Chapter 1
“Miss Smith.”
“Mr Jones.”
That was how our second annual encounter began.
The young lady, who I vaguely remembered must be nearly sixteen, had grown into herself enough that the lady part of the appellation was slightly stronger than young. She was no longer a child, but certainly not a woman. She was still in between, but she looked back at me intently and without fear.
“Has your year been satisfactory, Mr Jones?” she asked politely.
I sighed in resignation at the news I had to convey.
“I fear not, Miss Smith. My father died after an illness of several months. I have been coming to terms with my inheritance from dawn to dusk every day for months.”
“I am sorry for your loss, sir, and apologise for dragging you hence. You must have more important things to do, but I presume you feel a need to honour your commitment, and I respect you for that. Such reliability is not universal.”
I kind of missed the little hellcat of the previous year, but the evening was young, and I had plenty of time to get her ire up yet.
“Think nothing of it. I appreciate the break. What does the proverb say, ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’”
“I suppose I know more about you now. Your name is an alliteration, and I feel proud to know you, Mr Jack Jones.”
We laughed together, and it was not terrible. She was an engaging young lady when she wanted to be.
“Have you brought what we discussed?”
“I did. My sister is learning to draw. She was terrible at the start, but we found a book on drawing in my father’s library, and we spent the last year making sketches together. They are still not great, but probably good enough.”
I glanced at a few of the drawings, along with the names, dates, and descriptions in another list she made in a neat hand. The descriptions were well done, and trustworthy looking. They included notes of any damage to frames or painting, and each note was marked on the sketch with a number.
“This is a clever system and well done, Miss Smith,” I said honestly.
“I thank you, sir,” she said, though without the blush most other ladies I knew would give at a compliment from me. She treated me as if I had just stated a fact that was obvious to anyone, rather than a compliment.
Her manner made me wonder if she was accustomed to praise. She had said her elder sister was—what was the term?— five times prettier than anyone, or something like that. I wondered if she was giving her own assessment or parroting others.
“Was this the sister who is eighteen or the one who would be eleven,” I asked curiously. I was enjoying the exchange, and almost anything beat brooding and cursing more about my former childhood companion, who was vexing me over his inheritance.
“No. My elder sister is worse than terrible, and my mother would never let her out of her sight long enough to do this amount of work anyway. The eleven-year-old would not work a tenth that hard. This one is twelve.”
I nearly gasped and barely kept my countenance neutral. Good lord, there were four sisters, with no brothers. I could not say what the odds of such a thing were, but they seemed exceptionally long.
“Is she the one who likes the scriptures?” I ventured, while watching her reaction. I suspected she had enjoyed my earlier shock.
“Of course not. Twelve would be very young for that. No, the scripture quoting sister is fourteen now.”
That time I gasped aloud, and she laughed. I could not remember the last person to laugh at me good-naturedly, though I could easily remember the last man to laugh at me with a cruel sneer and taunts, since it had been recent.
“Five sisters. That is… well… unprecedented,” I finally blurted out.
“Strains credulity, does it not.”
“Breaks it in half, more like.”
She sighed resignedly. “Imagine how my mother felt when the fifth daughter was born. I suspect she was never the same.”
I shook my head in wonder. One thing was for certain: if I ever heard of her family I could guess her identity simply by the number of daughters.
“So that makes you second eldest,” I mused, but then shook my head, “Of course, you implied that last year.”
“Not really. With what I told you last year, I could have been third with two elder sisters.”
“I suppose,” I said, still shocked by the whole thing.
“Shall we proceed, sir,” she asked, though very politely, without the fire of the previous year. I missed it, but she was right.
“Good idea. I assumed you and my friend would not wish to meet directly. He is in another room with a book and brandy. If you do not mind waiting, I shall take your list and sketches to him.”
“That is very kind of you, Mr Jones.”
~~~
A half-hour later, I was explaining my friend’s proposition. She was escorted by the same farm boy from the previous year, but he had his head back against the wall, sound asleep.
“My friend says your collection is good but not capital.”
“I expected as much.”
“He offers two choices. He could take them on consignment and split the proceeds with you. That might ultimately get you more money, especially if some of them sell well, but it would be riskier. He also offers to buy the lot for ￡1,000 which is a figure he thinks fair, since he takes the bulk of the risk.”
