The Hidden Legacy

by Julie Roberts

  Adam used no light. He felt his way up the stairs to the top floor and opened the secret panel. He spread a canvas bag and slid the Turner inside. From his jacket pocket he took a threaded sail needle and stitched the bag closed. Just once did he prick his finger and grunted. ‘Being a warehouse owner can be useful, my love, this could have been a much harder task.’ He had a prepared label and stitched it to the package. It read: The President, Sir Benjamin West.

  The journey to The Grapes Inn was uneventful, even the young bucks were now tucked away in their beds or bedding a wench for a shilling. Woody moved from the shadows of a wall and opened the coach door. ‘I’m here. So first me money before I set a foot inside.’

  Adam took a purse from his pocket and threw it at Woody. ‘There’s yer payment in full. I’m puttin’ me trust in yer, man.’

  He tapped the roof and the coach travelled west, leaving Aldgate, passing the Tower and on into the heart of the city. Daylight was now filling the doorways and alleys. Traders were afoot pushing their barrows to find the best corners to sell from.

  He looked at Woody, trying to assess the man’s worth. He had proved well with his information; could he go this last step with the same integrity?

  ‘Well, what’s to be done that yer’re willing to pay me such a handsome sum?’

  ‘We’re deliverin’ a package to the Royal Academy.’

  ‘So, it’s got value then? More than the ten guineas yer’ve paid me?’

  ‘Like I said before, I pay for yer to ask no questions.’

  The man’s face was unreadable. Only his eyes moved from the canvas-wrapped painting, around the inside of the coach, and back to the man known as Dello Murphy.

  ‘I’m yer man, Mr Murphy. Anythin’ valuable ain’t any good to me. Who would I sell it to? More likely I’d ’ave the Bow Street men after me. Bin in Newgate once, so I don’t have any wish to go back.’

  The coach slowed beside St Mary-le-Strand church. Across the road, a hundred paces away, was Somerset House, the home of the Royal Academy. The building was open and men were sweeping away the previous day’s dust within the great archways.

  ‘It’s time, Woody. You carry the package. I’ll conduct any negotiations or answer any challenges.’

  Woody raised his brows, ‘Challenges?’

  ‘Just do as I say.’

  The man nodded, opened the door and got out.

  Adam slid the painting forward and followed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Within the great stone archway on the west side, a door led into the Royal Academy wing. The vestibule was not overly large and sculptured busts of Reynolds and Gainsborough sat atop pillars of marble.

  Adam cursed the sound of their footsteps on the tiled floor. He had hoped the reception desk would be unmanned this early. This was not so. A steward looked up and raised his hand in query.

  Approaching, Adam signalled Woody to stay back.

  ‘I have a painting for the exhibition. Where do I take it?’

  The man’s pale face and dark eyes were definitely not welcoming. ‘You’re a bit late for selection. Who told you it could be brought in here?’

  ‘I’m under the tutorage of Mr Turner himself; you ain’t going to dispute his instructions, are yer?’

  Adam held the man’s gaze, hoping he had guessed correctly that the great artist would not be here at this hour, but still in his bed.

  ‘I’d better send a message up first, just to make sure.’ He’d taken on the stance of importance, adjusting his jacket and stretching his neck above a badly tied neck-cloth.

  ‘Come on, man. He’s even put a label on it to Sir Benjamin West. Yer ain’t going to waste his time and maybe put yerself in his bad books.’ Turning to Woody, Adam cocked his head, ‘Ain’t that right?’

  Woody stood holding the canvas package, hiding his body from chin to knees and was gripping the sides so tight his knuckles were white. ‘That’s right, sir, urgently needed.’

  At the mention of such eminent gentlemen, Adam waited to see if his bluff would frighten the man into letting them pass.

  It worked.

  ‘I do ’appens to be very busy right now. So perhaps it best yer take it up. The second floor is where the great room is.’

  Adam nodded his thanks and ran up a few steps to where the spiral staircase rose from the basement to the top landing. A round, glass-domed window in the roof let in the early morning light.

