The Anonymous Miss Addams

“Where?”

“Over there, behind the shrubbery. I saw something move. Blast it all, someone’s been listening! Look! She’s running away. Let me pass. I’ve got to catch her before she ruins everything!”

“Be careful of your breeches!” his companion cried after him. “This is only the second time you’ve worn them.”

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS A ROOM into which sunlight drifted, light-footedly skimming across the elegant furnishings, its brightness filtered by the gossamer-thin ivory silk curtains that floated at the tall windows.

The ceiling was also ivory, its stuccoed perimeter artfully molded into wreaths of flowers caught up by ram’s heads, with dainty arabesques and marching lines of husks terminating in ribbon knots, while the walls had been painted by Cipriani himself and boasted tastefully romping nymphs, liquid-eyed goddesses, and a few doting amorini.

The furniture boasted the straight, clean lines of the brothers Adams—Robert and James—the dark, gilded mahogany vying with painted Wedgwood colors and the elegant blue and white satin striping of the upholstery.

To the awestruck observer, the entire room was a soul-soothing showplace, an exemplary example of the degree of refined elegance possible in an extraordinarily beautiful English country estate.

To Pierre Claghorn Standish, just then pacing the length of the Aubusson carpet, it was home.

“Oh, do sit down, Pierre,” a man’s voice requested wearily. “It’s most fatiguing watching you prowl about the place like some petulant caged panther. I say panther because they are black, you know. Must you always wear that funereal color? It’s really depressing. You remind me of an ink blot, marring the pristine perfection of my lovely blue and white copybook. It’s jarring; upon my soul, it is. Look at me, for instance. This new green coat of mine is subdued, yet it whispers of life, of hope, of the glorious promise of spring. You look like the dead of winter—a very long, depressingly hard winter.”

Pierre ceased pacing to look at his father, who was sitting at his ease, his elbows propped on the arms of his chair, his long fingers spread wide apart and steepled as he gazed up at his son. “Ah,” André Standish said, his handsome face lighting as he smiled. “I do believe I have succeeded in gaining your attention. How wonderful. I shall have to find some small way in which to reward myself. Perhaps a new pony for my stables? But to get back to the point. You have been here for three days, my son, visiting your poor, widowed father in his loneliness—a full two days longer than any of your infrequent visits to me in the past five years, seven months, and six days. I think we can safely assume the formalities have been dutifully observed. Do you not believe it is time for you to get to the point?”

Pierre looked at his father and saw himself as he would appear in thirty years. The man had once been as dark as he, although now his hair was nearly all silver, but his black eyes still flashed brightly in his lean, deeply tanned face. His body was still firmly muscled, thanks to an active, sporting life, and he had not given one inch to his advancing years. Pierre smiled, for he could do a lot worse than follow in his father’s footsteps.

“What makes you think there is anything to discuss?” Pierre asked, lowering himself into the chair facing his father. “Perhaps you are entering into your dotage and are only imagining things. Have you entertained that possibility, Father?”

André regarded him levelly. “I would rather instead reflect on the grave injustice I have done you by not beating you more often during your youth,” he answered cheerfully. “You may be the scourge of London society, Pierre, if the papers and my correspondence are to be believed, but you are naught but a babe in arms when it comes to trying to fence with me, your sire and one time mentor. Now, if you have been unable to discover a way onto the subject, may I suggest that you begin by telling me all about the funeral of that dastardly fellow, Quennel Quinton? After all, he’s been below ground feeding the worms for more than three months.”

Only by the slight lifting of one finely sculpted eyebrow did Pierre Standish acknowledge that his father had surprised him by landing a flush hit. “Very good, Father,” he complimented smoothly. “My congratulations to your network of spies. Perhaps you’d like to elaborate and tell me what I’m about to say next?”

André sighed and allowed his fingers to intertwine, lightly laying his chin on his clasped hands. “Must I, Pierre? It’s all so mundane. Oh, very well. We could start with the box, I suppose.”

Now Pierre couldn’t contain his surprise. His eyes widened, and he leaned forward in his chair, gripping the armrests. “You know?” he questioned dumbly, as nothing more profound came to his lips.

André rose to go over to the drinks cabinet—an elegant piece containing several delicately carved shelves and holding a generous supply of assorted spirits—and took his time debating over just which crystal decanter held exactly the proper drink for the moment. “Yes,” he said consideringly, finally selecting a deep burgundy and pouring generous amounts into two glasses, “I rather think this will do.” Returning to his chair, he held out one glass to his son. “Here you go, Pierre. Red with meat—and confession. Rather apt, don’t you think? And close your mouth, if you please. It’s decidedly off-putting.”

