Sharon Sobel

by The Eyes of Lady Claire (v5. 0) (epub)

  Max ought to respond to her, and tell her that she had been waiting for him all these years, for he faced at least as many trials as the much belated Odysseus. But all he could think about was how this lady could toss off references to Shakespeare, and now Homer, with as much ease as she discussed Madame Lamartine’s fashions. All his instincts were right about her, for in all the long evenings ahead they would have many, many things to say to each other.

  “What is the matter, Max? Do you consider me too ungenerous to a man who died too young? Am I a most impenitent widow, as some have said?”

  “But you are not a wife, which is more to the point, and have not been one for many years. You have not fended off suitors because of doubts about a husband’s return.” He took a step closer. “Did you not say you were waiting for me?”

  Claire lifted her face and closed her eyes. “I did not say it quite like that, but I suppose it does not matter very much.”

  “What does not matter?” Camille asked.

  Max reluctantly turned away from the gift offered to him, and looked at his sister. Cosgrove, standing close to her side, had the grace to look embarrassed, but Camille was nonplussed.

  “Are you still talking about travel? I assure you, it does indeed matter to me. I have told Jamie how unfair it is that you will not even consider a short journey to Edinburgh and he is most sympathetic.”

  Max was coming to believe he ought to get his sister back to Yorkshire, and married to Cosgrove before she became even more emboldened by her London experience. Let Cosgrove deal with the new Lady Camille; he would have his own hands full minding Lady Claire.

  “Is not a journey to London greater, and not merely in distance traveled?” Max asked, looking to Cosgrove for help. He reflected that all the things Claire observed about his own experience in London could be said for the younger man, whose attachment to Camille would scarcely be noted as neither of them were very forthcoming about their relationship.

  “I travel to Edinburgh fairly often, Lady Camille,” Cosgrove said, with his usual equanimity.

  “Might I go with you on your next journey there?” Camille asked Cosgrove. “I understand there are great pleasures to be had once one crosses the border.”

  Max glanced at Claire, wondering how much his sister had heard of their earlier conversation, in which Claire speculated that his blind sister was less likely to cause serious mischief than other young headstrong ladies. And now, it was not so much what Camille said as the way she said it that made Max think about elopements and the easy distance to Gretna Green.

  “I shall take you myself, after we return to Brookside Cottage,” Max said quickly.

  “How generous of you, Lord Wentworth,” Claire murmured. “But do not forget to pack a good stock of Walter Scott’s books, so your sister can appreciate the pleasures all the more.”

  ***

  Claire planned their story with detail usually reserved for a novelist or habitual liar. They would be husband and wife who, on the recent death of his uncle, inherited a large but simply furnished estate in Cornwall.

  “Why would you be dressed in mourning if the deceased was my uncle?” Max asked one evening over dinner, as Claire set out the plan.

  “Out of respect, of course. Once I knew the dear man intended to make us very wealthy, I became as a daughter to him, caring for him in his illness. Thus, on his death, I felt obliged to wear deep mourning.”

  “I see,” Max said. “Do you not think I ought to be somewhat jealous? After all, if you dress as you would at my own passing, I might suspect you were engaged in some sort of affair with him.”

  “Really, Max. The man had consumption. He was coughing up blood. I am prepared to overlook a good many things, but that is not one of them.”

  “Very well. Do go on.” He reached for the bottle of port, waving off her servants.

  “We shall move to the estate, of course,” Claire began.

  “What do we call it? Dailey might like to know, and it must be an invented name so he does not show up at the door one day with wrapped paintings and a bill in hand.”

  “Our estate is called ‘Gulls’ Nest.’ Is that not lovely? There are trees all about the house, and the gulls inhabit them, much as the pigeons do in London,” Claire said.

  “Very picturesque, my dear. But gulls lay their eggs on the sand, amongst the seaweed.”

  “Sometimes, I think you are too clever by half,” Claire said. “What does it matter? Mr. Dailey knows paintings, not the natural history of seabirds.”

  “If he is a wise businessman, he will know a charade when he sees one. I do not think we need to give him any more provocation than we will already provide.”

  Claire wished Max would not complicate everything so. “Then let us call the estate ‘Pigeons’ Nest,’ and have that be an end to it.”

  “Very lovely. Our servants can shoot our dinner right out of the trees,” he said.

  Claire looked down at the little hen on her plate, lightly browned and served with brandied sauce. “We want to pull down the old Belgian tapestries dear Uncle Brewster had hanging on the walls for years, but never cleaned. We must somehow get rid of the dust, the moths, the darkened rectangles on the walls.”

  “I am not altogether sure Dailey is interested in matters of housekeeping.”

  “But why not? If he is as good a businessman as you say, he will only allow his acquisitions to be purchased by people who will have the care of them. We must make it clear that the frames will not be nibbled away by rats or scratched by misbehaving cats,” Claire said, beginning to be frustrated.

  “We can have one or the other. Even so lazy a cat as Lady Whitepaws would not tolerate a rat in her territory.”

