The Elsingham Portrait

Nine


Kathryn was never able to recall that journey away from London without mixed feelings. She told herself, as the coach clattered and swayed over the cobbles of the London streets in the dawn, that she should be watching and listening and storing up impressions. What other librarian in the history of the science had had a chance actually to live in the country and time of her favorite authors?

As the coach lumbered out into the country, Kathryn had decided that England seemed much smaller than she had pictured it. And greener. The country air smelled so fresh that she almost forgot the dull aching of her arm in the incredible sweetness of it. As a matter of fact, however, the one, overriding, inescapable sensation she remembered was pain: physical pain from her arm, held in a sling and bound close to her body, and nagging unhappiness from her ambivalent feelings toward John Elsingham.

She hated him for his arrogance, for his stubborn refusal to consider her problem without prejudice. Yet she could not forget his gentleness with her, and the disturbing sweetness of his smile. What a fool Nadine had been, to throw away the passion and devotion of such a man! What could it have been that had seemed more enticing to her than an adoring husband, an honored name, a fortune? Locked into the boredom and misery of the long jolting ride, Kathryn considered for the first time what she had learned about Nadine.

A young Irish girl of good but impoverished family, raised with casual indifference by a sport-mad widower father and a scheming nurse. It was little wonder that so young a girl, so raised, would not have been prepared to deal with the challenges and pitfalls of an ultra-sophisticated society. And as the possessor of unusual beauty, she would have been the immediate target of every unprincipled gentleman in Polite Society. Kathryn remembering what she had read about the haut ton of eighteenth century London, concluded cynically that even some of the “principled” gentlemen would have found Lady Nadine Elsingham fair game. And her seduction a hilarious joke on Lord John.

And there was Donner. Always Donner, lurking in the background, doing whatever damnable thing she did with her drugs and her wheedling and her hypnotic flat black stare. Small wonder that a willful, ignorant girl, manipulated from infancy by God knew what techniques for what unholy purposes—small wonder, indeed, that she had become the reckless wanton of the portrait.

At this point in Kathryn’s musings, the carriage had jolted to a halt. Kathryn felt a sharp stab of fear as she noticed a tall, gaunt figure, wrapped like herself in a dark cloak, waiting to board the coach. But the figure turned to mount, and Kathryn saw it was a man. It was not Donner, the girl realized with relief, only to know a new fear a minute later. For how could she have accepted so quickly the idea that Donner could have known of her flight already . . . could be able to pursue and find her so easily? She was seriously attributing to the Irish peasant woman powers verging on the supernatural! With such a psychological advantage, Donner would be a dangerous antagonist. Kathryn shivered as the tall man shouldered his way into the crowded vehicle. The coach did not start up at once. Instead, the red, weathered face of the guard appeared at the still open door.

“We’ll be stoppin’ ¼ere a matter o’ twenty minutes to change ¼orses and,” with a heavily-emphasized wink, “let Tom Coachman refresh hisself. So if any o’ you wants a bite o’ breakfuss, now’s yer time!”

Grumbling, most of the passengers climbed awkwardly down onto the dew-slimed cobbles and straggled into the inn. Only Kathryn and the gaunt stranger kept their seats. The man did not seem inclined to speak, and Kathryn was glad of it. She closed her eyes wearily, and tried to find a more comfortable position against the side of the coach.

After a few minutes, there was a clatter of nailed boots on the cobbles. Kathryn opened her eyes. Red-face was thrusting a great steaming mug of tea toward her with one hand, while in the other grimy fist he clutched a huge sandwich of thick slices of meat between two chunks of bread.

“It’s for you, Missus. Yer Ma gi’ me the ready to get ye a bite an’ sup when we stopped to change. So here ¼tis, as promised.”

Voicing her thanks, Kathryn managed to accept the mug with her free hand, but she couldn’t endure the sight or smell of the food. “Please, no. I am not well. Just the tea.”

The guard shrugged and turned back to the inn, munching at the sandwich as he went. Kathryn sank back against the seat and worked the mug up under her heavy veil. The tea was scalding, black, and heavily sweetened. She managed to get some of it down, and after a moment began to feel the better for it. By the time her fellow-passengers came out to the coach, grumbling at the haste with which they had had to snatch their food, she had finished the tea and was in a slightly more cheerful mood.

The trip from that point was sheer misery. The coach had been overcrowded by the presence of the gaunt man. The roads became worse the further they got from London, so the coach lurched and jarred and swayed. After one particularly vicious jolt, which threw the fat woman next to Kathryn heavily against her, Kathryn briefly lost consciousness. Her plight did not attract attention, however, since, having said nothing during the trip so far, her silence was not remarked. And since her face was concealed by the veil, and she was wedged so tightly between the fat woman and the side of the coach that she was fixed in an upright position, no one realized that she had fainted.

