Gather Ye Rosebuds

by Joan Smith

  “We have just been trying the water,” I replied blandly.

  “You are brave.” He smiled.

  “We are on our way to our hotel,” was my next effort at civility.

  “I shall walk along with you. Where are you staying?”

  “Bishop’s Down.”

  His smile grew more strained by the moment. “I am putting up there myself,” he said.

  “Oh, then you are not proceeding to London today!” I exclaimed, in no joyful way. “I understood you had urgent business there.”

  “Politics is seldom urgent. Like the mills of the gods, Whitehall grinds slowly.”

  “But it grinds exceedingly small,” Mama said. She is a keen devotee of her Bible.

  Weylin laughed as though it were a famous joke and replied, “I don’t know about that.” That eruption of laughter told me he was quite as embarrassed as I at being caught out in his lie.

  He did not offer his arm, but he walked between us toward the hotel and at the corner put his hand on Mama’s elbow, which she later said was very prettily done. She had not thought him so obliging.

  As we walked along, not a word was mentioned about what had really brought us all to this resort of valetudinarians. Lord Weylin inquired how the Book Society was coming along, and I confessed that no major strides had been made during the twenty-odd hours since our last meeting. He mentioned Mrs. Radcliffe as an author who might appeal to the ladies. I said that we had all enjoyed her gothic tales very much in our youth, but were interested in more worthwhile literature now.

  He peered down and said, “In your youth! I don’t see any gray hairs, Miss Barron.”

  Mama informed him I was a quarter of a century old. He examined my face as minutely as our brisk pace allowed. When we came to the next corner, I felt his hand at my elbow, but as it fell away as soon as we reached the safety of the walkway, I was forced to conclude it was my advanced state of decrepitude that occasioned the gesture.

  We were soon at the hotel. We thanked Lord Weylin for his escort, and were about to escape when he gave a frustrated tsk and said, “This is foolishness. Why are we treading on eggs? We all know why we are here. Let us get our heads together and see what can be done about finding the necklace.”

  “We are not looking for your aunt’s necklace,” I said. “We are trying to discover what happened to my uncle’s money.”

  “Five thousand pounds,” Mama said importantly.

  “Presumably the two are mixed up somehow. Money, however, is anonymous. Once in circulation, it is indistinguishable from any other money. A unique necklace, on the other hand, might be traced, and might have some bearing on Mr. McShane’s money. What do you say, ladies? Shall we discuss it over dinner? I have hired a private parlor, and would be delighted if you would be my guests.”

  “I daresay there is no harm in it,” Mama said, with an uncertain glance at me. Lord Weylin seemed quite surprised at this lukewarm acceptance.

  I said, “We would be very happy to join you, milord.”

  “I shall be waiting for you here in the lobby at seven.”

  We thanked him and hastened along to our rooms. When we were behind closed doors, Mama said, “I do not look forward to dining with Weylin. It is a pity we agreed. I don’t suppose I could claim a sick headache, and we could eat in our room?”

  “We shan’t do much good locked in our rooms, Mama. Weylin is right. The necklace will be easier to trace than the money, and it might lead us to some clue.”

  Mama cast a knowing look at me. “You are setting your cap at him, in other words. I take leave to tell you, Zoie, he has no interest in a lady your age.”

  “I am not setting my cap at him! And furthermore, he is a good decade older than I.”

  “He is only thirty-one.” (Only thirty-one, you see. A gentleman close to a third of a century is a mere bantam cock, while a lady was an old hen at twenty-five.) “Your papa remembered very well the day he was born. Old Lord Weylin set off fireworks at Parham. His mama had been trying for half a dozen years to produce a pledge of her love, and was afraid it would be a girl when she finally managed to become enceinte. Everyone came from miles around to see the baby. It was the talk of the parish.”

  “Was there a large star in the sky to guide them to Parham that night?” I asked.

  Mama sniffed her displeasure at such a sacrilegious joke. Still, if I had had any notion of setting my cap at Lord Weylin, that story would have stopped me. A man whose birth was announced with a public display of fireworks was obviously above my touch. Not that I had planned to chase after him, but when an eligible man crosses the path of a lady my age, it is only natural to consider it.

