Joan Smith - Gather Ye Rosebuds

We each took a corner and began rolling. The paper was right under the middle of the carpet. I have no doubt Steptoe had lifted the corners as high as he could and peered under, missing the paper by inches. We both saw it at once, and reached for it. I beat Weylin to it by a second.

The ink was faded, but still legible. We took it to the window to read. It was a marriage certificate, dated 1790, from St. Agnes's Church in Duleek, Ireland. The signatures were Barry McShane and Lady Margaret Raleigh. The witnesses were Laurence McShane, a cousin of Barry's, and Mrs. Riddle, Lady Margaret's companion. We examined the document in silence, then looked at each other in perplexity.

"But how is this possible?” I exclaimed. “Your aunt was married to Mr. Macintosh."

"I believe it is called bigamy,” Weylin said, in a choked voice. “The old devil! And here I have been calling your uncle a scoundrel for having abandoned her."

"I don't understand. If they were married, why did she not go to India with him, especially as she was having his child? This makes no sense, Weylin."

"Aunt Margaret hated the heat,” he said. “Chilly old Scotland suited her down to the toes. I wager she balked at the last minute."

"Then she cannot have known she was enceinte."

"Yes, that might explain-though not forgive it. She thought she could talk McShane out of going to India."

"And he probably thought she would follow him. Mama always said he was mule-stubborn."

"I daresay she was afraid to tell her papa what she had done-married your uncle, I mean. Grandpa Weylin was a Turk, with lofty ambitions for his daughters. So she got an offer from Macintosh, and married him up in a hurry to escape to Scotland, to hide her sins from the family. I fancy that is what happened."

"I wonder when Barry discovered all this. It must have been much later, after he had taken Surinda Joshi as his mistress.” Weylin looked a little startled at this. “He kept an Indian woman for years in Calcutta. Mama was always afraid he would marry her. Now we know why he did not."

We took the document down to the saloon and had a glass of wine. After much discussion, I said, “This is all very interesting, but is this marriage certificate what Borsini and Steptoe were looking for? If Borsini is the legitimate son, he would not want to hide the fact. Quite the contrary. And if he is not, but only an impostor… well, the marriage certificate hardly makes any difference."

"If Lady Margaret was not Macintosh's legitimate wife, then she has no right to her widow's portion. It will revert to Macintosh's son. She handed the ten thousand over to the man she believed was her son, so he would certainly be eager to hide this little piece of paper."

"Yes, I see what you mean. What should we do about it?"

"I shall have a word with Borsini. With this to hold over his head, he may be more forthcoming. I'll run along now. And for God's sake, Zoie, lock the door. I nearly had a heart attack when I thought you were dead."

He sounded wonderfully worried. “So did I, when I thought you were a burglar sneaking up on me. And I without a single weapon at hand to bludgeon you into submission."

"No blunt instruments will be necessary. This will always keep me in line,” he said, and stole a quick kiss before parting.

Brodagan returned home half an hour later with her steeple knocked askew and her face red from brandy and the tooth drawer's mauling. She was smiling despite it all.

She held the offending tooth in her hand. “I've lost my last night's sleep over this fellow, melady,” she said. “To think such a wee scrap of bone could torture a body worse than the rack and thumbscrews. It's into the fire with Mr. Snaggle Tooth, and good riddance, say I.” So saying, she tossed the offending article into the grate.

"Good for you, Brodagan. Was it very bad?” I asked.

"If hell has worse pain than a tooth drawer, then I'll sin no more. I mean to get to heaven by hook or by crook.” She turned to Mama and said, “I want to make a confession, melady. I didn't make dust rags out of that bit o’ worn muslin off the blue guest room bed as you told me to, but made myself up a petticoat. It's been lying heavy on my conscience. I'll rip the petticoat up this very day and make it into dust rags, for a life of sin is not worth the torment."

"Any worn muslin in this house is yours to do with as you see fit, Brodagan,” Mama said, with tears in her eyes. To me she added, “Was ever a lady blessed with such honest servants, Zoie? I swear they deserve halos, every one of them."

Brodagan was much touched, and fell into tears. Mary joined in, and soon Mama was weeping as well. I felt a tear ooze out of my own eyes, and before we all drowned, we sent Brodagan off to bed. Mama went with her, which postponed telling her about Barry's having been married. She would be delighted to hear it, but the affair was so complicated that I wanted to ponder all its implications before telling her.

No, there is no point being evasive with you so late in my story. Like Brodagan, I shall confess the whole truth. I hoped to contrive some way for Andrew Jones (whom I believed to be Borsini) to keep his mama's fortune. Surely she had earned it. Macintosh knew of her condition when he married her, and the fact that she was already married had not inconvenienced him much. His own son was already well provided for. Why should Andrew not have a piece of the pie? Mama might feel differently, however, so I would tread softly.

I was so upset that I could not settle down to painting or any other occupation, and decided to take a canter through the meadow to ease the tension. This would also give me a view of the Weylins’ park. If anything of interest was transpiring, it was transpiring at Parham. All I saw was a couple of gardeners out scything the grass.

The major subject at luncheon was Brodagan's condition and our own shortage of servants. Brodagan's jaw was swollen up like a turnip. She wanted to work despite it; Mama forbade it; Mary and Jamie between them could hardly slice the mutton, much less cook it. The fire in the kitchen stove had gone out, and who was to answer the door if we had any callers? In the middle of our cold luncheon, the servants arrived from Parham. I had forgotten all about Weylin's offer to send them, but they were more than welcome.

Mama became tongue-tied in their presence. It was for me to ask the footman to see to the stove, and assign the female servants to Mary for instructions. As soon as lunch was over, Mama went abovestairs to see that Mary had done the rooms, for she disliked Weylin's servants to see the house dusty and the beds unmade.

"He knows we need help, Mama. That is why he sent his servants to us."

"Yes, dear, but servants from Parham! I would not want them to think us slovenly."

She went upstairs to make her own bed and dust her toilet table. I sat by the window, waiting. It was not long before Weylin and Borsini arrived. I do not know what caused it, but Borsini had lost his second-rate air. He was wearing the same jacket, but when he alit from Weylin's crested carriage, he walked with a more confident air. He and Weylin might have come from the same egg. That hint of obsequiousness that always hung about him was gone. His head was held high and his shoulders were straight. He looked as if he belonged in that carriage. He and Weylin were talking and laughing like old friends.

I admitted them, as the footman was too busy tending to the stove to act as butler. I knew by the mischievous light in Weylin's eyes that he was happy about something. When Borsini came in, he just smiled a moment from the doorway, then came forward, put his arms around me, and kissed my cheek.

"Cousin!” He beamed. “I have been wanting to call you that these five years. Now you know the whole!"