Keeping the Castle

11



THE PORTRAIT WAS NEARLY finished at last, and none too soon for me. I was beginning to grow uneasy about the Baron. Oh, not that nonsense about Charity, indulged in by Miss Vincy! That was too ridiculous to consider even for a moment.

But—Charity was certainly spending more time with him than I. I could have wished that he would have made more strenuous efforts to evade her. He might, for instance, have insisted upon remaining and reading to us; it would have been a great kindness to me, in dispelling the uncomfortable thoughts that would creep in during my involuntary idleness. I was beginning to fancy myself neglected and ill-treated.

I even wondered if this project, this painting of my portrait, was all an invention of Miss Vincy’s to keep me away from the Baron. But no. Although Miss Vincy was more prone to spend her time with me in earnest effort than in conversation, I felt that I was beginning to know her. Such a subterfuge was beneath her.

And besides, her devotion to her work was obvious. She was minutely observant of every line and curve and texture of my face and figure, and I, having nothing else to occupy me, was equally observant of her. Frequently she lost all sense of passing time, so intent was she, and I had to ask several times for a moment’s rest from my pose, because she did not hear when I spoke. Though she would not allow me, or anyone else, to see the work in progress, it was clear that her art was important to her.

I almost envied her. The world, at least the provincial, day-to-day world in which I live, does not honor those who make so much as those who own. To be a wealthy landowner of good family is to belong to the most respected class of people in England, and therefore in the world as a whole. Yet when we look back upon the past it is the artists and thinkers whose names are remembered and whose legacy is honored, not those who are merely wealthy and well-bred.

I felt a stirring of guilt, looking at Miss Vincy.

She was a good and gentle creature, as well as a talented and intelligent woman, who would make the Baron a better wife than I. Beauty is a coin squandered by time, but Miss Vincy’s virtues would last throughout her life.

I was almost certain that she loved him, and had quite dismissed the tutor from my mind as a serious contender for her heart. From time to time, when she thought herself unobserved, she would allow a wistful look to steal across her face, and her hand would stray to a fine gold chain around her neck. She would withdraw a locket from her bodice which, when open, revealed a lock of hair—similar in color to His Lordship’s—and press it to her lips. Perhaps after all, I thought, it would be the noble thing for me to withdraw, to give him up to her, as being the better woman.

“Miss Crawley, I pray you, think happier thoughts!” interjected Miss Vincy at this point in my musings. “You are twisting up your face like a wad of paper you are about to cast into the fire. I cannot capture the shading of your eyelid if you scowl so.”

I apologized and composed my face. My mind I composed by reminding myself that Miss Vincy must, like all of us, face disappointments in life. And she was very, very rich, while I was not.

If I died an old maid, or married a man of only moderate fortune, Mama would lose her home and Alexander would lose his inheritance, not to mention our servants and perhaps our tenants being turned away. If either of these fates befell Miss Vincy, what would occur? Why nothing, save that her mother would most likely expire from spleen and disappointed ambition.

And besides, marriage would be the enemy of Miss Vincy’s artistic abilities. In a short time the duties of a wife and mother would swallow up all the time and energy she now expended on her art—especially if she married a nobleman with a large estate and extensive social obligations.

Hence, it was preferable in every way that I should be the one to marry the Baron.

“Splendid,” Miss Vincy said. “Whatever you are thinking about right now, go on thinking it. You look perfectly lovely.”

So I went on thinking it, until Charity and Lord Boring returned, bringing with them Mr. Godalming.

Mr. Godalming had obviously come in order to have a look at the heiress. I imagine that he had gone calling at Gudgeon Park several times with this end in view, only to be told repeatedly that she was here, and so he had at last decided, even tho’ determined to never darken our door again, to storm the castle walls in order to achieve his objective.

He evidently wished to make it clear that I was not the object of his visit, for he greeted everyone else effusively and only made one small, cold bow in my direction. Anyone would think (I thought to myself) that he had proposed and been refused. On the contrary, I had accepted only to have him withdraw his offer.

