Joan Smith - Gather Ye Rosebuds

While we were discussing the matter, Brodagan came sailing into the saloon, black eyes scowling. “The luncheon meat is charred to cinders, meladies,” she announced with gleeful misery. There is little dearer to Brodagan's Irish heart than a catastrophe. The singed corners of her apron testified to dire doings belowstairs.

"I was such a gossoon as to leave Mary in charge of the meat, and the worthless creature betrayed me,” she continued. No blame is ever to be left in Brodagan's dish. Whatever she destroys, and she has a heavy hand, it is always the fault of someone else. Whether meat burns or pudding turns lumpy or gowns fall apart in the laundry, she can always shift the blame onto another. But really she is so devoted and such a worker that we are never savage with her.

She continued her litany of woe. “Didn't I find her in the darkest corner of the dining room snuggling with Steptoe last night. I promised her ma I'd look after her. Either he goes or I go, for I'll not have my girls tampered with by the likes of him."

"Send Steptoe in, Brodagan,” I said.

"Send him in, is it, and he in the tower rifling through Mr. McShane's poor bits o’ rubbish, thinking to find tuppence in a dead man's pockets. That's a good many stairs for my poor limbs to climb."

"He is in the tower room now?” I asked.

"That's where he spent the morning, and no more clearing away done than if he'd stayed at the door, where he'd ought to have been. I wasn't hired to be answering the door. It was that Mrs. Chawton who called, about the books.” She drew out a note and fought her way through it as if it were a patch of nettles. “She says Guy Man… somebody, or was it Scott? Anyhow, it's sold out, and Vicar's wife don't care for the heathen, Lord Byre, or is it Berry? No matter, she said the fellow who wrote about little Harold. Mrs. Dobbigan and Mrs. Steele have already read every word of Maria Edgewool, and none of the other ladies like your idea of Proud and Prejudiced, by an onymous lady. I never trust an ominous lady. If she's afraid to put her name to her scribbling, you may be sure the book is no better than it should be."

"Thank you, Brodagan. I shall deal with Mrs. Chawton. I am sorry you had the inconvenience of looking after the door."

"Your apron, Brodagan! You have singed it,” Mama said.

Brodagan stared placidly at her charred apron. “There's two night's work and two shillings of me pittance of money gone up in flames, for I'll not disgrace you by being seen in this ruin again, meladies. It'll make dandy rags,” she said, and sailed out. Of course, she would cut off the burned edge and have Mary rehem it, but one did not introduce reality into one of her Celtic tragedies.

"I shall go up and bring Steptoe down for you to dismiss him, Mama,” I said.

Her pretty face pinched in displeasure. “Why don't you speak to him yourself, dear? You handle him better than I."

Mama dislikes trouble nearly as much as Brodagan relishes it. I fall in the middle, and am the go-between for such jobs as this. I did not look forward to confronting Steptoe, but I did not dread it either. I found him in the tower room, as Brodagan had said. He was separating my uncle's belongings into two boxes, one for the better items, one for the worn garments.

He looked up boldly. “I'll keep this lot for myself,” he said, pointing to the box of good clothes. “My tailor can do something with these jackets."

"My tailor"-as though he were a fine gent! It was the little goad I needed to lend sharpness to my words. “I have just returned from Parham, Steptoe. I told her ladyship where the diamonds were found. No legal action will be taken."

He looked sulky, but not so chastened as he ought. “I am afraid we cannot see our way clear to increasing your salary. Naturally you will not want to remain with us at your present wage. You may consider yourself free to look for another position. It will be best if you not use us as a reference. Let us say two weeks, to give us both time to make other arrangements."

His snuff brown eyes narrowed. “I might be able to get along on my present wage for the meanwhile,” he said.

"You force me to remove the gloves, Steptoe. Your services are no longer required."

His reply was not apologetic, but aggressive. “I never took nothing from you! You can't say I did."

"I did not accuse you of stealing the spoons."

"If it's that little Chinese jug from Parham you're referring to, I never took it. It got broken, and if one like it turned up at the antique store, it's nothing to do with me."

It was foolish of him to actually tell me why he had been released from Parham. Nothing was more likely to vex Lord Weylin than tampering with his porcelains. “Two weeks, Steptoe,” I said, and turned to leave, happy to put the unpleasant incident behind me.

"I wouldn't do that if I was you, miss,” he said, with a nasty smile in his voice. I turned and looked a question at him. “I've a mate at Tunbridge Wells,” he said.

"What of it?"

"I go there on my holidays and days off. Interesting, what you see at Tunbridge."

"If you have something to say, Steptoe, say it."

"I'm not one to go rashly hurling accusations, like some. But I know what I saw at Tunbridge, and I know who I saw-the weekend Lady Margaret's necklace was stolen."

I felt my body stiffen at his words. “Are you referring to my uncle?"

His lips drew into a cagey grin. “Will you still be wanting me to leave, miss?"

"There will be no salary increase,” I said, and left on that ambiguous speech.

Naturally I darted straight down to the saloon to tell Mama what had happened.

Mama paled visibly. “He'll tell the world Barry was there when the necklace was stolen! Do you think it is true, Zoie?"

"Barry had the necklace. Lord Weylin asked whether I was certain Uncle did not go to Tunbridge. We don't really know where he went. We have only his word for it."

"My own brother, a common thief!"

What bothered me more was what Lord Weylin would say if Steptoe told him. It was intolerable to be in the clutches of a creature like Steptoe. I had been looking forward to Borsini's visit, but this new development robbed it of all pleasure.

I discussed the matter with Mama over lunch, and we decided we must go over all Barry's papers to see if we could find any evidence of his having been at either London or Tunbridge Wells. He might have receipts from hotels, or his bankbook might turn up interesting sums. The deposits should be no more than his pension from John Company. If larger deposits appeared, we would know the worst. We also hoped to discover what he had done with his ill-got gains, for when he died, his total estate of thirty-nine pounds went to Mama.

I wrote to Borsini, putting off his visit, and spent the afternoon in the attic with Mama, rooting through boxes of old letters and receipts. There was nothing to indicate any untoward doings. The recent bankbooks held only a record of the quarterly pension deposits. Uncle took nearly the whole sum out as soon as it went in. He kept a running balance in the neighborhood of fifty pounds. Whatever he spent the rest on, he must have paid cash.

Taking into account the small sum Mama took from him for room and board, though, he seemed to have spent a great deal of money. He did not indulge himself in a fancy wardrobe. He had a couple of decent blue jackets, one good evening suit, and one old-fashioned black suit that he never wore. It was quite ancient. He did not set up a carriage, or even a hack. On the few occasions when he rode, he borrowed my mount. He was not the sort to spend his nights in the taverns, or eat meals out. Mama thought it was the rumors of his Indian misadventure with the account books that kept him to himself. He felt it keenly.