  ‘This way.’ He beckoned to Woody and started up the stairway. Halfway to the first floor, he leant over the scrolled iron balustrade. He could see Woody was so awe struck he was rooted to the place where he stood. ‘Hurry, man, the great masters are waiting. Time is running out.’

  Indeed, time was running out. Soon there would be men who knew there should be no delivery of such a painting today. He looked at the steward, busy with his own work. Any more calling could make him suspicious.

  Woody came out of his trance and moved forward. ‘Aye, sir.’

  On the first floor a central door was closed. Moving on, the next flight of stairs wound higher and Adam looked down. The depth was emphasised by the iron spiral and Woody was now only half-a-dozen steps below him.

  Suddenly, on the landing above, a side door opened and an aging gentleman came out. Adam froze; waved his hand at Woody to stop. He cursed silently; they were so near, and now were going to be challenged within yards of their mission. But the man did not look down, the papers in his hand occupying his eyes with more important duties than two people delivering a painting. He walked past the exhibition door and through another side door.

  Adam wiped a smear of sweat from his forehead. He glanced back at Woody and beckoned him on, but he noticed the man’s usually ruddy complexion had paled considerably.

  Stopping on the top landing, Adam looked at the closed double doors. He had no idea what to expect when he opened them. For all the urgency that was required to get the Turner back into the room he could be walking into a situation that no amount of bluffing would get him out of. By noon he could be standing before a magistrate accused of theft.

  He looked at Woody. The man had nothing to do with this crime and he didn’t deserve to be implicated further. ‘I’ll take the package now, you can go. If the steward speaks to you, just nod and keep walking. Disappear into the alleyways and go to your home.’

  The older man seemed to grow in stature and gripped the painting even tighter.

  ‘I don’t know what this is about, but I don’t take pay fer ’alf a job. When we leave, we go together. Where der yer want this put?’

  Adam wanted to argue, but there wasn’t time. He nodded to the doors.

  ‘This is where things could go wrong. You’ve said you don’t want to go to prison again, well I can’t guarantee that. Once I open these doors, there’s no going back.’

  In answer, Woody walked up the last few steps and stood beside Adam. ‘Open it.’

  Taking a deep breath he turned the brass knob and went in.

  The room was enormous and the morning rays coming through the roof windows filled it with shadows. Large covered paintings leant against the walls and small framed portraits were laid on a table. Ladders were scattered on the floor and others propped against a far wall.

  Adam stood amazed at the magnitude of the task facing those responsible for displaying these works of art. Some were already in place and almost touched the ceiling line. He had never been to see the exhibition and he couldn’t resist giving himself a moment to take in this great setting. Every inch of the walls would be filled with paintings from the humblest newcomer to the great masters. Somewhere the Turner he had would take its place here.

  He sensed Woody behind him and turned to look at his accomplice, a man who had given his word for a fee and chose to stay to the end.

  ‘We’ll put our package over there beside that landscape. It looks as though they haven’t been decided on yet.’

  ‘I’m beginning to
wonder what sort of a man yer be. Where’s yer Irish tongue gone again? Thieves take, they don’t put back. What’s it all about?’

  ‘Woody, for the last time, I pay, you ask no questions. Put it over there and let’s go.’

  Doing as bid, he placed the Turner where instructed. ‘No one would believe me if I told ’em about this place and me being inside. It’s a right high tale I’d be accused of telling. Them lot at The Grapes would think I was visitin’ the opium dens.’

  ‘That’s just as well. This is one story you are never to tell, unless you want to go back to a prison cell or worse, Bedlam.’

  ‘Gawd, Murphy, anywhere other than that mad place.’

  ‘It’s time to go. Follow me, like before, master and servant.’

  Adam listened at the doors, but they were so thick, any sound wouldn’t get in. ‘Two minutes and we’ll be back in the coach. Ready?’

  Woody nodded.

  The landing was empty and Adam moved out. He quietly closed the doors and with Woody close behind he ran down the spiral stairs to the ground floor.

