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“Sorry I had to reschedule, dears,” Mrs. Bellamy said. “But there was an unavoidable conflict that arose yesterday with the Ladies League.” She swept her hand over the silver tea service on the coffee table between us. “Tea?”
“Yes, thank you,” Faith said, and Mrs. Bellamy nodded to the housekeeper who stepped forward to pour cups of tea from the sterling silver pitcher. “I appreciate you making time for us at all, Mrs. Bellamy. I realize your schedule is quite full.”
There was an awkward silence as the housekeeper finished pouring the tea and handed it to each of us in turn before giving Mrs. Bellamy a slight smile and departing. Why in the world you would want someone else to pour tea that was sitting right in front of you, I had no idea. Did it simply make these people feel catered to? And being catered to in all aspects made one feel important, I imagined.
Judgy, Rory. When these might be your people. My gaze slid to the painting over the fireplace of the distinguished older man next to the woman I guessed was supposed to be Mrs. Bellamy. As it turned out, very wealthy people used their own version of Instagram filters, even if they paid quite a bit more for them. Mr. Bellamy was tall and slender, his head long and his features hawkish. He appeared both wise and powerful, but if he was kind, he didn’t convey it in his expression nor his eyes. I tilted my head, looking for anything about him that might be familiar, but didn’t see so much as a similarly shaped nostril.
But I was the spitting image of my mother, from her features to her coloring, to the shape of her body. I was glad of it because to me, she’d been beautiful, but in this instance, it hardly helped.
When I looked back at Mrs. Bellamy, I saw that she was watching me as I stared at her husband’s likeness. She moved her gaze away and raised her pinkie finger and took a dainty sip from the delicate, floral cup before setting it down.
I offered a placid smile and raised my own cup, my pinkie bent awkwardly as I tried my best to mimic the older woman’s mannerisms, the scalding liquid causing me to slurp and sputter, the cup clattering back to the saucer as I sucked my burnt lip into my mouth. Ouch.
Faith’s thigh bumped mine as Mrs. Bellamy looked down her nose at me. “You look familiar, Ms. Castle. Have we met?”
I shook my head. “I can’t imagine where we would have, Mrs. Bellamy. I only arrived in town two days ago.”
She made a distracted clicking sound. “Well, in any case, I was delighted to hear that we have an art appraiser in town. Our attic is full to the brim of furniture and art from decades past. The first Bellamys arrived on the Mayflower, you know.”
Faith hummed, and I made what I hoped were the appropriate sounds of being highly interested and deeply impressed. “I’m excited to be expanding my business, Mrs. Bellamy,” Faith said. “And so pleased that I can offer even more services to the fine clientele of Calliope. My mission, of course, is highlighting up-and-coming New England artists. But when Aurora contacted me looking to relocate, I loved the idea of offering appraisals, so I’m hopeful things will work out.”
“Yes, excellent. Expansion and business diversification is sound business. I imagine you’ll have your fair share of work considering the history of the families in this town.” The older woman took another dainty sip of tea. I wondered how she wasn’t burning her own mouth. There must be some special technique taught in private schools.
I tapped my foot, already bored silly by this idle chitchat. My gaze slid to the canvas bag by the door that Mrs. Bellamy had had several pieces of art packed up in for us to “appraise.” I did feel sort of bad about the fact that my “appraisals” were going to be limited at best. I’d do some internet research and see what I could find on each piece, but for all I knew, I’d miss the fact that one of these paintings was a priceless masterpiece.
Not that these people needed the money.
Set your guilt aside, Rory. You deserve to know where you came from. And if one of these men chose to abandon you…well, he owes you an explanation at the very least.
I heard the distant ringing of the front door chime just as a little black furball in a plaid sweater came trotting into the room and I sucked in a breath, bending over and extending my hand as I called to the little fellow. He ran directly to me and I scooped him up in my arms and placed him on my lap. “Well, hello. Aren’t you a cutie? What’s your name?”
“Bartholomew!” Mrs. Bellamy scolded. “You bad dog. Scat now. Where’s Marta?” She looked over her shoulder. “Marta!”
The front door chimed again. “Oh, it’s okay,” I said, scratching Bartholomew under his chin as he looked up at me. I could see by his white chin whiskers that he was an elderly dog. “You’re a proper gentleman, aren’t you?”
He yapped once in response.
“Oh goodness. He’s been in a mood since his nanny went on maternity leave,” Mrs. Bellamy said before she called for this Marta again. “Where is she?” Mrs. Bellamy murmured. “Bartholomew!” She snapped at him and then pointed at the floor next to her. He looked over his shoulder at her and then jumped from my lap, his head held high as he walked over to her and lay down on the carpet, crossing his paws regally. “Marta simply doesn’t have the time to cater to him. I think he misses his walks,” she said.
Bartholomew had a nanny? “If you need someone to walk him, I’d be happy to,” I said.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t ask that of you, dear,” Mrs. Bellamy said. “You’re here to work at the gallery.”
“Yes, but I love animals. I left my own dogs with a family member and I miss them already. I’ve been walking Faith’s dog, Coco, in the mornings to get some exercise—I’d be happy to include Bartholomew. I could come by tomorrow morning at seven?”
“If you’d like to, you’re certainly more than welcome,” Mrs. Bellamy said. “Marta has a dog too if you’d like to take her along.”
“Oh, I’d love that.”
“Very well. I’ll have Marta have their leashes ready.”
“Thank you,” I said, my face breaking into a smile. I shot Bartholomew a wink and I swore that little dog rolled his eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bellamy. There was a situation in the kitchen,” the woman who rushed into the room said, her hair in slight disarray.
“That’s all right, Marta. Please answer the door and then come collect Bartholomew.”
“I just answered the door but there’s no one there,” Marta said as she smoothed her hair quickly. “They must have left.”
