The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish (17 page)

Still, Miss Bentwhistle had appreciated the practical applications of this philosophy. Dust behind the tea cabinet didn’t exist unless one rearranged the furniture. Neither did young men in women’s dormitories, provided they were spirited in after dark. Poverty and injustice likewise disappeared the instant one turned one’s back on them.

A convert to Mr. Berkeley’s thesis, she’d stopped attending her classes in the hope that they, too, would cease to exist. Come the mid-term report, however, her professors concluded that it was
she
who didn’t exist. Happily, they altered their deduction at year’s end thanks to the perceived evidence of essays, which she’d bought, and exams, which she’d arranged for friends to write on her behalf.

Such were the memories that the good Lord sent the headmistress now in her hour of need. He also tossed in an epiphany. Miss Bentwhistle grabbed it. “‘To be is to be perceived,’” she exclaimed in full eureka. “
Ergo, ipso facto, a priori
, to be perceived is to
be
!”

In a blaze of tautological insight, she grasped that it wasn’t important for her to actually
be
a baroness; it was only important for people to
perceive
that she was. She cackled with the enthusiasm of a madwoman. Empirically speaking, hadn’t the use of appearances been her principal
modus operandi
since her father’s demise? If she’d managed to wring privileges as a mere Middlesex County Bentwhistle, think what she might accomplish as an English noble!

Euphoric, Miss Bentwhistle saw her problems resurrected as opportunities. The annotations on her family tree, for instance. According to Mr. Berkeley, material objects are simply ideas. The document from the Heralds’ College was a material object.
Ergo
, the irrefutable syllogism: “My document is simply an idea! An idea I’ve improved upon!” Best of all, those improvements provided her with
prima facie
evidence of her aristocratic
bona fides.

The joys of philosophy.

She paused to remember dear Professor Slater and his lonely tree in the forest, the one that fell unobserved. Did it make a sound? The answer was clear. Of course not. A corollary to the riddle: “If somebody commits forgery, and no one notices, has a crime occurred?” Likewise, no. More to the point, who cared? If her peccadillo ever came to light, she’d blame it on one of her girls. She’d choose a delinquent whose family hadn’t contributed to an endowment fund. It would serve them right, the cheap bastards.

However, there was no need to fear discovery. The current Baron of Bentwhistle was an illiterate pauper who stuck to his bog. If he wouldn’t know what she’d done, who would? The title “Baron” might impress folks on this side of the pond, but when it came to British nobles, barons were the lowest of the low. Even lower in the case of her family, according to Dr. Moorehead, whose monograph had kindly noted that it was “over a century since the last Baron of Bentwhistle took his seat in the House of Lords, owing to the law excluding the bankrupt and insane.” In short, the name Bentwhistle was a nothing beneath notice, its barony a pustule on the rump of history. She could forge a new life undetected.

Too much happiness is hard on the nerves. In mid-cavort, Miss Bentwhistle collapsed in despair. A new life? Here? In London, Ontario? Her credit was exhausted. A peerage would buy less than a month’s reprieve. If she was to fulfill her destiny, she’d have to relocate. But where? She thought of the other London, the
real
London across the sea — but
that
London wouldn’t give two hoots for her title. She imagined the city’s hostesses turning to their butlers: “What, a baroness to tea? Put her in the kitchen with the squires.” If not London, England, the continent? That would mean dealing with Frenchmen. As for those
other
continents? Be serious.

Down for an instant, Miss Bentwhistle bounced back like a punching doll. For God had tapped her on the shoulder and reminded her of this morning’s dream. Mr. Gable. Hollywood.

Of course! There was nothing that fascinated Americans more than British nobility: it was the one thing they didn’t have. And although being a baroness wasn’t as good as being a queen, it was close enough for a cigar. She imagined herself as a sought-after house guest, rotating her way throughout the mansions of Beverly Hills and Hancock Park, with getaways to exclusive oceanfront retreats and Palm Springs spas. She’d have the nouveau rich and famous eating out of her hand. Most certainly, she’d be eating out of theirs.

Miss Bentwhistle paused. People see what they expect to see. All the same, if one’s hawking a fake painting, it helps to have a nice frame. And if one’s passing oneself off as a peer of the realm, it pays to look the part. She took a little medication and considered her needs. No self-respecting baroness would be caught dead without a fabulous wardrobe, a fortune in gems, and a maidservant. Miss Bentwhistle had none of the above. Not to fret. Thanks to Mr. Berkeley, she knew that material objects were simply ideas.
Ergo
, what she really needed were props.

