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of them."
"Besides," Beatrice said, cutting straight to the heart of the business, "the
man is dead. Whatever the truth of the events at Arcane House, it no longer
concerns us. Now then, let us get on to more pressing matters. Have you
decided upon the name you will adopt when we open the gallery in London?"
"I am still quite taken with Mrs. Ravenscroft," Amelia said. "It is ever so
romantic don't you think?"
"I prefer Mrs. Hartley-Pryce," Beatrice announced. "It has a more established
ring to it."
Edward grimaced. "I still say that Mrs. Lancelot is the best name of all."
Amelia wrinkled her nose. "You have been reading too many Arthurian tales."
"Hah," he retorted. "You're a fine one to talk. I know perfectly well that you
got that silly Mrs. Ravenscroft name out of that sensation novel you are
reading."
"The thing is," Venetia said, interrupting firmly, "I can't quite ^ee myself
living with any of those names. For some reason they don't seem to fit, if you
see what I mean."
"You'll have to make a decision and soon," Beatrice said. "You cannot call
yourself Mrs. Milton. Not when your brother and sister are also named Milton.
People would think Amelia and Edward were your children, rather than your
siblings. That would not do."
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"We have discussed this at some length," Amelia pointed out. "You have no
choice but to go into business as a widow."
"Quite true," Beatrice said. "An unmarried lady not yet past thirty will have
a great deal of trouble attracting the right sort of clientele. In addition,
it will be difficult for you to conduct business with men
without projecting the wrong impression. Your status as a widow will endow you
with a certain respectability that will otherwise be impossible to attain."
"I understand," Venetia said. She straightened in her chair. "I have been
giving the matter of my new name a great deal of consideration and I have made
a decision."
"Which name did you choose?" Edward asked.
"I will call myself Mrs. Jones," Venetia said. Amelia, Beatrice and Edward
stared at her, mouths agape. "You are going to adopt the name of your deceased
client?" Beatrice asked, amazed.
"Why not?" Venetia said. A sad, wistfulness rose up inside her. "Who will ever
guess that a certain
Mr. Gabriel Jones was my inspiration? After all, Jones is an exceedingly
common name."
"That's true," Amelia said thoughtfully. "Why, there must be hundreds, it not
thousands of Joneses in London."
"Precisely." Venetia warmed to her own idea. "No one will ever think to make a
connection between me and the gentleman at Arcane House who was once, quite
briefly, a client. In tact, to make quite certain
of that, we shall invent an exciting little story to explain why our Mr. Jones
is no longer among the living. We shall see to it that he expired in some
distant, foreign clime."
"I suppose it is rather fitting, in a way," Beatrice mused. "After all, had it
not been for Gabriel Jones and those enormous fees that were paid in advance,
we would not now be plotting our new financial venture."
Venetia felt the dampness gathering behind her eyes. She blinked hard, several
rimes, but the burning sensation returned.
"You must excuse me," she said brusquely. She got to her feet and started
around the table toward the door. "I just remembered that I want to place an
order for a new supply of dry plates."
She could feel the worried eyes of her family upon her but no one tried to
stop her.
She hurried upstairs to the tiny bedroom of the rented cottage and let herself
inside. She closed the door behind her and looked at the wardrobe on the far
side of the room.
Slowly she crossed the space, opened the wardrobe door and took out the
gentleman's evening coat she had stored inside.
She folded the coat over one arm and smoothed the expensive fabric in a way
she had done many times since the flight from Arcane House.
She carried the coat to the bed, lav down and let the tears fall.
* * *
Some time later, her emotions drained to the point where she no longer felt
much of anything, she got up and dried her eyes.
Enough was enough. She could not afford useless sentiments and romantic
daydreams. She was the sole support of her family. Their futures depended
entirely on her ability to forge a career as a photographer in London. She
could not allow herself to be distracted from the daring plans she and the
others had made. Success would require a great deal of hard work, cleverness
and attention to detail.
Aunt Beatrice was right, she thought, picking up the tear-stained coat. There [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]