Lady of a Thousand Treasures

by Sandra Byrd

  “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” I had hoped to win his confidence with my honesty; instead, had I alienated him with my pride?

  Lord Parham did not answer. As I turned away from him, I saw the dark shadow of a figure move quickly away from the door.

  I straightened my dress and walked out of the library; the guests were leaving, and Mr. Clarkson glanced up at me nervously. My legs felt about to buckle, and my face burned with the curse of the fair-skinned. I wished for nothing more than the privacy to have a good cry.

  “I shall see you tomorrow,” Mr. Clarkson said to me. Had his voice grown cool?

  When I returned home, I went quickly to my room; Orchie was already abed. I closed my door and, after undressing, pulled the coverlet over my head and cried until my nose was blocked. I repented. I rolled this way and that and wished I had kept my fairy light to soothe me to sleep.

  The next morning, Mr. Clarkson was in the workshop before I was. Uncle Lewis was present too. I was to have a dressing-down.

  Mr. Clarkson did not begin with any preliminary niceties. “The worst thing you can do, Miss Sheffield, is to let them know they’ve made an error and have them publicly shamed.”

  “I said nothing in public!” I protested, shocked by his presumptuous tone. “There were but the two of us in the room.” I dismissed, willfully, the shadow waiting outside the door. How had Mr. Clarkson even learned of the conversation?

  He sighed and spoke more softly. “I apologize for my tone, Miss Sheffield. It was uncalled for but came completely out of concern for the firm. Lord Parham came to speak with me and asked that we, your uncle and I, rein you in somehow. Said you’d made a mistake in pointing out something amiss in one of his statuaries. Could you . . . could you have made a mistake? As you did with the coins?”

  “What mistake with the coins?” Uncle Lewis blustered back to life, his tone matching Clarkson’s earlier one.

  “I shall explain later. I do not think this time, the urn, was a mistake. I’m certain it was not.”

  “Were you certain about the coin for Mr. Herberts?” Clarkson asked, more subdued.

  “Please, Mr. Clarkson. You yourself said my error was an anomaly. I was distracted.”

  Uncle pressed on as if he had not heard us. “They’ll never forgive you if they think you’ve let on they have false pieces in their collection. It brings their eye, their judgment, and their taste into question. Never embarrass a rich man. Once anyone has shown acceptance of an item later found to be a fraud, it calls their entire ensemble into question, something they will never allow. Most are not as wise as they think they are and do not appreciate that being pointed out.

  “You’ve made, perhaps, a fatal mistake, m’dear,” Uncle Lewis said sorrowfully. “As Sophocles put it, no one loves the messenger who brings bad news. I should have explained all this more clearly. To my great regret, I did not.”

  I didn’t share with them Lord Parham’s warning to me last night. “I do not think many will do business with those they may learn are indiscreet.”

  “No one knows but the three of us and Lord Parham,” I said. “Are you saying that if I find something which is counterfeit, I should lie to protect delicate elites?”

  “If directly asked, answer honestly,” my uncle replied. “Sell honestly, advise honestly, collect honestly. But don’t go looking for trouble, offering bad news unsolicited. Unfortunately, the truth is not always a welcome houseguest. Many are willing to ignore a weak or missing provenance to own the notables their peers crave.”

  I nodded. That was true. Looters, thieves, the rich and covetous—the world was populated with them. There were also those who collected out of love, appreciation, and the desire to tell a story about themselves and others through their things. The difficulty, then, was in determining who was honest and who was not. What and who were true, and which were forgeries.

  My confidence was shaken and I called my own judgment into question too. To where had my self-sufficiency fled?

  “Donate the Lydney Collection to the South Kensington, claiming your decision was made due to the inspiration of the members of the Burlington,” Clarkson implored. “Marry and have sons to carry on the work of the firm. If you have any questions about an object, bring it to me directly. I applaud you for doing so with the coins, and if I find there to be any irregularities, I shall determine what to do.”

