Seven

Two days later the theater workshop was enlivened by a sudden influx of fashionable ladies. A ripple of greetings and buzz of reaction made Teresa turn from her painting to see the four young “investigators” come in. This bevy of well-dressed females flowed in among the craftsmen, their dresses and bonnets and wraps a swirl of moving color in the middle of the space.

Tom went over to welcome them and offer introductions, which they happily accepted, and he took them around to explain the various tasks that were being performed. The ladies asked questions and complimented the artisans, seeming fascinated by this peek behind the scenes of theater production.

When they reached Teresa, she wondered if they would think less of her because she worked here. She was also conscious that her old muslin gown, quite suitable for painting, was shabby compared with what they’d seen her wear before. Not to mention the streaks of midnight blue and crimson down her long apron.

“How lovely,” said sandy-haired Miss Moran when the newcomers clustered around the flat that Teresa had been painting. “I feel as if I could walk right into the scene and climb up the hill to that castle.”

“Your use of perspective is excellent,” said Miss Deeping.

“How did you capture the feeling of moonlight?” asked Miss Finch. “I have tried to paint that and made a muddle of it.”

Teresa could see no sign of mockery in their faces. She relaxed a bit and explained some of her techniques. Miss Finch in particular seemed interested.

“My goodness, can you paint from the top of a ladder?” asked Miss Moran. She was gazing at the upper part of the landscape. “That must be fifteen feet high.”

“The carpenters set up a platform for me when I am putting in the sky.”

“Ah, that’s good.”

“I like this place,” declared the red-haired heiress. “One can see that everyone enjoys what they’re doing and is good at it.” She nodded to Teresa. “I can see why you bring your talents here.”

Teresa thought of mentioning that this was not some careless pastime. They were all paid, and the wages were vital to the craftsmen. But she decided not to. Miss Finch hadn’t meant to be patronizing.

Miss Grandison edged closer to her. “We came to consult with you and Tom,” she confided in a low voice. “Though of course it is lovely to see your painting as well. But we wanted to speak to you, and we cannot visit the theater again because my aunt has made difficulties.”

“I see.”

“Tom told us that you stop for a sort of luncheon,” the girl continued. She held up a small box tied with string, and Teresa saw that they all carried similar offerings. “Is this the right time?”

“Near enough.” Teresa untied her apron and laid it aside.

In the courtyard, the ladies brought out a positive banquet of cakes and tarts and small sandwiches, setting them out to be shared by all. Then they established themselves in one corner of the space where they could talk with some privacy.

“We are not making a great deal of progress on the opera-dancer problem,” began Miss Deeping with a severity that appeared to include herself.

“We have asked everyone we meet about Richmond Park,” said Miss Moran. “But quite a large number of people have visited there recently, with the spring flowers coming on.”

“And none of them seemed particularly…sinister,” said Miss Grandison.

“They don’t,” said Miss Finch. “That is how they operate. They seem just like anyone else, until the moment they turn cruel. When it is too late.”

The look in her eyes and harsh tone told Teresa that she had endured some hardship. She felt an impulse of kinship.

The others waited a respectful moment. Perhaps they knew what had befallen her, or perhaps they only heard the pain in her voice.

“So we need to decide what to do next,” said Miss Deeping then. “What do you think?” She looked from Tom to Teresa.

“I’ve asked at houses all ’round their lodgings,” replied Tom. “Up and down the streets. Nothing new there.”

“It’s too bad one of us can’t join the opera dancers,” said Miss Moran. “We’d be on hand to see who approaches them and judge their intentions.”

Teresa waited for exclamations of horror at this outlandish suggestion. She also concluded that Miss Moran didn’t really know what the approaches entailed.

“Imagine me in a ballet,” said Miss Deeping. “I’d look like a poorly trained elephant let loose on the stage.” She thumped the tabletop with her fist. “Lumbering along.”

“You aren’t big enough to be an elephant,” replied Miss Moran.

“An ox,” said Miss Finch. “Or a donkey. Yes, like Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. We could make you a papier-mâché headpiece.”

Miss Deeping made a face at her.

“The dancing master at school was always praising you, Harriet,” said Miss Moran.

“That was not ballet,” Miss Finch pointed out. “And he was a…beslubbering boar-pig, as Tom would put it.”