Miss Pigeon flew over the moment she was called. She almost fell on her backside when Miss Bentwhistle pointed out the fine print on her family tree.

“I am the last of the Bentwhistles, Dolly,” the noblewoman sighed. “The recent fire has awakened me to my ancestral duty. Much as I treasure my young ladies, I must close the Academy and take my proper place in society. Know that we have chosen you, dear friend, to serve as our cherished handmaid.”

Miss Pigeon wasn’t sure about the proper etiquette. To play it safe, she dropped to her knees and kissed Miss Bentwhistle’s school ring. “Does this mean we’re going to England?” She didn’t like to complain, but damp weather got to her bones, and she had a fear of fog. What a relief to discover that they’d be taking an extended vacation to Los Angeles instead.

The headmistress tapped her nose. “Naturally, this must remain confidential until we leave town.”

“When will that be?”

“Perhaps weeks, perhaps days. In the interim, you are to scurry here before and after school. To refine your social graces, you shall be quizzed on the finer points of Emily Post. To acquire a proper accent, you shall mimic the recordings of Beatrice Lillie. Further, you shall memorize lists of aristocratic titles and shall invent personal anecdotes relating to each. These tales will be dropped at L.A. cocktail parties.”

“You want me to lie?”

“In America, it’s not lying. It’s expected. In any event, better a liar than a bore. Putting one’s hosts to sleep is an unforgivable sin.”

Miss Pigeon had another concern. Would she be expected to drink alcohol at these parties?

“Not at all. You can stand at the front door and hang coats.”

Finally, Miss Pigeon was troubled by her new title: Mistress Dolly, Keeper of the Wardrobe.

“What’s the problem?”

“‘Mistress.’ It’s unclean.”

The headmistress sighed: Baptists could be so literal.

Miss Bentwhistle still needed baronial gear and seed money. To acquire both, she placed two suitcases, her lacquered jewellery chest, and the decorative packing box from the Heralds’ College in the truck of her Packard and drove to Toronto.

Her first port of call was Ends and Means, a discount store in the garment district that sold end-of-line quality fabrics to the formerly well-to-do. Shy of being seen in a thrift shop, its customers entered through a side door, collars up. Inside, they made their way down a set of stairs and along a dim corridor to a dingy showroom where they could buy the finest of satins, velvets, linens, and wools, providing they weren’t fussy about colour or style.

Miss Bentwhistle grabbed the last quarter bolt of an alarming green brocade, a dozen yards of mauve taffeta, enough lace to curtain a house, ten pounds of Edwardian upholstery material, some ribbons and bows, and a box of assorted ivory buttons carved in the shapes of flowers, birds, and nuts. These textiles would be transformed into frocks and ballgowns overnight, courtesy of Mistress Dolly, a Rumpelstiltskin at the Singer sewing machine. Fortunately, English aristocrats weren’t expected to be fashionable.

Next the headmistress headed to an appointment at Sleeman’s and Sons, a firm at Bay and Bloor that dealt in antique jewellery. Mr. Sleeman was waiting for her at the well-lit table in his oak-panelled cocoon at the back of the store. The decision to sell her family heirlooms had been difficult, as the role of baroness required decoration. Miss Bentwhistle needed cash, however, and had scads of quality costume jewelry donated over the years for use in school plays.

She dickered with Mr. Sleeman for an hour, finally agreeing to trade her past for her future and a thousand dollars and change. It might have been more, but her granny’s rubies turned out to be glass, and her opals were paste. “If they had been real, you would have lost them,” Mr. Sleeman consoled. “Now you keep something more precious than money: a memory of your grandma.”

“Spare me your folk wisdom,” Miss Bentwhistle sniffed. She stuffed her jewellery box with lower-denomination bills, locked it in the trunk of her car, and headed off to the Rosedale address of Mr. Cornelius Blunt, a well-connected art dealer who’d done business with her father.

Suspiciously tidy for a bachelor, Mr. Blunt lived alone in an airy mansion full of well-dusted antiques. He escorted Miss Bentwhistle to the drawing room, where he drew the curtains and invited her to display her wares. She opened the lid of the decorative box from the Heralds’ College, withdrawing the spoils that were hidden under her family tree: the stolen silver and artwork from St. James. (It was a relief to have the booty out from under her floorboards. Since the robbery, she’d been terrified the police would scour the rectory. Thank God they’d set their sights on her girls. She’d resolved never again to take laudanum before going to vespers.)

