by Joan Smith
“It never occurred to me. But why did you not tell us, Borsi— Andrew? You could have depended on Mama and myself to keep your secret.”
“Many’s the time I was within a breath of it. It was Margaret who demanded secrecy, because of her bigamy. That is a serious crime.”
“Why did Margaret not go to India with Barry?” I asked. “Did she know she was enceinte when he left?”
Andrew shook his head in frustration. “I have heard them argue about it for hours on end. It was a challenge for power, cousin. She knew he had made arrangements to go to India when she married him. She thought she could convince him to stay in Ireland. He had no home to take her to, and was too proud to live off her money. He felt he could make his fortune in India. He was sure she would cave in and go with him at the last minute. He gave her an ultimatum: I am going. Meet me at the dock. She didn’t show up, and he left without her. Neither of them knew that I was already more than a gleam in his eye.”
“That would have changed things, I daresay.”
“I like to think so,” he agreed. “Shortly after Barry left, Margaret returned to England. When she discovered her condition, she panicked. Old Weylin was dead set against her marrying Barry. He wouldn’t let him inside the door. They met at an assembly, and arranged trysts away from the house where she was visiting. Poor Margaret didn’t know what to do. It seems Macintosh had offered for her a year before. He showed up at Parham just when she was at her wits’ end. She confided to him that she was enceinte, and he offered to marry her. What she did not tell him was that she was already married. She never did tell him. She wrote to Barry informing him what she had done, and said that if he told anyone of their marriage, she would kill herself. Since she had no idea where Macintosh had sent me, Barry let the matter rest.”
“How did he find you then?” I asked.
“He read any English journals that came his way and eventually learned of Macintosh’s death. He thought Margaret would be in touch with him then, but years passed and she did not write. When there was that little trouble over the missing money—Barry was completely innocent, and he proved it—but he was unhappy in his work then, and decided to come back to England and try to straighten matters out. He paid a visit home to Ireland first, and while there, he heard of the Joneses having adopted a boy at about the time I was born. He traced me to the school where I was teaching art. You never saw any resemblance between us, cousin, but I do look a little like him. Margaret says I have her eyes. Barry thought so, too. Well, the upshot of it was that he got in touch with Margaret, and her companion was able to provide the name of the fellow who took me away the night I was born. It took a deal of work, but eventually it was established that I was taken to an orphanage in Dublin, and adopted by William Jones.
“I felt some kinship with Barry even before he told me. He struck up a friendship with me, you know. We used to go out a bit together in Dublin. He professed an interest in my art, said I should go to England and set up a studio. Then when he told me the whole, we both got serious about it.”
“Why did you decide to become Count Borsini?” I asked.
“That was Margaret’s idea. She said I had noble blood, and would have better luck in my career if I claimed a title. That meant being a foreigner. I could not claim to be a Frenchie, since I cannot parlay the bongjaw well enough. Very few Englishmen speak Italian, so I became Count Borsini. I remember the night we chose the name. Barry and I were having a bottle of wine in the rooms I hired in Brighton. It was from the Borsini vineyards, so we decided I would be a younger son of Count Borsini.”
“And you made the mistake of putting those vineyards in Venice,” I reminded him.
“Ah, you remember that faux pas. I was hoping you had not noticed it.”
“Did you never plan to tell us who you are, Andrew?” I asked. “When both Barry and Margaret were dead, surely there was no reason to keep quiet.”
“I have wanted to tell you forever, but I could not find the marriage certificate. Without that, I felt very little claim on your friendship—a mere by-blow. You would be ashamed of me. I hoped that setting up your studio might provide an excuse to search Barry’s room. I knew he had the certificate, for he showed it to us once at Lindfield. Margaret was touched that he had kept it all those years. Then yesterday Steptoe got in touch with me. He had seen me in Lindfield. The scoundrel had been spying through Barry’s belongings when Barry was still alive, and saw the marriage license. Barry interrupted him before he had time to read the bride’s name. Steptoe has been searching for it ever since, but he could not find it.
“He knew Barry met me in Tunbridge when he was supposed to be in London. He never spotted Margaret. She kept pretty close to the house. I don’t believe Steptoe ever figured out what was going on. Being a thief himself, he suspected only financial chicanery, but there was nothing illegal in Barry selling the jewelry he brought home from India. A fine emerald necklace, a sapphire ring, a few other pieces. Margaret sold the diamond necklace herself, and claimed it was stolen, to avoid questions. Barry dealt with a different jeweler.”