For the rest of the trip she was in limbo—half-dozing, grimly enduring the pain, quite oblivious of either her companions or the scenery. Eventually, about twelve hours after they had left London, the guard helped Kathryn to descend before a large inn which boasted the sign “GEORGE AND HORSE.” He got her satchel out of the boot for her, pointed the way down the pleasant, almost empty street to a small, white building set back from the road.

“Yonder’s Crown Inn, Missus.”

Kathryn tried to thank him for his kindness as she pressed a coin into his hand, but he was already turning away to close the coach door and mount to his seat.

She trudged down the street, clutching on to the last of her strength. “Just to the Crown,” she told herself. And then, “Just till I speak to the landlord, and give him the letter to Richard Bennet . . .” She held on grimly to the promise of a quiet room and a bed that would not jolt or sway. But there was a further challenge. Kathryn was met at the door of the inn by a large female with a very hard eye.

“Yus, Missus, what can we do for you?” she said, glowering suspiciously at Kathryn’s plain dark cloak and veil, and the single satchel she had just set down.

But Kathryn had had it.

“I want,” she said in a voice made harsh by pain, “a private room—the best you have—and dinner later, when I ring. You will also have this letter delivered to Farmer Bennet, if you please. You may give the boy a shilling and put it on my account. And now you may bring my satchel and show me the way to my room.”

The landlord’s wife knew when she had met her match. Quality! Didn’t she know the haughty sound of them, riding roughshod over everybody! But no matter how odd they looked or acted, they paid their shot. She had not failed to notice the bulging reticule, and if the plain traveling cloak was not an expensive one, the lady’s elegant shining boots more than made up for it. She therefore took the satchel and led the way to a clean, airy room on the second floor. It was her finest room, and she started to say something about its excellences as she ushered Kathryn into it, but again the guest forestalled her.

“This will do,” Kathryn said. “I’ll ring when I’m ready for dinner.”

Whether it was the voice, or Kathryn’s air of authority, or the formidable veil which did the trick, Kathryn never knew. But the landlord’s wife left the room at once and closed the door quietly behind her.

Pausing only long enough to lock it, and to throw off the bonnet and veil and the heavy cape, Kathryn staggered over to the bed with her last ounce of energy, sank down into its feather-softness, and lost consciousness.

It was full dark when she opened her eyes. The leaded windows were open. Kathryn drew a deep breath. Delicious! London air had never smelled—abruptly she oriented herself. New York, she reminded herself grimly. New York’s your home, not London. Don’t let it get you, Kathryn, this flower-sweet air and the quiet peace, and the people. Bennet, yes—but there’s Lord John and Donner, too. There’s love here, but there’s danger and hate. Don’t you ever forget that! Your business is to lie low until you can get to that portrait. It’s your one link with home—with reality. Now, pull yourself together, Kathryn Hendrix, librarian, of New York, U.S.A.

She found and lit a candle on the bureau, and was trying to wash her face, one-handed, in a china bowl, when she heard a light tapping on the door, and a cautious voice calling, “Missus Radcliffe! Are you awake, ma’am?”

‘Radcliffe?’ Just for a split second, Kathryn’s mind lurched. Then she recalled that Bennet had written her brother to ask for Kathryn by the name of Radcliffe. What a sensible idea that had been! Her own name would have provided a clear lead to anyone searching for her near the Manor. She went over to the door, but didn’t open it.

“I am awake,” she called out. “Who is it? What do you want?”

“Ma’am, it’s the chambermaid. Farmer Bennet is here to see you.”

“Good,” said Kathryn. “Ask him to await me in the parlor—you do have a private room downstairs?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” the maid answered proudly.

“Very well. I shall be down shortly. Please instruct the cook to serve a plain, hot meal, and to set the table for two. Mr. Bennet will be my guest.”

The maid clattered away down the stairs, and Kathryn began the awkward process of making herself presentable with the use of only one arm. Her hair was a tangled mass. Opening the satchel, Kathryn found a comb and brush and tried to tidy it. Hopeless. She searched for and discovered a pair of scissors in the satchel. Evidently Bennet had accepted the necessity of removing the glorious mane even if she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it.

Now Kathryn cut and snipped away until the shining red-gold mass lay all around her feet, and the pale face of Nadine, framed in a boyish bob, stared out at her from the speckled mirror. The pale green eyes looked even larger under the halo of curls; the piquant nose and sensuous lips seemed even lovelier in the youthful frame. Hastily sweeping up all of the tresses she could discover in the inadequate light of the single candle, Kathryn wrapped them in an undergarment and hid them in the satchel to be disposed of later. Then she tidied herself as well as she could, put on the bonnet and veil and cloak, and went down to the parlor to meet Bennet’s brother.

