“What’s the like of you want with a don?” he growled.
Miss Tolerance had thoughtfully provided herself with a story. “I’ve a letter from a—a signorina in Italy. My brother’s gone to fight for the Queen, and not a word have we had till now, when I get a letter from this …” She paused as if remembering. “This Constanzia, naming my brother. But I can’t make heads nor tails of it. I’d pay one of them teachers to read it to me.”
The man shook his head. “Not my job to remember who tutors in what,” he said, and turned his back on her.
Miss Tolerance bit down on her frustration, finished her coffee, and took herself off to the Bear, where she was pleased to find a far more egalitarian spirit. The barman clearly noted her gender and, as clearly, decided it was none of his business; for the price of a pint of bitter for each of them, he regaled Miss Tolerance with his opinions on which starving tutor to approach first. After discarding this one, then that one, for reasons no clearer than “He won’t do, will he?” the barman at last offered Miss Tolerance the name and direction of a tutor named Deale who roomed in Leckford Road. Having provided this information, the barman went on to explain Mr. Deale’s situation, antecedents, and family troubles. Apparently the tutor, when in funds, spent his coin at the Bear.
At last, with thanks, Miss Tolerance escaped this torrent of information and left the Bear. At the inn she found Versellion in the private parlor he had engaged. He had bathed and changed into his own clothes, which made her more conscious of her own grime. The earl greeted her with the news that he had ordered venison and squab for their dinner. “I am tired of bread and cheese. But you! What news have you?”
“I’ve a name and direction of someone. I thought I would stop here and send a note; better if he call here as soon as possible. You will want to be there when the letter is read, and I prefer for your safety that you not go much abroad while we are here.”
“Invite him to dine?” Versellion suggested.
Miss Tolerance grinned. “If Deale’s as poor as the barman at the Bear suggested, I imagine venison and squab will be a considerable enticement.”
Versellion smiled. “By all means, let us entice him. Although …” He paused thoughtfully. “I had had a foolish notion of entertaining you alone; a decent meal, a decent bed … But you are right, we should speak to this fellow as soon as possible. We will have time.”
Miss Tolerance, touched and discomfited, said only, “I shall write to him, then. Dinner is ordered for what hour? Good. And then perhaps I will order hot water brought up for myself. Oh, good God—” A thought had occurred to her with some force. “At dinner I shall have to play a different role—or wear my hat throughout the meal. Or cut my hair short.”
“I should dislike to see you cut your hair,” Versellion said.
“But think how remarkable our visitor must find a man with hair to his waist. The shears are the most efficient solution.” Versellion began to protest, but she waved a hand to silence him. “Failing the shears, I must find myself a dress in which to greet our Mr. Deale.” Versellion rendered the decision more complex by coming up behind her, so close that she could feel his breath on the nape of her neck.
“Please do not cut your hair,” he said. “Buy a dress, buy whatever you have need of. I have sufficient funds, and you must not scruple to permit me to pay for clothes which you have sold upon my business.”
Moved far beyond what was comfortable, Miss Tolerance stepped aside.
“I hope I shall not regret this new facet of our relationship, my lord. I seem to have difficulty putting common sense before sentiment. Very well, I shall go out again and find a dress at the secondhand shops. When I make up the reckoning for my services, we can settle the matter.”
A letter bidding Mr. Matthew Deale to dine at seven o’clock, when a proposition to his advantage would be broached, was written and dispatched. Miss Tolerance went out, returned half an hour later with a bundle under one arm, and retired to their room for her toilette. Versellion stayed closeted in the parlor, desiring the innkeeper to bring him all the London papers he could part with.
At a few minutes before seven, Miss Tolerance joined the earl in the parlor. A table had been laid with covers for three, and several bottles of claret stood on the sideboard. Miss Tolerance wore a dress of light blue muslin, only a year or so out of fashion, and a handsome cashmere shawl, only slightly stained upon one edge. She looked rather like a governess: not in the first bloom of fashion, but not wholly removed from it.
Their guest arrived almost on her heels. One of the maids showed him in, announced him with a roll of the eyes which clearly said that his was a type with which she was all too familiar, and closed the door. Matthew Deale advanced into the room, looking around him as if he had fallen into an unexpected dream. He was a tall, thin man with the marks of poverty heavy upon him: his coat and stockings both showed signs of discreet darns, his chin was patchily shaven, and his hair rather too long. His skin had the pasty, unhealthy look common to persons who are too much indoors and too little in the habit of eating decent food. Hunger, curiosity, and the stink of anxiety clung to him like smoke, and so Miss Tolerance was the more surprised and impressed that the man was clearly making every effort to be cordial and gentlemanly.
“My name is Deale,” he said. “May I have the honor to know from whom this kind invitation came?”
Versellion stood and bowed; Miss Tolerance curtsied. “I am Mr. Small and this is Miss Little,” Versellion said. He had not prepared Miss Tolerance for her new name; she cast an appreciative look at him. “I hope you are hungry. We have a decent meal laid on.”