Tom gave her a nod and an understanding look.

“What do you mean?” asked Miss Moran.

“Monsieur Lagrange knew I was poor and powerless. Then. So he thought he could whisper his disgusting little compliments in my ear.” She shrugged. “And I do not believe he was really French either.”

The other three young ladies looked shocked. Teresa was intrigued. It seemed Miss Finch had been impoverished, and now she was rich. Perhaps this was why she seemed the most interesting of them, although all four were out of the common way.

“You never said anything,” said Miss Deeping.

Miss Finch waved this aside. “There was no point. Nothing would have been done.”

“You could write to your school now and tell them,” said Teresa quietly.

The younger girl met her eyes. They exchanged a brief silent communication, and then Miss Finch nodded once.

“I know you are not serious about becoming opera dancers,” Teresa added. “But you cannot, you know.” She looked around the group.

“I wonder what my father would do if he found me there on one of his ‘visits,’” said Miss Grandison, who had been uncharacteristically silent.

“Have an apoplexy?” suggested Miss Finch.

Miss Grandison muttered something inaudible.

“I’ve been hanging about with the dancers and keeping my eyes open,” said Tom. “I’ll go on with that.” He gave Teresa a sidelong glance, as if suggesting she might join him.

The thought of frequenting the dancers’ retiring room, watching the gentlemen prey on them, most likely receiving unwanted attentions herself, filled Teresa with repulsion. Sad distaste welled up in her, turning the food sour in her stomach. But she still longed to help. “I will talk to each dancer again. I haven’t pressed as hard as I might.” Their situation set up rivalries. Many were reluctant to reveal good sources of income and so would not tell which gentlemen had been particularly attentive. Her impulsive “claiming” of Lord Macklin would help her there. If any girls had considered her to be competition, perhaps they wouldn’t now.

As if her thoughts had brought him to mind, Miss Deeping turned to her and said, “Are you expecting Macklin today?”

Here it was. They were not going to ignore her rash words as she had begun to hope. Teresa faced a circle of friendly, but inquisitive eyes. “No,” she said.

“We thought he was often here,” the angular girl said.

“No,” said Teresa again. “Often” was a vague designation. Who was to say what it signified?

There was a short silence. The ladies seemed to be searching for the right phrase. Tom looked brightly interested, and gave her no help at all.

“We don’t mean to pry,” said Miss Moran apologetically. “It’s just that we are rather protective of him.”

“Why should a nobleman with his wealth and position need your protection?” The earl clearly didn’t. He…oozed assurance.

“‘Protection’ isn’t quite the word,” said Miss Grandison. The other ladies all nodded. “More what he has given to us.”

“Interest and…encouragement,” said Miss Finch.

“An open mind,” said Miss Moran.

“Acknowledgment,” added Miss Deeping.

“Help when sorely needed,” said Miss Grandison.

They began to exchange anecdotes about Lord Macklin’s role in their autumn adventure. They made him sound like some sort of guardian angel, scattering happiness across the land. It occurred to Teresa that this description would utterly revolt him. She smiled at the thought of telling him. “And what right had he to step in?” she asked after a while.

“He worried about that,” said Miss Grandison. “Peter told me they discussed the matter.” She smiled. “He told me he’s learned a good deal from Macklin’s example.”

Had the earl asked the young ladies to come here and plead his case? Teresa didn’t think that was it. And it didn’t matter, because there was no case. He had none. But these were intelligent women. Their opinions were of value, even though they didn’t know what aristocratic men got up to when their wives and mothers were not present. Look at Miss Grandison’s father. Still, they had affirmed her changing opinion of the earl. She was oddly glad about that. “I need to return to my work.”

“You do like Macklin, don’t you?” asked Miss Moran.

Teresa stood. Part of her yearned to be one of their carefree group and exchange girlish confidences. Another knew she never would be. “We are pretending to be friends while we search for the missing girls. Nothing more.”

“Pretending?” repeated Miss Moran. The ladies all looked puzzled. They glanced at each other and then back at Teresa.

“But…why should it be a pretense?” asked Miss Deeping.

“That makes no sense,” said Miss Grandison.

