Gather Ye Rosebuds (4 page)

“All the Weylins are excessively toplofty. I felt as welcome as the pox, and the worst of it is, we shall have to come back tomorrow.”

“Not I!” The image of Lord Weylin’s haughty form rose up in my mind. He was elegantly tall and thin, but with the broad chest and shoulders of the sportsman. That sleekly barbered hair and those disturbingly dark gray eyes would cause a blush for days to come. His proud, sculpted nose and arrogant chin, the lips drawn in a pinched smile, sent a shiver of shame through me.

“I shall never darken their door again. I would rather be arrested for holding stolen goods.”

“Well I would not! You must come back, Zoie.”

Chapter Four

Mama had a suspiciously convenient attack of rheumatism in her knees that evening. I set out alone for Parham the next morning, again at ten-thirty, as that hour had found her ladyship at home the day before. It was either return the necklace or lock Steptoe in the cellar until we came up with some other plan. He had become so uppity that the matter had to be settled without delay. Once the necklace was back where it belonged, we would send him packing. Let him holler that the diamonds had been found at Hernefield. It was his word against ours, and Brodagan announced that she, for one, was ready to perjure herself in the matter, for she could not draw breath under the same roof as Master Cock o’ the Ashes. The good Lord would not demand it of her.

Mama and I felt that once the Weylins had the diamonds, there would be no legal action taken, even if Steptoe told them of our involvement. Lady Weylin was too lethargic to enjoy going to court, and Weylin would not be eager to alienate an old family like ours, with political connections in the parish.

Lord Weylin had, as promised, sent some dusty old books to Hernefield the afternoon before. There was a preponderance of sermons and reformation tracts by such lively writers as John Donne and Hannah More, a few slender volumes of bad verse by poets no one had ever heard of, and one severely mauled copy of
Pamela
taken from the circulating library in town. Its condition suggested that her ladyship either read with her teeth, or allowed Bubbums to have his way with the books.

Many of the novels in our circulating library are similarly gnawed. The return date was marked as August 31, 1801. A mere decade and a half overdue. That was my pretext for calling, to return this long overdue library book; included in error with the others, which, presumably, did belong to the Weylins.

Prepared to be shunted into the small parlor, I had decided to shove the curst necklace down the side of the settee, return
Pamela
when and if I was granted an audience—and I truly hoped I would not be—and leave at once. Seeton recognized me on the second visit.

“Is her ladyship expecting you?” he asked with his usual hauteur, but he let me in.

“No, she is not. Shall I wait in the other room?”

“One moment, please,” he said, and disappeared, not into the Blue Saloon, but down the hallway, leaving me to cool my heels just inside the door.

I made use of the time to examine the entrance for possible hiding places. Unfortunately, the decorations in that area were all statues, and I could not like to hang a string of diamonds around the neck of Zeus. While I was looking about for other hidey-holes, there was a light sound of footsteps, and Lord Weylin came wafting down the staircase. He was turned out in what he, no doubt, considered country style. He wore buckskins and top boots whose pristine condition suggested no familiarity with the great outdoors.

He stopped dead in his tracks and stared. “Miss Barron,” he said, with a formal bow.

“Good morning,” I replied, backing away from Zeus, and blushing at the memory of our last encounter. At least he could not think I would try to slip a six-foot statue into my pocket.

“You have come to see Mama, I collect?”

“Yes, to return one of the books you were kind enough to send to the Book Society,” I said, holding out
Pamela.

He looked at it, then lifted his eyes to gaze at me. “You have an aversion to Richardson? A trifle racy, perhaps, but then, you are no longer a deb.”

That chronic air of disdain suggested he was seeking out crow’s-feet and faded skin, and finding them in abundance. “I merely thought you might prefer to return it to the circulating library, whence it came—fifteen years ago.”

“Overdue, is it?” He reached for the book and opened the gnawed cover. “An oversight. Very kind of you to return it. You must go to the library and select a different novel.”

“I did not come to beg, Lord Weylin!” Yet if I left now, my job would still be unaccomplished. The library seemed a good place to hide the necklace. “Well, perhaps if you have some novels you are finished with...”

