk for a room at The Grapes Inn, Aldgate.’

  ‘Ah. So we are back there now. If I am not mistaken, copying other artists’ work is not a crime. In fact, it is practised by many aspiring artists.’

  ‘Yes. This is so. But Madame Lightfoot did not give that impression – she said he was copying it in secret. It has been taken without the Academy’s knowledge and the copy is to be sold as an original. Therefore, is it not forgery?’

  Now the truth was out; she had put Frederick’s name at risk. Could she be charged by the magistrate as having his ill-gotten gains?

  She expected an outcry of rage from him, but he remained silent. What was she to say now? The only movement of his mouth was that he clenched his jaw.