Rose Trelawney

by Joan Smith

  We traveled for a year, Kitty and John and myself, selecting purchases for the Knightsbridge Museum, to be opened as soon as we returned to Edinburgh. The timely conclusion of the war had even allowed us to finish our tour in Paris, which had been inundated with Englishmen like ourselves to celebrate the victory. I didn’t want to leave it and go back to Edinburgh. Who lived in Scotland? It was cold and damp, with nothing but rocks and heather and sheep. I used often to dream of rocks and sheep in the days following my marriage, yet I had seen little enough of them after I was married. We lived a civilized, urbane existence, in a fine mansion in the fashionable district of Edinburgh.

  The days were busy and happy, the evenings held many social engagements, and if it had not been for the late nights, alone with John, I could have been happy. A girl of eighteen married to a gentleman of forty-two whom she does not love cannot ever be quite happy, however. She will feel cheated of romance, and while she will remain faithful to her silver-haired husband if she is not an outright villain (which I hope I am not), she will not be able to control her eyes just as she ought. A smile warmer than it should be will occasionally escape her lips, to cause jealousy and scenes, and even to set up the hackles of one’s husband’s family and friends.

  I am afraid I set up a good number of hackles. John’s uncle Jeremy called me quite bluntly ‘that wench picked up in a foreign country,’ while an aunt married to a bishop tried her hand at arranging an annulment. All their anger and schemes came to naught. John fooled them and died in his forty-fourth year of pneumonia. Kitty blamed it on a broken heart, and I blamed it on her talking him into remaining in cold Scotland when both John and I had wanted to go back to Italy. I believe the relatives would have cut me off on the spot had I not been in an ‘interesting condition.’ I was with child, but miscarried in my third month. What a horrid thing to say, but I was not completely sorry.

  Kitty Empey had no thought of cutting herself off from me, nor had I the means of severing myself from her, either. John’s will proved a cunning document that left all to me, the mansion, the money (and there was plenty of it), the museum, providing I gave a home to Kitty for as long as she lived, and providing I not remarry. Upon any remarriage, I lost everything but one hundred pounds. I think only the very meanest of minds would have bothered with that addendum. What is a hundred pounds? It would prevent the world from saying he cut me off without a penny, and John cared a good deal what the world said. He was always harping on it, but of course over the months I had come to manage him pretty well. With such a carefully controlled fortune, suitors proved as scarce as whales’ feathers. Bereft of child and independence, I threw myself into running the museum, opened two years ago and dedicated to my husband, John Francis Knightsbridge. Kitty did the same, and proved useful as she knew a great deal about art. She had far-flung associates in the art world, including a Mr. Grafton, of Gillingham, with whom her family was connected somehow on Mrs. Grafton’s side. They frequently corresponded, comparing opinions on acquisitions, the suitability of prices offered on various works up for sale, the choice of an expert to authenticate a painting, and so on.

  It was through Kitty’s correspondence with Mr. Grafton that we learned he possessed one door of our Medici triptych, purchased by my father in Italy and left to me, his sole worldly possession of any monetary worth. We were eager to acquire the Grafton door, but it was not only the door that precipitated our visit south. A number of matters conjoined to bring it about. I, always eager to escape Edinburgh and the family, wished to visit London. Friends of John’s and mine were stopping with us on a visit to the Highlands, and extended an offer to me to return to London with them. The Mayhews it was, a youngish couple met in Germany during our honeymoon. I hoped to get away from Kitty for a few months, but there was never any escaping her. She received a letter from Miss Grafton that decided her to join us on the trip south, though not necessarily to London.

