100. A Rose In Jeopardy

by Barbara Cartland

  And all round this woman shadowy figures moved, joining hands and then parting, as if going through all the steps of a dance.

  And now the woman turned away, as if someone was approaching her and, as she lifted her hand to take the mask from her face, Rosella saw the figure of a tall man step out of the shadows, and she felt her heart swell inside her with a feeling that was half-excitement and half-fear, so that she could scarcely breathe.

  “What is it, your Ladyship? Are you all right?”

  Mrs. Palmer’s voice sounded faintly in her ears, but Rosella could hardly hear her, for now her head was full of the sound of violins and other strings, playing a swirling, passionate tune that made her heart beat even faster.

  And then the mirror rippled again, the pink-clad figure faded away and Rosella shivered as the shelves and the counter of the dressmaker’s shop spun around her and the low ceiling seemed to loom down over her head.

  The floor was rocking under her feet and suddenly there was a bump and her cheek was pressed against the rough wool of the carpet.

  From very far away, she could now hear someone calling her name and then she felt a burning sensation in her nose and she realised that she had fallen down in a faint and that Mrs. Palmer was holding a vial of smelling salts in front of her face.

  “Oh – ” Rosella gasped, struggling to sit up. “Oh, I am so sorry.”

  “Please, my Lady. Don’t rush or you will bring on another faint.”

  Mrs. Palmer put her arm round Rosella’s shoulders and held the glass of cold lemonade to her forehead.

  “This hot weather is so trying,” she added, looking very anxious.

  Rosella closed her eyes, attempting to recapture the strange scene in the mirror.

  The music still echoed in her ears and, now that Mrs. Palmer had removed the smelling salts, a mysterious, cool scent, like river water, was filling her nose.

  But the vast hall and the candles had all vanished, along with the woman in the glorious pink gown.

  “Shall I send for your carriage, my Lady?” Mrs. Palmer asked, bending over her.

  Very slowly Rosella rose to her feet.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Palmer, but I am sure I will be able to walk to The Peacock Inn. It is only just down the High Street and that is where my carriage is waiting.”

  Mrs. Palmer bent down and gathered up the folds of pink silk that lay shining at their feet.

  Somehow the sight of the silk made Rosella feel uneasy. It was her favourite colour, but it was almost too beautiful to look at and she could not help but think of the strange vision she had just seen in the mirror.

  Mrs. Palmer insisted that she should walk with her, in case she became unwell again.

  “No, please don’t trouble. The fresh air will revive me, I am sure.” Rosella said. “Thank you so much for looking after me. I will come back in a few days’ time and choose a new dress for myself.”

  She then put up her parasol and walked out into the bright sunlight on the High Street.

  The voices of the passers-by seemed very loud and the dust that the passing horses kicked up from the road as they trotted by stung her eyes.

  It was good to be outside again, but Rosella was still not feeling quite herself.

  She could not get the dreamlike vision she had just experienced out of her mind and she longed to go home and lie down on her bed, close her eyes and see if she could conjure up that vast gloomy hall and the soft light of the chandelier again.

  When she arrived at The Peacock Inn and walked under the arch that led from the High Street into the yard, there was no one about.

  The carriage was there, next to the wall, but the horses had been put away in the stable and the coachman was nowhere to be seen.

  Suddenly Rosella was startled by a load roar of excited men’s voices from inside the inn.

  She could hear cheers and shouts of “yes, by Jove! He’s done it!”

  Everyone must have gone inside, so she walked up to the door and looked in and all she could see was a crowd of men with their backs to her.

  Gentlemen in well-cut riding coats, brawny ostlers in dusty leather aprons and baggy cord trousers and stable boys with straw in their hair, all jostling to get the best view of a table in the corner.

  Suddenly the place became completely silent, as if everyone was holding his breath in anticipation.

  Rosella heard the rattle of dice being shaken and thrown over the table and another huge roar filled the inn.

  “He’s got the luck of the Devil!” someone shouted.

  There was a scrape of chairs from the corner table and Rosella saw the gentleman with the moustache, who had winked at her earlier, sitting there playing dice.

  He stood up now, his round face flushed red with excitement.

  “I’d better stop,” he cried with a loud laugh, “or I’ll bankrupt the lot of you! What a marvellous run of luck. Fifty pounds on a few throws of the dice!”

  He scooped up a pile of coins from the table.

  “A round of your best ale for everyone!” he shouted to the innkeeper, who was watching from behind the bar.

  Then he looked across and saw Rosella standing by the door.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, his small eyes glinting at her. “Could it be Lady Luck herself? Is it this pretty little angel who’s making the dice fall my way?”

  Rosella backed towards the door, blushing fiercely.

  Whatever did he mean? She had no interest at all in the dice game and, to her horror, all the men were looking at her now and laughing.

  “Hey there!” the man with the moustache called. “Don’t you run away now, sweetheart. Stay and bring me more luck!”

  The others were shouting out to her too, telling her to stay.

  She looked around in desperation for her coachman and saw that he was making his way towards her through the crowd, a tankard of beer in his hand.

