A door opened as she reached the halfway mark. Lolo Thompson, fully dressed but barefoot, opened her door, peeked out, saw it was the boss, hurried down the steps.
“Miss Georgina.”
“You look good in lavender, dear.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I have a rash.”
“For how long?”
“A week. I thought it would go away.” Her blue eyes implored forgiveness.
Forgiveness did not enter the equation. Profit did.
“I’ll send a message to Dr. Foster. It may just be fabric is irritating you or something you’re eating, but let’s be sure.”
“Shall I work the midday meal?”
“Of course. If someone wishes for you,” she paused, “after dessert, surely you can find ways to please him without a full-scale assault.” She smiled broadly.
As Georgina repaired to her office, Lolo dashed back upstairs to finish her hair, a simpler coiffure for daylight. For nighttime she’d have her lady’s maid weave in gold thread or tiny stars. The candlelight reflected especially on the tiny stars.
While officially spring, the temperature nudged into the low fifties but would drop tonight, turning to a light frost. Her fireplace kept the room warm. Georgina prided herself on the rug in her office, a purchase from a faltering French count six months ago. She felt it would not have been out of place at Versailles although she would be, then again perhaps not.
A knock on her door brought forth a sigh. She had hoped to read a bit before customers arrived for their twelve-o’clock meal.
“Come in.”
Deborah, ravishing in a rose dress perfect for the day, too simple for the night. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“Come in. Sit down.” She reached for her enamel snuffbox, a small pretty thing that could be slipped into a pocket or bodice.
Deborah shook her head as Georgina offered her a pinch. “Binky shouldn’t cause us trouble.”
“I’m glad to hear that, but I doubt he has lost his passion for you.”
Deborah waved her hand. “That. No. But I told him he wouldn’t live if he turned in runaways. You know, he never thought of that. He’s a dear boy but dim-witted.”
“Why did you ever take up with him?”
“He’s a pretty thing.” She shrugged. “And he can make me laugh, or he used to be able to make me laugh before he started babbling about love.”
“Ah.” Georgina closed her eyes for a moment as the delight of the nicotine hit her.
“You said I should marry him if I have to keep him quiet. If I do, I’ll be the one that kills him.” She laughed.
Eyes wide open now, Georgina responded. “Tell me, do you believe in love?”
“No” came the instant forthright reply.
“Neither do I. What do you believe in?”
“Freedom” came even faster than the “No.”
“Mmm, one always wishes to do as one pleases but,” Georgina shrugged, “it is rare, is it not?”
“Still better than answering master.”
“No doubt.” Georgina studied the beauty before her.
“I’ll do my best with Binky for now.”
“And I appreciate it. Deborah, you drive the men wild, which I’m sure you know. These are uncertain times, and the best way to deal with uncertainty is to be well funded.”
A broad smile crossed Deborah’s perfect face. “Yes.”
“Listen. Listen,” she said in a softer voice. “They may speak to you or perhaps you can ask a question, innocent enough. For instance, should you be in Sam Udall’s company, perhaps he will reveal where he invests the money. How much business does he do in England? What are they buying over there? Just a thought. He is uncommonly shrewd.”
“As are you,” Deborah complimented her.
“I will, of course, reward you, especially if the information proves profitable.”
“Thank you.” Deborah rose, leaned toward Georgina slightly. “Money rules the world. I look at some of the girls and I think they are fools who will wind up in the gutter or in some shanty with four kids hanging on their apron strings. Most of them think they will eventually be kept by one of the rich white men.” She dropped her voice. “Never. Never. They don’t realize that much of this business is novelty, the new girl.”
This surprised the boss. “Well, there is some truth to that. But you need never fear, not with your presence and manners.”
“The years will catch me out. Not one of us escapes Father Time, but Miss Georgina, I make you a promise, I will never be poor. Never.”
Georgina looked at her girl steadily, then replied, “I have made myself that same promise.”
