by Joan Smith
I had to admit that he was a capable gardener. The roses, especially, looked lovely. I checked the movement of the sun to determine where it would be around five, when I planned to serve the alfresco dinner. I did not want the guests sitting in the hot sunlight, yet I wanted them protected from the sea breeze by the yew hedge. It would be convenient if I could place the table not too far from the back door. I had found my spot and was about to tell Tumble when a voice called to me from the street. Glancing up, I saw two heads rising above the yews. Lord Harelson and his tenant had come to call.
"I warned you I would pop in one day,” Harelson said, and lifted the gate latch to step into the garden. Grindley followed him. We exchanged lukewarm smiles, then I turned a warmer greeting to Lord Harelson.
"How nice to see you. I thought you would be at Lady Collifer's tea party. I was invited myself,” I added quite unnecesarily, “but I was too busy to attend."
"I know it well. I was speaking to Dalton a moment ago."
"Ah, you were calling on Lady Filmore,” I said, happy for her, and wondering why he had skipped Lady Collifer's tea.
"Met Dalton on the strut,” Grindley said. “Is this where you are having your garden party, Miss Denver?"
"Yes, in the garden,” I replied, with a smile to Harelson.
"Where did you think Miss Denver would have it, Grindley?” Harelson joked.
"In her garden. Just said so. Where is your aunt today?"
"She is attending Lady Collifer's tea party,” I told him.
"Dead bore. Wise to stay away. I say, Harelson—a tent. All the crack."
This curious statement left me quite at sea. Harelson explained. “I have a tent at home that Mama used to use for garden parties, but I think it would crowd this little garden, and hide your lovely flowers."
I had not determined the extent of his backyard during last night's visit. Presumably it was large, and had once been in a condition that his mama could invite guests into it without blushing. “I thought I would place the table here,” I said, pointing out the spot.
"Excellent,” Harelson said, looking all around.
"The awning” was Grindley's next attempt at conversation.
"There is a red and white awning to go with the tent,” Harelson explained. “It might give a festive note to your little do. I would be happy to lend it to you, if you like."
"That sounds interesting. Is it difficult to put up?"
"Not at all. I shall send my groom off to fetch it. Grindley and I shall help the servants set it up.” Grindley strolled off to smell the flowers.
"Has your friend lost all his money yet?” I asked.
"He still has his carriage, so I have some hopes he did not plunge too deeply last night."
He sent off for the awning, and while we awaited its arrival, I asked if the gentlemen would like a glass of wine.
"Could we go indoors and be comfortable?” Grindley said.
"Certainly, if you prefer.” I looked to Harelson, thinking he might reprimand his friend, but he just rose and offered me his arm, to lead me inside.
Chapter Thirteen
"You have fixed up old Lady Grieve's dungeon,” Grindley said, glancing around at the saloon.
"I admire your improvements,” Harelson said. He went to stand in front of a painting, studying it in the affected manner of a connoisseur, tilting his head this way and that, and murmuring about chiaroscuro, and composition.
"Are you related to Lady Corning?” he asked, finally saying something I understood.
It was a painting of a lady he was studying so assiduously. It had no title; I had picked it up for an old song in the same secondhand shop where I had found the satinwood commode. The artist had signed the picture Kauffmann, so it could not be the artist he referred to. “You recognize the lady, Lord Harelson?” I parried.
"Lady Corning was much older when I knew her. I last saw this painting in her brother, Lord Hutching's, saloon some years ago. The place has been sold up now, I believe."
"I am no relation to the Cornings. I bought several pictures from an art dealer in London.” This was not a complete lie. Surely a man who sells art is an art dealer, whatever else he may be. I noticed that Grindley was picking up objects from the table, and turning them over to read the names on the bottom.
Harelson said, “You have a sharp eye! I congratulate you. Angelica Kauffmann was a marvelous portrait artist. A pity she wasted so much of her talent on mythological works."
"Who the deuce is Angelica Kauffmann?” Grindley asked. For once, I appreciated his intrusion.