  “Forgive me, my Lady,” he said, looking rather shamefaced. “I just couldn’t ’elp but drink ’is Lordship’s ’ealth.”

  But Rosella did not listen to what he was saying.

  “Please, I wish to go back to New Hall at once,” she told him, as she was desperate to escape from the hot and crowded inn.

  “Of course, my Lady.”

  The coachman set his tankard down on a table.

  “I’ll bring them ’orses right away.”

  And he hurried off towards the stables.

  Now the man with the moustache was being lifted up by several ostlers so that he was standing on the bar.

  “I should like,” he began and swayed a little to one side. “I should like to drink to my very lovely little angel over there who’s been helping me to win so much money!”

  He took another large gulp from his glass of beer and continued drunkenly,

  “And I mustn’t forget to propose a toast to – the man who brought me here to this delightful inn and who suggested a little game of dice before luncheon. My very good friend – here’s to his Lordship!”

  Another cheer rent the air and everyone raised his glass or his tankard to join the fair-haired man’s toast.

  And then Rosella saw that there was another man who had been sitting at the corner table, a man with thick mutton-chop whiskers.

  Rosella thought he must have been very handsome once, as he had strong aristocratic features. But now his hair was streaked with grey and his cheeks were lined and heavy, giving him a bad-tempered expression.

  ‘This must be ‘his Lordship’,’ Rosella thought, as the man raised a hand in acknowledgement of those who were toasting him.

  Then a waiter brought him a large platter of meat and vegetables and the irritable-looking Lord bent his head over it and began to shovel the food into this mouth.

  With relief Rosella heard the coachman calling her name from the yard outside. The horses were harnessed up and the coach was ready for her to depart.

  “Well, my Lady, there’ll be some surprised faces back at New Hall when they ’e
ar our news,” the coachman said, as he gave her his arm to help her up into the coach.

  Rosella did not take notice of what he was saying. She only wanted to return home and retire to the peaceful sanctuary of her bedroom.

  As the carriage swayed along the graceful country lanes, Rosella lay back on the cushions, closed her eyes and tried to picture again the masked woman in the pink dress and the mysterious stranger who had approached her from the shadows of the vast ballroom.

  Who was he?

  She had only caught the very merest glimpse of him when she had the strange vision in the shop, but if she kept trying, she might just be able to remember his face.

  “Lady Rosella!”

  The coach had come to a halt and someone was opening the door.

  Rosella blinked and saw Mrs. Dawkins gazing at her anxiously.

  The housekeeper’s face was now flushed and her normally immaculate white cap was slipping sideways as if it had been caught in a high wind.

  “Are you feeling quite all right, your ladyship?” she asked. “I can’t believe that you have drifted off to sleep! Why, the coachman has only just told me who has come to town and who will be here at New Hall very shortly.”

  “What? I don’t – ” Rosella stammered.

  “Lord Brockley!” Mrs. Dawkins exclaimed. “He’s here! He’s come to Hampshire without letting us know. And the coachman says he’s taking his luncheon at the inn and he’ll be here for tea! How we shall get everything ready for him in time, I really don’t know.”

  Rosella’s heart seemed to turn right over.

  “Did you see him?” Mrs. Dawkins asked, her hand on Rosella’s arm. “What was he like?”

  “I just couldn’t say,” Rosella replied, picturing the man with the mutton-chop whiskers wolfing down his plate of food at the inn. “I think I saw him, and – he seemed a distinguished-looking man, but I did not speak to him.”

  “Distinguished-looking. Oh, my!” Mrs. Dawkins’ eyes were bright with excitement. “I must get back to the laundry and make sure that the maids have ironed enough sheets. The coachman says that his Lordship has brought a gentleman with him from London for company.”

  Rosella’s heart felt a sudden chill.

  Not only would there be a new Master at New Hall – and one who did not look like a kind and pleasant man, but the other gentleman, who had so rudely shouted at her in the bar of the inn, would be coming with him.

  Her despondency must have showed on her face, as Mrs. Dawkins apologised for asking so many questions.

  “Your Ladyship, I am being quite out of order,” she said, straightening her cap. “You must be hungry after your trip into town. I will order luncheon for you directly.”

  “Please don’t bother, Mrs. Dawkins. It’s such a hot day and I really am not hungry at all. I shall go up to my room and lie down for a little.”

  “And be sure to put on one of your prettiest gowns for tea,” the housekeeper added, as she hurried away to the laundry.

  There was no one but Pickle, who was sitting in his cage in the drawing room, to hear how unhappy Rosella was feeling and he was just settling down on his perch for his afternoon nap, tucking his head under his grey wing.

  She left him to doze in peace and ran up the stairs to her bedroom.

  She tossed her parasol onto the bed and was just about to take her shoes off to lie down, when one of the pictures on her bedroom wall caught her eye.

  It was a portrait of a young man, not much more than a boy, wearing a cloth wrapped around his head like a turban and a blue jacket and trousers sewn all over with little jewels.

  This portrait had been in Rosella’s family for many years. It had been given to her Papa by her grandfather.

  She had asked many times who the young man was, but no one could tell her. Aunt Beatrice had thought that Grandpapa might have brought the painting back from one of his travels in Italy, but that was all she knew about it.