  I looked up in shock. Was Mr. Clarkson now asserting authority over our family firm—and me? And proposing himself, in a roundabout manner, for marriage?

  CHAPTER

  Eleven

  On Sunday, Uncle Lewis made a special effort to ready himself to go to church with me. I should have been glad of his company, but I did not feel like attending that day. I struggled mightily with all that was in front of and behind me, and I did not sense the Lord’s guiding hand or encouraging word.

  We took a carriage to St George’s; Uncle could not, of course, walk the distance. It was a dark day, wet and weary. The city smelled of stewing leaves which had not been swept up and whisked away, and the heavy dusk of coal hung in the air like a funeral veil. As we traveled, I reminded the Lord of his promise, given in the book of Saint James: “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.”

  I’m asking, dearest Lord. Why won’t you answer?

  The church was a marvel, majestic gray stone with a roof hefted by Corinthian columns. Inside, the many clear windows captured whatever light nature allowed and funneled it into the sanctuary, where it shone, ethereally, upon those gathered to worship. We sat near the back, as it was not as far for Uncle to walk. Once in our pew, Uncle closed the door behind us as I settled myself.

  Preparation of the heart.

  Prayer of penitence.

  Scripture reading.

  Creed.

  I recited them all by rote. The words should have been a blessing to my heart, but that heart was so heavy. What I needed most was a personal touch, a reassurance from God himself that I was not alone and that all would be well.

  Lord! I’m here, and I need you, my heart cried. Are you here?

  More silence. Perhaps, like my mother, he’d fled to those with better promise.

  I closed my eyes and saw Papa taking my hand in his one luncheon after church, weeks after Mama had left us.

  “There’s no need to refuse to speak to God on difficult matters,” he’d said. “It’s not as if he doesn’t know what you’re thinking.”

  Very well then. Are you true, God? Brass or gold? As a girl, I’d learned about pia fraus, a pious fraud. In the name of science or faith, a claim would be made that could not be backed up. The claimant believed that passing on the faith was so important to the recipients that it mattered not at all if the claim was entirely accurate. At one time, Uncle Lewis and I had cataloged and cared for famous reliquaries, small but very expensive boxes of gold and gems which were thought to have once stored a bone of a saint or a piece of the true cross. Uncle, who preferred religious antiquities to all others, had joked that if all the pieces of the true cross had been gathered, there would be more wood than could be harvested from every oak grown in England. But people touched them, and they believed, and it helped.

  “How could it help if it’s not real?” I had asked him. “And if it’s real, why is there no help?”

  “All people want to believe what they wish to believe, but we must all eventually look to believe the truth, whether or not that’s what we wished.”

  Perhaps this was also true of matters of the spirit.

  Was God loving and present? Or had I been taught a pia fraus? I dared not ask that of anyone, ever. But God, were he to prove true, must know the doubts which shadowed my soul. I touched the collar of my dress, under which rested the mustard seed which was so very, very small.

  Marguerite and I were to spend that afternoon together. I arrived and her housekeeper opened the door.

  “Eleanor.” Ma
rguerite came down the stairs. “Tea first?”

  “Yes, please.” I closed my umbrella, left it in the hallway, and followed her into a cozy sitting room. I noticed that the paper was peeling, slightly, from the wall and had darkened from damp near the window. The room smelled of wet flour, the paste which held the paper to the walls. Marguerite was meticulous about appearances. She must be in dreadful straits to not repair these.

  “I’ve received an invitation from Lord Lydney,” she said. “I assume we’re going.”

  “You’re coming to help me finish the inventory?” I teased.

  “No, dearest. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to do nor the interest to learn. He’s having a social evening. He knows you would not attend without me. I suppose by winning me first, he believes I’ll deliver you on time.”

  “I’ve had the invitation, of course, but I’ve not decided if I’m attending the social events.”

  “Of course you are,” she rebuked me. “For my sake.”