She couldn’t have stated it better, Teresa thought. Senseless was just the word to describe many recent occurrences. Her careful plan for her new life had not included an earl or any of these ladies—not even Tom, who had never been so quiet through a conversation in all the time she’d known him. As she had understood life, these young ladies should not be interested in the fate of a few poor dancers. They should ignore their existence. And hers. They should look through her, turn away as if she was invisible. All of this had happened to her not so very long ago. Yet now, here, it was not. No sense indeed. A quiver of emotion ran through Teresa. She turned away to hide her expression, and discovered the subject of their conversation standing in the doorway to the warehouse. How long had Lord Macklin been there? What had he heard?

Arthur moved, shaking off his surprise at finding five ladies where he expected only one. They sat in the corner of the courtyard almost as if they’d set up headquarters here. Señora Alvarez looked unsettled. Did she think he’d invited them? Her reactions were so often a mystery to him. Until he met her, he’d thought he was rather good at understanding people. He went over to join the group.

Tom extended a laden plate. “Sandwich?” he asked.

Not for the first time, Arthur envied the lad’s easygoing temperament. The young ladies looked brightly inquisitive. Very brightly. It was one of their skills as investigators, he thought. They could make one feel unprepared for an important examination. Did they think he had some news?

“We were talking of our progress,” said Miss Ada Grandison. “And the fact that we’ve made very little.”

“I spoke to the head of the Four-Horse Club. At great and boring length,” Arthur replied. He liked driving and riding, but he wasn’t obsessed with the minutiae of these activities. Or with the clothing he wore while engaged in them. “He was no help.”

“I’m going to hang about the dancers and keep watch,” said Tom. “The señora will talk with each of them again. She thinks they may know things they don’t realize they noticed.”

Señora Alvarez looked startled, then impressed.

The other ladies continued to eye Arthur with a marked degree of attention. As if they were waiting for him to reveal secrets. Except Señora Alvarez, who was not looking at him. He was suddenly certain they’d been discussing more than the opera dancers.

There was a stir from the workshop behind him. A voice boomed out an inquiry. Everyone turned, and in the next moment Miss Julia Grandison appeared in the doorway. Her formidable figure filled it completely, the feathers in her bonnet brushing the upper jamb.

She scanned the courtyard and then descended on them like a striking bird of prey. “Ada, your maid said you were coming here.” She looked around as if mystified by the locale. “I must speak to you at once.” She loomed over the group. Miss Moran visibly winced. “Do you know what has been going on?” the newcomer added.

“In what sense, Aunt?”

“What sense! There seems to be very little sense involved.” She scanned the circle of faces. “You’ve been snooping around the opera dancers. Very much against my advice and inclination.” They sat with the silence and stillness of rabbits under the eye of a hawk. Miss Grandison’s glare settled on her niece, and bored in. “Are you aware that your father—” She hesitated.

Miss Ada Grandison sat straighter. She managed to look innocently inquisitive. “Yes? Papa?”

“Has been showing far too much interest in these very same opera dancers,” Miss Julia Grandison replied.

“Is that not an improper topic for me to discuss, Aunt?”

“Don’t speak to me of improper! As if you cared anything about that. I have gone to great lengths for you, Ada. I said nothing to your parents about your ridiculous ‘investigations.’ I think I am owed a debt of gratitude. You should be only too glad to help me.”

“Help how?”

“By telling me the truth!”

“I don’t understand what you mean. I don’t know—”

“You know a great many things you shouldn’t!” exclaimed Miss Julia Grandison. “Things your mother would faint to hear of. I know that…a certain opera dancer was mentioned during that theater visit I countenanced the other day. Mentioned in…association with your father.”

Arthur wondered who had told her this. He couldn’t believe it was anyone present. Unless someone had let it slip? Or confided in the wrong friend?

“Merely give me the name of this dancer. That is all I require. I will know what to do then.”

“And what is that?” asked Miss Ada, with commendable fortitude. Arthur knew the answer—revenge. Miss Julia Grandison thought she had found the lever she’d been searching for to pay back her brother.

“I don’t remember,” said Miss Ada. This time she was less convincing.

“Will you thwart me?”

“I don’t want to cause trouble for Papa.”

“Even though he is lower than a worm?”

Miss Ada looked conflicted. “I don’t think he is that.”

“He is careful to show you his good side.”

The girl shook her head. “I won’t tell tales on my father, Aunt Julia. I don’t think you should ask me to.” She frowned as if caught out. “Even if I knew any.”

