The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (44 page)

Robert Montfort lifted his head but still refused to answer.

“I order you to respond, my lord. What have you to say?” repeated Westleigh more forcefully now.

“What difference does it make, damn it?” cried Robert at last. “If Hopson happened in my way, he has only himself to blame for any accident that befell him. Why, he’s nothing but a meddlesome upstart. He was never in peril of dying—and he deserves no better than to find himself in the gutter.”

I came towards him, halting squarely in front of his chair. He was seated before the fireplace, beneath the picture of the fall of Icarus against which his father had been sprawled in death. I looked up at the winged figure tumbling helplessly from the sky into the azure sea beneath and the figure of Daedalus flying off to Naples or Sicily, oblivious to the fate of his unfortunate child.

“It was far from being an accident, my lord. You intended to damage me, if not kill me. Your violent action was entirely deliberate, a way of scaring me into submission because you feared my inquiries might diminish your inheritance.”

Puce with fury, Robert Montfort stood up and faced me, muttering numerous indecipherable insults. I turned away in disgust, but this only seemed to annoy him more intensely. How dare I have the effrontery to address him thus? How he wished I’d go to the devil. How he wished he had beaten me roundly when he had the opportunity to do so. Then he said something about Alice’s injuries being entirely my fault. I knew it was untrue, but I couldn’t contain myself. I felt no fear of his bluster, nor awe at his status. A strange emptiness seemed to pervade the room. I was oblivious to all its inhabitants save one: Robert Montfort. I turned back and hit him with all my force.

March 14, 1755

London

My dear Alice,

At last I’ve discovered from Fetherby (who else?) the reason for your silence. He tells me you went away with your brother to take the waters at Bath and convalesce from the injuries you suffered, that the remedies of that city have worked their wonders, and that you’ve returned restored to health.

To apprise you briefly of what has passed since my last chapter: the madness that made me attack Robert Montfort got me thrown into prison like a common criminal, till Foley paid to have me released. I returned to London without Chippendale’s drawings, which Foley refused to hand me despite his earlier promises. He said that since I had yet to take up the matter of Partridge with Chippendale he was taking it upon himself to make a stand. It was no more punishment than Chippendale deserved to be deprived of the designs, and since Elizabeth and Robert Montfort expressed no interest in having them back, and he, Foley, valued them highly, he thought it only just that he should hold on to them.

On discovering I’d come back empty-handed, my master was true to his threats. He flew into a terrible rage (which reminded me somewhat of Robert Montfort and his father) and without further ado dismissed me. In two respects his gesture was fortuitous. First, it gave me time to compose my account for you of all that had happened. Second, it prompted me to tell Chippendale what I thought of him for the way he treated Partridge. I no longer feared losing my job since I’d already lost it. During our exchange he seemed entirely unabashed. “You are judging a matter you don’t begin to comprehend,” he declared, lofty as ever, “and your ignorance gives you no right at all to pronounce a verdict.”

“If I am ignorant it’s because you’ve failed to explain yourself,” I said. “I can only judge by what I see and learn. Partridge’s and your sister Dorothy’s letters have taught me all I need to know of your cruelty. I saw you outside Madame Trenti’s boudoir when there was no reason for such a call. Did she hold some malicious sway over you? Was that why you supplied her with so many furnishings?”

But he refused to answer me, saying only that the truth didn’t arrive to those who simply sat there and asked for it like a beggar with his hand out. Truth, like everything else in God’s world, had to be earned.

So to the real purpose of the letter. The thousand pardons I owe you. I trust that with the passage of time you’ve forgiven me the harm I allowed to befall you. I curse myself still for my clumsiness, though I confess it strikes me as strangely curious that the same ham-fistedness that began these events concluded them too.