  I tilted my head, took a sip of my tea, and asked, “How so?”

  “One never knows whom one might meet.”

  This was true. Marguerite did need to marry again, and Watchfield was a good place to see who might be available. As forward-thinking as I tried to be, I was a realist, too.

  We drank our tea, and I stood and looked at her wedding portrait, hanging on the wall. “Mr. Clarkson made the strangest comment the other day. He said I should be married posthaste and have children . . . and leave difficult evaluations to him.”

  She came behind me. “Was he proposing?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Are you interested?”

  I sighed and faced her. “I do not think so. Though perhaps I should be. Up until the past week or so he’s been a perfect gentleman, and I’ve enjoyed working with him. We have some common interests, and he could be considered attractive.”

  “Not every successful marriage has to be a love match.” She looked at the portrait of her late husband. Her marriage had been arranged by her parents. He had been much older than her, and while she had not been miserable, she had not been happy, either.

  “I agree. But if I am not to have a love match, I must have a trust match.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Do you trust Mr. Clarkson?”

  “I do not know.” I returned to the settee. “Mostly, I think. And yet there is something, I’m not sure what yet, that puts me off giving him my full faith. When he loses his self-control, he can speak most injuriously. And yet perhaps it is his zeal for the firm which causes those words.” I changed the topic. “Now, as for Harry’s social event . . . I do not have the necessary clothing. Nor do I have the funds to purchase anything new.” I explained to her the sorry situation of our many bills, leaving out the portion about my perhaps being thrown into debtor’s prison at the New Year. That unsavory detail would remain with me.

  “And then, the other night at the Burlington, I made a terrible mistake.” I did not cry in her presence, but I felt pressure behind my nose and eyes, so I stood by the window to cool my face.

  “I’m sorry, dearest. Will they refuse you membership?”

  “I do not know. I hope that Lady Charlotte will come to my defense.”

  She took my hand. “Let’s do something to bring good cheer. Follow me.”

  Marguerite led me upstairs to her suite of rooms. Next to her bedroom was a small dressing room with a wardrobe, mirror, dressing table, and a commode for her jewelry.

  “Remain here. Remove your dress.”

  “What?” I could not imagine what she was undertaking.

  “I shall serve as lady’s maid,” she said.

  She soon returned with a delightful amber gown, embroidered with sepia flowers, which seemed to lightly rain down the watered silk. The puffed sleeves cinched in above the elbows, and the neckline was just low enough to accommodate a drop necklace. “The bodice is darted to show off your tiny waist . . . ,” she teased.

  “Oh, Marguerite! Really.”

  She insisted I slip into it and then that I face the mirror. I gasped as I did. Was that me? The colors beautifully set off my reddish-brown hair and picked up the amber bits in my brown eyes.

  “This isn’t strictly in keeping with official mourning,” Marguerite said. “Though the good Lord Lydney does not seem to be observing strict mourning.”

  “Can you blame him?” I asked.

  “No. I cannot.”

  She brought out a plum-colored gown which was equally suited to my coloring and, with just a few tucks and stitches, would fit me perfectly. I liked it even better. “I have not seen you wear these.”

  “I sold some jewelry,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m not mourning Edwin anymore. I must move on. You may borrow these; no one has seen them yet.”

  “They are too dear. I would be worried about spilling something on them or causing a tear.”

  “They are not as dear as you think—they are not new. Hard times fall upon people of all stations. Even the privileged have steep hills to climb on occasion.”

  I fought myself, looking in the mirror. “You know I abhor this type of thing.”

  “I had no such idea. I’ve seen you polish silver much longer than anyone else would just to have it shine for your clients. I have seen you use the finest tweezers to pluck a piece of lint from a ring. I’ve smelt the oils on you as you buffed the walnut chairs given to your care. Why, then, Eleanor, do you not care for yourself in like manner?”

  “In the end, I am no one’s treasure,” I spoke softly. I do not believe she heard me.

