by S K Rizzolo
***
Two spots of color rode high in Penelope’s cheeks. She twisted her gloved hands in her lap and tapped her foot on the floor of the coach. “It was foolish and wrong of you to strike the journalist.”
“Yes,” Buckler admitted ruefully. He avoided Chase’s sardonic eye, instead meeting her severe one. To give him a chance to make his excuses, he had insisted on escorting Penelope home. He noticed that Chase had shunned the first hackney stand they came to, but now they were settled in an appropriately shabby coach bound for Greek Street.
“Mr. Gander will only shout his lies all the louder. He’ll sling his filth in your direction too.”
“Let him try, Mrs. Wolfe.”
“I have enough to worry about. I don’t wish to have you on my conscience as well.” She folded her lips tightly together and turned her head away to gaze out the window.
“I can only say how sorry I am,” said Buckler, his spirits sinking low. Almost of its own volition, his hand stretched out toward hers; then he retracted it quickly. He was amazed at his own folly. What had possessed him? He had risen to Gander’s bait with a vengeance. In his profession, he had learned to exert a rigid control even in the face of extreme provocation from opposing counsel, such control being necessary if he intended to triumph in a cause. But today he had acted like a green boy or a lovesick swain.
His back to the horses, Chase sat listening to this exchange and looking amused. “It doesn’t matter, Buckler. If you hadn’t given Gander material for his paragraphs, he would have simply invented it. I believe you gained a measure of satisfaction in return.”
“Oh, I did.” They exchanged a glance of perfect understanding.
“This is absurd,” Penelope burst out, frowning at both of them. “How did Mr. Gander discover that my father was Collatinus?”
“Apparently from one of his unnamed sources.”
“Someone in the ministry, do you think, Chase?” asked Buckler. “I can see it would be convenient to blame the radicals for these deaths, but surely the ministers don’t want the Regent’s connection to Nell Durant known?”
“Unless they hope the Prince’s role in the scandal might be swallowed up in a general condemnation of traitors everywhere.”
Penelope pulled at one of her gloves, tore it off, crumpled it into a ball, and shoved it in her reticule. The other one quickly followed the first. She studied her fingers, as she seemed to consider her next words. Finally, she said, “The Coroner and jury had already made up their minds about Mary. A blessing for her family that she is not suspected of causing her husband’s death.”
“You won’t call it a blessing when you read Gander’s witticisms at the breakfast table tomorrow,” Chase told her.
“Will it be very bad?”
“Yes. Talk to your husband about leaving town for a week or two. That is my advice.”
“He has commissions to finish. I won’t be driven away by a sneaking worm when I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Mrs. Wolfe,” said Buckler, “you have no idea how awkward it will be. Your husband can finish his portraits in the country. There will be fewer distractions.”
“The world will say I’ve run away out of guilt.”
“Leave it, Buckler. You won’t convince her. Let us determine our next step.” Chase related his conversation with Horatio Rex, then said, “For one thing, I intend to learn more about Nell Durant, starting with the men who knew her: George Kester, for one. Rex claims he was one of her protectors and a blackmail target.”
Buckler nodded. “I was up at Cambridge with his son. Kester is attached to the ministry, joint Secretary to the Treasury or something like that. An important man who won’t care to have his past resurrected. Why was he blackmailed?”
After a measuring glance at Penelope, Chase told him.
Her angry color faded, replaced by dismay. “My father was right to attack such corruption. How many disgusting secrets must we uncover before we are through?” She turned to Chase. “How do you intend to investigate Mary Leach’s death?”
Though Buckler found it difficult to read Chase, he had learned to discern certain signs. In this case, the aggression of his jaw and his withdrawal into terseness revealed that he was both unwilling to speak and stubbornly determined on his own course. Buckler kept his eyes on the other man’s face. “The magistrates have told you to steer clear, haven’t they? Is the Home Office taking the lead?”
“Is this true, Mr. Chase? You must do as they bid you.”
