As she and her maid stepped out of the carriage in front of the tidy townhouse which housed Booth and Collins, the doorman ushered them into a cozy sitting room. Mr. Collins came bustling in a few minutes later. He was a short, stocky man of middle years. Very little hair grew on the top of his head, but he sported great bushy sideburns and an enormous mustache.
“Miss Jamieson, I am glad you came. I planned to call on you soon.” He sat down, offering her tea. “How may I help you?”
Vivian placed her teacup on the table without taking a sip.
“Mr. Collins, I have not heard from my father in some months. I wondered if you had word from him?”
“No, I have not.” He shook his head and frowned. “In fact, that is the reason I planned to call on you. I have written your father several times in the past six months and have not received any reply. This is very troubling.” He ran two fingers over his mustache, frowning.
“I am worried for his safety, Mr. Collins, but why do you find it so troubling?”
“Miss Jamieson, I do not know how to say this delicately…”
“Please just say whatever you must. I am not a delicate lady.”
“To put it bluntly, you are running out of funds. You are not entirely out. I wrote your father in order to secure further funds if you are to stay in England. Based on your spending trends, I predict you have enough to last you and Miss Beaumont through the end of this year if you are not extravagant with your expenses. But if we do not receive funds from your father…”
“Miss Beaumont is getting married this summer, so I will no longer be supporting her.”
“Excellent! That should help your funds to stretch. I would suggest you do the same.” Mr. Collins reached across and patted her hand.
“Pardon me?” Vivian’s temper flared in indignation. “Are you suggesting I should get married as a way to solve my financial dilemma?”
“Well, yes. Isn’t that why you came to London in the first place? Your father wanted you to make a good match. As long as your father is missing, your future is uncertain. A lovely young woman such as yourself has many suitors, I am sure.” Again with the hand-patting. If the pompous old fool touched her again, she would leave immediately. She held her temper-barely.
“Can you advise me of a firm which I could employ to make inquiries into my father’s whereabouts?” She forced out her sweetest debutante smile.
“I’d be happy to make inquiries on your behalf. We have a firm which we use for such instances. I will be in touch with you as soon as I hear anything of interest.”
“Then I will say goodbye, Mr. Collins. Please contact me when you have some information.”
“Yes, I will and please consider my advice. A good marriage can do much to help you to secure your future, my dear.” Mr. Collins ran his fingers along the lengths of his mustache, twirling the ends up like an evil little elf. She couldn’t shake the feeling Mr. Collins concealed something of importance behind his fatherly advice. Goose-pimples rose on her arms. She couldn’t leave fast enough.
When she emerged from the building, Old Tom stood there to open the coach door and help her inside.
“What do you think, Tom? Is Papa lost at sea or has he gotten himself into trouble and can’t get out of it?” She looked down at Old Tom’s weathered face.
“My bet’s on trouble, miss. But how bad is hard to tell.” He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time he found hisself in tough straits and he’s always managed to come out fine.”
****
In the drawing room of Gilchrest House, Vivian looked at Caroline’s portrait of her maid, Susie. “I think it looks wonderful. You have captured her expression of concentration very well.”
In the painting, Susie sewed the hem of a ball gown. The pink silk covered her lap and pooled down to her feet. Soft morning light coming from a window behind her bathed her delicate features.
“But I can’t help but feel her mouth is all wrong,” Caroline complained. They both stared at the portrait.
Caroline stood a good bit taller than Vivian, with rich, dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. She had a lovely peaches and cream complexion, and an elegant straight nose that was currently scrunched in frustration as she studied her painting.
“Well, I would say her lower lip could be a bit fuller,” Vivian suggested.
“Yes, that’s it! Here, sit and talk with me while I fix this. What has you in such a mood this afternoon? You know I can always tell when you are feeling upset.”
She cocked her friend a crooked grin. “Hardly an accomplishment when every emotion I feel comes tumbling out of me despite my best efforts at composure.”
“And you always worry your lower lip when you are distressed. You can’t get anything past an artist; we relish the study of facial expressions.” Caroline turned back to concentrate on the painting.
Vivian sat down in a nearby upholstered chair. She grabbed her sketch pad and charcoal from the side table and doodled a caricature of an elf with a large, bushy mustache and an evil twinkle in his eye.
