by Sandra Byrd
“It’s in here somewhere,” he said. “I shall locate it. But may I ask why?”
“I’ll have to return to the house for a final accounting.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “You’ll want to let the museum know what they’ll be receiving, and the value.”
I looked at him intently. The pinched smell of the glaze made me a bit dizzy. “I haven’t decided to give it to the museum.”
Now he stared. “But certainly, after the way the new baron treated you during his long and unexplained absence . . . When you had me go in your stead, I felt you’d led me to believe . . .”
I had not led him to believe anything. “I’d like to compare what you found then to what is there now. The solicitor indicated . . .” I let my voice trail off. Suddenly I did not want to be forthright with Mr. Clarkson.
“Yes. Yes. If anything has been liquidated. I quite understand. Let me come with you. We can work side by side. There are so many things to account for.”
It was a good idea, and I nodded my assent. “Perhaps next month. Soon.”
He set down his piece of china and came nearer to me and smiled. “I’ve been told that the Burlington Fine Arts Club is now accepting discreet enquiries about women members. I’ve been angling for an invitation myself, and now there is hope that we both may join.”
“Truly?” The Burlington, made up mostly of gentlemen collectors, was well-known not only nearby but throughout London. Their members had the largest, richest collections and shared information and conservators. It would be a great boon for the future of Sheffield Brothers if we were to be invited. “I’m delighted!” I allowed a thought which had teased at the back of my mind to present itself fully. Perhaps I could run the firm even without Uncle’s assistance if the time comes.
“I’m delighted that you are delighted. Mr. Herberts is to visit next week and bring by a piece he’d like me to clean, then offer us a commission to source medieval silver. I thought you might like to meet him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clarkson. I would indeed.”
He dug around in the cabinets for a while and finally located the last inventory done at Watchfield House. I was about to ask him about the newly repaired mantel clock, but he spoke first.
“One favor.” He handed over the file. “As this is my work, if you have any questions, will you ask me directly?”
I smiled. “Mr. Clarkson, I appreciate your talents and concern more than I can express. But I am capable of reviewing the notes for my own firm’s commission and am unwilling to relinquish that responsibility to anyone not family.”
He smiled and seemed to understand. I bid him good night and kept my counsel about the clock.
I returned to my room and looked at Lord Lydney’s letter once more. To ascertain if Harry was worthy, I must learn if his father’s assumptions were wrong or right. Perhaps Harry was the man I hoped—wished, desired—him to be. Perhaps he was the man his father claimed he was. Which of us was the better valuer?
To make a determination, there were three questions I must resolve.
Had Harry tarried in Austria for his own pleasure and desires, as his father asserted, or was he there to serve his father at the end of his life, as Harry insisted?
Had Harry been selling his father’s valuables? He did not own them, after all, so they’d not been his to sell.
Was Harry selfish—only tending to his own interests?
I opened the small drawer and lifted out the Adore ring Harry had given me at a time when I’d thought our love was secure.
I closed my eyes, recalling.
The summerhouse was warm enough to make us heave out our breath, and it was but minutes before I would return to London with Papa.
“I must go quickly! It won’t do us any good to have Papa find me in here with you . . . alone.”
“He won’t care about that soon,” Harry said.
I tilted my head. That could mean only one thing.
He opened a small velvet pouch and slipped his finger inside. When he withdrew it, something glistened in the summer sun, balanced on his fingertip. He plucked it off. “Amethyst. Diamond. Opal. Ruby. Emerald. The first letter of each gem spells adore. I adore you, Ellie. I shall be back home very soon. Within weeks.”
As he bent to kiss me, we heard my father’s voice calling, “Eleanor!”
I caught my breath and he his, and though we both wanted to lean in toward one another, we did not.
He slipped the ring on my finger. “Wear it if you dare.”
I opened my eyes, in my room once more. After Harry had given the ring to me, he left for the Italian Peninsula, and it took so long for him to return that I pulled it off and hid it away. Before he left for Italy again, he’d asked me to wear it once more, though nothing was formally arranged. I’d looked at him quizzically, and he must have known I was wondering, Will you propose?
“Not yet,” he’d said. “There are a few more things I must do.” I had put the ring back on, then.
Now there were but four stones, and where the amethyst should be there was a gaping hole, like the one in my heart. There would be a fourth question I must answer before determining whether Harry was honorable and trustworthy.
Why hadn’t he proposed marriage to me?
CHAPTER
Four
On the Tuesday of Mr. Herberts’s visit, I dressed carefully in one of my better dresses, something I had not taken care to do for many months. I’d sorted through my bootlaces looking for a matching pair, and Orchie finally handed me a dozen of them, in various states of threadbare.
“Thank you, Orchie.”
“Important visitor? Mr. Clarkson said it might be better to keep your uncle, erm, occupied and such.”
There was no telling what Uncle Lewis might come out with. I nodded my agreement. “Yes. Mr. Clarkson and I hope this visitor will be so pleased that he will extend an invitation to us both to visit the Burlington Fine Arts Club.”
She nodded and left me to finish dressing.
Mr. Herberts arrived punctually at half past nine.