“Must I, Mrs. Wolfe? We’ll see, won’t we? I am convinced Nell Durant is the key to Mrs. Leach’s murder. The deaths are connected.”
“Have you been asked to step aside?” demanded Penelope.
Subtle indications of a struggle were visible, but Chase’s innate honesty won out. “I’ve been dismissed.”
“Dismissed?” She stared at him in horror.
“I’ll thank you to remember I am well able to take care of myself. Leave off, ma’am. There is much to discuss.”
Though Buckler was equally concerned by Chase’s news, he stepped manfully into the breach. “I assume you plan to ask Hewitt about the bargain Horatio Rex struck with the government? If Nell Durant stood in the way of his political regeneration, Rex might have killed her to save himself or stop her from revealing his treachery to the other Jacobins.”
“Possible,” said Chase. “What of the serjeant-at-law you told me of? He too was acquainted with Nell Durant. The more we dig, the more men we find lining up to be suspects.”
Buckler was startled. “Quiller? He’s a dull dog, I assure you. Far too cold-blooded to involve himself with a courtesan or allow himself to get blackmailed.” He paused. “What about the printer of the Free Albion? Every journalist in London will be on his trail and the authorities too.”
Chase opened his mouth to reply, but Penelope forestalled him. “We’ve not discussed your fee. I have been remiss, but indeed I never thought of it. Since I am the one to employ you, I can just as easily dismiss you. Surely if you tell the magistrate you have bowed out of this affair, he will restore you to your position.”
He grinned at her. “You can’t dismiss me, Mrs. Wolfe. I answer to nobody now.”
Chapter XVI
When Penelope stepped into the hall, Lydia informed her that Mr. Wolfe had given orders he was not to be disturbed. Several visitors had called wishing to tour the showroom, but he had told the servant to ask them to return another day.
“They were a bit vexed, ma’am,” said Lydia.
“It can’t be helped, I suppose,” replied Penelope absently. “Is my daughter upstairs with the other children?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sarah and Frank were sitting on the hearthrug, playing with dolls, while little Jamie tried to insert himself into the proceedings. Maggie sat with her omnipresent mending in her lap, her feet stretched toward the fire. There was a dreamy expression on her pointed, freckled face.
Penelope smiled at them. “You look cozy.”
Sarah ran to greet her mother, throwing her arms around her legs. “Come and play, Mama. Look, we’ve made a fine house for the dollies.” She pointed to the spools, handkerchiefs, and buttons they had used to fashion a miniature dwelling.
The hour Penelope spent with the children did her good, though the innocent game did not allow her to forget Mary Leach. It was impossible to banish the thought of what Mary had endured in the Dark Arches. Penelope could only too easily imagine the stygian darkness—the beasts in the stable bringing a stench to Mary’s nostrils—the blood and the pain and the fear. She wished she could have spoken to Mary before her death, for she was convinced Mary had wanted to tell her something vitally important, a truth that might now remain unknown. When the children went off to beg Cook for a treat, Penelope began to tell Maggie about the inquest, warning her about the looming scandal. Maggie looked worried but said co
mfortably that people would soon forget all about it once a fresh story came along. Unconvinced, Penelope continued to think of Fred Gander’s malice, Chase’s news from Bow Street, and the flurry of bills raining down on her every night in her dreams.
Jeremy did not emerge until bedtime. Tea had been sent in, but the tray came out again, untouched. It was always this way. Once the desire to create had been kindled, Jeremy became lost to the world; then he would go for weeks without picking up a brush before the fever of creation returned. Of course, this was no way to make a living. At least some of this inconstancy could be attributed to his parents, respectable innkeepers who had not known what to make of their volatile son. Their incomprehension and constant belittlement had scarred him deeply so that even now at nearly thirty years of age, he continued to meet their low expectations.
“I have finished the Psyche portrait,” he announced when he entered her sitting room. “This one I shall submit to the Annual Exhibition. If I can get the hangman to place my portrait in a favorable spot, our fortune will be made.”