He wafted his hand to indicate the library was down the hallway. I said, “Thank you,” and began to move along. Weylin followed behind to curtail my depredations on his library.

“I must commend you for your endeavors, Miss Barron. It is a good idea for you ladies to keep your minds busy,” he said, in a hatefully condescending way.

“Yes indeed, for we do not all have a dog to keep us occupied,” I replied. His head jerked around to look at me. I ignored it and kept walking.

When we reached the library, Lord Weylin stopped at the door. “You may help yourself to any of those,” he said, gesturing toward a heap of books on a table. “I am discarding them to make room for new books. One must keep abreast of the intellectual life. Philosophy, poetry...” He bowed and left, with a chilly smile.

One quick peek at the discards was enough to tell the tale. Bubbums had been tasting them all—and some of them were fine books, too, with leather and gilt bindings. I took a quick look about the room to choose my hiding spot. The library was just that—a library and nothing more. All the walls were lined with books. There were two tables with chairs in the middle of the room, but I could hardly just lay the necklace on the table. There was a French door leading to a small garden bordered with yews, with a few rosebushes.

The best I could come up with was to hide the necklace behind the books, and hope that it would be discovered in the near future. Those books had the neat, unused look of decorations. The necklace might lie undetected for a hundred years, until someone needed a quotation, or Bubbums got hungry.

I peered out the doorway and saw, across the hall and down a few yards, another room that offered more choices. It was a small room, whose sole function, so far as I could tell, was to provide a showplace for more Chinese porcelain. It held glass-fronted cabinets filled with all sorts and colors of vases. Perfect! Whatever of books, Lord Weylin did take an active interest in his porcelains, and would find the necklace. I darted to the nearest cabinet and tried the door, only to find it locked. I tried another cabinet, and another, until I had toured the room. Every one was locked up as tight as a safe.

Right in the middle of the room there was a big, square table with a porcelain horse and some other statuary on it; none of the items with a cavity, however. If Lord Weylin ever sat in this room, he sat on one of four wooden chairs with ladder backs and no padding. How was it possible I could not find a hiding place for a small necklace in the whole room?

I did not hear any footsteps in the hallway, which makes me wonder if Lord Weylin and his mama did not creep up on me to catch me out, stealing the vases. The first I learned of their presence in the library across the hall was the sound of excited voices. They were speaking in low tones, but with enough emotion that the words were audible.

“Where can she be?” Lord Weylin demanded. “I left her here not five minutes ago.”

“Let us hope she has given up and gone home,” his mama replied sharply. “It is clear as the nose on your face she is running after you, Algie. She never darkened our door for a quarter of a century, and the minute you get home, she is here every time you turn around. The gall of her!”

“It is not me she’s after! She’s trying to help herself to something from my collection. I knew I should not have submitted to that interview in the
Observer.
My insurance agent complained of it. The Chinese Room! I wager she’s there!”

This was followed at once by the sound of running feet, and before I could recover from shock, Weylin came hurtling into the room at full tilt. I don’t know which of us was more shocked and outraged. For a full sixty seconds we stood, glaring at each other like a pair of pugilists.

“So I was right!” he crowed.

“Your Chinese vases are safe from me, Lord Weylin. I did not come to steal—”

“What are you doing in here?” he barked. “I left you in the library.”

“I did not realize I was supposed to be a prisoner there. You forgot to lock the door.”

“I am afraid I must ask you to turn out your pockets.”

I gasped in disbelief. “How could I steal anything? You have all the cabinets locked.”

“So you were trying!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

It was the last straw. If he suspected thievery, let him know the real thief, and not suspect me. I had done my best to conceal Uncle’s black character, but I would not go to jail for him. Lady Weylin chose that moment to join us. She looked a question at her son.

“I was right,” he said over his shoulder.

“Miss Barron! I am shocked at you!” Lady Weylin said in her severest voice.

I already had the troublesome necklace in my hand. The only way to escape without involving the constable was to hand it over. I held out my hand and opened the fingers slowly. “I did not come to relieve you of your knickknacks, Lord Weylin, but to return this. I believe it belonged to your late aunt.”