I must tell you here that through all my recent troubles an unlikely source of comfort has been Foley. Putting aside his awkwardness over the drawings, the man who once irritated me beyond description has turned out to be a patron I might almost describe as benevolent. You know that it was his carriage and his wife that took you so speedily to Cambridge, where Lady Foley ensured that Townes attended to your injuries. When Foley discovered I’d been dismissed, he offered to advance me sufficient funds to begin my own enterprise. When I asked him why he was being so philanthropic, he told me, a little sharply, it was only shrewd investing that allowed him to lead a life of indolence and that I might take or leave his offer as I chose. I take this to mean he feels a little pang of remorse for holding on to the drawings and losing me my employment. But now I’m gone, I’m glad to be free of Chippendale. I think I shall accept the offer.

Thus, Alice, I take my bow with the fervent hope that if you’ve not done so already this letter might spur you to forgive me enough to read my history of our adventure. Should you do so, I beg you to write and let me know what you make of it.

I am yours, affectionate as ever,

Nathaniel

W
hen Alice arrived, she was the last person I expected to see. It was midafternoon on a Sunday, two weeks since I’d dispatched my last letter and sent her my account of all that had passed. I was alone, whistling a tune I’d heard at the playhouse, sifting through mounds of furniture components in search of a missing saw. Had she arrived a few moments earlier, she’d have found Chippendale hanging at my heels. Since my dismissal he’d barred me from the premises and refused adamantly to allow me to retrieve my toolbox. It was only after I suggested I might let slip to his friend the justice that his account of the day Madame Trenti died wasn’t as accurate as it might have been that he’d been persuaded to let me take it.

When I’d entered his premises, he’d glowered over my every move. But after a short time he grew impatient; he hadn’t succeeded in intimidating me in the least, and there were things he must attend to in his office. So he’d left me to my own devices. He would examine my boxes once they were packed. If I dared help myself to anything that wasn’t mine, he’d summon the watch and make sure I was transported for it.

So there I was, crouching with chisel in one hand, two-foot rule in the other, gawking idiotically at a graveyard of furniture. Mahogany feet carved with claws, deal bed heads, oak tabletops, and panels of veneer. Would I ever amass such a heap of parts, I wondered.

“It is not often I come upon you and find you whistling a tune, and with no pretty companion in your lap.”

I recognized the clear tone instantly. She was standing in the doorway holding a package wrapped in brown paper. I felt myself flush to the roots of my hair. How long had she observed me?

Nonchalantly as I could, I stood up and bowed. “I cannot think what you mean,” I replied, at once annoyed to find she still had the power to disturb me and relieved to see her looking so well.

“I feared I’d be too late,” she said, artlessly proffering her hand.

Forgetting that I was covered with grime, I stumbled eagerly to kiss it, leaving a black imprint on her flawless kid glove. “Are you quite recovered? Late for what?”

She ignored the reference to her health as if it was a matter of little consequence. “I feared that you might have gone.”

“How did you know?”

“The carter Fetherby mentioned you’d be returning today, but he was uncertain when exactly.”

“His garrulousness has at last worked in my favor.”

She stared at me levelly, mysterious as ever. “I am glad you believe so. But he didn’t know where you were going, nor for what you were exchanging all of this.” Here she waved at the disorderly surroundings, as if to imply I were quitting a palace rather than a dust-strewn garret that stank of turpentine, linseed, and boiled animal bones.

“I’ve taken Foley’s offer of assistance and found premises in St. Martin’s Lane. I open them tomorrow.”

“A new beginning?”

“Indeed. But Chippendale is here…if you wish to speak with him.”

“Have I not already made it clear it’s
you
I’ve come to see?”

There was silence as I shuffled uncomfortably in the wood shavings, wondering at the purpose of her visit and what I should say and do. The weather had grown warm in recent days, and I cursed myself for not choosing my coat more wisely. My hair felt damp in its ribbon, and perspiration began to prickle my brow. I thought I read disapproval in her glance, a suggestion she was waiting for me to say something more. An instant later it seemed I was mistaken and that she’d sensed my discomposure and taken pity on me, for she asked me to take her somewhere we might talk.

The downstairs shop was unlocked, and I led her back across the empty cobbled yard to a silent showroom furnished as a saloon of the grandest proportions. She wove her way among sofas, chaises, daybeds, and commodes, gliding a hand over damask upholstery and carved and gilded backs, brilliant polish and marble tops. When she spoke it was not at all what I expected.