  “Lady Whitepaws is not at all lazy, Max. She simply enjoys watching the comings and goings in Eton Square from the comfort of a window seat.” Claire gestured that the wine be taken away. “And so we wish to purchase landscape paintings to remind us of my childhood home in Yorkshire. They must be a certain age, and done by a master. If Mr. Dailey does not have any such paintings about, we shall ask him where and when he might acquire them. And then we will discover the provenance of the Longreaves’ painting.”

  “We already know the provenance,” Max pointed out. “It belonged to my parents, and rightly now belongs to me. The only question is how did it come to be in the Longreaves’ dining room? This scheme seems to be unnecessarily complicated.”

  “One never knows, Max. I think we had best be prepared for every possibility.”

  “It appears you already are. What are our names, by the by? We shall have to introduce ourselves in some way.”

  Claire sat back in her chair, glad she saved this tidbit for last. “That is the best part, Max. We are Mr. and Mrs. Ithaca. I considered our conversation the other day and thought how clever it would be. Ithaca is . . .”

  “Yes, I know. Mr. Dailey might know it as well, however.” He strummed his fingers on the table. “I imagine you are Penelope?”

  “It is a very lovely name.”

  “Please tell me I am not to be Odysseus? I can tolerate all of this, but I am not sure I can handle that.”

  Claire nodded. “That is just the thing. I thought it a bit unlikely, but Ulysses is preferable. There are several men of my acquaintance with that name.”

  “Lucky lads,” Max said.

  “And you have not yet told me what you will wear, Max. I think I deserve to know this.”

  “You have given me some fine inspiration, Lady Claire. I think I would have been quite decided if I were a Greek Odysseus. But now that I am to be a Roman Ulysses, it is altogether a different thing.”

  “I do not see why,” Claire said.

  “Then prepare to be surprised. Tomorrow, a stranger shall appear at your door and you will be quite astonished to know it is me
.”

  Claire accepted this news with a great deal of gravity. But she already knew, like Camille, she would recognize Maxwell Brooks in an instant, even if he were standing in a crowd of a thousand men.

  ***

  Early the following afternoon, a very odd gentleman was ushered into her drawing room. He wore a brocaded vest under a green jacket and his trousers were baggy at the knees and a trifle too short. His ascot was loosely tied and secured with a gold stickpin. But nothing was as remarkable as his beard, which had the look of a sheep not fully sheared.

  “You really look quite dreadful, Max,” Claire said, as she tied the bow to her black straw bonnet. “Surely you do not think I would marry someone who looks as you do.”

  “If you had not already given me reason to hope, I would point out that Mr. Ulysses Ithaca is a much more admirable specimen than the wretched Lord Wentworth. Do you not like my beard?” Max tugged on it, and it seemed quite secure.

  “With what did you attach it?” Claire asked, coming closer. She touched it, and remembered the fateful afternoon when she dared to reach out to him, and explore his face as he allowed his sister to do. “It will be removed, I hope, before we attend the theatre this evening?”

  “If not, then I shall take my place upon the stage, where my presence will not attract undue attention.” Max walked over to the mirror and looked quite satisfied with himself. He turned to her and held out his arms. “Come, my dear. Kiss your husband to demonstrate how happy you are to see him.”

  Claire followed him, smiling and shaking her head. This was not the same Maxwell Brooks as the man she met months ago. She slipped into his arms, and sighed against his chest. When he bent his head to kiss her, she sneezed.

  “Oh dear,” she said, and sneezed again. “Your beard is tickling my nose.”

  “Then we must remember not to kiss at Mr. Dailey’s establishment, for he will then know that we are frauds.”

  Claire pulled away, and dropped her veil over her eyes. “If our costumes do not already reveal us to be so.”

  Though the day was warm, they walked to King Street so there would be nothing to announce their real identities to the businessman. Along the way they attracted some notice, for they made a most unlikely pair: she in severe mourning and he a rakish Continental. But although they passed several people already known to Claire, no one gave any indication she was recognized.

  “I rather enjoy this,” she said to Max. “I do not remember a time when I could travel about London without interference.”

  “This is not the first time you have been in mourning, however,” he pointed out.

  “Of course. But then, people knew I was in mourning and I was accustomed to wearing veils in any case. Glastonbury insisted on it.”

  He glanced down at her. “That sounds a bit medieval. Was he afraid other men would be seduced by your beauty? I fully understand why he would be so concerned.”

  Claire patted his arm. “I wore a veil to disguise bruises and the occasional black eye. As irrational as Glastonbury often was, he realized that no one would believe I walked into that many doors and wall hooks.”

  She felt his arm muscles tighten under her hand.

  “I wish I knew you then. Before then, rather. I would have saved you from Glastonbury.”

  “It is noble of you to say so Max, but I am not the same lady I was then, when a handsome face and a title was all that mattered and I thought that was enough to pass for love. I have weathered many seasons, and understand things somewhat differently.”

  “Is this your way of telling me that you would not have spared me a second glance then, even if I announced my undying devotion to you?”

  “Oh, I daresay I would have spared you a second glance, and perhaps even a third and fourth. But I would have been as silly and flirtatious as the young ladies who circle about you at every event you attend.” She looked up at him and saw the thin white lines of his scars near his hairline. “I do not live in a fairy tale, like one of Perrault’s heroines. And I am not relying on a hero. But I now know what it is to love, and to be loved.”

