Gather Ye Rosebuds

by Joan Smith

  I led him to Steptoe’s room. Steptoe had packed hastily, leaving half his clothes behind. We searched them for clues, but of course, he was too crafty to leave anything but lint in the pockets.

  “This is the dressing gown he was wearing last night,” I said, lifting the green robe, which had been tossed on the end of the bed in his haste. “Quite the peacock! I wonder where he stole this.”

  “Peacock?” Weylin said, offended. He took the garment and examined it. “He told my valet this got grease spilled on it when it was sent down to be pressed. I shall have a word with my valet about this.” He frowned at the garment. “Perhaps it is just a tad gaudy,” he said sheepishly. “The yellow trim is the culprit.”

  “Let us go downstairs and have some coffee. I was just about to have breakfast when you arrived.”

  We went below and found Mama at the breakfast table. “Mary told me about Steptoe,” she said. “Did you find anything interesting abovestairs?”

  Weylin said only that Steptoe and Borsini appeared to be in league in some mischief, without mentioning Barry, and told her of Steptoe’s depredations in the attic.

  “I am shocked at Borsini,” she said. “He always seemed such a nice lad, except for that foreign streak, of course. I never could get used to being a signora. And you say Steptoe planned to sell what he found to Borsini?”

  “For a hundred pounds,” I said.

  “If it was something small enough to be hidden in the lining of a jacket, it sounds like a piece of paper,” Mama said. “Whatever could it be? Something to poor Borsini’s discredit, I don’t doubt. Steptoe could mail it to him.”

  Weylin set down his cup with a clatter and jumped up. “You’re right. And the mail will be arriving any moment. I must go.”

  I did not think Steptoe would part with the item without getting his hundred pounds in his hand, but Weylin tore out of the house. Mama and I remained behind to talk over the matter. This was done in a vague way, as I did not want to tell her my suspicions of Barry. We discussed whether we should send for the constable. Since Steptoe had not stolen anything, and had, in fact, run off with a month’s wages owing to him, we could not see what charges we could lay against him.

  “Whatever he is up to, we are well rid of him,” she said.

  The next item of business was to get Brodagan shipped off to the tooth drawer. The pain had eased, and she was in no mind to part with her tooth, but in the end we bullocked her into it.

  “I shall go with you, Brodagan,” Mama said. “You will not be alone in your agony.”

  I made sure I would have the chore of escorting Brodagan, and wondered at Mama pitching herself into such an unpleasant situation. I soon found the reason.

  “You will know what to tell the constable when Weylin has Borsini arrested, Zoie,” Mama said. “They are bound to come here asking questions, as you and Borsini were such bosom bows. It will be better if you handle it. You will know what to say.”

  I felt I got the better of the bargain. I would rather face a den of lions than Brodagan at the tooth drawer’s. In honor of the occasion, Brodagan wore a freshly starched steeple, with a voluminous black cape over her shoulders, though the weather was warm. She was supported by Mama’s arm on one side, Mary’s on the other, as she went moaning through the hall.

  She stopped at the door and took one last look around. “In case I never see you again, melady, I’ll take my leave of you now,” she said to me, in sonorous accents. “It has been an honor to serve you.” I gave her a parting hug.

  Mary said bracingly, “Why you’ll be back before you can say one, two, three, with that malign tooth out of your head once for all, and your heart light as a thrush.”

  “Light as a thrush, is it?” Brodagan said. “I only hope it’s light enough to fly to heaven.”

  “Here, have a sip of your medicine,” Mary said, and handed her a little bottle of brandy she had brought along to brace Brodagan for her ordeal.

  With Steptoe, Brodagan, Mama, Mary, and John Groom gone, the house was left with only Jamie, the backhouse boy, and myself. I should have asked Mama to bring one of the Coughlin girls home to help out. They are local girls who work mornings at a dairy farm, but are always glad to find extra work for the afternoon.

  I went to the kitchen, where Jamie was piling dishes into the wash pan. He seemed to know what he was about, so I left him to it and went back upstairs. I would sit in the saloon to act as butler. Rather than twiddling my thumbs, I went upstairs to fetch my sketchpad and pencils. I noticed the door to the octagonal tower was ajar. Steptoe! If he had done any damage to my studio, I would call the constable.

