Miss Prestwick's Crusade (21 page)

She knew an icy rage, combined with the urge to raise her head to the ceiling and wail her anguish. The next moment, a thought struck her. If Uncle Stamford intended to delay Adeline's revelation, perhaps she might be able to draw Edward aside—just for a few minutes—just long enough to give him her own version of events as they had transpired. It might not make the situation any better, but it would be better than Adeline spewing her venom unexpurgated.

She rose and moved toward Edward, but at her action, Uncle Stamford straightened in his chair. He nodded almost imperceptibly at Adeline.

Adeline drew a long breath, expanding her already remarkable bosom. “But I must tell you, Helen dear, your father did not look at all well when we saw him last week at church."

Helen made no response, merely gazing back at the woman, refusing to allow her eyes to plead for her.

"But, then, I suppose it's to be expected with all that's happened recently . . .” She trailed off and looked about her expectantly.

"And what would that be, Mrs., er, Belker?” asked Lady Camberwell on cue.

Adeline's eyes widened. “Well, the fact that his daughter was nearly prosecuted for selling a forged painting, of course. But did not dear Helen tell you?” she asked innocently. She smiled demurely, although such an expression sat oddly on her knowing features. “But, then, I suppose she wouldn't.

"There was an—an incident, you see,” Adeline continued. But now she paused abruptly and placed dainty fingers over her lips. “Oh, my—am I speaking out of turn?” she asked artlessly. “Oh, dear, Helen, you know I would not say anything to upset you for the world. I just thought you would wish to know about the sad straits your father is in."

A surge of pure fury swept through Helen. She stood abruptly and faced Edward and drew a long, shaking breath.

"Yes, there was an incident,” she grated harshly.

Her gaze fastened on Edward's face.

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Helen spoke as though the chamber was empty save for Edward.

"I should have told you about—the incident—when I first arrived,” she began in a clear, albeit shaking voice, “but I foolishly deemed it inappropriate at the time. Later, it became more difficult, although—please believe me, Edward—I fully intended to tell you as soon as I could."

At this. Uncle Stamford snorted, and Helen whirled to transfix him with a glare of such angry contempt that he fell silent and drew back a little in his chair. She turned back to face Edward. She fended she could already note a look of disdain on his features, but he said merely, “If your, er, tale has a bearing on your presence here, surely you cannot wish to reveal it to the others—at least at this point. Perhaps we should adjourn to a more private place."

Helen would have given all she possessed to avoid exposing her shame before the Camber-well family, in addition to Stamford Welladay, but she shook her head.

"No. Everyone here will have to hear my story eventually.” She looked straight at Edward. “About a year ago, my father went to Lisbon in response to a message from a dealer there. Papa and Senhor Albondandez had been friends for years, and he was in the habit of apprising Papa when an interesting work of art came his way. Papa returned home in great excitement, bearing a painting purported to be by Zurbaran—Francisco de Zurbaran, an early but very influential painter from the Entremadura.

"Papa was particularly delighted by this find, because his friend Colonel Foster was a devotee of the early Spanish masters. He was already in possession of a Ribera and a Herrera and had frequently expressed a desire to acquire a Zurbaran. Papa had paid a ridiculously low price for the painting because the provenance was a trifle shaky, but he was sure it was genuine and planned to pass on the savings to the colonel. I, on the other hand, was not sure. Everything seemed correct—the craquelure, the brushwork. It was entitled
Woman at the Window
and portrayed a village woman in her home, peering out into the street from behind a white curtain. Still, there was something about it.... The palette—that is, the choice of colors—seemed strangely muted. In addition, he usually painted religious subjects. And the woman herself . . . Oh, I don't know. . . . Several subtle details seemed wrong to me—the features seemed to me clumsily drawn. For another thing, the painting lacked the costume detail that to me is a Zurbaran trademark.

"I urged Papa not to sell the painting to Colonel Foster, but he pooh-poohed my concerns. He was even a trifle irritated that I questioned his judgment. He did sell the painting to the colonel, and even at the vaunted savings, it was still expensive."