  We had an hour’s rest before changing for dinner. I spent the time planning how we might set about discovering any clues to the vanished necklace and money. Really it was a good thing Weylin had joined forces with us, because he might at least know where his aunt stayed in Tunbridge Wells. As he was staying at Bishop’s Down, it seemed that his aunt might have stayed here, too. We could question the staff as to whom she met. A tour of the jewelry shops and pawnshops was another possible lead, in case she had hawked the necklace. No doubt Weylin had brought the copy with him, which might serve to jog the jewelers’ memory. That was why he had taken it!

  What I could not think of was any manner of finding out what had become of Barry’s money. It would be just like life if Lord Weylin, who had no need of more wealth, should recover his prize while Mama and I went home empty-handed.

  Mama fell into a light nap. At six-thirty I shook her awake and we both made our toilettes for dinner. Not knowing how long we would remain, I had brought two evening gowns with me. I wore the better of them for dinner with Lord Weylin. Borsini had talked me into wearing gowns of a classical design, to go with my “classical” face. Mama calls my draped togalike white crape with gold ribbons around the hem a shroud, and tells me I look a quiz. In fact, I have received several compliments on it, and thought a sophisticated gentleman like Lord Weylin might not despise it.

  “Oh, Zoie, you are not wearing the shroud!” Mama exclaimed, when she looked up from her own toilette to see what I had on.

  “We are only going down to Weylin’s private parlor, Mama. No one will notice what I wear.”

  “He will notice.”

  “But then, we have agreed I am not chasing after him.”

  “And a good thing it is, for you look a quiz, Zoie. Ever since you began those painting lessons, you have let your wardrobe fall into a shambles. And your hair looks very odd, too, in that funny old knot. I have not seen one like it since we buried Grandmama. I hope we do find Barry’s money, for you will need every penny of it to nab a husband.”

  “It is too late to change now,” I said crossly, and went downstairs with my confidence in tatters. It requires confidence to carry off a new and different style. I feared I looked ridiculous, and wished I had not worn the shroud, but was too stubborn or proud to change.

  A very elegant-looking female stopped and turned around to examine me as we crossed the lobby. Her expression was not one of mirth, but of interest. The little incident brought my confidence back. When Lord Weylin came toward us, I met him with my head high, and a civil smile on my face.

  Chapter Eight

  I was aware of Lord Weylin’s eyes examining me in a way they had not bothered to do before. His face wore an impassive, polite smile, but the eyes betrayed at least a latent interest in me as a woman. They lingered a moment on my black hair, before moving slowly to my eyes, and lips. I think it was the “shroud” that first caught his attention. Borsini describes it as “clinging to the womanly outlines of the body.” But Weylin was too polite to let his gaze rest on my anatomy.

  “Ladies, may I compliment you both on looking particularly lovely this evening,” he said, with a bow.

  He took my arm as well as Mama’s to lead us to his private parlor. “I have ordered wine and looked over the menu,” he said, “but have waited for you before ordering
. The burgundy—or perhaps champagne. Champagne goes with any viands.” His warm gaze suggested the champagne was a complement to my gown.

  Mama said, “You are extravagant, milord! Champagne!” as if we had never tasted this rarity. We had an excellent wine cellar when Papa was alive.

  Not wishing to ally myself with her provincial sentiment, I examined the menu and chose the sole, with chicken to follow.

  Mama said, “That sounds good,” and had the same thing. Lord Weylin urged lobsters and crab and I don’t know what all on us, but eventually settled for the sole and roast beef himself.

  When the wine was poured, he raised his glass and said, “To our success. May we all leave here richer.”

  Even in that I spied out a compliment. It was the way he said it, with a secret smile at me. That smile suggested there were other sorts of riches than gold and diamonds.

  “To our success,” I repeated, and we all drank.

  The auspicious beginning made no progress after the first glass of champagne. Once we had our fish before us, we reverted to discussing business.