—
As Deborah left the office, Mignon finished reading the first page of a book Eudes had brought for her. On the right-hand side of the book a drawing of a lion, a thorn being pulled from its paw by a human, complemented the text, which she read haltingly.
“Good.” He smiled as the wall clock struck eleven. “Time to work.”
“Do you think he really pulled a thorn from a lion’s paw?”
“I don’t know. I never met any lions.” He laughed.
They wiped down the table one more time, brought out a large number of lamb chops, which Eudes rubbed with a bit of pepper.
“Mint jelly?” she asked.
“Right.”
They labored in harmony, chattering away. He paused to look at her for a moment, realizing he would do anything to protect her, for he, too, had seen the sheet describing her. Then it hit him. He was in love with her.
November 12, 2016 Saturday
“Do you really think this is art?” Harry whispered to Susan and BoomBoom.
“Lovely workmanship,” Susan replied.
“But that’s not art.” Harry folded her arms across her chest.
BoomBoom chimed in. “These shirts and dresses have a religious significance. So to the Plains Indians it’s more than art.”
Susan studied the beautiful warrior shirt, dyed a turquoise that had stayed bright since the 1870s, and beadwork of exquisite quality. “Maybe the question is would a Lakota think Titian’s paintings are art? Isn’t it all related to one’s background?”
“Well, it is but no one is going to convince me that blown-up comic strips are art.” BoomBoom laughed as they left the front exhibition room, walked down the corridor, and she opened the door to the sculpture garden, a favorite with Richmonders.
The Virginia Museum of Fine Arts on 200 N. Boulevard in Richmond had changed dramatically in the last twenty years. One’s membership card reflected one’s interests. European, African, Asian art, et cetera, would be cited on the card, and the mailings, often colorful and informative, arrived in the mailbox at regular intervals.
Children’s programs, senior discounts, changing displays for the various categories kept the place full even in the middle of the week. There were even painting and drawing classes.
The gardens provided one with the fleeting embrace of living plants and flowers as well as more permanent sculptures. Benches allowed one to sit and look and learn.
The day, low sixties, was probably the last of the warmer days, a sweater or a thin coat sufficed. Soon enough the winds would blow steady, the mercury hang in the forties. When winter truly arrived the forties seemed benevolent. This would be a goodbye to sitting outside.
“Hey, there’s Bill Hall and Willoughby.” Harry noticed a now-retired fellow who worked harder than when employed.
“And Beverly Ely.” BoomBoom knew the Charlottesville doctor. “Whoever they’re talking to must have spent a fortune on that outfit.”
“Maybe she’s one of those people who can pull something off the rack and look terrific.” Susan mused. “An enviable trait.”
“That’s Marvella Lawson,” Harry informed them as they walked over.
“Bill, allow us to intrude,” Susan opened the conversation as BoomBoom and Beverly hugged.
The handsome fellow stood up, kissed
the ladies, one of the joys of being a gentleman, and introduced Susan and BoomBoom to Marvella Rice Lawson.
Harry said it was good to see Marvella, who said the same regarding Harry.
The silver-haired patrician lady smiled, clearly happy to meet new people.
“We were just discussing the seventeenth-century floral paintings. So vivid you felt you could touch them.” Marvella smiled.
“And so many of them painted by women. Put on a lower rung of art because of it. Whenever there’s an exhibition about people kept from their passion but who manage anyway, it always gets me.” Bill offered his seat to Marvella, who sat down with a begging Willoughby at her feet.
“You are not sitting in Marvella’s lap,” Bill intoned.
Willoughby did not sit in the lady’s lap, but he focused on the other women just to ignore his human.
They chattered on about what they’d seen, why they traveled down to Richmond today, when Marvella looked at the group.
“There’s room if anyone else is a bit weary.” She patted the bench.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lawson. I actually am.” BoomBoom sank next to the tall woman, two beauties sitting side by side. “We started a discussion but never finished. In a sense it’s what is art? Is the gorgeous skin shirt of a Plains brave the same as a painting by Rubens?”