Adeline interrupted in strident tones. “Helen, dearest, I do apologize for breaking into your story, but this is not at all the way the incident unraveled in Evora. I fear you are not being truthful."

Helen swung on her. “On the contrary, Adeline. I am being completely truthful for the first time.” She turned back to Edward. “Colonel Foster was inordinately pleased. He hung the painting with great ceremony in his home and gave several parties in honor of his ‘bargain.’ The colonel, by the way, considered himself quite the art expert. He would expound to his guests on the genius of Zurbaran and how it was evidenced in
Woman at the Window.
The superior brushwork was noted, the exquisite perspective, the subject's expressive eyes and so on and on and on.

"Then, about three months later, a man was arrested in Italy for forgery. In his possession was a list of the ‘masterpieces’ he had created, and on this list was the Zurbaran. It was the talk of the art world for months."

Helen shivered.

"At first, there was no blame laid at Papa's door. He was a victim of the forger as much as anyone else. Even the man who sold him the painting was not accused of criminal intent. However, Colonel Foster was furious. Papa recompensed him for the price he had paid for the painting, but his pride had been wounded. He had boasted to everyone he knew of his great find—of his acumen in snapping up a genuine Zurbaran at a nominal price. He went after Papa like a wounded bear lashing out in a mindless rage. He bullied the local magistrate into issuing an arrest order for fraud. The constabulary actually came to our home and hauled Papa away in handcuffs!

"He was devastated. Papa—is not a strong man. He—he needs to be liked and respected. When his friends and those in his profession turned their backs on him ... In a very short time, I saw him deteriorate from a smiling, happy person of consequence, confident in his abilities and sure of his continued success, to a shambling wreck of a man, afraid to answer the door and able to respond only vaguely to everyday business concerns."

Helen paused. She had not taken her gaze from Edward's face since she began her discourse, and now it seemed as though everyone else in the room had vanished. She spoke only to him as she continued.

"It was then that I went to the magistrate and told him that it was I who had sold the painting to Colonel Foster. Oh, Papa had arranged for the delivery, I said, but I was the one who had purchased it from Senhor Albondandez, and I who had insisted we sell it to the colonel—even though I suspected it was a forgery. I went to the colonel, as well, and explained that Papa was not to blame for his misfortune—it was all my doing. I even said I had created false certificates of ownership and history to support my fraud."

"Good God!” exclaimed Edward. “Surely your father did not allow this. Did he not dispute your false confession?"

Again Helen paused. This time, she was almost unable to begin again. She shook her head and replied in a broken whisper, “No, Papa said nothing. He had become angry with me when the fraud was discovered, intimating that I should have done more to prevent his selling it to the colonel. When I went to him privately to tell him of my intention to take the blame, he put up only a token protest.

"My ruse was successful. Colonel Foster, unwilling to appear vindictive against a young woman, dropped his charges, and the magistrate, perhaps from the same motivation, declined to put forward a prosecution. The colonel was still furious with Papa, perhaps even more so, because I think he suspected the truth of my ‘confession.’ “

Helen, feeling her knees would no longer support her, sank into a chair.

"After that. Papa's business—not surprisingly—declined rapidly. The tragedy first of Chris's death and later that of Trixie sent him farther down his path of destructive withdrawal. Even the birth of William could not pull him from his depression."

"The situation must have been extremely difficult for you, as well,” Edward said softly.

Helen glanced down at her hands, clutched tightly in her lap.

"Yes, it was. For my friends, too—some of whom I had known since childhood—abandoned me. Some of those close to me continued to visit—for awhile—but they were no longer warm and open in our conversation, and soon it was as though they had vanished from the face of the earth. In addition, my commissions dwindled to nothing. Papa had a fairly comfortable reserve—and his investments assured that we would not descend into poverty, but it was soon obvious that we would have no funds coming into the house for the foreseeable future."

Stanford Welladay, apparently unable to contain himself any further, spoke at last. “And I suppose that is when you conceived the notion of presenting Chris's by-blow as the heir to the Camberwell title."