  I said, “I was wondering, Lord Weylin, as you have come to Bishop’s Down, if this is the hotel where your aunt stayed when she was in Tunbridge.”

  “Just so. This is where she told Mama she stayed. I made inquiries as soon as I arrived, and was told she had been here several years ago, but she has not been here for five years—about the time the necklace disappeared. Yet she continued coming to Tunbridge often, much oftener than before. She only came once a year for the first five years she was with us. Later on, she came four times a year, at the beginning of January, April, July, and October. She was getting older, of course, and might have had more need of the chalybeate waters. Still, that regular timing is interesting.”

  Mama dropped her fork and exclaimed in a loud voice, “It certainly is! Barry used to go to London four times a year, once a season, at about those same dates.”

  Weylin stared at her with his jaw hanging slack. “Is that a fact? By God, I think we are on to something here.”

  “It is certainly a coincidence,” Mama agreed, “but I doubt it can be more than that, for they scarcely knew each other. There would be no reason to hide it if they were friends. They were both single, and free to do what they wanted, even marry.”

  “Barry took the five thousand from his bank on May the fifteenth,” I said. “That date does not coincide with the date of his visits.”

  “But he must have spent the money here,” Mama said. “He certainly did not spend it at Hernefield.”

  “Does something special occur on those dates?” I asked. “I am thinking of some item of interest that could have taken them both from home. Horse races, or meetings of some kind.”

  “There would be no races in the dead of winter,” Weylin said. “We must discover what other treats the area offers. Margaret was fond of the theater, for instance.”

  “Surely she would go to London for that,” Mama said. “London is not much farther from Parham than Tunbridge Wells is. Barry’s only interest in the theater was the green room.”

  Over our chicken and roast beef I mentioned my idea of visiting the various jewelry stores and pawnshops. Weylin said he had planned to do that. “You must have wondered why I wanted the glass copy of the necklace,” he said.

  “Yes; in fact, I went into the hall to ask you for it before you left Hernefield, but when I saw you with Steptoe, I forgot about it.”

  “Steptoe,” he said. “He knows something, I think.”

  “Did he say anything to you?” I asked at once.

  “Nothing of any account, but he wore the same oily look he wore when he told me he hadn’t seen my Tang vase. The dealer he sold it to would not identify him. I suspect they were in collusion.”

  “If Steptoe knows anything, what can he hope to gain by not telling us?” Mama asked.

  “He is waiting for us to bribe him,” I said.

  Weylin shook his head. “I’ve already tried that. If we have no success here, our next move will be to have Steptoe watched, have him followed when he leaves Hernefield.”

  Mama said, “You might insert an advertisement in the Tunbridge Journal, asking any friends of Lady Margaret to be in touch with you. She must have had friends here, since she came so often, and over such a long period of time.”

  “Now, that is an excellent idea!” Lord Weylin exclaimed. Mama blushed and simpered like a Bath miss.

  “And her companion, milord—surely she did not come here unaccompanied.”

  “Her companion was a Mrs. Riddle, an old family retainer. She returned north when my aunt died. I did write to her before leaving Parham, but I do not expect a reply for some time. I did not have her address, and wrote in care of Angus Macintosh. That is my aunt’s stepson, who inherited his father’s estate. Can you make inquiries of Mr. McShane’s valet, or groom, or—”

  Mama shook her head. “Barry used to travel alone, on the stage. He did not have a valet. When he needed a carriage, he used mine, but he did not take it when he left town, of course, for we needed it ourselves.”

  “Pity. Had he any close friends...?”

  “Not in England,” Mama said. “We are from Ireland, and he went from there to India. He stuck pretty close to home when he came to live at Hernefield, except for his trips to London.”

  “Or possibly Tunbridge Wells,” I said. “We shall make inquiries at the desk to see if Uncle stayed here.”

  Lord Weylin said, “If he did, he used some other name. I looked over the registers for the past five years. His name is not there, but there are plenty of hotels in the city. We shall ask around while we are here. A pity we hadn’t a picture of him. I brought an ivory miniature of Aunt Margaret.”

