by Joan Smith
“You may not have succeeded with the woman, but you had good luck with Mitzi. How did you win her?"
“We share a common taste, beefsteak. And about the woman, it was by no means a lack of success, only of opportunity, when you came barging in. I have been thinking about this trip to Braden's place, Lizzie,” he said, changing the subject. “Rusholme, is it?"
“Yes, near Fareham. What about it?"
“He will find it peculiar that you drag me along, a stranger. How is my presence to be explained?"
“I'll tell him about the accident, that my carriage is wrecked, without mentioning the theft. Tell him you are delivering me."
“That will incline him to think I should leave as soon as you are safely delivered, will it not? I plan to stick around. You'll have to come up with something else."
“I cannot call you a relative. He knows all my kin. It would not look natural to invite a casual friend either."
“I could become your fiancé for the duration of the visit."
“That would make a decent excuse for your presence, but should we not give you a new name? You would not want word to get about the countryside the elusive Sir Edmund Blount is engaged. A man in your position—there might be someone there who knows you."
“No one who knows me would believe it,” he answered. “It is rather your fair name we must think of. Would the rumor be likely to run back to Westgate?"
“Not at all. The only connection Weston has there is us. Neither Maisie nor I would tell anyone, of course."
“There we are then. Miss Braden, would you do me the honor to be my fiancée for a day or two, on the strict understanding that we are never to get married?"
“Lawdamercy, Sir Edmund! How you do sweet-talk a lady! How can I resist? I will be happy to be your unintended wife, but for an absolute maximum of forty-eight hours."
“Agreed."
The ensuing conversation was so foolish it is not worth committing to paper. I was shocked to find Blount capable of foolishness. The nonsense continued till we reached Mr. Bartlett's workshop. The jeweler was a man with an oval head, fringed in white. He wore tiny glasses that rested on the tip of his nose. He was puzzled at the nature of our request—to put real diamonds into a cheap setting. He insisted he had not any of the proper size or shape. He had had doings with Sir Edmund's family before, however, and was not loath to do what he could for him. The necklace was left with him, the understanding being that he would do his best, but he explained that the job would take longer than a few hours. No amount of urging from Sir Edmund, or bald assertions that it wouldn't take a minute to pry out the glass and just stick in proper stones, changed his opinion.
“Come back at three,” he said. When Sir Edmund mentioned two, Bartlett changed it to three-thirty.
I got Sir Edmund out the door before the hour could be pushed any further forward.
“Let us go and see how Maisie and Mitzi get on,” I suggested.
“You are not the type of lady I usually get unengaged to,” he told me, shaking his head sadly. “Feather-headed. Are we to go to your uncle without an engagement ring?"
“It cannot be worth buying one for two days. With your philosophy, I cannot think it will have any other use."
“It will not be a total loss. I can give it to Wilma."
“Who is Wilma?” I asked. I immediately wished I had not, for I had a sudden feeling she was a sultry-eyed female with raven curls.
“She is poor Willie's fiancée. Wife now. My brother was married yesterday, remember?"
“Surely Willie bought her an engagement ring himself?"
She wouldn't mind having two, he thought.
“You are careless with your money. Let us pick up a tin one at the everything store. It won't turn green for a few days. Uncle Weston will hardly examine it through a magnifying glass. A phony ring for a phony engagement."
“Good thinking."
We entered the first store of the proper sort we came to. They had a fine selection of junk jewelry. “I want to buy me fiancée an engagement ring,” Sir Edmund said, causing the proprietor to examine us closely.
“I don't sell jewelry,” the man answered.
“Nonsense, of course you do. What are all these things here?” Blount ran his eye over an assortment of garish red glass beads, pins and tin rings.
“This is servants’ toy stuff,” the man replied, frowning at us. He checked me out thoroughly to be sure I was not a servant being conned by a dandy.
“That is exactly what we want. Here, try this one, Lizzie,” he said, lifting up a narrow band, painted with some metallic stuff that was more coppery than gold in hue.