Both Edward and Helen turned to face Uncle Stamford, but it was Edward who lashed out. “Uncle, if you cannot keep your tongue between your teeth, kindly leave the room."

Unbelieving, Mr. Welladay stared back at his “nephew."

Helen continued. “I cannot deny that it was while I was rather frantically attempting to solve our fiscal difficulties that the notion to bring William home came to me. I don't know why I had not thought of it earlier, because surely it was more than logical and proper that the child should be brought to the notice of his father's family—even with little proof of the legitimacy of Chris and Trix's union."

A muffled titter was heard from the direction of Mrs. Belker's chair. Again she placed her finger tips against her carmine lips. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said with an unmistakable smirk, “but everyone in our circle knew just what must have been in your mind when you made such hurried preparations for a trip to England."

Helen opened her mouth, but again, Edward was before her. “Mrs. Belker, I shall say to you, as well, kindly keep your comments to yourself. Miss Prestwick had graciously given her permission for you to remain through what must be an intensely difficult discourse, but if you speak once more, I shall have you removed.” He turned back to Helen. “And your father?” he asked in a softer tone. “What did he have to say to your, er, plan?"

This time it was Barney who chimed in. “Him?” She snorted. “Why he said scarcely a word. He just sat in that big armchair of his and looked up at her in that pathetic way he'd adopted since the ‘incident’ and waved a hand as if to say, ‘Do whatever you want. Just don't bother me.’ “

Helen drew a quick breath in protest, but Edward forestalled her with a lifted hand. “Do go on, Helen. Finish your story."

Helen stared at Edward with painful intensity. All during her recital, she had tried to judge his reaction to her words. Twice he had risen to her defense when she was heckled by Uncle Stamford and Adeline Belker, and she thought she had discerned a certain empathy in his eyes. But now, his gaze held only a waiting bleakness. And his words now did not sound promising. She shrugged.

"There is not much more to tell. As you know, I did embark with my scraps of evidence. And you were kind enough to launch an investigation, and—"

"I did so because of the facts you laid out before me.” Edward's voice held no softness now, only a cool detachment. “I, of course, did not realize that you had determined to omit certain other facts that might color my judgment."

Helen gasped. Dear God, did this mean he meant to dismiss her and her claim, and William along with them— and Barney as well?

As though reading her mind, Edward rose.

"I have not decided what to do about your revelation, Miss Prestwick, but,” he turned to his guests, “I have decided on one issue, at least. Mr. and Mrs. Belker, it is obvious to me why you came here.” He shot a penetrating glance at Uncle Stamford. “Having accomplished your purpose, you may leave—now."

This statement brought simultaneous gasps from husband and wife and Mr. Welladay as well. “But we have just arrived!” exclaimed Milo Belker, his voice high with indignation. “We are your guests."

"They are
my
guests as well,” put in Uncle Stamford. “And I think I am more than nobody at Whitehouse Abbey.” He puffed out his pudgy chest and glanced at his sister. Lady Camberwell twittered distressfully.

"I have not reached a decision on your part in all this,” said Edward deliberately. “In the meantime, I suggest you remain silent."

Uncle Stamford opened his mouth but immediately closed it again and sank back in his chair.

"Very well,” said Mr. Belker, drawing the shreds of his dignity around him like a tattered coat, “the missus and I will be departing the premises first thing in the morning."

"You will leave now.” Edward's voice was sheathed steel.

"But it's four o'clock in the afternoon. We cannot possibly make London by nightfall. We shall have to . . .” He stopped short, quailing before Edward's expression. He turned to his wife. “Come, Adeline dearest,” he said with the merest quaver in his voice. “It is time we took our leave of this inhospitable menage.” He shot Uncle Stamford a darkling look, then, with his wife on his arm, strode from the chamber. Next to him, Adeline's brassy curls shook with a combination of fear and indignation. Her lips compressed, she flounced in step with Mr. Belker through the Drawing Room door.

At their departure, an appalled silence filled the chamber. Helen looked at each of the family members in turn. To her surprise, they had not risen as one demanding her immediate departure from the Abbey. Artemis, from her chair near the tea table, rose, her blue eyes snapping.