It had proved to be a day of agony. A day lost when she should have been searching … but where? What had seemed a step forward was, in fact, no step at all. Room six was a dead end. To fill her time she had helped Clemmie with a few household chores and gone with her to the market.
And why was Adam shunning her? Was he having second thoughts? Had the discovery of the secret room, the paintings and the risks involved, gone beyond the line he was prepared to cross?
If this worry wasn’t enough, since the first light of day another intruder had forced his way into her mind – her father. She had let her fear of him blot out the rest of her family – especially her mother. What terrible thoughts had gone through her mind that June morning when she woke and found her daughter gone? She would have searched the streets when she didn’t go back, asked their neighbours and the river-folk; even strangers. Meredith knew her mother would not have given up until she was sure every corner of Blackfriars had been searched. Did she go to Newgate prison and ask her husband if he knew anything? Would he have pretended shock about her being gone?
Meredith’s disbelief that her father could sell her into marriage had never left her. She had paced her bedchamber at Appleton House a hundred times wondering what would happen if she returned one day. Were they still living in Blackfriars?
Ten years rolled back: she was creeping out of that basement room to run away from Warder Snipes. She could have hidden somewhere close, waited until her father saw reason; that there must be another way to get out of Newgate. He had obviously found it, or he would have been dead long ago. The urge to know what had happened grew stronger, but it would mean going back to her past – back to where she had vowed never to return.
She turned and looked at her room: the canopied bed with the thick feather mattress, the washstand and flowered bowl, the chair Frederick had given her to curl up in after he taught her to read. The wardrobe had been a special gift on her seventeenth birthday. She touched the curtains that helped to keep out the night and the noises of the street – a home of luxury compared to Thames Street. How could she go back? She was mad to even think of it. A tap on the door ended her agonising thoughts. Clemmie came in with a tray laden with toast, preserve and a pot of tea.
‘I heard you moving about. It’s still very early, but I thought you would like to breakfast now. Is everything all right?’
‘Not really, I have a headache. Thank you for the tray, I’m sure something to eat will help chase away this malaise.’ Meredith didn’t move away from the window. Her thoughts weighed heavy and she let Clemmie pour her tea. ‘Thank you. I’ll be down shortly.’
Clemmie hovered, seeming reluctant to leave and Meredith babbled on. ‘Miss Weston’s portrait is coming on very well. I feel so much more confident now that I am using the oils on the canvas.’
Still the old retainer didn’t leave, and finally she said, ‘Remember that I told you about Mrs Morgan, that nice lady I met at the market last week, the one who is cook to a Mrs Silverton? It’s her afternoon off and she has asked me to go and help her sew a new dress. She hasn’t had anything new for five years and she wants to wear it for her granddaughter’s christening.’
‘Goodness, Clemmie, you don’t have to ask me for a few hours off. Go and enjoy your afternoon. Just because we are in London, doesn’t mean that you have to be here every minute. At Appleton House, you were part of our family, and it’s the same here.’ The pain in her head increased to such an extent that she thought it would explode. She moved and sat on the chair. ‘Would you pass my tea, please?’
‘Tired, that’s what you are, Meredith. You are a lady taking on work – for that’s what it is – a man’s work. Ladies sew, read and paint for pleasure. I’m sure Frederick didn’t intend for you to become an employed person. I speak out of turn, but you have not been the same girl since you took on this assignment.’
Meredith thought about the meaning of the word – assignment? Clemmie meant her painting Sarah’s portrait. She attributed the word to the criminal activities she had been undertaking these past few days – and nights. Meredith drank her tea and made no reply until she put the cup down on the small table next to her chair. ‘Thank you, Clemmie. I know you are concerned, but I am perfectly all right and I have been commissioned to paint a portrait. I am not employed in the usual meaning of the word. It gives me too much pleasure for that.’ She raised her hand as the other woman started to speak. ‘I shall rest until we go to St. Martin’s for the Reverend’s morning service. Then this afternoon, go and enjoy Mrs Morgan’s company.’