  “Let’s go to Watchfield, dearest. I shall serve as chaperone and lady’s maid, and you shall introduce me to some wealthy old man who needs a friend and wife—a trust match. And along the way, I’d like to see my beautiful friend cared for, cherished, and shown in the best light.”

  I thought for a moment. Charlotte Schreiber, after all, dyed her hair. Alice lived in a slum but wore a stiff, white collar.

  Why not? Why not!

  “Yes, I will.” I held up one finger. “On one condition.”

  “Whatever you like.”

  I grew somber. “You introduce me to the person to whom you sold your jewelry.”

  I did not have enough for November’s rent, fast upon me. I would begin to sell my mother’s jewelry.

  CHAPTER

  Twelve

  WATCHFIELD HOUSE, OXFORDSHIRE

  Marguerite and I walked into the adjoining rooms which had been assigned to us at Watchfield House. Had Harry chosen them himself so I could be near to and comforted by a friend? I wondered when I should see him. I wondered if he was thinking the same.

  Uncle, of course, had stayed in London with Orchie to tend to him. Mr. Clarkson would join me early the following morning to finish the inventory.

  We dressed for an evening of music and games followed by a dinner; I could not imagine where the funds were coming from to pay for it all. Sir Matthew Landon had made it clear that Harry had been left no income from his father. The string musicians warmed their instruments in the distant background while Marguerite helped me into the beautiful aubergine gown. I clasped my mother’s gold-and-opal choker round my neck. It would catch the lamplight and create tiny rainbows.

  When I returned to London, I must sell it.

  “Here, then.” Marguerite pulled my hair back and up, tightening it into curls and then loosening them into waves which cascaded around my shoulders. She rubbed my cheeks for color and instructed me to bite my lips for the same.

  “Absolutely not!” I protested. But when she turned her back to get herself dressed, I furtively bit my lips. It could not hurt, after all.

  When I entered the reception room downstairs where all had gathered ahead of dinner, all eyes turned to me. This time, they were looking at me afresh. The conservator’s daughter? I was dressed as richly as any in the room. I glanced over and smiled politely at the lovely Signorina Viero and her mother. Signorina Viero smiled politely back,
but her widowed mother did not. I turned, and as I did, Harry entered the room. Although I’d believed that I was doing this for myself and not for Harry, I soon realized an unasked for but happily received reward. He gasped. Audibly.

  I nodded and then turned back to Marguerite, who grinned.

  I introduced her to people I knew. One man, a widower of perhaps forty years of age, seemed particularly enchanted with her, so I nodded my departure and went to speak with some others in the room. Dinner was served, and afterward, games.

  Charlotte would have been proud. A variety of board games had been set up around the room. As chance would have it, I found myself at the large table where Signorina Viero also sat.

  There were Greek figures of love scattered across the porcelain board, and each of us was assigned a piece. The dice were tossed, and we were to move forward or back depending on the instructions given on the square upon which we landed.

  “Discretion,” I called out. “I shall move three steps forward, which lands me at Hope.” Fitting, I thought, for such an evening.

  The man to my left landed nearby on the square marked Indiscretion. “I’m quite pleased that my wife is at another table,” he teased, and we laughed with him. Each of us made our way on the game board through the stages of Flirting, Courtship, and then toward Engagement.

  Signorina Viero took her turn and landed on a square whose romance requirement seemed rather strange.

  “Silenzio,” she said in her lovely, lilting accent. She looked at me and smiled coyly. “To remain silent.” An uncomfortable moment passed, and the game continued.

  Her mother bustled about the room, much as a hostess would. At the end of the game, Francesca joined her and seemed to signal the waiters that water and champagne should be served. She then went over to the quartet, and as I was nearby, I could hear her instructing them to play some soft music whilst the games continued but to prepare for dancing afterward.

  Even Marguerite, Harry’s reluctant champion, stared. “More hostess than guest,” she noted almost absentmindedly.