  He drew it from his pocket and showed it to us. I had not realized Lady Margaret had been a beauty in her youth. I gazed at a blue-eyed blond lady with soft eyes and a charming smile.

  “I doubt anyone would recognize her from this,” I said, handing it on to Mama.

  “Not at a glance, certainly,” Lord Weylin agreed, “but an old friend would recognize her.”

  “Oh yes, I recognize her,” Mama said. “She was certainly a beauty. Unfortunately, I do not have any picture of Barry at all.” Then she gave her cheek a light slap and laughed. “Our wits are gone begging, Zoie. You must have taken Barry’s likeness a dozen times. Did you keep any of those sketches?”

  “I have half a dozen of them in one of my old sketchpads. I wish I had thought to bring one with me.”

  “You can send to Hernefield and ask the servants to send you one,” Lord Weylin suggested.

  “That would take a few days,” Mama said, pursing her lips. “We had not planned to stay so long, milord. And you are in a hurry to get on to London, too.”

  Lord Weylin was in no hurry to leave. “I cannot like to leave this mystery unsolved,” he said. “It is not just finding the necklace, though that is worth a few days. It is the uncertainty, the niggling feeling that Aunt Maggie was up to something naughty, that intrigues me. Can you not remain a few days? It might mean the recovery of your brother’s money, Mrs. Barron.”

  “Aye, or it might mean finding out he was no better than he should be,” she said uncertainly.

  Lord Weylin took it for a great joke, and after a few flattering remarks that she had been extremely helpful, he sweet-talked Mama into sending to Hernefield for my sketch and remaining to continue looking into the mystery.

  Between the three of us, we demolished two bottles of champagne and enough food to make us uncomfortable. When dinner was finally over, Mama said, “I feel like a Strasbourg goose. If I can make it up those stairs, I shall go straight to bed.”

  “As soon as you have written to Hernefield for the sketch of your brother,” Lord Weylin said, shaking a playful finger at her. “In fact, why waste time with letters? I can hire a mount and have one of my footmen ride there tonight. He can be back before morning.”

  “He would have to ride all night!”
Mama exclaimed.

  “It is only fifty miles. On a good mount, he’ll be there in two or three hours. Why do you not write the note now, ma’am, while I arrange for the mount, and give my footman his instructions?”

  Mama looked lost at such a hasty way of carrying on. I confess I was favorably impressed. Weylin had always seemed an idle sort of gentleman, taking life pretty easily, but when he set his mind on something, he threw his whole energy into it.

  “I had best write the letter,” I said. “I know which sketchpad is required, and where it is. Brodagan will not like to be disturbed at such a late hour. I shall hint that the sketch might inconvenience Steptoe. That will ensure her compliance.”

  Mama agreed to this and we parted, Weylin to speak to his footman, I to write the note, and Mama to sit waiting impatiently for Weylin’s call, so that she might undress and go to bed. Shortly after nine he came tapping at the door.

  “There is a band playing on the Pantiles,” he said, pocketing my note. “Would you ladies like to take a stroll and hear it? It is a bit early to turn in.”

  “Very kind, Lord Weylin,” Mama said, “but I could not make it down those stairs again. I am a martyr to the rheumatism.”

  “I am very sorry to hear it, ma’am.” Then his gray eyes turned to me, with a question. “Miss Barron? Are your joints up to tackling the stairs?”

  “I should enjoy a little exercise after that large dinner,” I said, looking to see if Mama objected to being left alone in a strange hotel.

  I think she was glad to be rid of me. “Try not to make a racket when you come in, Zoie. I shall be sleeping.”

  “I shan’t be late,” I promised.

  “Not very late,” Lord Weylin said in an undertone. There was laughter in his eyes as he settled my shawl around my shoulders and offered his arm to lead me out.

  The idea flashed into my mind that Lady Margaret was not the only one of his family who could be naughty when she felt like it. And Uncle Barry might not be unique in that respect in my own family either. There is some charm in being away from home, some slight relaxing of the social constraints. Perhaps it is no more than the knowledge that friends and neighbors are not watching, and so one can cut loose a little. Was that why Barry and Aunt Margaret came here?