I put out my left hand for him to slide the tin on the third finger. It spun around loosely. It was so cheap Sir Edmund bent it as he lifted it from the finger back to the man. It squeezed into an oval at the slightest exertion of the fingers. “This one is for ten minute engagements,” he told me. “Find us something that won't lose its shape or shine for a couple of days,” he said to the clerk.
The man rooted behind the counter to produce a higher quality of junk. “These cost a shilling,” he cautioned.
“An expensive business,” Edmund repined, shaking his head dismally. He lifted one out and tried it. It fit well enough, but looked so very like the other that it would not pass even a cursory examination.
“Have you got anything embossed, maybe some leaves or something to hide the glare of the tin?” Edmund asked. “I'll be getting into deep financial waters here,” he said aside to me. “We're talking a crown at least."
“You're a shrewd judge of value,” the clerk praised him, rummaging for a piece yet more elaborate than the last.
“This is more like it! What more could a girl ask?” I exclaimed when my ring was handed to me. “From a yard away, it would fool the most suspicious. What do you think, Edmund?"
“Plenty good enough for you. Stick it on,” he answered.
With the embossed circle of tin on my finger, we left the shop, while the man within shook his head in confusion at the way of gentry folk.
Sir Edmund's manner of revealing our plan to Maisie that he pose as my fiancé was to say baldly to her, as soon as we entered her room, “You must congratulate us, Maisie. We are engaged. Show her your ring, Lizzie."
I can only assume my aunt was suffering some mental disorder after her accident the day before. She believed him! Worse, she let out a whoop of delight at my conquest. She started up from her chair and came limping forward, wearing a smile as wide as her face. “I knew it!” she shrieked, laughing inanely. “I could tell from the way you were carrying on last night, Lizzie, that you loved him! Why else would you have been so upset about that...” She was too nice to continue. “Oh Edmund, I couldn't be happier! What a wonderful match for my niece."
“Thank you, Maisie. We have your approval then?” he asked, sliding his demmed dark eyes over to laugh at me.
“Have you taken leave of your senses, Maisie?” I asked sharply. “Sir Edmund is joking. We have decided to tell Weston we are engaged, to give Edmund an excuse to accompany us."
“But the ring!” she exclaimed, staring at it.
“Tin, to add an air of authenticity to the masquerade,” I told her.
She laughed then as though it were a marvelous joke. “I did think it sudden, to be sure. Only twenty-four hours. It usually takes a little longer than that."
“How long does it usually take her?” he asked.
“Ha, she is slow as molasses in January. She never had but the one offer from old Beattie, and that took twenty-five years."
“I have so had offers! Both the ministers ... Oh, never mind."
“That's right. I forgot Reverend Cox and Doctor Leiterman, but clerics, you know. They would not suit Lizzie. She is too lively for that."
“She'll have me worn to a thread before our two-day engagement is over. Bartlett will have the necklace ready by three."
“Three-thirty,” I corrected.
; “I'll go over and start pestering him an hour before that. Well, ladies, we have a couple of hours before luncheon. What would you like to do? Why don't I take you out for a drive, Maisie? You must be bored to fidgets, sitting here watching that mutt all day long.” The mutt, meanwhile, was pawing at his trousers, hinting to be taken up.
“It sounds good,” she answered at once. “Where shall we go?"
“In Winchester, one does one's duty and goes to the cathedral,” he informed her, “unless, of course, one has the excellent excuse of a sprained ankle, in which case she and her escort are excused."
We were deprived of a visit to the famous cathedral, which I would very well like to have seen, and so would Maisie, though she is shy of putting her wishes forward. Blount hired a team at a stable to keep the borrowed grays fresh for the dash to Fareham. Some friend of his had a dairy farm north of Winchester. That was our outing—to go and look at very much the sort of thing we have to see every day. With Maisie's bad ankle, she sat on the verandah with the farmer's wife, Mrs. Langton, while I was dragged through barns and pastures, being told by Edmund that what I was seeing was extremely interesting to me, as I too was in the business. I did not trouble to tell him we left all that work in Berrigan's hands.