Looking at the situation in this light, I felt much more comfortable about meeting him again in the very garden in which our interview had taken place. Why, the man was a cad! And now he had come to assess the possibility of wedding Miss Vincy, solely on mercenary grounds. I smiled upon him in an aloof, forgiving manner.

I could tell that Miss Vincy’s appearance was a blow to him. Too wise to trust his weight to one of our tottery chairs, he perched atop the rim of a dry fountain in the center of the garden and studied her out of the corners of his eyes, heaving great, plaintive sighs like a beached whale. It never ceases to astound me how often an unattractive man like Mr. Godalming considers himself above marriage to an equally unattractive woman.

After engaging in several attempts at conversation with her as she bent her head over her work, and having those attempts rebuffed with perfect courtesy, he evidently came to the conclusion that the heiress was not to be easily gained. He shot a swift look at me and licked his red lips. I shuddered. After having had the pleasure of Lord Boring’s attentions these past few months, I felt that I had had a narrow escape.

“I bring you some news,” he said at last. “I had the honor to call first at Gudgeon Park, where they informed me that Mrs. Fredericks has just had notice that her son will soon be returning to our neighborhood.”

Were I not still under orders to hold my pose, I should have looked at Lord Boring in surprise. He had said nothing about recalling Mr. Fredericks.

Miss Vincy looked up and stayed her brush.

“How lovely,” she said softly. “I shall be so glad to see Mr. Fredericks again.”

I raised my eyebrows at this response. “I did not know you were acquainted,” I said. “Of course I know your father is, but I assumed it was a business relationship.”

“Oh, certainly I am. Papa thinks so highly of him. He has come to dinner often at our house in London. Even Mama regards him as a sensible young man. And he is knowledgeable about painting and drawing, as well. He has said . . .” She blushed and lowered her eyes to her canvas again. “He has said kind things about my work.”

Well! My gaze sharpened. I looked long and hard at Miss Vincy. Aware of my consideration, she turned away and began wiping down her brushes with a rag.

“I must not keep you any longer,” she said, “Pray get up and move about. I fear you will be cramped from sitting still so long.”

I smiled. How often had I pleaded in vain for a brief rest for that reason?

“When shall it be finished?” I asked, meaning the painting.

“Oh,” she said, shamefaced, scanning the assembled guests to ensure no one heard this admission but me, “in truth it is done now. It is only that I prefer not to display it to so many people at once. Please, would you be so kind as to wait for a private moment before I show it to you?”

I agreed, though in truth I was burning with curiosity.

She paused in the act of lowering a cloth over the painting. “I wonder . . . I wonder what Mr. Fredericks will think of it?”

What, indeed? Ha!

I decided that I was not sorry Mr. Fredericks was returning; I had plans for his future. I would marry him off to Miss Vincy. Her gentle nature would suffer his bumptiousness without complaint, and, as unlikely as it might seem, she appeared to be at least as self-conscious when his name was mentioned as when the Baron entered the room—perhaps she could be persuaded into a tendresse for him. According to her, he was a man with a fine appreciation for the arts. He would understand and support her need for time away from family duties to draw and paint.

Her father admired him for some odd reason, and even her mother, the more formidable obstacle in matters pertaining to her daughter’s marriage, regarded him as “a sensible young man.” Knowing the lady in question, I assumed this referred to his financial expertise. And given that expertise, he most likely had managed to save up a tidy sum, which would endear him to her even more. (How I wished that my mother were a little more like other mothers of marriageable daughters; most would make it their business to know the net worth of every single man for twenty miles round, but not my innocent mama!) And tho’ the son of a man in a very humble way of life, he was the grandson of a baron, so with even a modest competence he would do very well for her.

He, of course, would be exceedingly lucky to get her—it would be a brilliant marriage for him as well as a suitable one. But really, his point of view was hardly worth considering.