It turned out she was a famous artist from the last century who had contributed to the ornamentation of St. Paul's.
"What would the picture be worth?” Grindley inquired, again pleasing me.
Harelson suggested an inordinate sum. I swallowed my gasp of delight and nodded, as if confirming what I had paid. He went on to examine my other paintings. He was quite sure my picture of three shepherds was a Poussin but informed me sadly that the fat lady was only of the school of Rubens, and not actually from the master's hand. I had heard of Rubens, and I regretted that the one name I recognized should not be genuine. I boasted that I had more paintings in London. “I just brought a few of the lesser ones with me to lighten these dark walls."
"I hope you have taken precautions for the safety of your collection in London while you are away,” Harelson said.
"I left some staff at home. You must pop in and see my collection when we return to London, as you appreciate art.” I wondered if a dozen pictures quite constituted a collection.
"I should enjoy it. Thank you. Even these paintings you have here might be open to theft if you are not careful. I do not refer to a night out at the theater or whatnot, but if you should go back to London for a weekend, for instance, taking your servants with you, you might return to find empty walls."
"Are you referring to Tom, Lord Harelson?” I asked, keeping my eyes from slewing to Grindley. “I thought he only stole jewels and money."
"True,” Grindley said.
"I was not talking about Tom,” Harelson said. “I take it for granted you have taken precautions for your jewelry."
"Yes, I have."
"What sort of precaution?” Grindley asked bluntly.
"Careful precautions,” I replied. As if I would tell him!
"Thing is,” Grindley said, leaning closer, “if you have stuck ‘em in Lady Grieve's safe—well, the whole town and its dog knows of that safe in the floor of the study."
"I do not know of it!” I exclaimed.
"She did not tell you! By Jove, what a strange old duck she is. Would you like me to show it to you?"
"I shall have a look later."
"So if your pretty baubles ain't in her safe, where are they?” he asked.
Harelson shook his head at the man's simplicity. “One would think to hear you that you were planning to steal them, Grindley.” Then he turned to me. “There is not an atom of vice in Grindley. He merely retains the curiosity of a child."
"I will tell you where else they ain't safe, Miss Denver, is under your mattress,” Grindley informed me. My eyes flew open at this speech. “I fancy Tom got right into my bedchamber last night."
Harelson shook his head.
"True,” Grindley insisted. “Found the kitchen lamp on my dresser when I got home. Noticed the room was mussed up."
"How could you tell?” Harelson asked, with a smile. I could not acknowledge that I shared his amusement.
"Did Tom take anything, Mr. Grindley?” I asked.
"Nothing to take really, but he was there. Heard of my winning at cards."
Tumble came to tell us the awning had arrived. “I shall show your servants how to set it up,” Harelson offered.
"Help,” Grindley said. This was not a call for assistance, but rather an offer to help Harelson.
I sent for two footmen, and we went out into the yard. “Do you want it in the back or front?” Harelson asked. “It attaches
to the doorway. It might be in the servants’ way when they are serving dinner. It has struts that stick into the ground."
"It would give a cheerful welcome at the front door, sort of set the mood. Let us put it at the front."
The awning was unfurled, displaying several spots of mildew, but overall it was a pretty thing.
"Need a ladder,” Grindley said. “In the shed, daresay."
Luke went for the ladder. When the awning was unfurled and the ladder in place, I asked Luke to climb up and attach the hardware.
"Best let me do it,” Grindley offered. “A bit of a dab at mechanical things."
I feared he would tumble off the ladder, but he surprised me. His awkward-looking body scrambled up it like a squirrel. At one point, he was even on the roof. He achieved the ascent from ladder to roof in one leap, with no difficulty at all. Almost, I am tempted to say, with an air of considerable expertise, such as Tom might possess. This, added to his curiosity about my jewelry, insured his place at the top of my list of suspects.