  Miss Grafton feared her guardian, Mr. Morley, was mismanaging her estate, not purposely but through ignorance. At sixteen, she did not know a great deal about art yet herself, but she knew her uncle had sold two paintings her father treasured, and had got a low price for them. She knew as well that Miss Empey was considered quite an authority by her father, and asked her advice as to what she should do. It was enough. With no real life of her own, Kitty was always eager to interfere in another’s. She would go herself and look into the matter. She took the notion, always thinking the worst of everyone, that Morley was not ignorant but a scoundrel who was pocketing Miss Grafton’s money. While there, she was to try for the door of the Medici triptych for the museum. We left her off at Gillingham, where we all stopped overnight. She went incognito on the public tour of the Grafton collection that Monday and managed to make herself known to Miss Lorraine Grafton. Her keen eyes had picked out the Giorgione forgery, and she learned from the girl that her father had believed it to be genuine. Grafton was certainly thought to have purchased the original, and Kitty could not feel he had been gammoned by this copy. This pretty well convinced her Morley was a criminal, and to catch him, she arranged to go to the house as a companion to Miss Grafton. The uncle had been looking out for such a lady, and with Lorraine begging her housekeeper to give Miss Smith (as Kitty christened herself for the role), the position, she was hired on probation, a firm commitment being left to Mr. Morley when he returned from London.

  Before leaving next day for London myself, I had a note from Kitty requesting me to make enquiries in the city whether the original Giorgione was known to have been purchased there. This, she felt, would positively incriminate Mr. Morley, though she was already by this time alerted to the name of Uxbridge as a possible criminal. Kitty was very efficient, to give the she-devil her due. She dropped an enticing hint that success in this project might see the Medici door turned over to us at a reasonable price. She had learned as well that Mr. Gwynne, a neighbor not too far away, was believed locally to have the other door. This filled me with excitement. To assemble the whole triptych would be a major coup, and a sort of posthumous fulfillment of my father’s futile life as well. He, who loved art so much, would be instrumental in restoring this treasure to mankind.

  This was all I knew of Kitty’s late history. I went to London, learned after four days close investigation not only who had the original Giorgione portrait, but what he had paid for it, where he had acquired it (from Mr. Uxbridge, of course). To clinch the matter, I got a letter from him stating these facts, which I was to hand over to Mr. Morley, thus positively confirming Uxbridge as a villain. Morley’s own part in the affair was unclear, but, of course, the actual working law of Christian ethics is that we are all guilty till proven innocent. In any case, he had proved himself incompetent to handle the collection, and the courts must appoint another person for the job. A hope burgeoned within me that Kitty would apply for it, that I would once and for all rid my life of her opprobrious presence. I was giddy with joy at the prospect, willing to give her any ridiculous sum in settlement of her life-tenancy with me.

  I remembered setting out from the Mayhews’ with the letter in my reticule, spurning the offer of using their carriage as they would have need of it themselves. I remember Dolly’s raised brows when I descended the stairs for the trip wearing a rough cape, round bonnet and old shoes, with matching gown of unbecoming cut beneath.

  “I borrowed them of your housekeeper,” I told her, laughing. “A disguise, you see, to fool Mr. Gwynne I am not rich. A trick I learned of Kitty. She never wears jewels or furs when she goes to haggle for a painting. She claims it raises the price to learn it is a museum after it, and I daresay she is right. She always strikes an excellent bargain, in any case.”

  “He’ll never believe you could afford a lithograph, let alone an Italian masterpiece,” Dolly Mayhew pointed out.

  “My conversation is to convince him I am extraordinarily genteel, love, but my limited means are all spent on my passion—art. He’ll believe the color of my money right enough,” I replied,
showing her the roll of bills I had got at the bank.

  “You shouldn’t carry such a sum about with you, Beth,” Mr. Mayhew cautioned.

  “Pooh, rolled up in a handkerchief in the bottom of my reticule, who is to know it? My poor appearance must divert suspicion that I carry a small fortune on me.”

  They drove me to the stage, saw me off, and I settled in to enjoy my masquerade. The first move I made once we were moving was to remove the wedding ring from my finger and put it in the capacious pocket of the cape. I would go to Mr. Gwynne as a Miss Mayhew, borrowing a name from my hosts, who were in fact active in a small way in the art world. I did not in the least mind traveling without a companion. My peregrinations across Europe with Papa had robbed me of foolish fears, which Kitty chose to call a sense of propriety. It was a long, dull trip. Leaving in the afternoon, I was not due to reach Gillingham till the next evening, after a sleep-over at Guildford, which we reached after dark the first day of travel. I expected to travel in a style befitting my station, not my cape, an expectation in which I was sorely out. A private parlor was not available for a young lady traveling unchaperoned and plainly outfitted. I had dinner in the common room, jostling elbows with a red-faced cit who would have picked me up for the night if I had not given him a few sharp setdowns. The next indignity was worse by far.