He took the necklace and looked at it, frowning. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it at Hernefield when I was clearing out the tower room to turn it into a studio.”

Lady Weylin reached out and took the necklace. “But where did you get it? This is my sister’s necklace.”

“I have no idea how it came to be there,” I said. “Steptoe found it in the bottom of a drawer.”

“Steptoe!” Lady Weylin exclaimed. She and Weylin exchanged a very strange, knowing look. “But I had already let him go before Margaret’s necklace was stolen. He was with the Pakenhams at that time.”

“Who else could it be?” Lord Weylin said uncertainly. “I fear we must set the constable on him this time, Mama.”

“No! It was not Steptoe,” I said, very reluctantly. If he had stolen it, he would not have shown it to me. He would not have hidden it in my uncle’s room, and if he had, he would have removed it sooner. Turning the room into my studio had been discussed for weeks. I was interested to hear, of course, that he was apparently recognized as a thief. I think the Weylins might have warned us when we hired him.

“How did it get there then?” Lady Weylin demanded.

“I cannot say.”

“Oh, come now, Miss Barron,” Lord Weylin said, in a jeering way. “If you did not suspect some chicanery, you would have returned it in the normal way, instead of this game of cat and mouse. Your mama ...” he said, examining me with some sign of pity.

“Certainly not! What we think, Mama and I, is that my uncle, Barry McShane, must have got hold of it somehow. It was found hidden in his dresser. Steptoe found it, but he made no effort to conceal it. He gave it to me, and told me it had belonged to Lady Margaret, which is why I—I have been—trying to return it.”

To my considerable astonishment, Lord Weylin put his sleek head back and emitted a very natural-sounding burst of laughter. “We were both wrong, Mama,” he said. Then he put one hand on my elbow, the other on his mother’s, and led us both back to the Blue Saloon.

“It is no laughing matter, Algie,” Lady Weylin said.

“It has its comical elements, though Miss Barron was not amused,” Weylin replied, shooting a peculiar glance at me.

We sat, Lady Weylin on her sofa with Bubbums at her feet, Lord Weylin and myself on the hard chairs. Weylin unbent enough to pour us a glass of excellent sherry.

“But what a delightful mystery!” he said, shaking the diamonds in his palm as if they were no more than a handful of salted nuts. “How do you think your uncle got them?”

“He obviously stole them,” Lady Weylin said.

“Let us temper our judgment, Mama,” her son cautioned. “One false accusation can be an accident—and forgiven, I hope. To repeat the offense looks like harassment.”

Lady Weylin twitched at her shawl. I said, “They were stolen at Tunbridge Wells, were they not? My uncle never went to Tunbridge Wells. He went often to London.”

“Perhaps he bought them there from a fence,” Lord Weylin suggested, peering at me for my reaction.

“Why would he do that?” his mother asked. “He was not married. He had no lady friend to give them to, so far as I recall. Are you quite sure he used to go to London, and not Tunbridge Wells, Miss Barron? Algie tells me any number of lightskirts are at Tunbridge these days, on the catch for a patron. Your uncle used to have the reputation of a ladies’ man; it was mentioned when he came back from India. The spinsters were all in a flutter.”

“No, he went to London,” I repeated, “to visit friends at the East India Company.”

“Well, it is very odd,” Lady Weylin said. “And that is why you have been landing in on us with regularity, Miss Barron?”

“That is the only reason I have called twice.” She made me sound like a poor relation seeking rack and manger.

“I cannot imagine why you made such a to-do of it. You should have told me the truth. I have no use for slyness. You need not fear legal proceedings, now that your uncle is dead and buried, eh, Algie? Margaret left her estate to you. It is for you to decide.” Lord Weylin nodded his agreement. “We shall keep the matter hush,” she continued. “The Barrons are a quite respectable family, after all. No point embarrassing your mama.”

“That is very kind of you, ma’am,” I said, feeling as if the weight of the world had fallen from my shoulders. “We should have just returned the necklace and explained, but we were ashamed for Mr. McShane.”

“Only natural,” she said. In her relief that I was not legging after her son, she became almost civil. And in my relief at not being prosecuted, I forgave her for that condescending “quite respectable.”