Meredith, with Clemmie at her side, listened to the Reverend Jones’ Welsh tones deliver the Parable of the Prodigal Son with passion and thunder to a congregation sat spellbound, drinking in every word. To Meredith, the sermon fitted her thoughts too closely to give her any comfort. Moments later the organ’s glorious music for the last hymn filled the church and Meredith tucked her memories back where they belonged, deep within her soul.
Clemmie closed the street door with a rosy blush to her cheeks. Meredith hadn’t seen her so elated since they arrived in Ludgate Hill. The housekeeper’s new friend, Mrs Morgan, had given her someone to visit of her own station and Meredith hoped it would blossom into a compatible friendship.
The quietness of the sitting room did little to calm her fear of Madame Lightfoot. She needed something to chase away her thoughts and went down to the studio. Frederick would have used this room, but she had not found a palette or brush. As she thought back, there had been no linseed smell. His death had been so very sudden that she had expected to find a collection of finished canvases to sell and unfinished work in here. But it had all been as bare as a pauper’s pantry, not even a splash of paint on a floorboard. She hadn’t known the real Frederick at all, but she had dearly loved the one she knew.
His easel stood beside her table and she placed a new canvas on it. Nothing came into her mind except Mr Fox. She fetched her sketch of him from the desk drawer. His strong features, dark eyes and hair would be a challenge to capture on canvas in oils. A longing to have the real vibrant man close surged through her. Every day she was relying upon him more. If Frederick’s guilt became public knowledge, she would take full responsibility and deny Mr Fox knew anything about the crime. This decision made her more agitated than ever and returning to the easel she picked up a charcoal stick and drew the first lines of his face.
Monday: was it only a week since she had first met Adam? It seemed a lifetime ago and as she mixed blue and black pigments with linseed oil she wondered what her fate would be come next Monday?
Satisfied with her oil paint she studied Miss Weston and brushed shadow into the folds of the blue dress on her canvas. The portrait was coming along well. She had captured the child’s smile and sparkling eyes, there was a glow of happiness about her. Did it come from knowing her father would see this when he returned?
‘Are you all right, Sarah?’
‘I think so. I am a little thirsty, Miss Sanders. Could we stop for a rest?’
‘Of course we can, dear. There’s a jug of lemonade on the table, let us both enjoy a break for a few moments.’
‘Is it time for me to have a look yet? I can’t wait to show Uncle Adam. I know you have done the most wonderful painting of me, even before I look at it.’
‘Such flattery, but no one is going to see it until I have finished – not even you.’
‘Please. Just one little peep?’
‘No, Miss Weston.’ Although her reply was firm, Meredith really longed to show someone. In the past she would have shown Frederick and listened to his advice. But now she was on her own, making her own decisions. This is what he had wanted for her.
Meredith poured two glasses of lemonade and gave Sarah one. ‘Would you like to go into the garden for a few minutes? It’s such a lovely day and we have done a good morning’s work.’
‘Can we take our lemonade?’
‘Yes. But be very careful going down
the stairs. I don’t want your housekeeper complaining about spilt liquids to be cleaned up.’
Meredith followed Sarah down the stairs into the garden. They sat on the stone seat and she wondered if Mr Fox would come, as he had that first day, authoritative and taking charge. Why had he taken it upon himself to become her knight errant? Why had she become dependent on him in her quest to find the Turner painting? It wasn’t just the insecurity, her lack of knowledge; he knew what to do. There was something that drew her to him. She wasn’t sure what, except it was a powerful attraction she didn’t want to deny.
Could one fall in love within a week? Even at first sight? How would she feel if she never saw him again? Her thoughts stopped – she would only be half a person. Within a few days he had made her want to be beside him, be in his arms; her cheeks burned with such a scandalous desire. She glanced at Sarah, but the child was busy drawing a snail that was travelling slowly across a stepping-stone.
Footsteps sounded along the path – Adam? Flustered and breathless, she dampened her wicked thoughts into submission.