When the job was done, Harelson and Grindley left. I stood back and admired the awning, then darted into the study to find the safe concealed in the floor. I lifted a threadbare carpet at each corner, and found the safe behind the desk. A square of flooring had been cut out and a safe recessed into the floor, then the wooden plank put back in place. The safe door was not locked. I opened it, and found nothing but a few yellowing sheets of paper having to do with the purchase of the house. I was just returning outdoors for another look at the awning when Brockley's carriage drew up and the two gray occupants got out.
"Aha! I see you are flying the flag at full mast, Miss Denver,” Brockley said, looking at the awning.
"Lord Harelson came by and suggested it. Do you like it?” This last was addressed to Hennie.
"It is mildewed” was her comment.
"Dandy!” Brockley declared, at which time Hennie decided it looked bright and cheerful.
He left Hennie at the door, but before leaving, he said, “I shall be in the nest, looking out for you around nineteen hours, ladies."
Richard had not mentioned the evening's entertainment. “What does he mean?” I asked Hennie.
"Nineteen hours means seven o'clock. The nest is the crow's nest."
"He said he will be looking out for us."
"We are all going to Timothy's this evening. He is having a little rout party."
"I hope you have not promised that I shall go."
"Oh, you are going. Linda was at Lady Collifer's tea party. She said she and Richard will take you. When we got talking, it turned out there was nothing on for this evening, so Timothy decided to have an informal evening, with a few friends."
I felt several nettle stings during this conversation. It was encroaching of Lady Filmore and her brother to assume I would accompany them, without asking me. Not that I meant to refuse, but to be told that you are going has a peremptory sound to it. And, of course, I had been looking forward to that quiet evening at home with Richard. I noticed, too, that Hennie had achieved a first-name basis with Lady Filmore before I had.
I gave her a withering look and said, “Will this be an informal party in the style of Lady Filmore's dinner party?"
"Oh no, much grander than that, I believe."
"It did not take you long to steal Lady Filmore's trick of understatement."
"That is better than stealing her beau,” she said saucily. “Linda was very concerned that Harelson did not go to the tea party. She won't be happy to learn he was battened down for the afternoon with you."
"For God's sake, don't start spouting sailors’ slang to me. You make yourself look ridiculous, Hennie."
"I don't know why you let the fellow hang around."
"You know my opinion of Lord Brockley. It seems there is no accounting for taste."
She shook her head at the mildewed awning and said, “Indeed there is not. Vinegar and water might bring it clean."
On this speech she went inside, and I went to ask Luke to see if he could clean up the awning with vinegar and water.
Richard sent over a note asking me if I was agreeable to attending Lord Brockley's party that evening. “We shall have our private party another time. I shall undertake to see you are not poisoned this evening, if you will agree to wear the stunning bronze gown you wore the first evening we met. Shall I bring the diamonds?"
I scribbled “Yes” on the bottom of his note and returned it. My spirits were completely restored to their usual height.
Chapter Fourteen
I offered Hennie a drive to the party with Richard and me, but her suitor's passion had reached such a pitch that he was coming to “take her aboard” half an hour before his guests arrived. She came to borrow a shawl to enhance her toilette until Madame Drouin finished her gowns. It was not necessary to borrow my rouge. Her cheeks told me clearly she had invested in a pot for herself.
We were both uncomfortable with our little quarrel, and made it up indirectly by chatting in a friendly manner of other things. I told her what Harelson had said about my paintings, and all my suspicions of Stewart Grindley. I did not tell her that I had entered Harelson's house the night before. The vicar's widow would disapprove, and she still reprised that role from time to time.
"Where, exactly, does Lord Brockley live?” I asked, just as she was leaving.
"Oh, did you not know? He lives in that beautiful big stone mansion at the corner of Grand Junction Road. I thought everyone in Brighton knew that. It is a famous landmark."
"Ah, that big old place near the fish market. I thought it was an abandoned building,” I retaliated.
Our reconciliations did not last long these days since Hennie had set up as a flirt.
"It has magnificent gardens. About ten times the size of yours,” she said, and flounced out, hugging my best paisley shawl around her ungrateful shoulders.