Mr. Blunt twiddled the left point of his waxed mustache. “An auction is out of the question,” he observed dryly. “Fortunately, I have a ready customer for your
Annunciation
. Another gentleman of my acquaintance will be amused by your
Beheading of St. John
. As for the
St. Sebastian
, well, my dear, that’s a little number few could resist.” He picked up the St. James chalice and sighed. “We can’t do much about the hardware, I’m afraid. It would be noticed hereabouts, and Europe’s awash. Best to melt it down. I’ll make the arrangements.”

Discussions were brief. There was no one else she could trust to fence the goods, and although Mr. Blunt feathered his nest, he was eminently fair, understanding that unhappy clients could exact revenge with a well-placed phone call. He opened the secret vault behind his dart board and withdrew thick wads of cash; cheques could be traced. As he did so, Miss Bentwhistle made a mental check of her travel budget.

First, her assets: $4,000 from Mr. Blunt, $1,000 from Sleeman’s, and $3,000 from Academy endowments. That made a grand total of $8,000.

Second, her expenditures. Bus trip to Chicago for herself and Miss Pigeon, $40. Three days at the Fairmont, $260. Private rail car to Los Angeles, $700. (This extravagance made her ill, but a baroness simply
cannot
ride in coach.) The Presidential Suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, $175 a night x 7 nights = $1,225 a week. (Highway robbery, but a baroness needs the right address.) Obscene tips, a driver and a stretch limo to taxi them to the best restaurants, $1,000 a week, including food and beverage. In short, it would take a grand to get to L.A., and over two a week until she got connected.

For a moment, Miss Bentwhistle considered banking her nest egg and staying put. With the average wage hovering at eighteen dollars a week, her current take was enough to allow her to tease out her days as a pitied boarder at the Twins Bed and Breakfast. The thought of it made her tremble. Yet she trembled even more at the hard truth that she stood to lose it all, for a successful launch required more than money. This fact had hit home the day before when Miss Pigeon had brought over a box of movie magazines, insisting that
Galaxy
and
Starlight Confidential
contained important information about their neighbours-to-be. “Things to talk about at cocktail parties.”

The magazines were chock-a-block with publicity shots of the stars, articles about their impossibly happy lives, and invitations to join their fan clubs. Miss Bentwhistle had enjoyed a grim chuckle at the thought of thousands of plain Janes sitting at endless cafeteria tables in studio dungeons stuffing envelopes while waiting to be discovered. Then she’d realized the joke was on her. The stars had battalions of such envelope-stuffers, whereas she had a single secretary. One who had trouble with the word “mistress.”

Miss Bentwhistle had been struck by a terrible corollary to Professor Slater’s riddle: “If a baroness comes to town and nobody notices, did she ever arrive?” Before her title could take her anywhere, she’d have to attract public attention. But how? At first she’d taken comfort in Mary Mabel’s success: “If the penniless seed of some drunken hobo can reap fame and fortune, so can I.” Still, Mary Mabel had raised the dead. She, on the other hand, ran a burned-out school for delinquents.

Another prayer to God — “Save me and I
really
promise to sin no more” — had brought an inspiration. Its success, however, was contingent on Mr. Blunt.

After putting the art dealer’s cash in her decorative box, Miss Bentwhistle pulled out a hankie and drew his attention to the tragic circumstances documented on her family tree. “I’m afraid there’s been a death in the family. In fact, there’ve been a lot of deaths in the family.”

Mr. Blunt arched an eyebrow. “Someone’s been naughty.”

Miss Bentwhistle ignored him, explaining that she was about to take a trip to California. “Might you have a client in Los Angeles who could introduce me around town? Particularly at the banks? I’ll be bringing the fabled Bentwhistle Jewels.”

Mr. Blunt smiled. He knew exactly the person she needed. Dr. Howard “Howie” Silver, Dentist to the Stars. Dr. Silver had a thriving Bel Air practice, thanks to a winning combination of nitrous oxide and gossip which he dispensed with such indiscretion that his patients begged to book root canals. Keen to be seen, and to be
seen
to be seen, he was a fixture at all the right parties, the sort of man who’d be delighted to be known as the consort to a baroness. Especially a baroness trailing a treasure trove in fabled jewels.