  No more than one minute had passed; the next was the most dangerous – they had to get pass the reception steward.

  Relaxing his shoulders and putting on a jaunty step, he started across the vestibule towards the front door. He was within a yard of it when their way of escape was blocked by the entry of a well-dressed gentleman and, from behind, Adam heard the steward scrape his stool to stand up. He and Woody were trapped between a Royal Society Master and the steward.

  Could he bluff his way through a second time?

  Adam stopped and bowed. ‘Good morning, sir. The package has been delivered as requested. Our honoured artist will be arriving soon.’ He bowed again and side stepped around the gentleman and went out through the open door, Woody close enough to be his shadow.

  The Strand had come alive since they had gone into the building. Adam dodged round a boy pushing a handcart of loaves and a chimney sweep, his brushes balanced on his shoulder, already covered in soot from his first call of the day.

  He saw his coachman straighten up in his seat and flick the reins. Adam tumbled inside and reached out to help Woody as the horses set off at a near gallop. Out of the window Adam saw the steward frantically waving his arms and the gentleman swinging his cane. He grinned at his accomplice. Woody grinned back.

  Meredith covered the portrait. This was the best work she had ever done. Sarah’s enthusiasm and joy shone in her eyes, her complexion glowed, and the pale curls seemed to create a soft halo. This was the perfect present for Victor Weston, on his homecoming.

  Meredith went down the stairs; the only person who could be breakfasting would be Mr Weston. She didn’t want to face any of the family yet, didn’t want to pretend everything was normal when it wasn’t. Until Adam returned she was living in the black abyss of fear. Instead, she went to the kitchen to look for Clemmie.

  ‘Good morning, Cook, I am looking for Mrs Clements?’

  ‘She’s taking her tea in the garden.’

  ‘May I have a cup and I’ll join her.’ She found her sitting on the bench outside the door. ‘Good morning, Clemmie.’

  ‘Meredith, you’re up early.’

  ‘Yes. It’s such a lovely morning.’ She sat down and sipped her tea. ‘Have you settled down with Cook?’

  ‘In some ways, yes, but it’s strange to be treated as a guest, even though I help where needed.’

  ‘You’re a good soul, Clemmie. I’m pleased you are able to have a little time for yourself. How was your visit to Mrs Morgan?’

  ‘We fared well together. I like her. And her new dress to wear for her granddaughter’s christening is coming along nicely. We were wondering whether to start using our days off to make other dresses, to sell. Often it isn’t the money that stops servants like us from having new things, it’s do we want to spend our day off in our rooms sewing. I know when I was young I just wanted to be out, away from the Big House.’

  Clemmie sounded so wistful that Meredith wondered what her younger life had been like. ‘I think that’s an excellent idea. Do you remember how I used to hate having to stay in sewing? And I expect London servants have better wages than in the country. If I can help in any way, you will ask, won’t you?’ Meredith leant over and kissed her cheek. ‘It will be one way to repay you for all the years you looked after me.’

  The old woman seemed to blossom and smiled. ‘Thank you, dear. I shall speak to Mrs Morgan when I see her next.’

  Meredith listened to the birds calling and smelt the mixture of scents from the garden. This was a haven to ease away her worries; but Adam was more than a worry, he was her lover and her life.

  By mid-day, Meredith was frantic. There was no sign of Adam, for surely he should be back by now. In fact, she had expected him to return immediately from Somerset House. He must have been caught and accused of theft. No one would believe he was returning a painting. And there was nothing she could do, any action outside her normal position as Adam’s fiancée would raise too many questions.

  The clock chimed three and Meredith was imagining anything from Adam locked in a damp and dark prison cell to him lying dead on a table covered with a cloth. Either way, she wasn’t going to see him again. She waited in the studio. This was the one place she could hide – until Sarah came running in. Today was the unveiling of her portrait. It was the worst possible day to choose.

  ‘May I go into the drawing room and have just one little look, Miss Sanders? I promise I won’t tell the others.’