Penelope handed him a cup of tea, smoothed the hair back from his brow, and kissed his cheek. “I am glad, Jeremy.” She sat down again at her desk.
“Come away from there and sit next to me. What are you doing?”
“Oh, just trying to make sense of these bills.”
He surprised her by saying shortly, “Bring them here. Let me see them.”
Sweeping up the pile, Penelope obeyed, pulling a low table next to the sofa and spreading the accounts in front of him. There was a long silence as he picked them up, one after the other, and a scowl settled over his brow. “So much as this?”
“A London establishment is expensive. But if you complete some of the commissions, the portrait of Mrs. Hewitt, for instance, we’ll soon come about. I should think she might be willing to pay a hundred guineas, don’t you agree? And you must exhibit Psyche and hope to gain further business.”
For a moment the stricken look remained in his eyes; then, true to form, he smiled and set aside the problem. “You’re right, my love. I shall do precisely as you advise. I am ready to show your portrait. Will you come?”
Looking at him, Penelope felt a profound sadness. She did not love her husband as she should; she did not accept him for who and what he was. In his way, he did care for her, and she wished suddenly that she had the power to alter the stubborn essence of their relationship. “Yes, I’ll come.”
They went upstairs, Jeremy pulling her impatiently by the hand. In his studio he bade her wait while he arranged the lighting, and she watched as he set two branches of candles on stands next to his easel. When he was satisfied, he beckoned.
Leaning against his shoulder, Penelope stood drinking in the portrait. She recalled that his rendering of Constance Tyrone had impressed her—this was the philanthropist who had been murdered soon after sitting for Jeremy. But this portrait…Jeremy had captured her heart. Her eyes looked out of the canvas, speaking love and longing; her skin glowed with earnest hope; her mouth smiled a little secretively, as if she must keep her feelings contained, or they would overflow, rush past any boundaries and sweep aside all inhibition. As Penelope examined his work, she was amazed that Jeremy saw her like this. She had always thought he took her for granted, saw her as the nagging, practical wife who had lost her youth and spirit of adventure. For a full minute she couldn’t say a word.
“Don’t you like it?” he asked anxiously. He turned her toward him, eager to read the truth in her upturned face.
“It’s beautiful, Jeremy.” She blinked rapidly to keep her tears from falling.
His eyes searched hers; then he smiled again, satisfied. “Lord, I’m tired. Let’s go to sleep, love, shall we?”
***
The next morning Penelope awoke to find herself notorious. She had sent Maggie out to purchase the newspapers and tried to keep calm by supervising the children’s breakfast. While Penelope coaxed Jamie into finishing his bread and milk, Sarah and Frank made slurping sounds at each other, managing to blow breadcrumbs all over the carpet. Penelope smiled at their pranks but reminded them to keep their food on their plates. As they rose from the table, Maggie burst in, a bundle of newspapers in her arms, words trembling on her lips.
Penelope quelled her with a glance. “Let’s go to my sitting room. Lydia will soon be here to clear up. She can stay with the children for an hour.”
The maidservant came in, and Penelope said, “I have need of Maggie this morning, Lydia. Please take these dishes to the kitchen and return to the nursery. I’ll have a word with Mrs. Porlock to let her know I’ve asked you to mind the children.”
Lydia grudgingly agreed. Ten minutes later as Penelope and Maggie descended to the first floor, Maggie whispered, “Come with me, mum, before we read those papers. I have to show you something.”
Maggie drew her into the front room, where the curtains had been opened to admit the cheerful morning sun. This was Jeremy’s showroom, a place to display his paintings to the visitors who came out of curiosity to tour an artist’s premises. But there would be no callers admitted today, for he was already busy next door in his painting room, putting some finishing touches on the Psyche portrait.
Maggie sidled up to the window, keeping to one side, and beckoned to Penelope. “They’re still there.”
“Who?”
“Come see, mum. Who are they?”