  I was to share a room with a woman, (and I don’t mean lady). With a storm threatening, though not yet broken in full force, there were more people putting up for the night than expected, and there was no private room available for me. In the worst days of traveling with Papa I had not sunk to this, but I was soon given to understand the alternative was to take to the streets at nine-thirty alone, to seek another bed if I declined this offer, so I took the room, to be shared with Miss Weir—either an actress, or worse. She had a painted face and used vulgar, at times even profane, language. She shared my table as well, coming to terms with the cit very early on in the proceedings. Early enough that he picked up her bill, and she ate like a horse.

  Sleep was difficult in the unaired chamber with unaired bed, but at least Miss Weir had still not entered when I finally dozed off at some time after midnight. It began to seem I was to have the room to myself after all, with Miss Weir sharing the cit’s. It suited me fine. She did come in at some time during the night, however, for in the morning her bleached hair was seen strewn over the pillow across the room from me.

  My roll of money I had under my pillow. The first thing I did was to check for it, and it was all there. I was not sure, though I suspected, she watched from under her eyelids as I counted it. Now, of course, I know fully well she watched, and my hunch that she had rifled my reticule was also likely accurate. She had left open the little kidskin bag in which I carried powder and hairpins and comb.

  Miss Weir loaded on to the stage in the morning, though she had not been on from London. She was at pains to take a seat by me, and I at pains to keep my reticule on the side farther from her, though to tell the truth the person on my other side, a rough-looking man who fancied himself a Lothario, was not much better. What uncouth types one meets on the public conveyances! I had grown out of the custom of such low means of getting around since marrying John.

  We lost a wheel at Winchester. The weather was worsening, snow flying and a wind rising. There was some talk of stopping the coach, but while we had dinner the wheel was fixed and it set out again to continue to Salisbury. The road was open that far, and it was said we might have to stop the night there. I had decided to hire a private chaise and go on to Gillingham the next morning in that. We passed through a little place called Wickey, a mere dot on the map with no buildings of any particular interest, but a rather pretty little church tucked in at the corner of the main street. I was happy to see Miss Weir descend from the stage five miles out of Wickey. I was nervous the whole time she was there beside me, trying to make talk, and smelling so strongly of a cheap scent. The Lothario on my other side also descended, leaving me a whole banquette to myself.

  The coach coming from the west was also stopped a little farther ahead, with some passenger crawling down into the storm. Some local farmer who would have to walk some distance through fields to his home I supposed. I lounged in the corner, trying to get comfortable enough to have a nap, but still making sure I had my reticule tucked against my side. There was a man across from me who looked no better than he should be. I noticed the catch was undone, and did it up quickly. Some little uneasiness was always with me, carrying so much money in cash, and I checked the bottom of my reticule once more to ensure its safety. To my utter horror, the handkerchief was gone! In a flash I knew who had stolen it. Not Miss Weir after all, but Lothario. Her accomplice certainly, though they had been careful not to be seen talking together. He I had not suspected of anything but flirting, and he had managed to get into my reticule while she distracted me with her chatter. They had been off the coach for about fifteen minutes, but in the snow we were making poor time, and I thought we had not covered more than a mile. I immediately ordered the coach to be stopped. I hopped down and ran after them, back towards that little place called Wickey.