  ‘You know very well, Sarah, it is to be unveiled at four o’clock.’ She spoke sharply but smiled at the child. ‘Persistence may be your tactic for a preview, but I won’t be swayed. Now, run along and play with Daffodil.’

  ‘Uncle Adam isn’t home yet.’

  ‘No, but I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’

  Meredith sat on the window seat and looked at the garden. She remembered how Adam had come along the path, tall and handsome, and then asked her to stay and meet his aunt. Now he wanted her to stay and marry him. Where was he? What was happening out there in the streets of the city? Her thoughts flipped from one scenario to another: he was hiding in some alleyway fleeing the Bow Street men. Or worse, chained, waiting to be hanged. Not knowing was unbearable. Her body was so tense it might just break in two.

  The sound of voices came through the open door and she caught Adam’s laugh as Sarah was telling him he was late.

  ‘It’s been a busy day, little niece. But I’m hungry and looking forward to your unveiling party. Is your father here?’

  ‘Yes. He’s looking at the bottom of the garden. He thinks we have too many weeds.’

  He was safe, Adam was here! He had come back to her like he promised – surely, all had gone according to his plan.

  Her heart was hammering in her chest. She needed something to quench her thirst. There was a little lemonade in a glass and she sipped it slowly, giving herself time to calm down. Now Adam was home, Sarah’s portrait could be viewed. The moment of truth had arrived – success or failure. She left to go down to the drawing room.

  Adam’s study door was ajar when she reached the last tread on the stairs. Was it an invitation to her? She tapped and waited. Then it opened wide and he smiled at her. ‘Come in.’

  Her depression lifted instantly. ‘All is well?’

  He closed the door and pulled her into his arms. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure? How do you know?’

  ‘I, Dello Murphy, with his servant, had an urgent delivery for the exhibition. There was, I have to admit, a moment or two of concern, but the painting is restored to its rightful place, to be hung amongst a multitude of others.’

  ‘Truly, Adam, this is the end?’

  ‘Yes, my love. Now you cannot refuse my offer of marriage. You are free of Frederick’s legacy. Lightfoot has disappeared and the forgeries are beyond our shores.’

  She moved back, out of his warm com
forting arms. A look of surprise crossed his face and then he frowned. ‘What is it now, Meredith? What more do you want from me?’

  She wanted to rejoice with him, wanted to say yes, she would be his forever. But she couldn’t, and whispered, ‘Not now, Adam. It’s time to see Sarah’s portrait.’ She turned and left, knowing she went leaving him baffled and angry.

  Meredith went straight into the drawing room to be greeted by a scene of merriment. Cook had excelled herself with a deep fruit cake. Aunt Izzie was in her chair with the tea-tray set on a table close by. Victor held Sarah’s hand, trying to control her excitement as she hopped from foot to foot. The covered easel was beside the fireplace.

  It should have been one of the happiest days of her life; instead she had shunned Adam without so much as a thank you for all the risks he had taken to protect her. Not even given him a kiss of gratitude. She pushed away the disgust she felt about herself. Nothing must spoil this moment – this was the family’s day.

  Adam came in, a smile on his lips, but his eyes were dark and bleak.

  ‘At last, Adam, I don’t think Sarah can contain herself another moment.’

  ‘Please accept my apologies to you all.’ Going to Miss Fox, he gave a formal bow. ‘Especially to you, Aunt Izzie.’

  He turned to Meredith. ‘Will Miss Sanders please unveil her masterpiece?’

  Did she hear a slight emphasis on the word masterpiece? Her throat had gone dry again and if she spoke, it would break with emotion. She smiled at the room in general, avoiding Adam’s penetrating look. Was he trying to look into her soul?

  With trembling fingers she lifted the cloth, stood aside, and waited.

  She looked at the patterned carpet, afraid to lift her eyes to the room. There was complete silence. It must be unacceptable. As the silence continued, her face burned with shame. All her boasting thoughts of how well the sittings with Sarah had gone were her own conceit. Why had she assumed she could be as good as Frederick? His faith in her abilities had only been a tutor’s encouragement.