Free Goldsmith's Row by Sheila Bishop Page B

young man who had been so much in command of the situation yesterday.
    Inside Laurence's room there were various bumps and bangs   as   though   he   was   hunting   rapidly   and   clumsily through his baggage for something he couldn't find. A hard object dropped and rolled across the floor; then there was a sound of cracking and an exclamation, almost a groan of despair.
    Philadelphia tapped on the door and went in, without waiting for an answer.
    Laurence's stuff had been strewn about the place, and he had apparently been tipping up the cloak-bags and letting their contents fall out on the bed, using only one hand and distributing a good many items on the floor—that accounted for the cracking sound, he had trodden on the ivory box that held his paint-brushes.
    "I wondered if there was anything wrong," began Philadelphia. "Oh—your hand!"
    "I've got some ointment to put on it, at least I thought I had, but I don't seem able to find it among all this clutter." He gazed around him distractedly.
    "We have an excellent remedy for burns; I'll fetch that."
    "What happened?" she enquired presently, weaving a neat white parcel round his hand, as though it was a newly-swaddled infant. "Did you pick up the poker by the wrong end?"
    "Something just as elementary."
    When he told her about it, she was indignant. "But that's barbarous! And you mean to say that young children are subjected to such pain…"
    "Not as a rule. The metal handle is heated enough to sting a little. Unluckily those young monkeys were too thorough."
    "I hope you mean to make matters hot for them in return."
    "And make myself more unpopular than I am already?" he said rather bitterly. • "No sense in that. I don't think they meant to hurt me, and I wouldn't care except that it's the hand I work with."
    If he was unpopular, it was largely his own fault, he had not tried to be conciliating. All the same, Philadelphia did feel a little sorry for him. Seeing his belongings at close quarters she noticed that although he had several very fine doublets and outer garments, his shirts were worn thin with washing and patching, and his other possessions were rather meager. She thought that perhaps he had found it a hard struggle to make a living these last few years.
    There was a stack of papers on the edge of the dressing-chest, and she could see that they were drawings done with a fine brush, not much more than outlines: A girl pinched into a tight stomacher, a child holding a cat, a spray of roses…
    "Are those your little pictures?"
    "Sketches, merely. For proper limning you use parchment; then it's stuck on a playing-card and given a mount that's been specially made to suit the picture. This is the only one I have by me at present."
    He unwrapped a silk kerchief. Inside it lay a gold chain with a circular disc displaying the well-known device of a phoenix rising from the flames. The design was worked in colored enamels, enriched with rubies and diamonds. When it was reversed, the pendant turned out to be a locket containing the portrait of a young man in riding-dress crisply painted in minute detail. Above his head there was a shield with the inscription: "W.B. 1589 aet. 26" and a hand holding a flaming torch.
    Philadelphia exclaimed with delight. She had not imagined that a miniature could be such a complete and perfect work of art, and she was impressed by Laurence's skill.
    "Who is the man in the picture?"
    "Walter Brand, a young English gentleman I met on the Continent. He left before the picture was framed, so I promised to bring it home for him. My dear Mrs. Whitethorn, whatever are you doing now?"
    "Picking up some of the things you dropped. No, don't complain. It's difficult for you to manage with one arm, and you must know I am your aunt's housekeeper, I'm sure this is one of my duties."
    She was still arranging the room, with a brisk composure, when Joel arrived, belatedly. He was surprised to find Philadelphia in Laurence's bedchamber, but