There would be a breaking and bruising of bones belowstairs, but I had other things to worry about. I went straight up to the attic and searched through every box and bag Barry had brought home with him, hoping to find some confirmation or contradiction of Mama's suspicions.
Lady Margaret must have answered those letters he had written to her. She may even have written to him when he was in India. That was my major activity for the next two days. After going through everything twice, I was convinced Barry had not kept the letters, or anything else of an incriminating nature.
His death had not been sudden. He had faded away slowly over a period of two weeks-ample time to be rid of the evidence of his past sins. Barry had, presumably, told Andrew of his mother's passing. I wondered how the poor fellow had heard of his father's death. It seemed wrong that the newly found son had not attended the funeral of either parent. As I thought of these things, Andrew began to seem like a real person to me, with worries and troubles of his own.
Who had raised him? Was he what we call a gentleman? He had been teaching in a boys’ school, so at least he had been educated. It was difficult to form any idea of his appearance. Lady Margaret was blond and soft-featured and plump. Barry was tall and dark and lean. Whatever the physical attractions of his youth, by the time I met Barry, he had hardened to a somewhat bitter man, with his skin tanned by the tropical sun of India.
Yet there had been occasional flashes of a warmer personality lurking below the surface. Sometimes when we had company, Barry would expand a little on his experiences in India, especially if the company included ladies. And when he chaperoned my lessons with Count Borsini, he and the count often fell into lively conversation, as two well-traveled gentlemen will do. Barry used to speak of his Indian adventures, and Borsini told tales of his life in Italy.
It would soon be time for another lesson with Borsini. To avoid it, I wrote to Aldershot and told him I no longer felt the need of his tutelage. I thanked him very civilly for past help, but made quite clear the lessons were over.
Steptoe continued on with us, without any change in salary. He was a reformed character, and we were too distracted to want the bother of finding a replacement. By Sunday, Weylin had still not returned from London. The length of his visit caused considerable worry at Hernefield. He had not deigned to reply to mama's letter, so we had no idea what course he was following. It did not even occur to us to apply to Parham for information. We had no idea whether he had informed his mama what was afoot.
On Monday the painters came to paint my studio. I went upstairs with them to give instructions. Brodagan could not miss the opportunity to order two grown men about, and went with us. She cast one look at the floor and said, “I told Steptoe to see this carpet was rolled up and put away. They'll destroy it with paint drops."
"It hardly matters, Brodagan. It is already a shambles."
"A shambles, is it? It is a deal better than the wee scrap of rug in my room."
"We'll not harm it, misses,” the painter in charge assured her, “for we'll lay this here tarpaulin over it.” As he spoke, he took one end of the tarpaulin, his helper the other, and they placed it carefully over the shabby old carpet.
They opened the container of paint and began stirring it up. It looked a very stark white. I left them to it, and went belowstairs just as Mama was putting on her bonnet.
"I am driving into Aldershot, Zoie,” she said. “I want to get new muslin for Andrew's sheets. And perhaps new draperies for the blue guest room. They have got so very faded."
"We are not sure he will come, Mama, but the new sheets and even draperies will not go amiss. I shall stay home to keep an eye on my studio. This paint looks very cold. I may change the shade after they have done half a wall."
"I shan't be long."
She left, and I took my pad to the garden to try my hand at sketching the gardener, who was working with the roses in front of the house. As there was no convenient seat, I sat on the grass and studied the gardener a moment, choosing the most artful pose for my sketch. It would be a full-length action drawing. He changed position so often that it was difficult to draw him. As he only gave us two afternoons a week, I did not like to disrupt his work and ask him to stand still.
Borsini had been teaching me a new exercise for drawing people in motion. It involved moving the pencil in quick circles to suggest movement. He was quite a dab at it, but when I had tried, I ended up with a whirl that looked like the onset of a tornado. I tried this technique again, and began dashing off an arm composed of circles. The gardener moved; I sketched more quickly. The more quickly I sketched, the larger the arm grew, until in the end I had executed yet another tornado, whirling off the edge of the page.
I was interrupted by the sound of an approaching carriage. I thought it was Weylin, and my heart raced, but when I looked to the road, I saw it was a jaunty little gig, drawn by a single nag. Mrs. Chawton drives such a rig, but hers is black. This one was a more dashing affair altogether, in dark green, with a handsome bay pulling it. As it came closer, I saw the man holding the reins was a gentleman, to judge by his curled beaver and blue jacket. Cousin Andrew!
I hurried forward, and saw that it was Count Borsini. He usually rode a hack, or in bad weather, we sent the carriage for him. My annoyance with him gushed forth. If he had come to try to talk me into continuing the lessons, I would let him know his game was up. He drew to a stop and lifted his hat.
"Buongiorno, Signorina Barron. How do you like this, eh?” he asked smiling in his old conning way. “What a pleasure to have the reins of a carriage between my fingers again. I have missed it. At the Villa Borsini I used to drive Papa's team."
I had always found him attractive. Really quite handsome, and his charm and his few foreign phrases made him appear dashing. He has chestnut hair and blue eyes. His features are regular, his physique adequate, though on the slender side.
"You must be doing well for yourself, Borsini,” I said, running an eye over the rig. “Very handsome."
"Papa's wine did well last year. We even sold some to the Vatican-a great honor. Papa sent me a little bonus. I have come to see if you would like a ride in my chariot."
Occasionally I had an outing with Borsini, besides my lessons. These outings were chaperoned by my uncle, and usually involved art in one way or another. We had been to a few exhibitions, and he took me to other artists’ studios a few times. Once he went shopping for art supplies with me, as he did not approve of the brushes I used. We had never before gone out driving unchaperoned, just for pleasure. Of course, he had not had a rig before, so he could hardly ask me.
"Actually, I am busy,” I said.
He looked across the grass, spotted my sketchpad, and picked it up. “Good! I am happy to see it is only Borsini you are abandoning, and not your art.” That was his only verbal reproof, but his soulful eyes made me feel like a murderer. He glanced at the tornado and shook his head. “You have not got the knack of this technique. It is like this. Prego?" He took the pencil from my hand, whirled it about for a moment, and with absolute sleight of hand had soon done a good likeness of the gardener. I could almost see the man's movements in those whirling circles.
Whatever Weylin might say, Borsini was a good artist. What if the prince had not commissioned him to do his painting? What if he did need the money? Was that not a reason to continue the lessons, rather than cancel them? Perhaps Cousin Andrew's position influenced my thinking. I often thought of him, a poor fellow, cast off to shift for himself, until he was rescued.