I missed a golden opportunity to hold my tongue and said, “Mr. Bradford, at the Kashmir Jewelry Shop.” Weylin gave me a questioning look, but Andrew spoke on.
“That is right. I see you have been investigating, cousin. Margaret and Barry wanted to see me comfortable in the world. They preferred to arrange all the transfers by cash, to be rid of the complications of a will, which was bound to cause trouble. I did not urge them to do it. Money is not important to me. I don’t need much, though I daresay I shall set myself up in a little higher style now that you folks are acknowledging me. Anyhow, I agreed to pay Steptoe a hundred pounds if he could find the marriage license.”
“I wonder why Steptoe left without finding it,” I said. “It is unlike him to walk away from a hundred pounds. He must have assumed Barry destroyed it.”
“I wager he did not leave empty-handed,” Weylin said.
“He did not take the silver or any jewelry at least.”
A little later, Mary came bobbing into the saloon to say Mama was arranging the blue room for Mr. Jones, and did I know what happened to the little blue and white jug that used to sit on the bureau. It was gone.
“No, I have not seen it, Mary.” Saint Brodagan has a heavy hand. In her new state of grace, she would no doubt confess to having broken it, if asked nicely. I said to Weylin, “That is the little jug like the Ming vase you thought I was trying to steal at Parham. I mentioned it to you.”
“Ah yes, the Ming vase made in Italy.” Then his smile stretched to a wicked grin. “Steptoe! That is what he ran off with! He mistook it for a genuine Ming. I knew he had not gone empty-handed. He will be disappointed when he tries to hawk it.”
Borsini—I must remember to call him Andrew—was smiling softly. “Preparing a guest room for me?” he asked. “Then she is willing to acknowledge me?”
“Willing and eager, even though she is unaware of that wedding certificate,” I assured him. “She has bought sateen for new curtains for your room.”
“You will have uphill work trying to pry Andrew loose from Mama,” Weylin warned. “He is a prime favorite there, too.”
Mama soon joined us, and the story was gone over again. She was completely enthralled with her new nephew.
“I always felt there was something in Borsini—did I not say so, Zoie? I always felt—but it was those ‘signoras’ that put me off a little. You must call me Aunt Flo, Andrew. Come and tell me if you like the blue room, or if you would prefer your papa’s octagonal tower. Zoie can have her studio in another room.”
Knowing my keen interest in my studio, Andrew said at once that blue was his favorite color. I heard him assuring Mama as they went toward the staircase that he was never comfortable in an odd-shaped room.
“It seems we have found a new cousin, Weylin,” I said. “How did your mama take the news?”
“Mama was as nearly happy as I have ever seen her. Also Bubbum
s. He is broadening his snacks to include paintbrushes. Mama was not so surprised as you may think. She always thought there was some mystery to Margaret’s hasty marriage to Macintosh. At the time of the so-called miscarriage, she began remembering a little gain in weight before the wedding, and what was called at the time a nervous stomach. But ladies, you know, did not discuss such things. Andrew is to be a cousin from Ireland, as we do not wish to jeopardize his inheritance by broadcasting the bigamous nature of Margaret’s marriage. Morally the money is Andrew’s. That is good enough for me.”
“It was kind of him to pretend he did not want my studio, was it not? He knows how much it means to me.”
“It is a shame a fine painter like Andrew does not have a studio, though. We have a nice, bright corner room at Parham that would take very little work to convert to a studio.”
“Weylin! You are not going to steal him from us entirely! We found him first!”
He rose and sat on the sofa beside me. “You misunderstand me, Zoie. The corner room at Parham would make a fine studio for you.” A lazy light danced in his eyes, and his lips moved uncertainly.
Until he made his intentions clearer, I was obliged to misunderstand him. “It would be inconvenient for me to have my studio at Parham and live here. Much better to have it where one lives.”
His arm moved along the sofa, to dangle over my shoulder. “True. I daresay we could find you a bedroom as well, move you in bag and baggage. The only little difficulty is that you would have to share the bedchamber with me.”