  I ran upstairs, but the room had not been disturbed. Sunlight spilling in at the windows glowed on the light walls. I could not complain of any lack of brightness. Quite the contrary. My two easels and chest of paints and brushes had been brought up. The easels lay on the floor, the parcel of supplies on the chest of drawers. The painters had removed their tarpaulin, revealing the aged Persian rug. I could not remove it by myself, but I could measure the room for its new linoleum covering. I stood a moment, wondering what color would suit. Perhaps a darker shade, to conceal the inevitable spatters of paint, and to give some relief from those brilliant walls and windows.

  Yet in winter, the windows would show a gray sky, so perhaps... What I really wanted was to ask Borsini’s opinion. I would miss my old friend and mentor. I could not believe he was in league with that hound of a Steptoe. I could believe he really was Barry’s son. That would have pleased me greatly—but then, how did Steptoe fit into such an innocent scenario as that?

  While I stood in the stillness of the tower room, I heard from below soft, stealthy footsteps along the hallway. It was not Jamie’s quick feet, but a man’s tread, moving quietly, as if he had no right to be there. My heart clenched in fear. I was alone in the house, but for Jamie, in the kitchen below. He could not know the man had entered, or he would have notified me. This intruder had got in uninvited. Steptoe... or worse—a stranger. A ne’er-do-well who thought the house deserted, and had come to see what he could pick up. When he saw me, he might lose his mind and attack.

  The soft steps proceeded down the hall. I heard a few doors open, then the steps came closer, and stopped. My ears suggested he was at my bedroom. After a moment, the footsteps began again, faster now, heading for the stairs to this tower room. I crouched behind the chest of drawers while the footsteps mounted swiftly, no longer using caution, almost as if he knew he had me cornered alone up here. My throat ached from the strain, and my heart banged erratically. There was not a single thing I could use for a weapon.

  The footsteps ran into the room. “Zoie! Zoie!” a voice called, rising in alarm. It was Weylin!

  I stood up then, my fear giving way to anger. “Weylin! What the devil do you mean, sneaking about the house like a burglar! You frightened the life out of me.”

  “Zoie?” His face was white with strain. There was an answering anger in his tone. “Why are you hiding? Why did no one answer the door? I knew Steptoe was gone and Brodagan hors de combat, so I let myself in. I called and called, without an answer. I could not imagine what had happened. I was afraid you had all been poisoned, or had your throats slit. Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am all right.”

  “But where is everyone? You were not alone when I left half an hour ago.”

  I explained about Mama and Mary taking Brodagan to the dentist’s, and of course, he already knew of Steptoe’s departure.

  “I shall send a few girls over from Parham,” he said. “And a footman. Your mama should not have left you here alone. You are as white as a sheet. I don’t feel any too stout myself. Let us go below and have a glass of wine.”

  “A good idea. I just came up to get my sketchpad and pencils. My studio door was ajar. I feared Steptoe had been up, but if he was, he did not find anything. All my uncle’s things have been removed.”

  “I wonder...” He looked all around the room. “We do n
ot know for certain that Steptoe found what he was looking for. Is it possible McShane hid it in this room? Under a loose floorboard, or slid down the wainscoting?” He looked at the shabby old carpet. “Or under that? Of course, you would have looked there.”

  My interest quickened. “No, actually, the painters had the tarpaulin over this precious floor covering, to prevent splattering it.”

  Weylin glanced to see if I was joking. “No doubt Steptoe has had a peek,” he said, looking a question at me.

  “I want to remove it in any case. Will you help me?”

  We each took a corner and began rolling. The paper was right under the middle of the carpet. I have no doubt Steptoe had lifted the corners as high as he could and peered under, missing the paper by inches. We both saw it at once, and reached for it. I beat Weylin to it by a second.

  The ink was faded, but still legible. We took it to the window to read. It was a marriage certificate, dated 1790, from St. Agnes’s Church in Duleek, Ireland. The signatures were Barry McShane and Lady Margaret Raleigh. The witnesses were Laurence McShane, a cousin of Barry’s, and Mrs. Riddle, Lady Margaret’s companion. We examined the document in silence, then looked at each other in perplexity.