Pierre took the glass, automatically raising it to his lips, then shook his head as he watched André gracefully lower his body once more into the chair. “Much as I know you abhor hearing someone tell you what you already know, Father, I must say this out loud so that I can believe it. You knew Quennel Quinton was blackmailing Anton Follet? You knew the box left to me in Quinton’s will was full of love letters Follet had written to—had written to—”

“My wife,” André finished neatly. “Dearest Eleanore, your mother, to mimic you and likewise point out the obvious. Yes, of course I knew. Quinton first tried to blackmail me with those silly letters, but I convinced him of the futility of that particular course and suggested he apply to Follet instead. Follet’s wife holds the purse strings, you understand. I imagine the poor fellow was put through hoops these past half-dozen years, sniffing about everywhere for the money to keep Quinton quiet. Why, the economies he must have been forced to endure! I do seem to remember hearing something about the man having to sell up most of his hunting stock at Tatt’s. But then, one must pay the piper if one is going to commit things to paper. You’ll remember, Pierre, that I always warned you against just that sort of foolishness.”

It was taking some time for his father’s words to sink in to Pierre’s brain, and even then he missed the significance of the words “silly letters.” “Quinton approached me within two months of arriving here after being invalided home from Spain, to learn that Mother had died. He waved the letters in front of me as he smiled—quite gleefully, I recall—and told me of Mother’s romantic indiscretion, then said I would have to pay for his silence.”

“Wasn’t very smart, this man Quinton, was he? I’m astounded that he stayed above ground as long as he did.”

Pierre laughed, a short, dissatisfied chuckle. “No, he was not very smart. I entertained the notion of ridding the world of the man, but rejected the idea as needlessly exertive. As you said, Father, I am your student, as well as adverse to being blackmailed. In the end, I, too, suggested he apply to Follet for funds, with the stipulation that he leave me the letters in his will so that I might continue the blackmail myself. After all, Mother was dead. I needed to take my revenge somewhere.” Pierre allowed his gaze to shift toward the carpet. “I didn’t go through with my intention, I must admit, but it seemed a reasonably workable idea at the time. I was rather overset.”

“Oh, Pierre, let’s not dress the matter up in fine linen. You were devastated! Otherwise, you would have repeatedly beaten Quinton about the head until he gave the damning letters over to you. You felt betrayed, by your mother and then by me, whom you felt must have been a dismal failure as a husband if my wife had been forced to seek love elsewhere. You stormed off to London in a childish snit and have returned here only sporadically ever since, duty calls to your aging father. Isn’t that right, Pierre?”

Suddenly Pierre was angry. Very angry. He jumped up from his chair and stalked over to the window, to look out over the perfectly manicured gardens. “What did you expect me to do? Confront you? I had left here to fight on the Continent believing that you and Mother were the perfect couple. It certainly was the impression you gave. Then, shortly after I returned home, injured and weary, I learned that my sainted mother had not only died, but left behind her a legacy of shame and disgrace. I couldn’t in good conscience intrude on your grief by telling you about it, yet at the same time I was angry with you for forcing her to indulge herself with someone like Follet. I had to get away before I exploded.”

It was quiet in the room for a few minutes, during which time the Standish butler entered and looked to his master for instructions concerning the serving of the evening meal, only to be waved closer so that he could hear a short, whispered instruction.

André Standish allowed his son time to compose himself, then walked over to place a hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “Have you read Follet’s searing love missives, my son, now that they are at last in your possession?” he asked, his voice light. “Or have you thought to tell me about them at last and then burn them, unread, like some brainless ninny out of a very bad pennypress novel?”

“No, I hadn’t thought of burning them,” Pierre answered, slowly gaining control of himself. He felt off balance, a feeling to which he was unaccustomed, and he disliked the sensation immensely. In London he was respected, even feared. Here, he was once again his father’s son, standing in awe of the master. “Nor have I read them. I couldn’t bring myself that low. To be truthful, I don’t know what I plan to do with them. That’s why I’m here—prowling about your drawing room like a panther. What I don’t know is what you hope to gain by dragging this old scandal out for an airing.”

“Here you are, sir.”

André turned to take the wooden box from the butler. “Thank you, Hartley. You are obedience itself. You may retire now. See that we are not disturbed.”

“Very good, sir. Thank you, sir,” the butler agreed, backing from the room, closing the double doors behind him as he went.

Pierre turned his head to see the offending box, then once more directed his gaze toward the gardens. “Taken to burgling my rooms, have you, Father? I am discovering new, disturbing things about you with each passing moment. I don’t want to hear those letters read, if that’s what you have in mind. How could you read them and still retain any feeling for Mother?”

“Quite easily, I imagine,” André replied, opening the box and picking up at random one of the dozen or so letters. “I loved Eleanore very much, Pierre, and miss her more with each passing day. Oh, my, there seems to be the smell of old perfume about these letters. Follet was always the fop, as I remember. No wonder that servant I turned off for attempting to steal some of your dear mother’s possessions took them posthaste to Quinton. Let’s see, I think I can make out this dreadful chicken scrawl. Oh, the spelling! It’s ludicrous! I’m afraid I must deny your request and read this one aloud. Prepare yourself, my son.”