It was to the credit of all three parties that there was no indecent rush to table. For some time they concentrated on the excellent food before them: turbot served in a sauce of cream and leeks with a remove of fresh beans; a squab pasty; and a loin of venison, dressed with dried fruit and Madeira and served with removes of salsify and parsnips. For the first time in days, Miss Tolerance was conscious of that sense of well-being which comes of being pleasantly overfed. Mr. Deale, on the other hand, ate politely and steadily, as one might who was determined to consume as much as he decently could against a later hungry time. A bottle of claret was emptied, another begun.
At last, with a wistful look at the emptied dishes upon the sideboard, Mr. Deale turned to his host. “You have fed me royally, Mr. Small. May I know how I can return your generosity?”
Versellion drew the Italian letter from his pocket. “You may, Mr. Deale. I have a letter here, writ in Italian, I believe. I must have it translated, as accurately as possible, tonight. For that service I am prepared to pay handsomely. It was represented to us that you might be the man to do it.”
Deale smiled and extended his hand to take the letter, but Versellion shook his head. “This commission is of necessity a most private one. I must ask first for your word that you will not communicate what you learn here tonight to anyone.”
It was to his credit, Miss Tolerance thought, that Mr. Deale did not immediately give his word and snatch the paper from Versellion’s hand. Poor as he was, Mr. Deale was obviously neither a knave nor an idiot. “May I have your assurance in return, Mr. Small, that the letter will not contain anything of a treasonous or dangerous nature?”
Versellion was no less thoughtful in his reply. “As I do not know what the damned letter says, sir, I cannot promise that. I can promise you that if the contents of the letter require action to safeguard the peace of the country, I shall make sure such action is taken.”
Deale considered for a moment. “And my fee for the task, sir?”
“Will ten pounds be sufficient?”
The tutor nodded, apparently rendered speechless by such a sum. When he found his voice again, he asked if he might be permitted to see the letter now. Versellion handed it to him; Miss Tolerance fetched a writing table, sharpened the pen, and announced that she was ready to take down the translation if Mr. Deale would be so kind as to begin. Deale e
xamined the letter for some time without speaking.
“Sir,” he said at last. “Are you truly unaware of what this letter says?”
Versellion nodded.
Deale pulled at his chin with one long-fingered hand. He twitched his mouth and knit his eyebrows. “It appears to be … that is, I should dislike to be the agent whereby a colleague came to harm, and this—”
“For God’s sake, man, let me know what the letter says. I have no more interest than you in bringing any of your colleagues to harm, but I must have the text of the letter. If you will be so kind?”
Frowning, Mr. Deale began to dictate.
“My dear Friar—”
“Friar?” Miss Tolerance exclaimed. “Not brother?”
“Frate. Friar. If I may continue?”
More than an hour passed before Deale and his auditors were satisfied with the translation. A great deal of perplexity had been aroused by the contents, but Mr. Deale assured them that the translation was as accurate as he could make it. Miss Tolerance read back the whole of the letter’s text one more time.
“My dear Friar—
“Thank you for your interesting letter of the seventeenth. The program of breeding laid out by our colleagues in England and Germany is not so far advanced as your own, and I hear with great pleasure of the advances in fertilization. Especially in England, where the support of the Crown for agricultural sciences withered with the old King’s intellect (was there ever a sadder day for science than that when the Queen was made Regent?), such researches have become the province of a few aristocratic dilettantes who have no idea of the exchange of ideas that rigorous science demands. I only regret that the nature of the European situation precludes my journeying to see the results of our joint work.
“I rejoice to learn that the peas have not only reproduced to the sixth generation, but have done so in ways that begin to be predictable. I have written to Grudden and Hanschen to share your news, and learn from them that their own experiments—conducted also with peas, so as to provide useful comparison to your own data—are proceeding. They were at first unconvinced that the safeguards you have undertaken to ensure purity of fertilization were necessary, but I believe the arguments of DiPassi and myself convinced them. They have noticed, in particular, a distinct predictability in the height of the vines, which trait they have now reproduced in three generations. Writing to our colleague in Oxford, I have suggested that he may wish to focus upon that trait at this present, but Hawley, whose enthusiasms you will recall, argue that the color of the flower produced is at least as useful a datum as that of height! Cole and I have agreed that there is no point in arguing the matter for now.
“Cole and I are also concerned that we do not dismiss from our minds the fate of traits in plants that we do not desire. We must ask ourselves which such traits sustain themselves despite cross-pollination; at what generation a given trait is reliably expressed or suppressed; and if it is possible to cause that suppressed trait to reemerge in some later generation. Patience, indeed, must be our watchword.
“One last note: Miracoli has conceived the notion that our results, when final, might be applied scientifically to all sorts of species. Programs of animal breeding might benefit from an extrapolation of our research. It might even, one day, be possible to predict whether the union of a given man and woman would be more likely to yield children fair-haired or dark, blue-eyed or brown. That, of course, is to tread into the province of the Divine, which action, despite our Differences upon that subject, we will agree must be taken with the humblest respect. That being said, is not the scientific vista before us magnificent?
“I remain, dear Ippolito, your servant—D”
When finished, Miss Tolerance folded the translation and looked up to find Mr. Deale regarding Versellion with some perplexity.