The Langtons gave us luncheon. As I found the roast beef quite delicious, I should imagine Edmund gagged on every bite, but he was too polite to say so when he was not paying for his meal, as he did at an inn. We had to hasten through our meal to get back to Winchester in time to visit Bartlett an hour before the necklace was ready. The only one of us outside of Blount who enjoyed the morning was Mitzi. She was well amused pestering Langton's cattle. She was through with me entirely. Blount was her new master. She seldom left his heels.
Shortly after three-thirty we were back with the necklace. It did not look exactly like my own, but it looked better than it had. Some of the stones were of the wrong size and shape, but they were at least diamonds, and diamonds of an old cut. Nestled in its proper box with the Elizabethan plaque, it would have fooled any but an expert, which Uncle Weston, unfortunately, was.
Chapter 9
It was a short trip to Rusholme, about sixteen miles. The team of grays borrowed from Edmund's friend made it without baiting. We arrived just in time for dinner, at six. Uncle Weston had about given up on seeing us. I had mentioned we would arrive around noon. Weston Braden, I happen to know, is sixty-five, but he looks older. He is a rumpled anachronism of a man that no valet can keep presentable. His hair is white, worn in the old style—longish, pulled into a tail behind. He has no pretensions to fashion. As often as not he wears an old fustian coat about his place, but in honor of our visit he was rigged out in a blue one. He is somewhat stout, ruddy-complexioned, with bright hazel eyes. Gout necessitates his hobbling along with a walking stick. He is out of style with the world at large, but in the doorway of his half-timbered Elizabethan home, he looks just right—a portly, sixteenth-century English squire. One expects to hear a “forsooth” or “sirrah” when he opens his mouth.
I introduced Sir Edmund as my fiancé, never thinking I would have to do more than make the statement. I was in grave error. Weston took an inordinate interest in the matter.
“Why you never mentioned a word of being engaged, Lizzie!” he exclaimed, greatly surprised.
“It happened only recently, Uncle."
“Isn't that nice. I had despaired of ever seeing you settled. So you are Lizzie's young man,” he continued, shaking Blount's hand.
“I have that honor,” Edmund confessed, unblushing.
“Blount. Blount—the name sounds familiar,” Uncle said next. “You wouldn't be the Blount who owns Woldwood, where the fine cattle are bred?"
“I have that honor, too,” Blount answered modestly.
“Well, now, isn't that fine.” Weston smiled fondly at first me, then my catch. “You have done well for yourself, missie. Very well indeed. She is sly as a fox, Sir Edmund. She has kept mum as a mole about the whole thing."
“Very likely she is ashamed of me,” Edmund replied, with a disparaging smile.
This was treated as humor of a high order. After he had finished laughing, Weston asked, “How do things go on at Westgate? Not too prosperously I fear, as you are ready to sell me the necklace."
“Not prosperously at all, Uncle. That Berrigan fellow you saddled us with is a disaster."
“Is he indeed? I am surprised to hear it. He came highly recommended. I'll look about and find someone else for you. Or perhaps Sir Edmund would be interested...” His relief at being rid of us was genuine.
Once I was there, actually facing my uncle, I knew perfectly well it was nonsense to think he had anything to do with Greenie or the stolen jewelry. I believe Sir Edmund was thinking the same thing. He observed Weston closely, then a sort of puzzled frown settled on his harsh features as he glanced to me.
Maisie came forward to make her greeting and be welcomed. When she was seen to be carrying a walking stick, Weston thought he had a fellow-sufferer in gout. “No, I had an accident,” she told him. “Our carriage was overturned just outside of Devizes. Lizzie is wearing a patch, you must have noticed."
“How did it happen?” he inquired.
“One of those demmed Corinthians was hunting the squirrel, and capsized us,” Edmund explained, in well-feigned vexation.
“They ought to be whipped at the cart's tail, every one of them,” Weston said in a supporting way. “Well, come in, folks, and let us have some refreshment. You ladies will want to change for dinner."