With Miss Vincy happily married, I could wed Lord Boring without regret. When I thought of the lock of hair she carried with her and kissed in secrecy, I sighed for her disappointment. But however much she might love him, he did not return the sentiment.

No, everyone would be much better off if I arranged matters to suit myself.

“Goodness, Miss Crawley! How thankful I am that you had not that expression on your face earlier!” cried Miss Vincy as she packed up her paints. “You quite frighten me. What are you planning?”

I smiled, but would not say.



Mr. Fredericks returned, and all augured well for my scheme. I had not yet had the opportunity of viewing my portrait, as the rains, so common in our climate, returned in force, making visiting impossible. On the first possible day, which happened to be just after Mr. Fredericks’s return, Prudence, Charity, and I walked over to Gudgeon Park.

“Miss Winthrop, how pleasant to see you again,” bellowed Mr. Fredericks in a voice generally only used by herders summoning their cattle home from a distant field. “And Miss Charity Winthrop, of course! How good of you to call. And Miss Crawley. Miss Althea Crawley, I believe, tho’ I know it is more correct to call you Miss Crawley, as Miss Prudence ought to be called Miss Winthrop.” He bowed deeply and fixed me with a satirical eye, saying in a lower voice, “As you can see, I have committed all your names and the proper manner of addressing you to memory, and shall not forget again. I have not been much in company with ladies, I will confess.”

He enquired after Alexander as well, and said, “Having had some leisure to consider your complaints since last we spoke, I have concluded that you were in the right. I ought to have minded Alexander more carefully, and I apologize for attempting to shift the blame onto your shoulders.”

At this handsome act of contrition I blushed, remembering how I had berated him at the Screaming Stones after he had imperiled his life saving Fido’s and my brother’s. I realized, too, that his appearance as well as his behavior was more handsome than I had thought. He had been suffering from ill health when I first met him; now he was recovered I began to think him a very good-looking man. I resolved to exert myself to be cordial and charming.

“Thank you, sir. How very good to see you again,” I said, dropping a curtsey. “We were quite desolated to lose your company last June. Still, I suppose the financial gentlemen in the City were the gainers for it.”

He eyed me suspiciously, as tho’ he had approached expecting me to fly at him like an enraged cat at a dog and now did not know what to make of my attitude. He turned to the Marquis and muttered in an audible tone, “What the devil is the woman playing at? Is that sarcasm?”

“Hush, Fredericks. The lady is being courteous. Answer her politely.”

“I assure you, madam, the financial gentlemen in the City were not the gainers for being in my company in these past weeks. Quite the contrary,” was Mr. Fredericks’s rejoinder.

Mr. Vincy had apparently only overheard this exchange in part, for approaching us, he chuckled and said, “No, indeed, Miss Crawley! Anybody who tries to fleece Hugh Fredericks will find himself much the loser for it. I shouldn’t like to try to bamboozle the brass out of his pockets, I can tell you! It would have been a joy to watch you put that pack of jackanapes in the basket, Fredericks,” he continued. “Nay, miss, our Mr. Fredericks is bang up to the mark in these matters, have no fear.”

From this speech I gathered that I had misjudged the nature of Mr. Fredericks’s meetings with his colleagues in the City. Apparently the object of the assemblage of these merchants and men of business was to see which could best cheat the other, rather than to converse and exchange pleasantries in the civilized fashion of the landowning class.

“My apologies for underestimating him,” I replied, with another curtsey.

This appeared to appease Mr. Vincy, but the look I received from Mr. Fredericks was unexpectedly discerning.

“You think us all a vulgar lot, I perceive,” he said, smiling a little. “Well, I don’t say some of those fellows are not on the sharpish side.” He shifted his gaze to Mr. Vincy. “How about Gentleman Jim, Vincy? Would you introduce him to your wife and daughter?”

From the horrified look Mr. Vincy gave him, I gathered that the answer was No.

