100. A Rose In Jeopardy (7 page)

For a moment he had no idea where he was – even the dark clothes that were hanging over the iron rail at the end of the bed were unfamiliar.

He took a deep breath and smelt river water and tar, all mixed together with the tang of beer and frying bacon and then he remembered that he was staying at a small inn close to the London Docks.

The strange clothes, of course, were his disguise!

He looked at his watch, and saw that it was only half past five. He could curl up and sleep for at least another hour.

But then he recalled last night and his heart swelled with excruciating pain as he remembered the cold look on Marian’s pretty face as she took the arm of his best friend and turned away from him.

He would never be able to rest properly with such thoughts surging through his mind.

Below the window of his little room, he could hear iron horseshoes slipping over the cobblestones and men’s voices speaking in a strong Cockney accent.

He would get some breakfast from the innkeeper’s wife and go out to see what was going on.

An hour later, he found himself by a great wharf, looking up at a forest of tall masts pointing at the sky.

The wharf was thronged with rough sailors dressed in grimy sea jackets and baggy trousers, men of all colours and nationalities, shouting and arguing with each other as they disembarked from the ships moored on the river.

There were Africans, Indians, a Chinaman carrying two baskets on a yoke and many Englishmen from London, Bristol and Liverpool, their faces burnt by tropical suns so that they were almost as dark as the Indians. All of them walked with a rolling gait as if they were still treading the decks of a wave-tossed ship.

No one took any notice of the mysterious black-cloaked figure in the wide hat.

‘I could so easily slip on board one of these ships,’ Lyndon thought, ‘hide among the cargo and be carried off to anywhere. The Spice Islands, Australia, Brazil!’

One ship in particular caught his fancy. It was not one of the largest, but its sides were beautifully painted in black and gold.

He moved closer and saw that there was an unusual figurehead at the prow, a most shapely carved woman with a black mask covering her eyes.

And next to the figurehead, he read the words
La
Maschera
.

It must be the name of the ship. There was another word painted on it, but he was too far away to make it out.

“Scusi!”

A dark sailor carrying a large trunk decorated with swirling patterns of leaves and flowers nudged him aside.

Lyndon apologised and moved out of the way.

The sailor then loaded the trunk onto the back of a coach that was waiting at the side of the wharf and then came jogging back towards the ship. He must be one of the crew.

“Your ship, where is she from? Lyndon asked him.

The man grinned, revealing several missing teeth.

“
La Maschera
!” he said proudly waving at the ship.

“Yes, yes. But where from?”

He pointed towards the wide river beyond the ship and looked questioningly at the sailor, whose black brows creased together and then suddenly he laughed,

“Venezia!”

“Of course! Venice.” Lyndon said, remembering the Italian pronunciation of the famous City that seemed to rise up out of the water.

“
Si. Si
!
Venezia
!” the sailor now grinned even more broadly and, tapping his chest to indicate that he too came from that City. “
Anch’io
Veneziano
.”

Now some sort of commotion seemed to be taking place on board and the sailor left Lyndon’s side and stood by the gangplank that led from the deck to the wharf.

An old woman, dressed in black and with a gold-embroidered shawl wrapped around her head, had emerged from the cabin on the deck of
La Maschera
.

Lyndon caught his breath in surprise as a tiny imp-like creature wearing a red jacket and trousers and a small red hat suddenly leapt from the woman’s shoulder and then bounded across the deck.

A high-pitched shriek issued from the old woman’s lips and she raised her hands high in the air. Lyndon saw that in one of them she held a long black walking stick.

Now the whole deck was full of people – sailors, lady’s maids, a cook with a big ladle in his hand, rushing everywhere and looking under piles of rope and luggage.

The red-jacketed imp was nowhere to be found and the woman’s shrieks grew louder, so that all the hustle and bustle of the wharf came to a halt as people crowded round to see what was happening.