  “But how is this possible?” I exclaimed. “Your aunt was married to Mr. Macintosh.”

  “I believe it is called bigamy,” Weylin said, in a choked voice. “The old devil! And here I have been calling your uncle a scoundrel for having abandoned her.”

  “I don’t understand. If they were married, why did she not go to India with him, especially as she was having his child? This makes no sense, Weylin.”

  “Aunt Margaret hated the heat,” he said. “Chilly old Scotland suited her down to the toes. I wager she balked at the last minute.”

  “Then she cannot have known she was enceinte.”

  “Yes, that might explain—though not forgive it. She thought she could talk McShane out of going to India.”

  “And he probably thought she would follow him. Mama always said he was mule-stubborn.”

  “I daresay she was afraid to tell her papa what she had done—married your uncle, I mean. Grandpa Weylin was a Turk, with lofty ambitions for his daughters. So she got an offer from Macintosh, and married him up in a hurry to escape to Scotland, to hide her sins from the family. I fancy that is what happened.”

  “I wonder when Barry discovered all this. It must have been much later, after he had taken Surinda Joshi as his mistress.” Weylin looked a little startled at this. “He kept an Indian woman for years in Calcutta. Mama was always afraid he would marry her. Now we know why he did not.”

  We took the document down to the saloon and had a glass of wine. After much discussion, I said, “This is all very interesting, but is this marriage certificate what Borsini and Steptoe were looking for? If Borsini is the legitimate son, he would not want to hide the fact. Quite the contrary. And if he is not, but only an impostor... well, the marriage certificate hardly makes any difference.”

  “If Lady Margaret was not Macintosh’s legitimate wife, then she has no right to her widow’s portion. It will revert to Macintosh’s son. She handed the ten thousand over to the man she believed was her son, so he would certainly be eager to hide this little piece of paper.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean. What should we do about it?”

  “I shall have a word with Borsini. With this to hold over his head, he may be more forthcoming. I’ll run along now. And for God’s sake, Zoie, lock the door. I nearly had a heart attack when I thought you were dead.”

  He sounded wonderfully worried. “So did I, when I thought you were a burglar sneaking up on me. And I without a single weapon at hand to bludgeon you into submission.”

  “No blunt instruments will be necessary. This will always keep me in line,” he said, and stole a quick kiss before parting.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Brodagan returned home half an hour later with her steeple knocked askew and her face red from brandy and the tooth drawer’s mauling. She was smiling despite it all.

  She held the offending tooth in her hand. “I’ve lost my last night’s sleep over this fellow, melady,” she said. “To think such a wee scrap of bone could torture a body worse than the rack and thumbscrews. It’s into the fire with Mr. Snaggle Tooth, and good riddance, say I.” So saying, she tossed the offending article into the grate.

  “Good for you, Brodagan. Was it very bad?” I asked.

  “If hell has worse pain than a tooth drawer, then I’ll sin no more. I mean to get to heaven by hook or by crook.” She turned to Mama and said, “I want to make a confession, melady. I didn’t make dust rags out of that bit o’ worn muslin off the blue guest room bed as you told me to, but made myself up a petticoat. It’s been lying heavy on my conscience. I’ll rip the petticoat up this very day and make it into dust rags, for a life of sin is not worth the torment.”

  “Any worn muslin in this house is yours to do with as you see fit, Brodagan,” Mama said, with tears in her eyes. To me she added, “Was ever a lady blessed with such honest servants, Zoie? I swear they deserve halos, every one of them.”

  Brodagan was much touched, and fell into tears. Mary joined in, and soon Mama was weeping as well. I felt a tear ooze out of my own eyes, and before we all drowned, we sent Brodagan off to bed. Mama went with her, which postponed telling her about Barry’s having been married. She would be delighted to hear it, but the affair was so complicated that I wanted to ponder all its implications before telling her.

  No, there is no point being evasive with you so late in my story. Like Brodagan, I shall confess the whole truth. I hoped to contrive some way for Andrew Jones (whom I believed to be Borsini) to keep his mama’s fortune. Surely she had earned it. Macintosh knew of her condition when he married her, and the fact that she was already married had not inconvenienced him much. His own son was already well provided for. Why should Andrew not have a piece of the pie? Mama might feel differently, however, so I would tread softly.