A big, heavy-set man stood before the fire, facing the door. He had a solemn craggy face topped with sandy hair, and the roundest blue eyes Kathryn had ever seen. He advanced toward her, and Kathryn had the fleeting notion that one of his own Scottish mountains was looming over her. In one huge, work-roughened hand he held Bennet’s letter.

“Ah’m Reechard Bunnet, at yer sairvice, mu’m,” were the sounds that rumbled from the man. “Ond ye must be the leddy fra Amurica.” And while she was translating this into English, Richard Bennet smiled.

At that moment Kathryn would have put her hand in his and walked across the world. For Richard Bennet had a smile that would charm the fish from the streams. The craggy face was illuminated with incredible sweetness. She could understand his sister’s praise. Without hesitation she went to him and offered her hand.

“Yes, I’m Kathryn Radcliffe. And I’ve come to stay with you, if you’ll have me.” As she spoke, she lifted the heavy veil and put it back from her face.

Richard’s smile slowly faded and his blue eyes opened wide. “Och, you’re bonny, Mistress Radcliffe, You’re the bonniest lass Ah’ve ever set eyes upon.”

Kathryn was startled into a laugh. “You come right to the point, don’t you? That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me for a long time.” She dimpled up at him. “There’s a rumor that the Scots are a dour and taciturn race, but that’s an obvious falsehood, I see.”

Richard grinned. “Och, now, Mistress Radcliffe, normally Ah’m the dourest and most taciturn of men—Ah’d never use two words when one would suffice—but Ah’m just that knocked over by meeting you that my whole nature’s changed entirely. From now on,” he concluded, smiling down at her, “Ah’m sure to be known as ‘that garrulous Scot.’ ”

Kathryn chuckled, but she felt compelled to look away from the open admiration in his face. She noticed the table set for two, and motioned that he join her there.

“Shall we sit down? You have read your sister’s letter. Are you willing to help me?”

“Maggie has her wits about her, Mistress Radcliffe. If she says you’re to be taken to the farm, that’s where you’ll go. She’s an awful tyrant, our Maggie, in a nice quiet way. I doubt not that it’s associating with the Quality has done it to her.” The blue eyes were twinkling at her. “Och, aye, she’s a managing woman, is Maggie, but she’s always right. See what she’s sent me this time!”

“Mr. Bennet, you are a flirt—”

“Call me Richard, Ma’am.”

“And a deceiver,” continued Kathryn inexorably. “That very charming but almost unintelligible Scots burr seems to come and go as you need it. Now we must be serious. There are reasons why I must keep out of sight—keep a low profile, as we say where I come from. I’ll put this veil back on now until our meal is served; then can we lock the door while we eat—and talk?”

Richard Bennet was serious at once. “No one will intrude, ma’am, if you so instruct.”

“Very well.” Kathryn replaced the veil and rang the bell on the table. A kitchen maid brought in a huge tray loaded with meat and vegetables. When she left, Kathryn lifted her hand to the veil, but a gesture from Richard stopped her. In a moment the girl returned with a second load of food and drink which she set on a sideboard. Then she stood waiting. Kathryn said gently, “This is very appetizing, thank you. I shall ring when I need you.”

The girl bobbed a curtsey and scurried out.

Richard gently lifted the heavy traveling cape from Kathryn’s shoulders and then seated himself beside her. She put back the veil and looked at the food on the table.

“I’ll cut your food for you, ma’am,” said Richard.

Kathryn felt a giggle of mirth rising in her throat. The huge man sounded so like his tiny sister. She smiled. “I can see I’ve come to the right person,” she said. “What did your sister tell you in the letter?”

“You may read it, ma’am, later. Just now you should try to eat a little.”

He worked deftly with knife and fork, selecting and carving choice tidbits for her plate. It was heartwarming to be treated like a smile child, protected and loved, and she basked in the feeling. Under his gentle coaxing, she hardly realized how much she was eating, but finally she relaxed against the chairback and smiled at him.

“Enough, Richard! You’ll make me fat!”

The big man, who had managed to stow away a formidable repast in spite of his close attendance upon her needs, sat back also and regarded her soberly. “To business, Mistress Radcliffe.”

“First, is it an imposition for me to stay at your farm? Your sister said you wouldn’t mind, but I’m thinking now of your reputation in the county.”

His smile emerged. “No fear of that, ma’am. I’m notorious for picking up waifs and strays,” he said, outrageously. Then, at her involuntary laugh, he went on, “There was a widow-lady with her wee bairn stayed at the farm last year, and a poor scholar-body of Oxford College, who was ailing from too much study, the year before that. My sister sends them, or Lord John does, or others in the family. We’ve a fine large guest room, and a verra rrespectable cook-woman” (rolling his r’s), “name of Cameron, who lives in the house and sorts us all. We’re so respectable it’s painful,” he ended with a sheepish smile.