Joining her, Penelope peered into the street. Standing on her doorstep was a cluster of three men, talking and laughing amongst themselves. She heard their voices clearly through the glass. One had a spotted Belcher handkerchief knotted about his skinny throat; another wore a garish waistcoat, an ugly pair of mustard-yellow trousers, and tasseled Hessian boots. The third, in need of a haircut and a shave, had a shabbier, more disreputable appearance. This man had a pencil stuck behind his ear and a notebook in his hand.
“Journalists. I’ll tell them to go away.”
She took a step toward the door, but Maggie laid a hand on her arm. “No, mum. Fetch Mr. Wolfe or send Robert out to get rid of them. You’d best not go yourself until you understand what’s what.”
Penelope was very aware of the newspapers under Maggie’s arm. “I don’t want to disturb Jeremy yet. Maybe they won’t stay long.”
In the sitting room Penelope spread out the newspapers, drawing a breath of relief when she found no reference to her or her father in the reports about the murders, which covered two full columns in the first two papers she consulted. But she was appalled to find the following paragraph in the London Daily Intelligencer:
“We note the attendance of Mrs. W___e of Greek Street at the Coroner’s Inquest into the tragic deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Dryden Leach—but where was the lady’s charming and accommodating husband, the portrait painter, on this occasion? Perhaps his absence will cause little remark, for it is well known that Mr. W___e finds solace in other company and indeed has often left his forlorn wife to her lonely crust of bread. It is fortunate then that Mrs. W___e had not one but two Gallants on this occasion: J.C., Principal Officer of Bow Street, and E.B., barrister of the Inner Temple, a gentleman entirely dedicated to his lady fair in her plight. Mrs. W___e, it may interest readers to know, is the daughter of an eminent author of liberal opinion, who departed the Metropolis some years ago—how shall we say?—rather suddenly. It seems the letters that have so outraged the Publick are not the first to be published under the infamous name of Collatinus. We will have more to say on this subject anon when we hope to communicate our knowledge of a certain lady of the frail sisterhood—once beloved of a most Illustrious Personage—a lady who died under mysterious and horrid circumstances, not unconnected with Mrs. W. ___’s father, as it chances. In the meantime, dear readers, we leave you with the wise words of the poet, who reminds us: ‘Be it the Task of every British Dame / To guard with nicest care her Sacred Fame!’”
As Penelope rea
d this gem of execrable style and absurd innuendo aloud, Maggie’s eyes got rounder, and anger for her mistress flushed her cheeks. “Oh, what will Mr. Wolfe say, mum?”
How would Jeremy respond? Despite their frequent separations, no breath of scandal had ever touched Penelope; he had always been the one to raise eyebrows and cause comment. But to call Chase and Buckler her “gallants” was to imply impropriety in her relationships with them, and, as for the ending quotation, she felt the humiliation of this insult, as Mr. Gander intended she should. She didn’t recognize it, but no doubt it came from some diatribe attacking adultery among the upper classes. Tossing the paper aside to page through the rest of the stack, she was relieved to find that this paragraph was the only one—so far. And yet he must have whispered the story among his journalistic cohorts, or they wouldn’t have located her so quickly. The paragraph would soon have company.
“Jeremy won’t like it, Maggie. But it’s all nonsense, and I won’t let it trouble me overmuch. I only hope it won’t damage his prospects. He needs to establish himself for all our sakes.”
Maggie nodded her understanding. It was unnecessary to explain how precarious was their position. Penelope and Jeremy would need to close the studio and find cheaper lodgings, and they would have to dismiss the servants, except for Maggie. But how was Penelope to ensure they would have a roof over their heads and enough to eat? After receiving the inheritance from her cousin, she had written to her father to decline her allowance. Though she had loved being able to make this gesture, she knew it now for the utter folly it was. She picked up Gander’s paragraph and read it a second time, her fingers itching to put it on the fire.
Robert, the manservant, entered the room. “A Mr. Blackbourne has called, ma’am. He begs the favor of a few minutes of your time.”
“She’ll see no one today.” Maggie glared at Robert, not her favorite person even in happier times.
Penelope frowned at her and turned to Robert. “Did Mr. Blackbourne state his business?”