“Boom, Mrs. Lawson and Beverly may not want to dive into such a loaded discussion.” Harry smiled, then looked at Bill. “He, of course, will talk about anything.”
They all laughed, for Bill was fearless. They knew not to ask him a question if they didn’t want to know what he really thought.
“In some ways that’s the same question as what is beauty,” Marvella calmly began. “Some would say it’s structure, harmony, line, color, and subject matter. It’s the last that raises the hackles. Subject matter. Think of Mamma Sugar in the warehouse. You all remember the uproar. The black mammy sphinx with a head rag in the old sugar factory.”
“Yes. I thought it was spectacular,” Susan replied. “And political.”
“That’s where the problem lies. Is a shirt art? Doesn’t that depend on who makes it?” Bill put his hand on Willoughby’s head.
“And who buys it,” Harry shrewdly added.
They all talked at once, invigorated, interested in one another’s thoughts.
“My brother and I loved art but we had vastly opposite tastes. He would purchase a Frederick Church whereas I stayed with European art, especially the nineteenth century. Pierre reached the point where he could appreciate my views and I could appreciate his. I admit that took us until our late thirties.” She laughed. “Did you know him?”
Harry, who had known Marvella from fund-raisers, which is to say, not well, knew Pierre but was not going to say “I saw your brother’s body in a small covert of trees,” so she replied, “I didn’t but I have seen his art collection. My neighbor made a copy of a video that she showed me. I was an art history major at Smith. It truly is impressive.” She paused. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”
Marvella’s distinguished face softened. “Thank you.”
Beverly spoke up. “Marvella, Bill, and I knew one another through Pierre. He nudged me to collecting on a small scale. Actually, Marvella, Pierre, and I often wound up talking about what is art, how the market distorts not just value but cultural integrity.
“About six months ago we somehow stumbled onto the subject of prices and Pierre told us that something like the turquoise warrior’s shirt in the museum would sell for over a hundred thousand dollars.” Beverly’s eyes widened.
“Wouldn’t something like that be easier to fake than, say, Stubbs?” Harry loved sporting art.
“We all didn’t get that far,” Marvella answered, “but I think it would be. With a painting you’d have to copy the painter’s style and use paints from the period. You might have to mix powders and egg white and God knows what else. With a deerskin or beaded shoes one would need to age the leather, use beads from the period, but it might be easier.”
Bill stepped in. “Still, where would you find someone who could do the work?”
“Well, I suppose forgers in their own way are almost as talented as the people they are imitating.” Susan wedged on the edge of the bench.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to use your talents in your own time?” BoomBoom wondered. “Not imitating another epoch?”
“How do you make a name for yourself?” Marvella said. “If you fake something that artist’s name is already valued.”
Bill then added, “Inside that building some of those works are worth millions. I guess that’s plenty of motive.”
“Even for tribal clothing and jewelry?” BoomBoom asked.
“Well, if something sells for a hundred thousand dollars and it’s expected that the creator is unknown, maybe that’s the easiest to fake or forge. Who really was the creator?” Susan replied.
“I don’t know.” BoomBoom watched a pigeon waddle closer as did Willoughby. “If you’re caught, game over, jail. If you cross the wrong parties, zip, they slit your throat.”
Everyone looked at her, the same disquieting thought running through their heads except for Willoughby’s. That thought being, might this have something to do with Pierre’s murder? It was either that, art, a subject about that Pierre knew a great deal, or he had stumbled onto some other form of wrongdoing that generated enormous sums.
Marvella finally gave voice to the thought. “I wonder if my brother was trailing a forger? Looking back, it’s possible. Sometimes one can’t see what’s under one’s nose.”
“Not me,” Willoughby bragged.
March 28, 1786 Tuesday
A week passed since the spring equinox. Daffodils swayed in the light breeze, buds swelled a dark red on trees, a few opened revealing fresh spring green color. Ewing decided a celebration was in order. He’d sent out handwritten invitations on creamy paper one week ago. Each invitation had been hand delivered by a well-dressed slave. Naturally, these tasks proved competitive as everyone wanted to travel, gossip with the other people on the various estates. Then again, being entrusted with such a mission, being well dressed, carried status, a lot of it.