A moment later, only the maid appeared. ‘Miss Fox asks if you will be staying to lunch, Miss Sanders.’
‘Thank you, yes. Will it be at the usual time?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The girl curtsied and returned to the house.
This was the life she had grown used to: being waited on, good food, intelligent company. No, she couldn’t go back, not even just to look. Her father was in employment, so he could look after his family. She would content herself with that knowledge.
Sarah stood up. ‘Do you want to paint me anymore?’
‘Yes. I have been invited to stay to lunch, so let us make use of the extra time.’ Concentration on something more productive than her father would clear her mind, and taking Sarah’s hand they walked back to the house.
Miss Fox was in her chair holding a glass of sherry. Meredith had come to realise the old lady had a great liking for her pre-lunch aperitif, which extended into the meal and beyond. During her sittings with Sarah she had learned that Miss Fox suffered terrible pains in her legs. A glass of sherry helped her sleep in the afternoon and she also partook of a small glass at bedtime.
‘As always, Miss Sanders, it is a pleasure to have your company. Can I offer you a glass of lemonade?’
‘No, thank you. I will wait until we are seated in the dining room.’ She may have said yes, if it had been a glass of sherry.
‘How is the portrait coming along? I think by now a little peep would not be an unreasonable request.’
Miss Fox said this with a smile, which made Meredith’s resolution to refuse easier to say. ‘Mr Fox has put a great deal of faith in my capabilities. This is my first commission and I would like to complete it before it is placed before you for judgement. I understand your eagerness, but I would like to wait until the final presentation. A few more sittings and you can all see it.’
‘If that is your wish, then I will curb my curiosity until you have finished. I must admit, the idea of a professional woman artist thrills me far more than embroidering a motif on a handkerchief.’
‘Perhaps I could show you how to paint, in oils, a flower from your garden.’
‘Thank you, dear. I take your kind offer to heart, but we will see. I only go into the garden now on a warm summer day.’
Simms arrived to help Miss Fox from her chair and into the dining room. Meredith was disappointed to see there were only two places laid. She had put all her faith in him being here to tell her of any progress he had made since their last meeting.
As she finished drinking her lemonade, Meredith could not hold back the question. ‘Mr Fox has not joined us today?’
‘My nephew is very busy. The export business is expanding fast and he has much work to do. This past week we have seen almost nothing of him – morning, noon or night.’
The conversation had taken a turn that made Meredith feel guilty. She was claiming Mr Fox’s time, not his business. To lighten the mood, she offered, ‘If you would like, I can stay another hour to occupy Miss Weston’s time. It is a perfect afternoon to sit in the garden and she can finish her picture of a snail.’
Miss Fox squeezed Meredith’s hand. ‘Thank you, dear. Miss Thomson is a great loss until she returns to us. I shall instruct Simms to bring the coach later. Off you go, I need my rest now.’
Meredith had grown very fond of the old lady. She must be aware that time was slipping by much too fast if she was ever to see her nephew-in-law again. Sarah wasn’t the only one who wanted him to come home. She stood up and curtsied, ‘To my task, Miss Fox.’
It really was no hardship to spend extra time in the wild garden. She longed to see the countryside with its fields that spread for miles to the distant horizons. Hear the chirpings of the thrushes and blue tits, and the voices of the farm workers carried on the breeze. She particularly missed her walks with Clemmie by the stream and to the market each week in Harlington, where she knew everyone and could stop and chatter, hear the gossip.
Suddenly, Sarah called, ‘Uncle Adam,’ and ran back along the path.
Mr Fox lifted his niece high and gave her a kiss on the forehead and sat her in the crook of his arm. ‘Is Miss Sanders still here?’
‘Yes. Aunt Izzie said she could stay a little longer. I like her being with me. She‘s sitting on the seat. Is she waiting for you?’
‘No. She is not waiting for me. Her offer is for you. She has a very kind heart.’ He put her down and took her hand. ‘Let’s go and see her.’