“Are you not afraid I would make off with your Chinese porcelains?”
“What is mine is milady’s,” he murmured, placing his hand on my shoulder and turning me to face him. “My vases, my home, my name...”
The words blurred to a hum as his lips seized mine. I closed my eyes as his arms folded around me, crushing me to him. I was overcome again by the magic of the moonlit garden. A strange confusion of emotions whirled through my brain. It was all mixed up with Andrew and the sad tale of Barry and Margaret, and with leaving Mama to begin a new life at Parham. How could Margaret have let the man she loved sail away from her? My heart swelled within me, filling me with an unknown rapture, which must have been love. I knew I would follow Weylin to the ends of the earth, if that was what he wanted.
We did not hear Brodagan come in. She can move quietly when she wants to. The first intimation that we had company was a discreet cough. We flew apart in guilty haste, to see her staring at us. With her misshapen jaw, it was impossible to know whether she was smiling or frowning.
“Brodagan, you should be in bed!” I exclaimed.
“So should you, from the way the pair of you are carrying on,” she replied. “Them chits from Parham can go home now, your lordship. I don’t need any help but my Mary and Jamie. I’ll not let an aching jaw detour me from my duties to my ladies.”
Weylin, awake on all suits, knew the way to cozen her. “I wish you will let them stay a few days, Brodagan. They do not get the sort of training they need at Parham. It takes a masterful woman like you to trim the chits into line. You had best go and see they are not moping over a cup of tea. You know what servants are.”
“Aye, when the cat’s away, the mice will play. As soon as melady comes down, I’ll get a collar on your chits, melord.” She stood straight as a door, glaring at us until we drew a few inches apart. “Well,” she said impatiently. “Do you have something to tell me?”
Weylin said, “You may be the first to congratulate us, Brodagan.”
A smile split her swollen face. “My soul from the devil! You’ve nabbed yourself a fine lord, missie. And not a drop too good for you either,” she added to Weylin. “So it is to be the middle-aisle jig. That’s all right then. I’ll leave you to it, but mind you don’t let your joy get the better of you.”
She left with a swish of starched aprons, her steeple wobbling uncertainly.
“Quick thinking, Weylin,” I complimented.
“I have not been a politician all these years for nothing. I know when a colleague must be appeased. You will miss Brodagan.”
“Yes, like Brodagan will miss Mr. Snaggle Tooth. If you are not hard enough on me at Parham, I can always come and visit her, to receive a scold.”
We settled in comfortably. Weylin said, “What was that you mentioned to Andrew about a Mr. Bradford, and a Kashmir Jewelry Shop? You did not tell me about him, when we were sharing our disgrace at Tunbridge.”
“You gentlemen have to learn the art of politics. Ladies are born possessing it.” I confessed all my little lapses, while he was still in the first throes of being engaged. His arm was around my shoulder, his fingers playing with my hair.
When I had confessed all, he said, “You will make an admirable Whig hostess, my dear. The very soul of discretion. That is French for crooked as a dog’s hind leg.”
“Thank you, sir. Now, to change the subject, it is the copy of the diamond necklace that first brought us together, and we still don’t know what Barry was doing with it.”
“Andrew explained that to me. Barry had a copy made when Margaret decided to sell the original. She planned to wear the paste necklace, to conceal having sold the original. She was not happy with the copy, and said the necklace was stolen instead. Barry just tossed the copy in a drawer and forgot about it. And I, for one, am very happy he did, or I would never have got to know your delightfully warped character.”
“I am happy, too, for us and Andrew. It has taken a quarter of a century for the tale to reach this satisfactory conclusion. Three lives have been impoverished by Margaret’s betrayal.”
“Let it be a lesson for us. I don’t know how they could have hidden their joy from the world when they fell in love and married. Folks say love and a cough cannot be hidden. I can only conclude they did not love as we love, Zoie. I feel like hiring a platform and announcing our wedding to the whole parish.”
“An advertisement in the journals will serve the purpose,” I said, but truly I felt the same as Weylin. “You need not hire a platform, but when I give you our first son, I want fireworks at Parham.”
His fingers tilted my face to his. “There will be fireworks at Parham long before that, my dear, if I have anything to say about it.”
Copyright © 1993 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest in June, 1993
Electronically published in 2006 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.RegencyReads.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.