  Rosella liked the portrait so much that she had been allowed to keep it in her bedroom.

  Even as a little child she had loved the way that the young man was smiling broadly and how he seemed to be beckoning with his hand, as if inviting her to step inside the picture and join him.

  But this time, as she looked at him, her heart was racing with excitement.

  For, just behind the young man’s head, she could see the painted outline of a huge chandelier – just like the one she had seen in her vision.

  And now, as she jumped up to look more closely, she realised that the young man in the turban was standing in the very same ballroom where she had seen the beautiful woman in the pink dress!

  “Oh, goodness! How strange all this is!” she cried, gazing at his face. “If only you could talk to me. Who are you? And where are you?”

  His smiling lips looked as if they were about to open and speak to her. But, of course, he was just a picture and, although she waited a while, he could tell her nothing.

  Rosella turned away and went to lie down.

  *

  The smells wafting from the slow-moving waters of the River Thames and drifting between the high walls of the nearby warehouses were strong and unpleasant on this very hot afternoon and Lord Lyndon Brockley entered the narrow doorway of the pawnshop with some relief.

  “Yes, sir?” the bent old man behind the counter looked up at him with interest.

  Lyndon gazed at the racks of coats and cloaks that hung behind the old man and at the glass case full of gold chains and brooches and shiny pocket watches.

  He had never been inside a pawnshop before and he had just thought it might be a useful place for him to pick up a change of clothes – a disguise – so that if he bumped into anyone he knew, they would not recognise him.

  He had not really thought of all the people who had fallen on hard times and who had come here to pawn not just their valuables but even their clothes for a little cash.

  How many of these people, he thought, would ever be able to come back and claim their possessions?

  There was a sad smell of poverty and unwashed shirts lingering in the shop and he turned to leave.

  “Hold on, sir,” the old man called out. “What is it you need? All sorts come here for our help.”

  Lyndon shook his head.

  “Nothing, really. I made a mistake.”

  The shop door rattled and a thin young girl came in, her arms piled high with a mass of black garments.

  Lyndon stood back to let her pass and she went up to the counter and dumped the clothes on it.

  “There!” she said. “What’ll you give me for ’em?”

  Lyndon noticed that the garments, coats and jackets and trousers of black wool looked old but well made.

  The old man shook his head.

  “Where did all these come from?”

  “The Mistress gave me them.”

  “A fine story,” the old man retorted. “Next thing I know, I’ll have the Constable here going through my stuff and doing me for handling stolen goods. Be off with you!”

  “But – ” the girl’s grey eyes filled with tears.

  “Out!”

  The old man then shoved the pile of clothes off the counter, pushing them at the girl so that she staggered and almost fell.

  Lyndon caught the girl’s arm to steady her and then followed as she stumbled out onto the street.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her, as she seemed so upset.

  “The Master died last night, bless ’im, poor old thing,” she sighed and gave a little sob. “And the Mistress said I should take ’is clothes, as she don’t want ’em in the ’ouse no more.”

  Lyndon noticed that the girl was wearing a white parlourmaid’s apron and cap.

  “Who is – was – your Master?” he asked her.

  “Signore Goldoni!” she replied and a large tear slid down her thin cheek. “The best violin player you’ve ever ’eard, till he got poorly and took to ’is bed.”

  She must be telling the truth, Lyndon
thought.

  “Don’t you have a family that you could give them to?” he asked her. “Your Papa or a brother perhaps might like them?”

  She gave a squeak of laughter through her tears.

  “What for? These are gentlemen’s things. Look at this great black cloak. I can’t see me Pa wearin’ that when ’e goes to the docks to look for work. And me brothers are just little ’uns still. No we need the money, mister. Ma’s just got a new baby and Pa’s bin laid up with a bad back. They must be worth a bit.”

  Lyndon took the black cloak from the top of the pile and held it up. It was very long and fastened at the neck with a loop of thick gold chain.

  No one would recognise him if he wore something like this.

  “Did the Signore wear a hat by any chance?” he asked.

  The girl nodded.

  “It’s ’ere, somewhere,” she said. “A great big old floppy thing!”

  Lyndon then reached into his pocket and took out a handful of coins.

  “Here,” he said. “I’ll take the things. Please give my best regards to your family – and my condolences to the Signora Goldoni!”

  The girl’s mouth fell open with astonishment.

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you, sir,” she cried.

  She gave a little curtsy, clutching the money to her heart and her face was so full of delight that Lyndon had no doubt that she was telling the truth about the clothes.

  As she hurried away up the narrow street, he looked around at the towering warehouses for a deserted doorway where he might hide and effect his transformation.

  There was no time to be lost.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Hello, hello! What shall we have for tea?” Pickle was squawking, sounding uncannily like Aunt Beatrice.

  Rosella smiled and pushed her finger through the bars of his cage so that he could nibble on it with his beak.

  The parrot was usually allowed out of his cage at teatime to fly around the drawing room and play hide-and-seek amongst the curtains.

  But that did not seem such a good idea today with Lord Brockley and his companion about to arrive. Pickle was nervous with strangers until he became used to them.