  I was angry as a hornet at having been duped by the pair, wondering how I would catch them. They were likely at the inn, drinking up my money. I would go to the constable’s office and have him arrest them. I could describe the handkerchief in which the money was wrapped, with my initial worked by myself, knew exactly the denomination of the bills, too. I regretted I wore such an unimpressive outfit, but meant to succeed despite it. I hurried through the cold night, my anger keeping me not only warm but hot. I suppose they must have been craftier than I thought. Must have lingered along the roadside in case I discovered my loss early on, and waited to assail me. This seemed at first unwise behavior, surely making a bolt was their best bet, but as I considered it, I decided it was greed that led them to their course. Since I kept a close enough eye on my reticule, they knew I would miss the money soon and go after them. I had a rather fine watch pinned to my gown, and carried a chased silver pillbox with stones inset bought by John in France, and a few elegant trifles worth some money. They might have been led to believe from Miss Weir’s rifling of my purse that the straw case I carried held more treasures. Actually it had only a change of undergarments and a decent gown and shoes, which I had planned to put on as soon as I had got Gwynne’s painting at a good price.

  In any event, they were waiting for me, hiding behind a tree to leap out on me, silently as shadows, as I hurried past. I think it was the man who actually hit my head with some hard object, while the girl grabbed my reticule and straw bag from my hands. When I came to, lying in the ditch under the tree, the watch was gone, too. Nothing was left me but my clothing, not even my memory.

  I had it back now clearly enough. The gaps in my story were due to Kitty’s involvement at Grafton’s. The fear was a trace of the horror I felt when I saw them appear out of the black night, and the anger was at losing the money, maybe at losing the memory, too, at such a crucial point. What had happened to Kitty and Miss Grafton? Kitty, no shrinking violet, had obviously made sufficient waves that Uxbridge had to get rid of her, but how Miss Grafton came to be likewise stolen away I could not fathom. I did know, of course, that Kitty would be wondering why I had not come galloping to her rescue weeks ago, all the while I sojourned merrily at Granhurst.

  I was likely closer to her now than I had been in all that time. My kidnapper was Uxbridge, obviously. Oh yes, a little undistinguished man who would never stand out in any crowd! Funny that description had not struck me as pertinent, but then he had acted his part so well, feigning reluctance to have me with him when he must have known all the time I was in desperate straits, friendless, alone, running. Must have followed me—us—from Granhurst to the Bay House, and been awaiting a chance to get at me.

  Did Sir Ludwig know it, and was that why I had been held a virtual prisoner? But still I could conceive of no reason why he should have turned against me. I was guilty of no more tha
n attempting to get a good price for my missing madonna from Mr. Gwynne—a standard business procedure. What did he think I had done, that he should condemn me as a bitch and threaten me with ten years in prison? Something worse than wear a poor cape when I could have afforded a better, surely.

  I puzzled over this for several moments, trying to see where he went wrong. He knew I was Mrs. Knightsbridge—had called me so in a manner that was not hesitant or reluctant. He knew. Knew who I was, then, but not what I was. He still thought it possible I was involved in the kidnapping and double-dealing of Uxbridge. He must have thought I was running to Uxbridge—that I was the man’s accomplice. I could think of no better reason.

  If he succeeded in following my trail, he would be certain of it, going with Uxbridge to Wight. Certain, too, to follow us, I thought with a wave of relief. How long would it be likely to take? Where he had dashed off to the night before I had no idea, unless it were back to Morley for some help in the ransom business. I tried to struggle out of my bonds, rough prickly cords that scratched my wrists and ankles. They were very securely tied, indeed. I wiggled my hands about till my wrists were raw, and still hadn’t loosened the knots perceptibly.

  Dawn was filtering through the dusty partitioned window. The navy blue rectangles became indigo, pearl gray, settling in to a dirty white eventually. It was going to be that kind of a day. I was thoroughly chilled, my muscles cramped, my stomach empty and growling, my head thumping, and most of all my temper was exacerbated with frustration at my helplessness. Why did no one come to give me food? Did he plan to starve me to death? Had he done the same to Kitty and Miss Grafton? Or were they in this same building with me, locked in some other chamber? He would not have his victims scattered around the countryside, involving various keepers. No, we—if we were all still alive—had been spirited to this quiet, out-of-the-way little island, off the beaten track. An excellent prison really, but I fancied the prison that could long hold me was yet to be built.