‘But you ask us to keep it here until Lord Lingoe come.’
‘The case is altered, Emile. I was perfectly happy for it to remain here while Monsieur Villemot was able to look after it for me, but he’s not able to do that now. I’d prefer to have it where I can see it.’
‘Very well.’
‘Could you find it for me, please?’
‘Is here,’ said Emile, crossing to the easel. ‘You like to see?’
‘Yes, please.’ He lifted the cloth so that she could see the portrait and she viewed herself with a mixture of pleasure and regret. The circumstances in which it had been painted no longer existed and that clearly saddened her. ‘Thank you, Emile.’
Lowering the cloth, he lifted the portrait to the ground.
‘While I’m here,’ she said, ‘I’ll take the opportunity to peep at the painting of Lady Culthorpe. Where is it?’
Emile became uneasy. ‘You not want to see that.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Monsieur Villemot, maybe he not like it.’
‘Of course he would. We were friends. He let me see whatever I wanted of his work. I’m sure that he wouldn’t have the slightest objection to my looking at his latest portrait.’
‘Is not finished.’
‘Then let me see how far he managed to get.’
‘Bad idea.’
‘It’s not an idea, Emile,’ she said, asserting herself. ‘It’s a direct request. I intend to see that picture of Araminta Culthorpe and I’ll not let a mere valet stand in my way. Now stop prevaricating and show me which one it is.’
‘Is not here.’
‘Why not?’
‘The lady, she take it away.’
‘You’re lying to me,’ she decided. ‘She’s in mourning. When a husband has been murdered, the last thing a wife would do is to worry about a portrait that is not even finished. Tell me the truth,’ she demanded, imperiously. ‘Where is it?’
‘Is not here — that is the truth.’
‘Then where have you put it?’
Emile licked dry lips. ‘The portrait, it was stolen.’
‘Stolen!’
‘Monsieur Redmayne, he try to get it back.’
‘Who took it?’
‘He not know yet.’
‘I’m glad I decided to retrieve my own portrait,’ she said. ‘The thought that it might have been stolen by a stranger so that he can gloat over it is quite outrageous.’
‘It is. I am very upset.’
‘What about the man who actually painted it? Your master will be mortified to hear what happened to it.’
‘That is why I not tell him.’
‘But he has a right to know, Emile.’
‘We find it,’ said the valet. ‘Before he come out of the prison, we find it for him. He not be told it was ever missing. That would hurt Monsieur Villemot like the sword through the heart. I love him too much to do that to him.’
Sir Willard Grail considered the offer before giving a polite refusal.
‘Thank you, Elkannah,’ he said, ‘I can think of nothing I’d enjoy more than a visit to Newmarket. On any other day but tomorrow, I’d have been delighted to accompany you.’
‘But you have a funeral to attend.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t need to say it,’ said Prout, resignedly. ‘I should have guessed that nothing would tear you away from that. Well, I have one consolation, I suppose. At least, you didn’t laugh in my face.’
‘Why on earth should I do that?’
‘Henry assured me that you would.’
‘Did you put the same suggestion to him?’
‘Yes, I did, and I’ve been regretting it ever since.’
‘Why?’ asked Sir Willard. ‘Was he contemptuous?’
‘His behaviour was inexcusable,’ said Prout, stiffly, ‘and I no longer list him among my close friends.’
‘Dear me! Was your conversation with him as bad as that?’
‘It was worse, Sir Willard.’
They had met on their way to the coffee house and stepped into the anteroom so that they could talk in private. Like Henry Redmayne, Sir Willard had seen through the ruse immediately. The offer of a trip to Newmarket was a means of keeping him away from the funeral of Sir Martin Culthorpe. Though he had not decided if he would attend the latter, he had graciously declined the invitation.
‘I daresay that you had the same response from Jocelyn,’ said Sir Willard. ‘He’s the one person determined to be at that church.’
‘I felt obliged to make the offer to him as well.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Prout. ‘When I called at his house, he was not there. His butler told me that he had business in Richmond and would be away all day.’
Sir Willard was exasperated. ‘Confound it!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was hoping to find him here. I need a word or two with Jocelyn Kidbrooke.’
‘Have you fallen out with him?’
‘No, Elkannah — but it may come to that.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a private matter regarding my brother-in-law.’
‘And it threatens your friendship with Jocelyn?’
‘Possibly.’
‘What a turn of events!’ observed Prout, drily. ‘Not so long ago, all four of us were close companions, fellow pleasure-seekers and members of a Society whose very name defined our characters. Where has our warm friendship flown?’ he asked. ‘I have spurned Henry Redmayne. You are on the verge of a serious argument with Jocelyn Kidbrooke, and there’s no common ground left between us.’
‘All that will change once the funeral is over.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘It’s self-evident,’ said Sir Willard. ‘Until her husband is buried, Araminta cannot learn to live again and, until she does that, none of us can, in all conscience, make any overtures to her.’
‘That was not your opinion a couple of days ago.’
‘I’ve mellowed since then.’
‘If only Jocelyn could have done so as well,’ said Prout, ‘but there was no chance of that. Of the four of us, he was always the most rabid and uncompromising in his desires.’
‘That’s precisely why Araminta will reject him.’
‘Such over-eagerness would be very distressing to her.’
‘Almost as distressing as Henry’s crude attempts at poetry,’ said Sir Willard with a laugh. ‘When I read that sonnet of his, I began to wonder if English was his first tongue. He mangled the language.’
‘This morning, he mangled our friendship.’
‘Why are you so bitter about it, Elkannah?’
‘Because he betrayed me,’ said Prout, icily. ‘He agreed to my pact at first, then threw it back in my face. That was unpardonable. I will be supremely happy if I never see Henry Redmayne again.’
The closer the funeral came, the more Araminta Culthorpe sank back into despair. Nothing could alleviate her suffering. The brevity of her marriage added a poignancy to the situation. Having been pursued and harassed by a number of suitors, she had found a decent, loving, caring man who neither pursued nor harassed her, offering her instead a respect and consideration that slowly drew her to him. Sir Martin Culthorpe was all that she had ever envisaged in a husband, and their life together had been blissful.
Now he was gone and the brutal manner of his demise made his death more shocking. He could never be replaced. Araminta could never again know that joy of discovery. She and her husband had been enlarged with a vision of each other. Such delight only happened once in a lifetime. In its wake, came a form of oblivion.
Occupied by these thoughts, Araminta sat in her bedchamber and tried to summon up the strength to face the ordeal on the morrow. All eyes would be on her. She would be tested to the limit.
Eleanor Ryle was seated beside her, watching her mistress’s face gradually darken. She tried to lighten the mood of despondency with some light conversation.
‘Mr Rushton says that everything is under control.’
‘Good.’
‘All that you need worry about is getting through the service,’ said the maid. ‘It’s bound to be harrowing, m’lady, but I know you’ll keep your composure somehow.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘You’ll be surrounded by people who love you.’