“And what will you fabricate in your new premises? Will you attempt anything as sumptuous as this?” By now she had traversed the room and, having placed the package on a table, stood looking up at the gargantuan writing cabinet Chippendale had designed for Madame Trenti.

Since Madame Trenti’s death and the cabinet’s completion it had been placed in the shop: a striking advertisement of the skill and refinement of which Chippendale’s establishment was capable. I looked at the cabinet and then back to Alice. Set against its daunting scale, she seemed smaller than she really was, and for some reason its florid design repulsed me even more than usual.

I still didn’t fully understand what had been the purpose of Chippendale’s visit to Madame Trenti’s on the morning of her death, or the reason he had planned to supply her with the most spectacular object he’d ever created when she clearly didn’t have the means to pay for it. I still supposed she must have had some secret hold over him, although what that might have been I hadn’t fathomed.

“I don’t know if I will ever aspire to such extravagant heights. But simpler pieces may bring equal satisfaction and to greater numbers. Do you not agree?” I said.

She stared thoughtfully at the cabinet and then threw a challenging smile at me. “I agree your appetite for dispute is undiminished.”

“And you haven’t lost your directness,” I retorted.

“I’m sad to find you so unfeeling.”

There was a playfulness in her tone, but I chose to ignore it. “For what reason am I so cruelly accused?” I demanded peevishly.

“Your expression suggests either I or the cabinet displease you greatly.”

Without pausing to reflect, I fell straight in her snare. “You’ve never displeased me, Alice. As for the cabinet, I confess when I look at it I cannot help thinking of Chippendale, and the thought disturbs me. You already know my antipathy towards him is well founded.” I paused, met her eyes directly, and screwed up courage to continue. “As for my feelings towards you—the silence between us for the last weeks has been of
your
instigation, not mine. I sent you letters and my history of all that had happened; I was sure that, having played such a significant part in it, you’d be curious to hear of its conclusion, even if you were angry with me for causing you hurt. Yet you have never responded. It is I who should accuse you of coldness.”

Her reaction to my outburst was curious. “I have come to return your account in person,” she said, reddening slightly. “That is what the package contains. And I was never angry at you. Far from it: I’d be a half-wit not to realize how closely I brushed with death, how you saved my life. I owe you my heartfelt thanks.” As she said this, for a moment I thought I saw an expression of something warmer than mere conviviality flicker in her eyes. Then, like a moth drawn away from a candle stub by the superior light of a chandelier, she settled herself in a chair, returned her gaze to the cabinet, and switched tack completely.

“Is it not fascinating how ordinary wood can be transformed to such an extraordinary object? It is hard for me to have any conception of what the skill and imagination of craftsmen can make of the logs and deals and blocks I sell them,” she said.

I was baffled but wanted to see where this would lead. “Without the woods you supply we would be as helpless as an artist without his palette.”

She smiled witheringly at my flattery, as if this was not at all what she wanted to hear. “Do you ever wonder, Nathaniel, what secrets a piece such as this might witness during its existence? How long will it endure? Will the unborn descendants of your patrons regard this cabinet with similar esteem? Or will it grow outmoded and stand in some forgotten corner as no more than a curious relic of our insignificant age?”

Was this digression intended to provoke me? Was it some kind of test? If so, for what role was I being challenged?

“You will think me very dull,” I said hesitantly, “but I confess I’ve never troubled myself with such matters. What concerns me most is that the patron is content with his commission and that he might return to order more.”

She shook her head impatiently. “Ever the pragmatist, Nathaniel. Then tell me something about this piece. What thoughts shaped its design? How was it crafted?”

Although she was now deferring to my knowledge, the tone of her voice implied a criticism which galled me. I was naturally tempted to show off my expertise, to convince her I was more than the shallow character she believed me to be, but a small voice somewhere inside my head told me that would be pointless. She was too sharp-witted to be hoodwinked by boastfulness. If anything, modesty would beguile her more easily. I composed my face to convey a message of professional detachment.