Meredith stood up. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’
‘Good afternoon, Miss Sanders. Thank you for keeping Sarah happy with her drawing. I trust it has not intruded on your other commitments?’
Good lord. Had her motive really been to wait and see him? Of course not! But her heart did beat a little faster when she heard his voice. Soon she wouldn’t be able to even think without him being in her mind. This definitely had to stop.
‘No. Your garden is such a pleasant reminder of Appleton House and the afternoons I spent wandering amongst the tall grasses and flowers.’ Why was she so uneasy with him when they had secrets bonding them together? What did he really think of her? He had implied she was reckless; she had connections to a criminal, and treated him with utter disrespect. And why did he continue to let her associate with his family? Miss Fox would be horrified if she knew the truth. To escape she muttered, ‘The coach will be here shortly, please excuse me. I have to collect my gloves from the studio.’
‘I will accompany you home.’
His smile gave no hint of any liaison between them and she scolded herself for letting him twist her emotions into knots. ‘Thank you, Mr Fox. I will be five minutes.’ She stooped down to speak with Sarah. ‘I will see you the day after tomorrow. You can then paint your drawings from this afternoon. I would love to see this bright colour on paper.’
‘Would you really like that, Miss Sanders? Then I will work very hard to have it ready for you.’ The child wound her arms around Meredith’s neck and hugged her. ‘You are the best teacher. Uncle Adam must let you stay forever.’
Meredith was overwhelmed by such a demonstrative embrace and endearing words. All she could reply was, ‘Thank you.’
‘I think I also owe Miss Sanders my gratitude.’ Mr Fox held out his hand. ‘May I help you up?’
Meredith didn’t want to accept his hand, feel his skin. He made her body go hot and have butterflies in her stomach. Ignoring his help she tried to get up but caught her shoe in the hem of her gown and toppled sideways. Next moment she was in his arms.
‘Not quite the help I intended,’ he whispered close to her ear, ‘although most enjoyable, Meredith. This intimacy surely allows us now to call each other by our given names?’ He put her down and bowed.
Why, when she was with him, did she end up in a pickle? She glanced at Sarah, expecting a horrified expression; instead she was clapping her hands with glee.
‘I think not, sir. It is inappropriate. We are only acquaintances and certainly not in front of the child.’ To cover her embarrassment she nodded and marched up the path and into the house.
Meredith stormed into the studio and picked up her gloves and reticule. To release the tension that was inside her, she said aloud, ‘Oh! The wretched man,’ but his warm breath and words had done more than she was prepared to admit and more calmly murmured, ‘Meredith, indeed.’ Hurrying down the stairs, she acknowledged she needed him to go with her if she were to know what he had been up to. Yet to sit so close, perhaps his knees touching hers, made her flustered again. She couldn’t do it – but it might cause unwanted speculation if she refused. ‘Indeed, he is a wretched man.’
On the journey to Ludgate Hill, Meredith waited for Mr Fox to speak, but he sat mute and stared through the window. What was so interesting about passing houses and horse-drawn carts? And his interest in her had disappeared like a magician’s puff of smoke. This was supposed to be her opportunity to talk with him about any developments. He was rudely ignoring her.
‘Sir, can we discuss any news you have about our … little adventure.’
He now looked at her. ‘Our little adventure? Is this what you think the last few days have been? Madam, it may be to you, a country maid with no knowledge of this city’s vice. But let me tell you, this is a big criminal adventure your benefactor has left you in his legacy. He would have done well to have dispensed with the artistic package long ago. Life has a way of ending on a whim and not of our own making.’
‘Frederick would do nothing to harm me. The fever took him. He was not to know that the rain would cause his lungs to fail.’
‘That was my point, Meredith.’
‘Sir, Miss Sanders, if you please.’
He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘No. I am your friend and confidant and I shall call you Meredith and you will call me Adam – in private, of course.’ His face brightened and he smiled. ‘You really don’t mind, do you?’
The Hidden Legacy Page 9