The difficulty in this scheme was explained. “Our trunks ought to be here by tomorrow,” Edmund said. “I sent word to Devizes to forward them here. I forgot to mention it to you, Lizzie. I did it this morning, when I was up early with Mitzi."
“Good, I am happy to hear it.” I hoped it was true, and not more invention from my fellow actor.
“No matter. We are not at all grand here, in the country,” Uncle told us, relieved to be spared the bother of dressing himself.
We had a glass of wine while dinner was given its final preparation. “I am most eager to see the necklace,” Uncle said. “Do you have it in your reticule, Lizzie, that I might have a look now, while we await dinner?"
“Edmund is carrying it,” I told him.
I knew it was in Edmund's pocket, but he did not produce it. Perhaps he was afraid my uncle would get to compare it to the other while we were washing up for dinner. “I'll get it later,” he said.
There was nothing amiss in the meal. Uncle sets a good table, but the conversation was uneasy. The matter of my wedding arose again. Weston expressed a natural interest in its date. “When do you plan to tie the knot?” he asked.
“Pretty soon,” Edmund answered, while I simultaneously said, “Not for a while yet.” Our eyes flew to each other to exchange a guilty look at this blunder.
“The date is not settled,” Maisie explained, easing us out of the touchy situation.
We spoke of my brother, of Weston's stepson Glandower. “Who will run Westgate after the wedding?” Weston asked. “Jeremy never took any interest in it. You will want a good steward."
“I will be taking care of those details,” Edmund replied. “It is the problem of leaving Westgate untenanted that causes the delay in our wedding."
“Will you go to Woldwood with them, Maisie?” he asked next.
Again we came a cropper. Her “no” collided solidly with my “oh, yes” and Edmund's “certainly she will."
Uncle looked at us, bewildered. “That is not quite settled either,” Maisie told him. “They want me to go, but I feel I ought to stay home to look after Jeremy when he comes home, you know."
“You will be much better off with us,” Edmund scolded in a proprietary way. “Lizzie agrees with me."
“Yes, for Jeremy is so seldom home you would be lonesome, Auntie,” I added, doing my bit to bolster the illusion of an approaching wedding. I realized the farce was becoming more complicated than I had ever antici
pated.
Edmund diverted the conversation to farming, which got us through dessert without utter disaster. Uncle was eager enough to see the diamonds that he kept Edmund behind for only one small glass of port. Ten minutes after we left the gentlemen, they joined us in the saloon.
“Shall we have a look at it now?” Uncle asked, rubbing his hands together in delighted anticipation.
“Why not? Here it is,” Edmund said, sliding his hand into his inner jacket pocket to extract the green case.
We three visitors risked one curious, swift exchange of a look while Uncle took the box, then we all stared hard at him, ready to discover any flaw in his expression, any sign indicating guilt. He opened the lid, nodding and smiling innocently at the plaque inside. Then his gaze went to the necklace, still smiling, still innocent. Within two seconds, some little frown formed between his white brows. He picked the jewelry up, looked closely at it for a while longer, then looked at me.
“It looks different somehow,” he said. “These matching stones here, third from the center, are oval—I made sure they were done in the rounder style."
“You must be mistaken,” I answered, trying for a nonchalant air.
“I must be,” he agreed reluctantly. “This is very strange. The center stone is larger than I recall, and some of the others smaller."
“You have not seen it for a long while,” I mentioned.
“True, but I have the replica, you recall, that I often take a look at. I had it out after I received your letter, Lizzie. I had thought it was a perfect copy, but I was mistaken."
We three conspirators risked another quick glance, noting he had voluntarily mentioned the replica. “Why do you not get the copy, and compare them?” Edmund asked. His speech sounded so extremely significant to me I was sure Uncle would demand at once what chicanery we were up to.
“Yes, I'll do that,” was all he said.
When he turned to leave the room, still carrying the necklace, Edmund followed at his heels. They went no farther than a few yards down the hall to the study. When they returned, Uncle carried his copy in the other hand.