The older lady held her gaze for a long moment. “Very well. Perhaps you’re even right.” She started to turn away. “I’ll get the name elsewhere.”

“What if I tell Papa?” asked Miss Ada.

“Do so and welcome. In fact, let us go now. I should like to see his face.”

Miss Ada declined the opportunity.

“What are you doing here?” asked her aunt then. She looked around the dilapidated space. “It is hardly a pleasant spot to sit, even on a warm day.”

“We’re interested in the workings of the theater,” replied Miss Ada.

“Indeed?” Miss Julia Grandison’s keen gaze swept over them all once again. Arthur felt evaluated and dismissed. Then the lady shrugged and bid them farewell. Everyone let out a relieved breath when she was gone.

“Should I tell Papa she is asking these questions about him?” Miss Ada wondered. “How would I bring up such a subject?” She turned to Arthur. “Would you do it, sir?”

Arthur tried not to shudder as he shook his head. “We are not well acquainted. Your father would be offended.” This was quite true. Mr. Grandison would certainly resent the interference, once he got over being aghast at Arthur’s effrontery.

“Oh.” Miss Ada considered the matter. “I’ll get Peter to do it.”

There were some dubious looks at this, but no objections. Arthur didn’t envy the young duke, but at least Compton was, or was about to become, a family member. He might have some bare excuse to broach the matter.

The young ladies took their leave soon after this. Tom and the señora moved back toward their workplaces, and Arthur followed. “Why is Miss Grandison so angry at her brother?” the señora asked.

Arthur told her the story of the punch-bowl humiliation in their youth.

“And he has never said he was sorry?”

“I don’t believe so.” Miss Grandison would have mentioned that, Arthur thought.

“The churlish, dog-hearted clotpole,” said Tom, more in the spirit of experiment than in anger, it seemed.

“So he deserves to pay,” said the señora. “But perhaps not so dearly as the large lady seems to intend.”

Arthur nodded. They paused inside the workshop door. “May I watch you paint for a while?” he asked her.

She looked surprised. “Why would you wish to?”

“I appreciate mastery in all its forms.”

Her cheek reddened a bit. “Mastery is…”

“The proper word for your ability.”

Tom grinned and gave them a nod before walking off. The señora looked uncertain. “I suppose,” she said finally.

“I promise not to disturb you.” Inside, Arthur took a seat well out of her way. The señora put on her long apron and picked up a brush. She began adding a herd of tiny cows to the distant hills of the scene before her.

“My wife liked to paint, particularly outdoors,” Arthur said.

The señora’s brush went still and then resumed.

“Flowers were her favorite,” he added. “She used to say that if one could properly depict a rose, one could paint anything.”

She seemed attentive, but perhaps that was for her work and not for him.

“This was long ago of course. Nearly twenty years.”

She said nothing.

“Did your husband like your paintings?”

This time her brush stopped. She glanced at him and away. “I don’t care to talk about this.” She went back to painting.

“It is painful to think of them gone,” Arthur replied. “I’ve thought a good deal about grief lately. It never really ends, does it? But it changes over the years. My wife’s death was very hard—a long, bitter illness. It was years before I could speak of her easily. Then, gradually, the bad ending grew less vivid, and good memories came drifting back. There were many more of those, after all. I’m grateful for that.”

She said nothing. The rigidity of her back told him she rejected this topic. He’d wanted to share with her, felt she might have endured similar things. He’d hoped she might say so. And yes, he remained curious about the shadowy figure of her dead husband. More than curious. The fellow haunted his imagination. But he should have listened and changed the subject. Now they were afflicted with an awkward silence.

It would have been interesting to discuss grief with the earl, Teresa thought. He was surprisingly thoughtful. She’d agreed with some of his points and not with others. Her grief over her family had been quite different.

But she couldn’t talk with him honestly. And that had begun to rankle more and more. Calling herself a widow had been so much easier in this new life she’d created. That status smoothed over many things, deflected a variety of questions. Even as it created more, she thought now. And she had no gift for fiction.

No, call it what it was—lying. She’d told a lie, and now she had to live with it. Lord Macklin expected a tale of her past to match the one he’d told, and she had none about her imaginary husband. Nor much inclination to invent one.