André made a short business of clearing his throat and then began to read. “‘My dearest dimpled darling, light of my deepest heart.’” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh, that is dreadful, isn’t it? I can barely read on but, for your sake, Pierre, I shall persevere. ‘I sat awake till the wee morning hours just before dawn, my celestial love, thinking of you and our hasty, beatific meeting in the enchanted gardens last night. How I long to tell you all that is in my love-besieged heart, all the wonder and glory that I feel for you, but there seems no way we can escape for long your dastardly husband, André.’ Oh, that is good,” André stopped to comment. “He used my name—just in case it had slipped your mother’s mind, I suppose. No wonder Eleanore kept the letters; they’re better than a night at Covent Garden.”

“That is sufficient, thank you. You may stop there,” Pierre cut in, disgusted with his father’s levity. “Isn’t it enough that she had an affair with the man? Must you read his reminiscences of it?”

“An affair?” André repeated, his voice suddenly very cold, very hard. “You insolent pup! How dare you! Haven’t you heard a word I’ve read? The man was—is—an ass. A total ass! If his harridan of a wife hadn’t hauled him off to Ireland, you would have discovered that for yourself. Do you really mean to stand there and tell me you still believe someone as wonderful, as intelligent as your mother would have given the idiot who wrote this drivel so much as the time of day? Why do you think I didn’t kill Quinton when he first approached me? I laughed him out of the house!”

Pierre slowly turned away from the window to look piercingly at his father. “Are you telling me Follet’s love was all one-sided?”

André smiled. “Ah, and to think for a moment there I was beginning to believe you were slow. Yes, Pierre, Follet’s all-consuming passion for your mother was very much one-sided. To be perfectly frank, as I remember it, Eleanore considered him to be a toad. A particularly slimy toad.” He tipped his head to one side, as if reliving some private memory. “I readily recall one evening—Follet was skipping about our first-floor balcony at the London town house reciting some terrible love poem he had written to her pert nose, or some such nonsense, and causing no end of racket—until your mother cut him off by dousing him with a pitcher of cold water.”

Pierre smiled wanly, then returned to the drinks table to refill his glass. “All this time, wasted.” He turned to his father. “If you knew what I was thinking all these years—and how you knew I shall not be so silly as to ask, considering that you know everything—why didn’t you tell me? All these long years I’ve been warring with myself, trying to banish my love for my mother, trying to understand how human beings can be so fickle, so devious. And you knew—you knew!”

André put his arm around his son. “I must confess, I have known the whole truth for less than two years. It took me that long to figure out the reason for your defection, as I had taught you to hide your tracks very successfully. I had thought to tell you the truth then, but deep inside I was just the least bit put out that you could believe Quinton’s obvious lies, and I made up my mind to wait until you came to your senses. And, never fear, you never stopped loving your mother. I see the flowers you order placed on her grave every week, and I’ve watched you when you visit the cemetery.

“But I’ve also watched you grow and mature these past years, even more than you did during your years with me, or your time spent on the Peninsula. You have become a devoted student of human nature, my son, taking all that I’ve taught you and honing it to a fine edge. Of course, you have become a shade too arrogant, and even, dare I say it, a bit cold—but I think we can safely assume that your arrogance has now suffered a healing setback.”

“This has all been in the way of a lesson?” Pierre asked, incredulous. “I can’t believe it.”

“Oh, dear,” André remarked, looking at his son. “You’re angry, aren’t you? Good. You’re very gifted, Pierre, gifted with money, breeding, intelligence and a very pretty face. I taught you all I could about being a gentleman. The war has taught you about the perfidies and cruelties of mankind. Now, Quennel Quinton has taught you never to accept anything at face value, even if it is personally painful for you to delve into a subject. He has also taught you a measure of humility, hasn’t he, showing you that, for all your grand intelligence, you can still be duped. All round, I’d say the thing was a particularly satisfactory exercise.”

“I exist only to please you, Father,” Pierre drawled sarcastically.

“Of course you do,” André acknowledged in complete seriousness. “Never forget it. The only obstacle to becoming a complete gentleman left before you now is for you to accomplish some good, unselfish work—some compassionate assistance to one of the helpless wretches of mankind. You have made a good start by helping your friend Sherbourne secure the affections of Quinton’s supposed daughter, Victoria, but as you were trying to rid yourself of the title of murder suspect at the time, I cannot feel that your actions were completely altruistic. Yes, I would like to see you perform some good deed, with not a single thought of personal reward. Do you think you can handle that on your own, or shall I devise some scheme to set you on your way?”

Pierre stared at his father unblinkingly. “There are times when I actually believe I could hate you, Father,” he said, unable to hide a wry smile.

“Yes, of course,” André replied silkily. “Truthfully, I believe I should be disappointed in you if you were to fall on my neck, thanking me. Shall we go in to dinner?”

CHAPTER TWO

PIERRE LINGERED in the country with André for another two days, the two men rebuilding their former good relationship on a sounder, more solid base before the younger Standish reluctantly took his leave, his father’s admonition—to find himself a humanizing good deed as soon as may be for the sake of his immortal soul—following after him as his coachman sprung the horses.

“A good deed,” Pierre repeated, settling himself against the midnight-blue velvet squabs of the traveling coach that was the envy of London. “What do you think of that, Duvall, my friend?”