  “I see,” he said in an odd voice. “Do I credit your sophisticated philosophy with my sister’s perspective on her own future?”

  Claire sighed, wondering how he could not realize she only spoke of him. “Oh, no. I believe her dice were already cast before we ever met. Before long I realized my avowed purpose in coming to Yorkshire would be in vain, for she was clearly settled on James Cosgrove. The only wonder is that you and your Aunt Adelaide did not see it, though it was right in front of you.”

  “I may be somewhat shortsighted on certain matters,” he said. “This is clearly one of them. But did you say your trip to Brookside Cottage proved to be in vain?”

  “Poor Max; you are both shortsighted and a little hard of hearing. I said I had an avowed purpose, which had nothing to do with you. But now, you see, I have managed to discover something else altogether, and admit it is rather remarkable.”

  They walked along in silence and Claire regretted wearing black garments on this warm day.

  “You are quite content to abandon the illusions of a fairy tale?” he asked, though she thought she already made it quite clear.

  “One wonders about the prospect of happiness after the last page is turned on a fairy tale. Will the hero be kind to her? Will she become bored in her little castle? What if they do not suit, after all?” Claire smiled, reflecting that there were certain advantages to be had when one was thoroughly compromised. “It is much better to have one’s eyes wide open, I believe.”

  “I shall rely on you to do the same in Mr. Dailey’s shop, for here we are,” Max said, quite unromantically. They stopped in front of a large window in which a large portrait was displayed. It was of a homely lady who looked severe enough to cool down the hot streets of London. “One never knows what information one could discern from evidence in plain sight. Have a care on the step, for there is a loose brick.”

  Claire was more interested in Max’s words than in a brick she did not notice until he revealed it to her. She rather thought she was the one experienced in cozening out mysteries and wondered what he knew about it, after all. Did he refer to himself when he spoke of evidence in plain sight?

  They entered the shop, and in the time it took for their eyes to adjust to the dim light, a neatly attired man came up to greet them.

  “Good afternoon sir, madam. I am Mr. Patrick Dailey and am here to serve you.” He bowed deferentially, revealing a cap of long white hair. “This is my establishment, as it was my father’s before me.”

  Claire was anxious to begin the inquisition and get to the heart of the matter, but would not speak in advance of her husband if, indeed, she would hardly be allowed to speak at all. But Max appeared in no great hurry and looked at the walls of the shop, covered with paintings of all sorts.

  “Your reputation does you credit, Mr. Dailey, for you appear to have an admirable collection. Our friends in London recommended you most highly as a man of discernment and impeccable honesty,” Max said, in what Claire thought was a Roman accent.

  Dailey bowed again. “I prefer to believe so, Mister . . .”

  “Ithaca,” Max said with a distinct flourish, and Claire looked at him in amazement. His speech was as extraordinary as their story. “I am Mr. Ulysses Ithaca, lately of Cornwall, and this lady is my wife.”

  “It is a very fine name, and one of distinction,” Dailey said generously.

  “You have heard of the Ithacas, then? Does our reputation precede us as well?” Max asked pompously. Claire guessed he was trying to expose the man in a lie.

  But Dailey gave the right answer, one that revealed his knowledge and his honesty. “I have not heard of the family, and feel sure I would remember it if I had. I only meant your parents were more thoughtful than most in your naming.”
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  Max gave a little laugh, and Dailey relaxed. Claire suspected Max relaxed a bit as well.

  “It is quite all right, Mr. Dailey, but you must admit it is quite a mouthful to pronounce, even in my own country. Fortunately, I have found my Penelope, and she would have me despite my unfortunate attributes.”

  Dailey turned to her, undoubtedly wondering if, beneath her veil, Mrs. Ithaca had a few unfortunate attributes of her own. Claire stared silently back at him, wondering if he could see anything at all through the netting.

  “She is a most gracious lady,” Dailey said. “I hope I do not presume too much when I say I am sorry for your loss.”

  Claire opened her lips to speak, but Max intercepted. “We both miss my late uncle very much, and it precisely due to his largesse that we have come to you today.”

  “I understand,” said Dailey. “Please come to my office, where we can discuss matters in private.”

  As he led the way through the aisles of paintings and sculpture and the occasional porcelain serving bowl, Claire realized there were other people about. At first she thought they were mere servants, dusting and polishing the merchandise, but then realized they took notes on the items they handled, and scrutinized them for every detail of their craftsmanship. Curiously, there were nearly as many women at work in the shop as men. Dailey seemed not only to run a respectable establishment, but an enlightened one as well.

  The man’s office was as tidy as a gentleman’s library, but with a good many more objects of art. On one end of his desk was an ancient gold mask; indeed, Odysseus might have looked like the man it represented. And on the other was an exquisite fossil of a prehistoric bird, its feathers spread and revealed in great detail. Claire sat on her hands as she settled herself not two feet from it, finding it absolutely irresistible. She looked up, and caught Max watching her, surely understanding how much she longed to run her fingers over its surface. He shook his head just slightly.