Lyndon was just pushing his way to the front of the crowd, when he felt an odd sensation around his right leg, as if someone was pulling at the hem of his trousers.

He looked down and to his great surprise he found himself gazing into a mournful pair of round dark eyes.

It was a small monkey, dressed in a red costume.

“So it is you, causing all the fuss,” he whispered.

He reached down and the monkey caught his hand and then swung itself up, so that it was on his arm and it sat there, making a strange chattering noise.

Lyndon gazed at the tall masts of
La Maschera
, and thought how uncanny it was, that only a few moments ago he had seen this beautiful ship for the first time and now with the tiny monkey in his arms, he had the perfect excuse to go on board.

It was as if he was in the grip of something beyond his control, a strange irresistible force that was taking him over, drawing him to the ship and the distant mysterious City of Venice.

For a moment, Lyndon wanted to escape, to run away from this new world that was drawing him in like a magnet.

It was too late.

The little monkey clambered up onto his shoulder and wrapped its arm around his neck and a shout went up from the men who were standing beside him.

“’E’s ’ere! The little blighter. The fella in black’s got ’im!”

Lyndon next found himself being pushed forward towards the gangplank of the ship, where the rough hands of the sailor he had just spoken to pulled him on board.

The old woman in the black dress threw back the golden shawl from her grey head and gave a cry of joy.

A flood of passionate Italian words poured out from her, as the monkey leapt from his shoulder into her arms.

“
Caro mio
!
Piccolino Pepe, sei troppo cattivo
!” she cried and then she turned to Lyndon.

“
Grazie tanto, Signore
,” she said and then looked closely at him. “
Sei Italiano
?” she asked.

“No – I am English!” Lyndon replied, hoping that he had understood her correctly.

“Aaah.
Capisco
. I thought from your cloak and your hat – you were
Italiano
.”

She must be very old, Lyndon thought, for the curls that were piled up on her head were almost white, but her black eyes blazed with a fierce energy.

And she was clearly someone of great importance, as heavy gold rings gleamed on her fingers and her shawl was thick with swirls of gold thread.

“Who are you?” she asked. “What is your name?”

Lyndon was thrown into confusion. What should he say? Why had he not thought of a name for himself?

She asked again, her tone imperious and impatient. She was not someone who was used to being kept waiting.

“Mr. Jones,” Lyndon now mumbled saying the very first name that came into his head.

“Oh –
Signore Jones
! How can I ever repay you for bringing back my naughty child?”

She caressed the monkey’s little head and spoke to one of the mob-capped maids who stood beside her.

One maid took the creature and ran off.

“It was nothing, really,” Lyndon said and he would have turned to go, but the old woman touched his sleeve.

“This is my first time in England. And I am here for business matters and to see all the sights of your great City,” she was now saying, struggling with the unfamiliar words. “
Signore
Jones, you must dine with me tonight!”

She reached into a small embroidered bag that hung at her waist and took out a white card and a gold pencil.

She scribbled something on the card and gave it to Lyndon.

Printed on the card, in gold letters he saw the words
La
Contessa Allegrini
.

So the old woman was from the Italian Nobility – a Contessa! There was an address as well,
Ca’ degli Angeli, Venezia
.

Beneath these words, the Contessa had written in a large sprawling hand,
The Palace Hotel, Bayswater
.

“Tonight!
Stasera
,” she said. “I will give you the finest dinner in London. And you will tell me about your City, for I know nothing. I need a friend who will help me around and teach me your ways in England.”

Lyndon hesitated.

He could not possibly go to the old woman’s hotel and dine with her, as he would surely be spotted at once by someone who knew him and yet she was looking at him so fiercely that he did not dare say ‘no’ to her.

The Contessa laughed.

“Ah, you
inglesi
! I have heard about your famous shyness. Your silences, your lack of words. So different from we
italiani
!”

She tapped him on the arm.

“Until tonight, Mr. Jones.”

