My Beautiful Enemy (12 page)

Except Master Gordon had left England in 1873, which meant the gift of his house and its contents had been made in 1875. But Catherine had seen the jade tablet in his possession as late as 1877, so it had not gone to Mrs. Delany with everything else.

At least not then.

And Catherine, as much as she wanted to, could not simply jump on the next steamer out of Southampton, not until she could reasonably claim to have exhausted any and all leads in England.

But she could write Mrs. Delany. Or, if she allowed herself to be a little reckless with her budget, she could even cable Mrs. Delany, in hope of a faster response.

“Do you have Mrs. Delany’s address, Mr. Cromwell?”

Mr. Cromwell wrote Mrs. Delany’s address on a crisp sheet of stationery and handed it to Catherine. “I did not know Mr. Gordon very well outside of my capacity as his solicitor—and I regret it. May I tell you something about him?”

“Of course,” said Catherine, who was just about to inquire whether Mr. Cromwell had any anecdotes to relate. “Please.”

“Twenty years ago, I lost my daughter Julia to illness.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“As am I to this day, but life goes on,” said Mr. Cromwell quietly, with neither awkwardness nor feigned nonchalance. “We were all devastated. But Julia’s twin sister, Portia, then eight years old, was absolutely inconsolable.

“One day, a package came for her in the post, a package
that contained two books, a puzzle, a pair of opera glasses, a model train set, two ostrich plumes, stamps and coins from all over world, and several miniature paintings meant for a doll’s house. A note in the package, addressed to Portia, said that the sender had heard that she was having a difficult time without her sister and hoped that the contents of the package would offer some distraction. It also said that there would be one package a month for the next two years.

“And so twenty-four packages came, each filled with a variety of interesting and often unexpected items. Sometimes there would be seashells and geodes, sometimes a whole book of pressed flowers, and once there was even a necklace made of shark’s teeth, which fascinated Portia to no end.

“The packages helped Portia immensely—they helped all of us immensely.” Mr. Cromwell’s voice caught. He exhaled slowly. “But it was not until after Mr. Gordon had passed away that we learned he had been the one to send all the packages, he who had never met either one of my daughters but had felt moved to do something when he learned of Portia’s grief.”

Catherine’s eyes prickled with tears. “That sounds like him. He was the kindest man I have ever met.”

“You are fortunate to have met him,” said Mr. Cromwell with tremendous sincerity. “Portia would have dearly loved to.”

Catherine gazed upon Mr. Cromwell. There was still a hint of sadness in his eyes, but the twinkle was back—despite the loss of a beloved child, Mr. Cromwell remained a man who found much to enjoy in life.

Could she hope for a fraction of his joie de vivre someday?

He accompanied her out of his office to the reception room. They shook hands warmly.

“Look forward to your summer, Miss Blade,” said Mr. Cromwell. “And trust that it will come.”

M
rs. Reynolds approved of the elaborate music box Leighton had chosen for Annabel. “Yes, Captain, I do believe she would quite enjoy it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. In that case, I will take it back to the shop and have the spring mechanism replaced.” He rose. “Let me not take up any more of your time.”

Mrs. Reynolds hesitated—as he had hoped. “Captain, would you mind if I asked for a favor?”

“Please, go ahead.”

“I have arranged to call on Miss Blade this afternoon. It is the staff’s half day, so I am without a coachman, which I didn’t think would matter much as I could always take a hansom cab or walk. But this fog . . .”

This fog was spectacular even for London, thick enough to scoop with one’s hands, with the bouquet of an overripe Stilton that had fallen into a sludge pond.

Leighton inclined his head. “I will be glad to put my carriage at your disposal, ma’am.”

Twenty minutes later, they were walking up a considerable number of flights of stairs. The fog was such that from the street it had been impossible to assess the height of the building. But it would seem that the block of flats was at least six stories tall, and Miss Blade had taken a flat at the very top.

Mrs. Reynolds huffed as she staggered up the last flight, her fingers digging into Leighton’s arm. “Ah, there it is, at last. I daresay Miss Blade would have no trouble keeping her figure svelte if she but went out and came back once or twice a day.”

Before they had walked halfway down the corridor, Miss Blade’s door opened. The expression of the quiet, shadowlike woman who stood waiting altered only a little as she took him in: She would have already known, from the sound of their footsteps, that a man had come with Mrs. Reynolds; the
only question in her mind would have been whether Mrs. Reynolds had brought Marland or himself.

“Captain Atwood was kind enough to ferry me over on this rather horrible day, Miss Blade,” explained Mrs. Reynolds. “And I could not possibly allow him to remain in the carriage while I enjoyed myself up here.”

Leighton had known for approximately twenty-four hours that Mrs. Reynolds would call on her while Annabel and Mrs. Chase attended Edwin Madison’s indoor birthday picnic. He had not meant to do anything with that knowledge until the fog rolled in. Now here he was, about to walk into the dwelling, however temporary, of the one who, to him at least, always belonged under a wide-open sky.

“No, no, of course not,” said Miss Blade graciously. “I am delighted to see you both. Do please come in.”

The redolence of incense wafted toward him. He had never cared for incense, with its heavy, cloying smell. But the incense she used produced a much lighter fragrance, one that reminded him, more than anything else, of the scent of Chinese ink.

She herself was dressed very simply in an afternoon gown of light grey. He would not have thought of it, but the color suited her well and lent her an air of unmistakable refinement.

She led them into the flat’s vestibule.

There were items of appropriate furnishing in the vestibule, but all he saw was a curtain made of strings of ceramic beads that took the place of a door that separated the vestibule from the parlor.

We had a curtain made of beads
, she had once told him, in those long-ago days.