The first thing Linda mentioned when she and Richard called was the awning out front. I confessed at once that Harelson had supplied it, to get the matter out of the way.
"So that is where he was this afternoon,” she snipped.
"He and Grindley stopped by for a minute."
"Did they have the awning with them?” she inquired boldly. Richard gave her an admonishing look, but did not say anything.
"No, they sent for it. Grindley and Luke put it up."
She chose to assume that Harelson had left at once, which was exactly what I hoped she would think. I rattled on with the story of Lady Grieve's safe in the study to be finished with the name of Harelson. I was not likely to reach a first-name basis with Lady Filmore at this rate. Next to landing Richard, my main summer's goal was to become her bosom bow. And, of course, to catch Tom. Richard did not find a moment to slip me my diamonds until we were in the carriage. I put them on while he distracted his sister with some bantering conversation.
Brockley's mansion was probably the finest house in town, after the prince's pavillion. It was austere outside, the better to rest one's eyes for the grandeur within. Gilt and red brocade and marble dazzled the eye at every glance.
Hennie looked for the world like a housekeeper, in her old gray gown. I don't know what everyone must have thought of her catching Brockley's eye.
His informal party outdid even Lady Filmore's in number of guests and elegance. A regular battalion of footmen, all dressed in Brockley's beloved gray, scuttled about like mice, passing drinks. Lady Filmore's sulks vanished like dew in the morning sun when she spotted Harelson across the room. He smiled and nodded to us, and she was off after him like a hound on the scent of Reynard. I did not see Grindley.
Dinner was ridiculously formal, with a gray shadow of a footman hovering behind every chair, filling glasses before they were a quarter empty, and even pushing the cutlery closer to you as new courses were served. I was strongly tempted to tell mine to step back a few feet, but did not like to reveal my humble origins. There were numerous “Willing foe and sea room” toasts, in numerous wines as each ne
w course appeared. At one point, there were not less than five glasses sitting on the table in front of me. I felt decadent. Imagine some poor servant having to wash all this crystal. How did Hennie, with her concern for the poor, settle this enormous waste with her conscience? “Waste not, want not” was one of David's favorite aphorisms.
After we left the table, the gentlemen settled in for more drinking, of port this time. I don't know where they put such a quantity of liquid. I felt as if I were awash. But they did not remain away so very long. When they joined the ladies, Brockley set a straight course to Hennie, who sat with me on the sofa.
"I saw you squinting your eyes at this outlandish house,” he said to me. “It is a foolish place. My papa, you must know, was a friend of Prinny's and infected by the same bad taste. My abbey is nothing like this. I would redo this place in Bristol fashion, but it seems a shame to waste good money, when most folks seem to like it pretty well."
"It is magnificent, Lord Brockley,” I replied. I did not say, or mean, that I actually liked such royal grandeur.
"It is well enough,” he said smugly. “Would you care to have a peek at the gardens, my dear?” I assumed he spoke to Hennie, but he offered me his arm.
"Do come, Eve,” she said. “I'll go with you."
As she would certainly go alone if I refused, I went with them. The evenings lingered long at this June season. It was not quite dark yet, but the failing sun robbed the blooms of their glory. Still, a garden at dusk is a pretty sight, and certainly Lord Brockley's garden was impressive. It stretched for several hundred yards. Somewhere in the distance a plume of water shot up from a fountain. An Oriental gazebo harked back to the prince's pavilion. Brockley mentioned that Nash had thrown it up for his papa, from Repton's design.
The air was heavy with perfume. It induced a lethargy, or perhaps it was the heavy meal and oceans of wine that caused the feeling. I wanted to curl up on one of the benches and close my eyes.
It occurred to me that if this was how the charmed circle lived, my garden party would be outstanding for nothing but its simplicity. Perhaps I should suggest we play in the manner of the French aristocracy, and serve ourselves, dressed as shepherdesses. I had the bonnet for it.