“Mr. Herberts.” Mr. Clarkson’s voice was a practiced instrument. “We are delighted to welcome you to our little shop.”
I prickled a bit at Clarkson’s use of the possessive our, but he did work for the firm, after all.
“May I introduce you to Miss Sheffield?”
Mr. Herberts smiled tightly, took my hand, and after a stiff bow, kissed the back of my glove. “Heiress presumptive of the firm. How do you do?”
It was not the best manners to speak of my uncle as though he were nearly dead. “How do you do?” I responded. “May I offer you some refreshment?”
“No, my dear,” he said. “I’m a busy man with a full day ahead, although I appreciate that it’s always a woman’s inclination to serve. I’m here about silver.”
I held on to the retort which first presented itself. “Mr. Clarkson said you were interested in medieval silver? Is there a certain piece or style or any other specific you are interested in?”
His mouth pursed. “Anything authentic, Miss Sheffield.”
“You’re right to be concerned about authenticity.” Autumn rain beaded the windows, trailing down the glass. A sister strand of perspiration trailed down my spine, blessedly hidden by my dress. I somehow knew this was a test.
Mr. Clarkson wiped his brow.
“May I suggest coins?” I asked.
At that, Mr. Herberts looked up. “I’d expected a woman to suggest a pitcher or jewelry or something pretty and perhaps frivolous.”
That was just what I’d needed to starch my resolve. “I can certainly look for a pitcher, if you prefer,” I said sweetly.
“No, no.” His ears pinked and that gave me strength.
“Fraudulent coins of that era are difficult to pass by an experienced evaluator,” I began. “They were standardized, and the details of the mint, and sometimes the moneyer, are well-known.” I picked up a small silk pouch I had brought with me that morning, p
lucked from deep within my father’s curiosity cabinet.
I opened it, then sifted through the contents. A tithe of coins.
I plucked out one. “This is a later era, of course, but still interesting. I was delighted when I learned that monarchs, on coins, always face in the opposite direction from their predecessor. It started, my father taught me, when Charles the Second wanted to turn his back on Cromwell—and so he did, on a coin, for all to see.”
Mr. Herberts took the coin in his hand and smiled. “Happily, our queen looks good with a left-facing profile.”
I smiled. “Indeed she does.”
I peered back into the pouch, fished out another coin, and handed it to Mr. Herberts. “I’ve learned that the story behind the item is as important as the item itself. Everyone loves a good story; isn’t that true?”
He held the silver coin in his hand, gazing acquisitively at the faint impression. “King . . .”
“Edward the Third,” I supplied helpfully. “His visage barely able to be discerned, because you can imagine the hands this coin has passed through over five hundred years. First owned by a rich man, perhaps, paying the wages of his servants, barely missing this one low-value coin. The servant, however, cherished it and took it in hand to pay for the wool his wife must use to make winter garments. The wool seller gambled it away, though he could scarce risk losing it. And finally—” I pointed out the bend at the edge of the coin—“the hand of a pilgrim. Perhaps someone who felt badly for winning the gamble.”
He turned the coin over in his hand, seemingly enchanted by my tale. “A pilgrim?”
I nodded. “When our medieval forebears undertook a pilgrimage, they would hold themselves to honest account and intentions by bending the coin to be offered. Everyone knew that bend made the coin unusable in the secular realm. The coin, intended for the abbey or shrine, must now be given to them, where it could be used for holy purposes.”
He looked at me, and I saw a bit of unwilling admiration come into his face. “Yes, Miss Sheffield, you are certainly correct. The story enriches the item immeasurably. Do, please, source some medieval coins for me. Holy ones, if possible.”
“Gladly.” I let my breath out slowly and not in the telling sigh in which it wished to escape.
“I want a dozen. I’d like you, personally, to source these coins.”
Mr. Clarkson’s face spotted red. He, after all, had cultivated the relationship with Mr. Herberts.
Nothing had been said about the Fine Arts Club. I tried a new tactic. “Perhaps you’d settle for eleven? You may keep the one in your hand. A gift from Sheffield Brothers.”
“Truly?”
“Truly,” I replied. “With our compliments.” I nodded toward Mr. Clarkson to include him in the gift, and he smiled.
By Friday, an invitation had arrived for me to visit the next meeting of the Burlington Fine Arts Club, to be held at Lord Audley’s London house.
Lord Audley, issuer of the cryptic warning at Watchfield House.
There was no invitation for Mr. Clarkson.
The carriage wheels threw muck and pebbles, slipping now and again on the rain-slicked roads as we careened through nighttime London. I wondered, briefly, what illness had plagued my uncle that day, as he’d kept to his room, and what I should do if he could no longer work.
If our commissions continued to dwindle, I could not take on work as a governess or a companion, for who would then care for the uncle who had cared so well for me after my father’s death?
I arrived at Lord Audley’s spacious town house in Mayfair; his butler opened the door. I stood there in the cold, bag in hand, smiling politely, whilst he looked around for a husband.
“I am alone,” I offered. “Miss Eleanor Sheffield.” I passed my reticule from one moist hand to the other and back again, awaiting his response.