He swept aside the curtain for the ladies to pass, the beads sliding along his palm. They were cloisonné enamel, blue and white. As he let go, the strings of beads swung back and forth, striking one another with soft, melodic pings.

“Oh, how atmospheric,” said Mrs. Reynolds admiringly.

Atmospheric indeed, and also quite effective at making sure that no one could sneak into the parlor unheard.

The parlor was sparsely furnished, but rich in artwork. On one wall, a large black ink painting of a mountain landscape, the ridges sharp as swords, one lone tree in the foreground, bare and gnarly. On the opposite wall, the exact same landscape, but depicted in color, the summits a rich, deep green, the tree laden with riotous pink blossoms. Grouped scrolls of Chinese calligraphy hung beside and above the paintings. Pale smoke drifted from a brilliantly green jasper incense holder on the mantelpiece.

“I hope you don’t mind the incense,” said Miss Blade as she offered them seats. “The smell of the fog was rather overwhelming earlier.”

“The incense is most certainly a vast improvement over the
eau de brume
,” answered Mrs. Reynolds. “Ghastly weather of late, is it not?”

Miss Blade lit the spirit lamp on the tea table and hoisted a small kettle above the flame. “I certainly hope so. I should hate to think that this is normal weather.”

“It
is
normal weather,” Leighton heard himself say. “That is what is so ghastly about it.”

She shot him a quick glance, as if astounded that he had spoken to her without being forced to by the weight of etiquette. He was no less shocked himself.

“I’m afraid Captain Atwood has hit the nail on the head.” Mrs. Reynolds chuckled. “But do tell me, Miss Blade, that you have not been kept inside all this time.”

“I saw a good bit of London during my search for a flat. I have taken a walk on the Embankment and seen Parliament from a distance. And since you recommended it so highly, ma’am, I have paid a visit to the British Museum.”

Leighton experienced a frisson at the thought of a self-professed master thief visiting a depository of valuable objects.

“How did you find the museum?” asked Mrs. Reynolds, gratified. “I have always enjoyed my visits there.”

“The vastness of the collections is most impressive.”

The kettle sang. She warmed the pot and made tea, her motion graceful and unhurried—that of a woman who had never ridden a horse astride or drawn blood with a sharp sword.

Darjeeling tea, the scent was unmistakable.

And then, from another tin, she scooped a spoonful of dried chrysanthemum flowers into a teacup and poured hot water on top.

An Englishman was assured of coming across a cup of Darjeeling every once in a while. But the delicate fragrance of chrysanthemum tea he had not known since her.

For a moment the void inside threatened to engulf him.

“What is that?” asked Mrs. Reynolds.

“It is a tisane of chrysanthemum blossoms.”

“How interesting. Where do you get these blossoms?”

He braced himself to hear the words
Kunlun Mountains
and
a height of ten thousand feet.

“These are from Huangshan, or the Yellow Mountain, as sometimes it is called—a place of otherworldly beauty, much celebrated in the art and literature of China,” said Miss Blade, removing the spirit lamp and the kettle from the table to bring out a plate of Madeira cake slices.

She poured for Mrs. Reynolds and Leighton. He was transfixed by her ease with these small rituals of life. It was not the afternoon gown that gave her that air of refinement—this woman
was
refined, accustomed to sophisticated surroundings and the intricacies of polite society.

What did you do to her, that untamed and untamable girl? And what exactly is your purpose here in England?

“Was there anything in particular you wished to see at the British Museum, Miss Blade?” he asked.

Her face was bent over her own teacup; she looked at him
out of the corner of her eye. She had heard his suspicion then, which he had not tried too hard to hide.

“I did my best to avoid accidentally coming upon the mummies. But as for what I
wished
to see . . . I had rather thought there would be a larger selection of oriental art.” She turned toward Mrs. Reynolds. “You see, ma’am, in China there is no equivalent of the British Museum. There are no public museums at all, as far as I know. The only works of art one can experience must either be in one’s own possession or that of a friend’s. So I was quite looking forward to the treasures of the British Museum—and therefore a little disappointed that the display was rather paltry.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t think that the collection on display is everything the museum holds. Far from it!” Mrs. Reynolds cried. “I have a cousin who sits on the Board of Trustees for the museum. And he tells me that plans are under way to bring more oriental artworks out of storage to fill the space that has been opened up by the building of the White Wing. I recommend you wait some time and visit the museum again, Miss Blade. I am sure you will meet with a far wealthier exhibit than the one you saw.”

Miss Blade leaned forward slightly—Leighton felt her excitement as surely as if she had stood up and somersaulted. “I had no idea,” she said.

“Oh yes.” Mrs. Reynolds nodded. “Even now there are collections you can see at other locations around London. And you can always ask to see the accession catalogues, which would give you a better idea of the true extent of the museum’s holdings.”

“Fascinating,” Miss Blade murmured.

“I have a guide to the museum’s exhibits at home, and it mentions where some of the additional holdings are archived. I will find it when I get home and have it sent to you as soon as the fog clears.”

“Thank you. That would be much appreciated.”

So she
was
looking for something, an object of Asiatic origin that she expected to see in the British Museum.

As if she heard his thoughts, her eyes came to rest on him, eyes the color of the North Sea, of cold water and approaching storm. “And you, Captain, how do you do?”

He took a sip of his tea, his hand surprisingly steady, considering the rest of him was all agitation and frayed nerves. “Very well, thank you.”

“My soon-to-be nephew-in-law is a man of few words,” said Mrs. Reynolds, in a tone that was meant to be indulgent, but came off more resigned than anything else.

“Is he?” Miss Blade murmured, no doubt remembering all his attempts to induce
her
, the strong, silent one, to speak. “I’m sure Miss Chase would disagree—even the quietest gentlemen become chatty when they are with their sweethearts.”