“But a good many are decent folk. No less honest than the gentry, at any rate, and a great deal more so than the nobility.” Here both men laughed heartily at the thought of all the deceit and double-dealing they had encountered amongst the titled classes. I was relieved that the Marquis had strolled away and was no longer a part of our little group.

Mr. Vincy was by now so at ease in the conversation that he pulled up a delicate gilt chair and sat astride it backwards, ignoring the frowns of his lady wife.

“Take Boring’s mother, f’rinstance,” he said in a lowered voice. “D’you know what I heard of her? She may be my hostess, but by gad, I—”

To my astonishment, Mr. Fredericks was frowning and shaking his head, either out of loyalty to his friend or—could it be?—delicacy of feeling.

Vincy flushed a dull, brick red and stood up. He bowed uneasily in my direction. “My apologies, miss. I spoke out of turn. I came up in a hard school and never have learnt to hold my tongue in polite society. I beg you’ll forget I spoke.” And he moved quickly away to sit at his wife’s side. Evidently he assumed her proximity would have the effect of rendering him incapable of speech.

I assumed Mr. Vincy referred to Mrs. Westing’s playing at cards, a practice frowned upon in some circles of the lower middle class from which he had sprung. A complete change of subject seemed to be in order.

“Miss Vincy tells me you have a keen appreciation for drawing and painting,” I said to Mr. Fredericks.

He nodded, relieved to have been diverted into another theme. “I have. I started out by looking at them from a commercial aspect, you know, and after studying the subject so as to be able to put a money value on a piece, I found that they had a value for me above pounds and pence. I liked looking at them,” he clarified, as though I might find this an eccentric reaction to a piece of art. “So I studied them a bit more—got to talking to artists and dealers and so on—and now I feel I understand something of the field. Not that there’s not a good deal more to learn,” he said, in a humbler tone than I would have expected.

He had been standing and I sitting. Now he took the little golden chair abandoned by Mr. Vincy and prepared to sit astride it as the latter had done.

“In fact, Vincy’s daughter is a damned fine artist. She—”

“Mr. Fredericks!” Pleased though I was at his introducing Miss Vincy into the conversation, I could ignore neither his language nor his treatment of a fine piece of furniture. “Pray speak civilly and sit in the chair properly or not at all. You will break it.”

“If it’s well made I won’t,” he argued.

“I trust it is not part of your duties to test the workmanship of Lord Boring’s carpenters by stressing the furniture to the breaking point?”

“My duties? No! But I hate to see things poorly made, cheap copies of good pieces and so on.” He stood up and, upending the chair, examined its underside. “Have no fear. I recall now—I chose this set myself. Look,” he thrust the chair at me so that the tips of the slender legs menaced my eyes, “see those joins? And it’s solid mahogany under that gilt.”

I waved the chair away and he replaced it on the floor and sat. I was pleased to see that he sat on it the right way ’round this time.

“But you were speaking of Miss Vincy,” I said. “Did you know she has painted my portrait?”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “No, really?” he exclaimed. “I should like to see that.”

I smiled on him; he was playing into my hands. “I think I can ensure that you will. I have never yet seen it myself, but I know Miss Vincy is anxious for your opinion. She does not wish to exhibit it to a large crowd for the first time. However, if I ask her nicely, she may allow you to join me in our inspection.”

“Oh, pooh on asking nicely! Go and fetch her. I am quite ready.”

“Mr. Fredericks—” I began, when he interrupted me.

“Do you know,” he said, “you chide me without compunction when you think me thoughtless or rude. Yet you did not do so when Vincy spoke out of turn, or when he sat (as you thought) improperly on that chair. Why is that?”

I felt myself flush, but spoke casually, endeavoring to hide my confusion, “Why—why because I know you better than I know Mr. Vincy, of course!” But I did not meet his eyes and walked away quickly.

After all, I argued to myself, if I did not keep Mr. Fredericks in order, who would?