“Have you gone forward with your plan to remove cobbles from your yard?”

She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “You remember that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Why? How many people—most particularly men—would do so? “Yes, it was done yesterday.”

“Ah, that’s good. I spoke to my gardener, and he has some plants you might like for starting your garden.”

“For me?” She gazed at him, astonished.

“He’s very good with roses,” the earl added. “And lilies. Of course he doesn’t have as many plants here as he would in the country. But he said he has some fine ones to spare.”

“You asked your gardener to find flowers for me?”

Arthur nodded. “He can send them over as soon your soil is ready for planting. He suggested you might benefit from the services of an undergardener in that regard.”

“Regard,” she repeated.

“Preparing the soil. He thought that ground that had been under cobbles would need extensive cultivation.” She was staring at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted horns. Had he offended her? Did she see the offer of a few plants as interference? Really, that was unreasonable. He knew that enthusiastic gardeners exchanged specimens all the time. It was the done thing.

A wavering silvery sound rang through the workshop, like an audible expression of the feelings running through Teresa. She had to admit it; she was utterly charmed. This aristocratic Englishman had not only remembered a small detail she’d told him about her plans, but he’d gone out of his way to help her accomplish them. Even his prim way of making the offer—“in that regard”—was endearing. This was a rare man indeed.

The sound came again. On the other side of the workshop, Tom stood with a large wooden mallet in his hand. For a third time, he struck a thin sheet of metal that had been hung in a frame. The shivery warble followed. “That’s done it,” he called. A number of the other workers cheered. Tom grinned and took a bow.

“What an unusual gong,” said Lord Macklin.

“It’s a chime for the fairy kingdom in a new play,” replied Teresa. “They wanted an ‘otherworldly’ sound, and Tom offered to invent one.”

“Naturally.” The earl smiled. “He is an irrepressibly creative spirit. I have so enjoyed watching him bloom.”

“Have you?”

“Yes. As you do gardens perhaps.”

“Why?”

“Doesn’t everyone like seeing young people come into their own?”

“No. Many people never notice. And some are envious or annoyed.”

“Annoyed?” He looked bewildered.

“Have you not observed that there are many petty, mean-spirited individuals in the world?”

“Of course, but…” He considered. “Even they will benefit from new ideas and…youthful energies. People who are encouraged to use their skills are happier, and that makes society more pleasant.” He shook his head. “And I sound insufferably pompous.”

“No.” Something in his manner—perhaps the way he treated all people as equals—kept him from pomposity. He was proper, yes. Good manners and the rules of society fit him like his perfectly cut coats. But he was never stuffy or narrow.

“I think perhaps I do,” he replied with a rueful smile. “But I thank you for making me think. I shall try to find ways to say it better.”

She was in love with him, Teresa realized. The knowledge seemed to burst over her, like an ocean wave that knocked one tumbling and then pulled irresistibly toward the depths. But it wasn’t really sudden. The sentiment had been building, bit by bit, over these last weeks. He had added to the flood with each thing he said or did.

Madre de Dios. She’d renounced everything to do with amor years ago. That haunted word was just another term for oppression. It was a deception, a cheat, made you commit all sorts of stupidities and then broke your heart.

But this man wasn’t like the others she’d known. Perhaps he could love in the way the poets imagined. Or was that simply a sad rationalization for her weakness?

She was staring up at him. She saw an arrested expression rising in his eyes. The smoldering heat of the kiss she’d denied him was flowing back. With it came a question she had no idea how to answer. What was she going to do? She had to stop this.

Teresa turned back to her painting. She raised her brush but did not touch the surface. What could it even mean—to be in love? For her, here and now? She had fought to find safety, to take control of her life. Would she throw all that away? Wasn’t that what love would require?

Tom struck his gong again. A signal, Teresa thought, but the message was a mystery. Was it a harbinger of change? Did it urge her toward some…indulgence? Or warn her of doom? Abruptly, fiercely, she longed for the first choice. But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t go under.

“Señora Alvarez?”

His voice was like the touch of seductive fingers. “I must finish this painting today,” she said. “I have promised.”

There was a pause. Her heart teetered in the balance. Then he said, “Of course.”

She heard his footsteps move away. She’d saved herself from the clutches of that overwhelming wave. And she was not in the least relieved.