Weymouth, Jeddie, Barker O., Serena, and Bettina performed this task. Bettina and Barker O. traveled together in the simple elegant low coach, which he drove. As Barker O. would also be inquiring about how long Maureen Selisse needed their borrowed elegant coach, Bettina could deliver the invitation to the big house along with some biscuits just to remind Maureen’s cook that she didn’t know squat. Tulli, for the very first time, wearing a smart cropped navy jacket, rode Sweet Potato while Jeddie rode Crown Prince. On a rawhide string around his neck Tulli wore his brass chit, Number Fifteen. It was the first time he was so entrusted.
Roger double-checked everyone before their journey. As the butler he would not be asked to deliver messages. A butler was not a messenger, no matter how pleasant the task may prove. Weymouth tucked Number Four in his pocket; Jeddie had Number Five; Barker O., Number Seven; Serena, Number Eleven; and Bettina, Number Twelve.
They spent all of the day and early evening delivering the messages, a drop of wax sealing the invitation envelope eagerly opened as the messenger stood there. An instant reply spared the recipient taking the time to send one of their people. Every single person accepted.
This meant today, March 28, a long line of carriages, phaetons, simple carts, riders on horses came down the tree-lined drive to Cloverfields. The boys in the barns took the carriages and horses after the guests disembarked at the main house. They’d wisely emptied out stalls, moving Cloverfields horses to the back pastures. They also moved some turned-out horses to the back pastures. Jeddie, Ralston, Tulli, and Barker O. didn’t have a minute to sit, dealing with each guest’s servant if one came along. Even Mr. Percy, Bumbee’s errant husband, was pressed into service. The good thing about the number of guests was that these men would enjoy tips, lots of tips.
Given the crush of people, the doors at the hous
e remained open in the back, windows up. Everyone walked outside to see the sunset, a fan of flames edged in gold. The light shone on Isabelle’s tomb, the recumbent lamb with a cross across its forelegs.
Inside, the servants lit the chandeliers, the candles on the table, the sconces. As the temperature dropped, the fires flickered in the fireplaces; the guests, each lady on the arm of a gentleman, promenaded into the huge dining room. Bumbee organized the floral arrangements. The woman had a gift with color, shape, didn’t matter the element.
The governor sat on Ewing’s right, a wealthy visiting rice planter from Charleston, South Carolina, sat on the host’s left. At the opposite end of the table, Catherine acted as hostess. Rachel was two guests down from her sister. Their husbands sat where they could do the most good. Charles found himself next to Maureen Selisse, near Ewing, with Jeffrey across the table from her. When Catherine and Rachel planned the seating, ever a difficult chore, they made certain to keep Yancy Grant as far away from Jeffrey Holloway as possible.
Conversation flowed as freely as the wine, perhaps because of the wine.
“And did you see Beaumarchis’s latest play when you were in France?” Maureen inquired of Christopher Shippenworth, a guest from Philadelphia.
“I had the pleasure, Madam, but the news now is that he has gone too far,” the silk-clad fellow remarked.
All down the table, discussion of opera, poetry, horses, trade, new piers being built in New York City, the miserable condition of roads throughout the former colonies, expansion into the western territories, the chatter was punctuated with laughter, toasts. By the time dessert was served, an exquisite crème brûlée with a drizzle of raspberry sauce, everyone felt this was a spring party to be remembered.
Although the robins had arrived weeks before, Catherine, Rachel, and Bettina thought of this as their robin party.
Maureen tortured herself because she wanted to top this social event, but what cook could compare to Bettina? Well, she had to do it so she determined to hire a culinary wizard from France. Expensive but she just had to. The drizzle of raspberry and perhaps the last glass of wine inflamed her in this ambition. Where did Ewing get this wine?
A Hiss Before Dying Page 20