“It is constructed in three parts from a variety of tropical timbers: chiefly mahogany, ebony, and padauk. The most eye-catching decorations are the mounts made from gilt brass, but there are also morsels of mother-of-pearl and ivory; I believe Chippendale has based them on engravings from Goltzius and Berain,” I said solemnly.

She gazed on gilded decorations formed as Nereid masks, cascading water, clusters of seashells, tied ribbons, and fronded scrolls; surfaces inlaid with wood and brass, and meticulously engraved to depict sea monsters, dolphins, temples, trailing vines and acanthus, and birds. A cabinet more decoration than structure, more gold than wood.

“What makes the piece doubly remarkable—apart from its lavishness—is the complexity of its design. There is scarcely a straight side anywhere, and to make such a shape the structure had to be laid in pieces. The minutest drawers inside are formed from boards cut no thicker than a baby’s fingernail, with joints of similar delicacy rebated or dovetailed to hold them.”

I looked at her again; she was sitting up in her chair, listening intently. Was she putting on a purposeful act of girlishness? Or was she as nervous to see me as I her? She was wearing a new gown of dark amethyst, which enhanced the fieriness of her hair and pallor of her complexion. No shawl or cloak, despite the time of year, as if she’d come out in a hurry. I remembered how she’d looked that day on the tower, when I’d picked her up from the roof and carried her half unconscious with pain through the park to Foley’s carriage. She had seemed docile then, so much easier to handle than this unreadable character. And yet the unpredictable has ever drawn me.

Tiring of my knowledgeable dissertation, I concluded abruptly. “And finally there is the veneering to embellish the oak and deal beneath. You see the lively pattern the figuring brings. Each piece reflects the other, bringing balance and symmetry to the form. To create such a repeating effect, the craftsman must cut the veneers as finely as possible from a single block of wood. Of course I don’t need to tell you that the more figured the wood, the more brittle it will be, thus this too involves great skill and dexterity.” I paused and swallowed uncomfortably. My mouth was growing dry from so much explaining. I wanted her to say something so I might judge her reaction, but she remained silent. “I will not tire you with more details. Far better instead that you should admire the result for yourself.” I gestured her forward as, with the flourish of a magician, I swung back the massive outer doors to reveal the interior.

She gasped at the profusion of niches and pigeonholes before her.

“That is not all,” I said, enjoying her sudden loss of composure. I handed her a key. “Take this and open the door of the central compartment.” She went to do as I instructed but turned back to me.

“There’s no lock.”

“Another marvel,” I said, grinning at her confusion. “The keyholes are hidden in the inlays and can only be opened by touching a particular spot to activate a pressure point.” I touched a cherub’s hand; the keyhole opened. I inserted the key into the lock and opened the door of the interior compartment. A small cavity was now revealed. “In here alone, Chippendale says, are a dozen more hidden compartments that may be opened only if you know how to release the catches holding the sliding panels. At our last meeting, when he dismissed me, he challenged me to find them before I go.”

“Did you try?”

“I confess I did not.”

“And yet I would have thought you of all people would know where his secret compartments will be hidden.”

“It is not the challenge that daunts me,” I said, “for I’ve no doubt I’d find every space easily enough. What holds me back is knowing that if I accepted the challenge, Chippendale would view it as a tacit admission of his supremacy and be gratified. After all that has gone on, I see no reason to humor him.”

She murmured some inaudible response, but she was hardly listening, for she had turned her attention to the inlay on the tiny inner compartments and was bending low to scrutinize them at close quarters. “Here’s a curious thing,” she said, squinting at one drawer front after another.

“What is curious?” I said, a little annoyed that she’d grown so quickly distracted and turned away from me.

She stood up straight and caught my gaze. “Have you not remarked the wood bandings?”

I shrugged my shoulders before reluctantly stepping forward and bending down to look as she had done.

“It’s partridge wood,” she said without waiting for me to speak.

Our eyes locked in mutual comprehension and puzzlement. “That is indeed unexpected,” I conceded.

“There have been no consignments in recent months. None that I recall since I have taken over the business.”