“May I inquire if you are an agent of the government, Mr. Small, or part of Hawley’s group?” he asked.
Versellion shook his head. “Neither, sir. Why should you think it?”
Miss Tolerance, who had put these new pieces of the puzzle together over the course of the evening, looked up from the paper. “It seems we have stumbled upon a piece of that proscribed correspondence that has occasioned so much attention in London. This Mr. Hawley, whose name you noted in the newspaper yesterday—”
Deale interrupted. “I have met Hawley on one or two occasions here. He’s one of the old fellows, a history scholar with no more idea of treason than a baby. He has two enthusiasms—the Punic Wars and agriculture—but I think he’s as loyal an Englishman as you’ll find anywhere. If there is anything sinister about this correspondence, I’m certain you’ll find Mr. Hawley is an innocent dupe.”
“I am sure you are correct,” Versellion said gravely. His mind seemed already to have moved to another subject entirely. He took out his pocketbook and extracted several notes from it, which he exchanged for the letter Mr. Deale was holding. “Sir, I thank you for your help, and I remind you that you have given your word that the contents of this letter will remain our secret.”
“You have my word, sir. I should hate to think that I have caused trouble for Mr. Hawley—”
“Not from me, Mr. Deale,” Versellion assured him. “I heard nothing in the letter to indicate that Mr. Hawley or his colleagues are a threat to England’s security—and if it’s writ in code, it’s the damnedest cipher I ever encountered. May I offer you more wine? No? Then perhaps we may bid you good evening, sir.”
Mr. Deale appeared much relieved by this abrupt dismissal. He made his bow to Miss Tolerance, exchanged nods with Versellion, and backed out of the room as if leaving an audience with the Queen. The door closed behind him and Versellion dropped his head into his hands.
“Peas. Vines. A whole page double-written about peas and how tall they grow. Great scientific vistas?” His shoulders began to shake with laughter which seemed composed, to Miss Tolerance’s ear, of anger, frustration, and genuine amusement.
She let him laugh himself out, then handed him a glass of wine.
“I think,” she said carefully, “that several important questions have escaped your notice, sir. This business with Hawley and his correspondents is fairly recent; according to the papers, it cannot have been going on for much more than two years—three at most. How comes this letter of recent vintage to be in a fan your father gave Mrs. Cunning a near score of years ago?”
Versellion, who had been examining the surface of the wine in his glass, looked up sharply.
“The fan you bought is not the one I seek!”
“Perhaps, sir, although it matches the description and appears to have the right pedigree. Mrs. Cunning could identify it positively for us. But perhaps the fan was not so buried away as Mrs. Virtue gave me to understand—in which case the message you are seeking might have been replaced with this letter.”
Versellion drew a long breath and sank back in his chair. “And we have been chasing geese all over Oxfordshire. Another reason we must return to London. I did not have the time to tell you before Deale arrived.” He got up and fetched the Times, which had been left on a chair by the sideboard. “Look at this.”
Miss Tolerance followed his finger to a brief item. The Queen had been taken ill; reports from Kew Palace were guarded. The wishes and prayers of an anxious nation were with Her Majesty at this most distressing time, and so on.
“This is hardly news to you, sir,” Miss Tolerance said.
“It is not the news, it is the matter of where I find it. The Times is the Crown’s paper, the most likely to dismiss any rumor of the Queen’s illness until the matter is so grave that the outcome is not in doubt. If the Times says she is ill, the inference is clear: she will not recover.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I certainly cannot know that here, Sarah. I must return to London tomorrow. Take what precautions you like, hire a battalion of Hussars or let us return to the city with a company of trained bears. But I return to London tomorrow, if I have to t
ake the stagecoach.”
Miss Tolerance looked at her companion mildly. “Have you ever ridden a public coach, sir? It would be an education for you.”
He glared at her.
She sighed. “I do not think a battalion of Hussars will be necessary, Versellion. I will hire bodyguards in the morning—the only reason I did not today was because—”
“Our whole attention was on translating the damned letter. You’re right.” He sat down again. “Perhaps there was never anything to this damned fan, perhaps it was some sort of fever dream of my mother’s.”
“That is possible. But do not forget that two people have died in this matter, one of them my friend. Pursuit of the fan is important in some way, and we will discover why.” She gathered up the sheets she had covered with her transcription of the letter. “Are you tired, sir?”
Versellion looked at Miss Tolerance and appeared to read something in her face of which she herself had been unaware. “Not in the least,” he said, and smiled.
It was not in Miss Tolerance’s heart to deny that smile. “Then let’s to bed,” she said.
The next morning was foggy and cold. Miss Tolerance quitted her bed with considerable reluctance and took herself to the Mitre, the coaching inn on High Street where a chaise and four might be bespoken. For just a moment, as she stood by the bed waiting for Versellion to empty the contents of his pocketbook into her hands to defray the cost of the hire, she shivered. How like a scene of prostitution this might seem: herself, at dawn’s breaking, hand extended to take her lover’s money. The reality, she assured herself, was of course different. Still, the thought was as oppressive as the day itself.
Point of Honour (Sarah Tolerance) Page 18