“Of course.” A censure of grimaces.
He showed me into an expansive reception room lined with what seemed like acres of well-polished oak cabinetry, all lit with lamps and filled with treasures. Lord Audley caught my eye, and though his earlier manner had been aloof, he was a perfect host and came to greet me.
“Miss Sheffield, I’m delighted you could attend.”
“Thank you, Lord Audley. I must admit to some surprise at having been invited, though I am pleased, of course.”
Audley nodded toward Mr. Herberts, standing some feet away. “Herberts insisted, and I wouldn’t have said no even if he had not. I thought it good you might meet some of the men—and a few women—who make purchases and offer donations for the South Kensington and other museums as well as purchase for their own extensive collections.”
Was that an implicit offer? I looked at him, and he smiled. I believed that it was.
The South Kensington, I knew, had grown out of the Great Exhibition our queen’s beloved Prince Albert had sponsored some fifteen years earlier. Over the years, the museum had determined to show a complete history of art, including both fine and decorative arts, and that mission required the acquisitions of thousands of items. Perhaps the queen felt that this would be one of her many lasting monuments to her departed husband? Whatever the case, it had her blessing and had fueled further interest in collecting, both for the museum and for individuals among the newly wealthy.
This had been a benefit to Sheffield Brothers for as long as my father had been alive.
“That’s very kind of you. May I ask a question?”
His smile dropped. “Of course,” he said guardedly.
“You’d mentioned, at the funeral for Lord Lydney, that we had met. I’m so sorry to say I do not recall having made your acquaintance.”
“Before my father came into his new title, allowing me to take the Audley title, I was known simply as James Remington.”
I knew my eyes opened a bit wider. “Remington.” Yes. He and Harry had been friends at school but had a falling-out over something. I had met him at Watchfield House. He’d ridden one of Harry’s horses particularly hard, and they’d had a row about horses.
“I’ve reformed,” he said as if reading my mind. He was, perhaps, reading my face. “I mean to do well by you, Miss Sheffield, which is why you are here tonight. Come.” He smiled in a friendly, but not overly personal, manner. “I would like to make some introductions.”
I followed Lord Audley around the corner into another room, upon whose walls hung beautiful and costly paintings and in whose corners stood breathtaking marble statuary seemingly made of stone quarried from the moon but that was, rather, luminescent Italian marble.
He introduced me to a tipsy shipbuilder, a pleasant tobacco merchant, a wealthy hackney man—one of whose carriages I might have traveled in just an hour earlier—and a sperm whale oil seller who seemed to me to be as slick as his product. All men. All collectors who might offer commissions. All craving the respectability which had, previously, only been available to the titled but might now be purchased by the pound.
Each greeted me politely but perhaps disinterestedly. I was beginning to despair of ever finding a place among them when I turned and heard pretty laughter coming from a far corner of the room.
Audley himself smiled. “Lady Charlotte Schreiber,” he said. “Someone of whom I—all of us—think highly. She’s a collector in her own right and quite wise. I have commissioned her several times. I suspect she will be happy to meet you.”
He had commissioned a woman to make purchases on his behalf!
He led me to her and made the introductions, then said, “If you’ll excuse me, I must tend to my other guests. I look forward to your thoughts and comments after my presentation.”
As he left, Lady Charlotte turned toward me. “I knew your late father.”
“I miss him greatly.”
“I understand that your uncle is not entirely well. Troubling news.” Her voice had both a tremor of concern and the note of gravitas which recognized the difficulties my firm would be in should Uncle Lewis pass away or, more likely, be incapacitated, needin
g continued care.
“My uncle is still working.” When work is to be had.
“Come.” She took my arm. “Let’s view some of the cases together. There has been another woman or two at the meetings from time to time, but it seems it is just we two this night.”
My fingers tingled. “I’m delighted to learn that other women have been admitted,” I said.
“The Burlington was formed to both admire and educate, and its members consider themselves quite progressive.”
Would that I be among them. I’d seen other conservators and members of firms often commissioned to make purchases for the well-to-do among the crowd this evening—some who had worked with my father, but who’d left when he died. It was, as has always been, as much whom you knew as what you knew. Perhaps I could make a convincing case for the latter if I was often enough among the former.
As we walked, I knew I was supposed to be looking at the items so beautifully displayed in the cases, but I could not help staring at the striking pendant hanging from Lady Charlotte’s waist but nestled in her dress. The front depicted a scene of summer, green glass or jewels along with multicolored flowered ones.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes. I suppose winter is on the hidden side?”
She laughed. “Yes, Miss Sheffield, you are correct—and perhaps the only person who has ever commented on it who would know that there must be a second, equally decorative side to a pendant.”
I beamed. “They are made to swing freely, though our current fashions keep them from so doing.”
“They are.” She led me to a duet of chairs in a far corner where we could sit and talk more comfortably. She fanned herself, and as she did, it lifted her hair slightly from her forehead. Odd gray hair roots hid among the black. She dyed her hair! Was there no end to her daring behavior? I felt, instantly, that we should become friends.
If only she felt the same.