Kathryn was laughing again. “You’ve relieved my mind, Richard, and since I’m supposed to be a respectable widow-lady myself, I’ll do no harm to your reputation.”

He nodded agreement, his round blue eyes bright. If he had caught the “supposed to be,” he made no comment.

After a moment, she went on. “I’m not sure how much your sister told you, but I’ve got to stay hidden in the neighborhood of Elsingham Manor for a little while, and I want to earn my living so I can pay you for my—”

She silenced his instant protest. “You must allow me my pride, Richard. I have reasons for not wanting to spend any more than I must of this money.” She indicated the bulging reticule. “So I will ask you now: is there anything on your farm or near it—I would rather not go into Elsinghurst Village itself—that I could do?”

“Your arm is broken,” he said, more reminder than question.

“Yes, but it’s healing quickly. A few more days and I can take off the splints.”

The man nodded. Kathryn liked it in him that he did not offer further argument or protest. He obviously knew what it was to have to earn a living, and he had his own pride. After a moment’s thought he asked, “What can you do then?”

“I can teach: French, elementary mathematics, geography, some history, English language and literature.” She paused, held by the open admiration on his face.

“Och, Mistress Radcliffe, that’s a grand list, indeed!” He said with a twinkle, “Can ye no do more?”

Kathryn smiled back at him. “Yes, I can, you outrageous Scot. I am a qualified librarian.”

A new expression had wiped the humor from his face. “Librarian, is it now? And isn’t that the grand news?”

“Does the village need a librarian? I mustn’t be seen near the Manor, so I hope it’s not—”

“The Vicar,” said Richard. “He resides in a fine house, also the gift of the old lord, not five miles from our farm. He serves the spiritual needs of both Crofton and Elsinghurst. He is a gentle, fashless, scholarly old fellow, who can recite you the dates of the Punic Wars but can’t tell you what day this is. He has a house full of books, and he’s just inherited another library from an uncle who was as much of a bookworm as he is himself. The poor old man is pushed out of house and home with the sheer bulk of learning he owns. ¼Tis obviously your Christian duty to rescue the poor wee man.”

“But that’s wonderful!” Kathryn exclaimed. “I’ll go over and offer my services tomorrow! I can arrange his books, and shelf and catalogue them—”

“I mind hearing him say there’s many of them in Latin and Greek,” interrupted Richard. “Would you be having these languages by any chance?”

“I have a little Latin. No Greek.”

“Still and all, the good man should be happy to have you with one ancient tongue,” conceded Richard. “Now, will you come with me this night—I’ve a trap here and a stolid old cob will get you to the farm as safe as an egg in a basket—or will you stay the night at the inn?”

“I’ll come with you now, Richard. Maybe your cook will help me to bed. I’d just as soon no one here knew of my broken arm.” She hesitated, then asked, “Will she talk about me, Richard? Tell everyone about my arm and what I look like?”

Richard said quietly, “Rest your mind easy about that, Mistress Radcliffe. Elspeth Cameron will have plenty to say to you in private, if you do aught she disapproves of, but she’d rather be boiled in one of her own kettles than talk about farm business to any Sassenach—that’s you English,” he explained with a grin.

“Not me,” said Kathryn stoutly. “I’m an American.” She got up, adjusted the veil and handed Richard her reticule. “Please pay the landlord for my room and the excellent meal. Ask the girl to bring down my things. I’m really too weary to climb the stairs again.”

At once Richard got up and went out. She could hear him, low-voiced, arranging to have his horse put to, and paying the bill. In a moment the little chambermaid was back, holding Kathryn’s satchel. “I put in your comb and brush, ma’am, and your soap in the silver box,” she said, wide-eyed.

“Thank you. You must have” (what did they call it in the 1770s?) “a gratuity,” Kathryn said from behind the veil.

The girl bobbed and smiled. “Mr. Bennet, he already give me money from your purse, ma’am, and some for the kitchen maid too.”

“Good,” said Kathryn, hoping Richard’s beneficence hadn’t turned her into a nine days’ wonder in case Lord John ever made inquiries for a lady with a broken arm. Still, she’d hidden that fact, she was sure, and the veil had hidden Nadine’s face. And the too-memorable hair.

Richard let her out and helped her into the small two-wheeled carriage, stowed her satchel under the seat, and took his place beside her. The landlord, his wife, and the chambermaid all stood on the broad doorstep, waving them off, with the well-lighted inn looking cozy as a Christmas card behind them.

Kathryn had determined to ask many questions about the Vicar and the farm, but before she knew it she was fast asleep against Richard’s shoulder, with his arm firm and gentle around her. And so she came to Bennet Farm.