And she then turned to the sailor who stood by the gangplank and allowed him to help her onto dry land.

The crowd of onlookers parted respectfully as she walked towards the coach.

A hand gently touched Lyndon’s arm. It was the maid who had gone into the cabin.

The monkey was safely on her shoulder and he saw that it now had a red ribbon tied around its waist, the other end of which was attached to the maid’s wrist.

“
Signore
,” she whispered and pressed a twist of paper into his hand. “
Grazie tanto
.”

And then she hurried away to join her Mistress.

Lyndon unfolded the paper to see, nestling inside, a handful of golden coins.

The Contessa had rewarded him well for rescuing her pet.

*

A sledgehammer was beating away at the inside of Algernon’s head and, just to add to the pain, a whole army of birds were assaulting his delicate ears with loud shrieks and trills and warblings.

Where the hell was he? He groaned in agony and forced his heavy eyelids to open.

He closed them again quickly as, to his horror, the bedroom where he lay was flooded with brilliant sunlight. Why had his valet opened the curtains?

And then he remembered where he was. He had come down to Hampshire to be with Lord Brockley.

That was why the birds were being so noisy, he was in the middle of the countryside with trees and bushes all around instead of the bricks and stones of London.

It was simply impossible for him to sink back into the restful sleep that was the only cure for a headache such as the one that was threatening to split his skull open.

Why had he thought it such a good idea to come to the country?

Reluctantly, Algernon opened his tired eyes and sat up, clutching his forehead in his hands.

Now he noticed that the same useless servant who had opened up the curtains and who clearly did not know about his preference for late rising had left a tray of tea and toast on the small table beside his bed.

Tea. Perhaps that would help to clear his throbbing head. He reached for the teapot, but it was quite cold.

He must have slept very late indeed this morning. Lord Brockley, who never seemed to suffer quite so badly from the after-effects of over-indulgence in brandy, would be waiting for him.

Algernon gave another groan and heaved his legs over the side of the bed.

There was a full jug of water on the washstand and he staggered over to it and poured himself a glass.

Then, feeling just a little better, he went over to the window to draw the curtains against the frightful glare and to shut out the awful noise the birds were making.

Outside a soft breeze was stirring the tops of the tall trees that surrounded the gardens below his window.

He was just about the tug the heavy curtain closed, when something caught his eye – a flash of gold, moving among the flowers.

It was the pretty girl who had sat opposite him at dinner last night, the little angel who he could swear had brought him luck in the dice game at the inn.

She was down there in the Rose Garden, a basket over her arm, cutting blooms.

She moved so prettily in her violet-coloured dress and he saw that her long golden curls reached almost to her slender waist.

He noticed the sunlight gleaming on her curls and remembered how the soft candlelight last night had shone on them, making a pale halo around her sweet young face.

She had been so shy and quiet all through dinner, as if she did not want to attract any attention to herself.

Algernon normally preferred lively and flirtatious girls, like the delicious dark-haired creature, who had been engaged to Lord Brockley’s son – nothing reticent about her at all!

But there was indeed something about the shyness and reserve of this girl, Rosella, that was very enticing.

As he watched her reach up to cut a white rose from a tall branch, he suddenly thought how delightful it would be to slip his arm around her waist and draw her to him.

And the touch of one of her soft little hands on his forehead would completely cure his headache.

He had no memory of being helped from the dining room last night and almost carried up the stairs by Rosella and Mrs. Dawkins.

Nor did he recall the expression of revulsion on Rosella’s pretty face as she looked down at him where he lay on his bedroom carpet.

For he was never able to remember anything that happened to him when he had taken too much brandy.

There was a loud rap at his bedroom door and then it flew open.

“Get up!” Lord Brockley growled as he strode over the carpet. “Luncheon will be served in a few moments.”

He scowled at Algernon still in his nightshirt.

“What have you been doing all morning? I want to place a bet on the big race this afternoon and I should like your opinion on the runners.”