  I was so upset that I could not settle down to painting or any other occupation, and decided to take a canter through the meadow to ease the tension. This would also give me a view of the Weylins’ park. If anything of interest was transpiring, it was transpiring at Parham. All I saw was a couple of gardeners out scything the grass.

  The major subject at luncheon was Brodagan’s condition and our own shortage of servants. Brodagan’s jaw was swollen up like a turnip. She wanted to work despite it; Mama forbade it; Mary and Jamie between them could hardly slice the mutton, much less cook it. The fire in the kitchen stove had gone out, and who was to answer the door if we had any callers? In the middle of our cold luncheon, the servants arrived from Parham. I had forgotten all about Weylin’s offer to send them, but they were more than welcome.

  Mama became tongue-tied in their presence. It was for me to ask the footman to see to the stove, and assign the female servants to Mary for instructions. As soon as lunch was over, Mama went abovestairs to see that Mary had done the rooms, for she disliked Weylin’s servants to see the house dusty and the beds unmade.

  “He knows we need help, Mama. That is why he sent his servants to us.”

  “Yes, dear, but servants from Parham! I would not want them to think us slovenly.”

  She went upstairs to make her own bed and dust her toilet table. I sat by the window, waiting. It was not long before Weylin and Borsini arrived. I do not know what caused it, but Borsini had lost his second-rate air. He was wearing the same jacket, but when he alit from Weylin’s crested carriage, he walked with a more confident air. He and Weylin might have come from the same egg. That hint of obsequiousness that always hung about him was gone. His head was held high and his shoulders were straight. He looked as if he belonged in that carriage. He and Weylin were talking and laughing like old friends.

  I admitted them, as the footman was too busy tending to the stove to act as butler. I knew by the mischievous light in Weylin’s eyes that he was happy about something. W
hen Borsini came in, he just smiled a moment from the doorway, then came forward, put his arms around me, and kissed my cheek.

  “Cousin!” He beamed. “I have been wanting to call you that these five years. Now you know the whole!”

  “I still have a few questions,” I said, leading them to a seat, but I was happy to hear Borsini was indeed my cousin, and not an impostor.

  “It is the money you are concerned about,” Borsini said. In the past, he would not have been confident enough to put himself forward in this manner. He would have waited for Weylin to explain, or at least looked to him for permission. “The fact of the matter is, that ten thousand pounds did not come from Macintosh. It was Margaret’s dowry. We do not see—Weylin and I—why it should go to Angus Macintosh. He has more than enough.” He continued in this vein.

  Although I listened closely (and agreed heartily), my eyes often strayed to Weylin. His composure told me he had accepted Borsini as his cousin. He read my unspoken question, and explained the reason.

  “Andrew has proven to my satisfaction that he is Margaret’s son. Macintosh wanted him out of Scotland, and sent him to Ireland. He felt Andrew would feel at home there, since it was where his father was from. Andrew showed me the adoption papers and birth certificate the Joneses left him when they died. He knew he was adopted, but Mrs. Jones told him he was the son of her cousin, who died in childbirth.”

  “They were fine people,” Borsini said. “Not well off, you know, but honest and hardworking. Mrs. Jones was unable to have children. They are both dead now. In fact, they were getting on when they adopted me.”

  “Andrew’s life is chronicled from the beginning to the present,” Weylin said. “He has his school diplomas from St. Patrick’s Academy in Dublin, and a letter of reference from the school where he taught. From the time he left there, we know where he was. First in Brighton, and later at Aldershot.”

  “It was Barry’s idea that I settle close to Hernefield,” Borsini added. “I always called my real parents by their Christian names. To me, Mama and Papa are the folks who raised me. Margaret was afraid her secret would come out if we were seen together here, and approved Barry’s idea of the little cottage near Ashdown Forest. Even there she insisted on hiding that we were all one family. In public, I was her nephew, and Barry was our butler, but of course, within the cottage we could be ourselves. We enjoyed some happy hours, telling each other all that had happened to us over the years. I thought you might tumble to it, Zoie, that my absence for a week every quarter coincided with your uncle’s trips—ostensibly to London.”