She sat and thought about it for a while, and finally asked, “What would you recommend?”
“I do not fully comprehend your situation, so what I would do in the same place may not be the same. I am well enough off to take risks, so I would take the riskier and probably more profitable route. In your case, well, the bird in the hand has a certain amount to recommend it.”
She thought about it a while, and finally asked, “If I consign them, how would I be paid?”
“A banker or attorney would handle the transaction.”
“Which gives more chance for people to find me out.”
“Are you so concerned with your parents discovering your activities?”
“Not per se—I just do not want them to know how much I have, precisely. The money legally belongs to my father the minute I put my hands on it. I would not like it to end up as just a few more books on his shelves.”
The way she said it led me to believe her relationship with her father was ambiguous, but so was mine. It was the way of the world.
I did not want to unduly influence her, so I just waited for her to think about it.
“What about if I take the bird in the hand?”
“Ordinarily, you would still use an attorney or banker, but only once. In either case, he would hand you the banknotes personally if you want no chance for them to come to your father’s attention.”
She thought a few minutes more, and decided to take the bird in the hand, which I was happy for. It made things simpler, since I had added my own ￡200, which I did not want her to know about, and I did not want things getting out of hand.
We discussed the particulars, and I learnt she had somehow already transported the paintings to London and had them stored in a rented room.
She gave me the direction, and since she was trustworthy, I just gave her the money directly.
She would not cheat me, and if she did, it would break my heart more than my bank account.
Business concluded, she glanced back at her companion, as if hoping for more sensible conversation—and I was happy to oblige.
“How is your sister, sir. She is what… eleven?”
“She lost her mother very young, so she is taking the loss of our father… stoically, I suppose.”
“I see. Have you an aunt who will take charge of her.”
“My father appointed me and a cousin as guardians.”
“A female cousin, I hope?”
I sheepishly admitted my cousin was an army officer, which did not seem to impress her. I could see her biting her tongue, but refusing to criticise the arrangement, though she clearly wanted to.
I sheepishly admitted, “Our family is not large, and let us just say… the female relatives my father had to choose from would not be… ah… ideal.”
She flinched slightly, and I wondered if she was thinking of her own relatives, or just in sympathy for my sister. If she was meeting clandestinely with a gentleman just to secure her future, it said very little for her parents.
“I have received several suggestions I send her to school. What think you?”
“Me?” she squeaked alarmingly, which I found amusing.
“Yes, you. I cannot find anyone else I trust who has ever been an eleven-year-old girl.
She thought a minute, not willing to give a flippant answer.
“Nobody I know has ever been to school… aside from the men, of course.”
“Are girl’s schools anything like boy’s?”
“I have no idea,” she said.
“What do you recommend?” I asked, pressing the point.
“Have you any faith that you can teach her all she needs to know to succeed in your level of society? Are you intimate with families in your neighbourhood? Have you some way to find her friends of her own age and station, and confidants for her future?”
I just shook my head morosely, having no clue how to do any of those things.
“I do not recommend a school, mind you, but I think I would have gone if offered, and it might be suitable for your sister.”
“With such a recommendation I shall proceed straightaway,” I laughed, which made her join in.
She had a nice laugh, not like what I had been exposed to during the past few months of the season, which I endured due to the ceaseless nagging of my relatives. I mostly got little titters that made me wonder if the lady was ready to sneeze.
She said, “Be certain you keep your brotherly relationship. It is especially important that she not feel she is being sent away. Schools are lonely, so bring her home often, and write weekly or more. Start as you mean to go on. If you write weekly, write every week, on the same day, without fail. She will notice any change in schedule or frequency, and may wonder if she did something wrong, or is becoming a burden. She has lost much and should be able to rely on your steadiness. It shows her importance.”
I appreciated the recommendation and supposed I would send my sister to school. The other part sounded like it should be common sense, but I doubted I knew anyone else who would have made the same suggestion (including myself). Clever girl—our Miss Smith!
We spoke a bit more about her ideas for continuing to build her fortune, which by then I suspected may or may not go to her parents. I honestly hoped she would keep it for herself, or at least keep it somewhere dedicated to her sisters’ welfare, but that was not my business.
As we stood to go, I surprised myself.
“Next year, Miss Smith?”
She looked at me and gave a bright smile.
“Same time, same place, Mr Jones!”