Lady of a Thousand Treasures

by Sandra Byrd

  Fifteen minutes overdue. I set my cloak and my muff aside. Perspiration trickled down my arms, and I repented of having put so much coal on the burner, so I turned it down. My enthusiasm snuffed.

  Orchie looked into the room. “You all right, then?”

  I shrugged, and she left, her mouth set.

  I pulled my watch out and compared it to the time on the parlor clock. Yes, it was exact.

  When he was thirty minutes late, I turned the lamp down, the coal burner off, and returned to my room.

  He’d forgotten me. Again.

  Piece by piece, I unwrapped myself and hung the clothing with care in the wardrobe. I did not want to undo Alice’s careful work. I weighed my heart: it was real; it was chipped with wear; it was heavy. I opened the tiny drawer in my curiosity cabinet and lifted out the Adore ring. Then I returned it. I did not take off my mustard seed necklace, for it implied fidelity to and from the Lord, who, despite my questioning in pain, I still believed would prove true.

  Nearly thirty minutes later, Orchie knocked on my door. “Miss Eleanor?”

  “Yes?” I tried to force cheer into my voice, but I feared I failed.

  “Lord Lydney has arrived and conveys ’is most sincere apologies; the late hour was out of his hands. He would very much like to speak with you.”

  Of course he would.

  “Please inform the baron that I had been looking forward to accompanying him at the appointed time but am indisposed at present.”

  Silence. “You are certain? I . . . I quite like him, miss. It’s only been an hour, and I believe him.”

  “I am certain,” I replied firmly.

  “Very well, then.” She wandered down the hallway and the stairs, and I could hear her voice and then Harry’s in return before she firmly shut the door.

  The door should, perhaps, remain firmly shut.

  “Give the collection to the museum,” a voice seemed to whisper from my shoulder. But was it the angel of righteousness guiding me or the angel of iniquity offering up a cold dish of revenge?

  CHAPTER

  Eighteen

  The following morning Uncle worked with us—a rare occasion, and it should have brightened my mood to see him happily looking at silver with his inspection glass and making precise evaluations of a difficult piece.

  Yet my mood was not brightened. It felt positively funereal.

  Orchie knocked on the door about ten o’clock. “Miss Eleanor, if you don’t mind, I’d be most obliged of your presence in the house for a moment.” She looked awkwardly at Mr. Clarkson, who smiled at her in return.

  He waved in a manner of giving permission, which did not settle well with me. I wiped the glaze from my hands and followed Orchie to the house.

  Not another debt collector. Please!

  In the parlor stood a man holding a large case. “Miss Sheffield?”

  “Yes?” My voice wavered.

  “I am here at the request of Lord Lydney. If I may?” He first handed a note to me—it was sealed with Harry’s wax and seal and begged my forgiveness, then requested the opportunity to explain in person.

  I folded the note, and the man opened the case and stood it up on its side. Inside hung twelve silver pocket watches, each on a silver chain. I drew near to them and looked closely. The first was set at one o’clock, the second at two o’clock, the third at three o’clock, and so on all the way till twelve o’clock.

  “His lordship requests you select one of these, which I will return to him, as a manner of informing him of the exact time you would be willing to accompany him to ice-skate at Hyde Park today, and he reassures he will be prompt. If you decline to send a watch back, he will understand.” The man smiled and winked at me. “But I won’t. I’ll lose my commission.”

  Alice had come behind Orchie, and the two of them clapped with delight.

  “Do it, Miss Sheffield,” Alice said. “Remember all my hard work!”

  “And me, polishing the skating shoes,” Orchie added.

  I walked toward the watch seller. “I could not see an honest man be put out of his commission.”

  I lifted the watch which indicated seven o’clock and handed it to the man, who tipped his hat and hurriedly began to close his case. “Said there was something extra in it for me if I got back within an hour.”

  The three of us burst out laughing.

  I shouldn’t have been as enthusiastic as I was. Maybe it was just because Orchie and Alice were so enthusiastic for me. I needed to ask Harry about the signorina in any case, so I would go.

  Later, I dressed with care once more and plucked my white fur cap from my wardrobe. At half past six, I looked out the front window and saw Harry’s carriage waiting. I would not rush. At five minutes before seven, I heard the door open and Mrs. Orchard show him in. I could not hear what she said, but her tone was more like a birdsong than a pug’s grumble, and my heart followed suit.

  I met him in the parlor.

  “Ellie.” He glanced at Mrs. Orchard. “Er, Miss Sheffield. Please accept my apology, and I’m very thankful for your gracious willingness to visit the skating rink this evening.” He kept his language formal in front of Orchie, whom he always treated with as much respect as he’d have treated a mother, which tickled me.

  “The pleasure is mine.” I hoped I did not let on how pleased I was to be there with him, but Orchie’s eyes told me that I looked as happy as I felt.

  He took my arm and walked me to the carriage; the walk to the street was slippery with ice and packed snow.

  He instructed the driver to take us to Hyde Park and then explained, “I had planned for another couple to accompany us yesterday evening—a friend of mine and his wife. When she took suddenly ill, I was left trying to find someone else to chaperone. I could not, and then I was too late. I tried to reach your friend Mrs. Newsome for this evening but could not. I was most concerned that you would think I had not taken your situation into consideration—that you would prefer to be seen not alone with me, but in the company of a chaperone as you often are, with Mrs. Newsome. Failing to secure anyone—I admit that I do not know many ladies’ chaperones, or any, really—I hope that you are comfortable accompanying me alone?”

  I did hesitate for a moment, wondering what others should think. I was not, strictly speaking, of the class of ladies who must be chaperoned each moment, but I appreciated now that his tardiness the night before had been due to care for my reputation. “I think as we are old family friends, it will be acceptable,” I answered.

  He flinched when I called us friends. Yet for the moment, that’s what we were.

  “I’m glad our friendship can be salvaged from the difficulties of the year,” he responded quietly.

  Then I flinched. It was not what I wanted either. Perhaps it was all that remained.

  We made awkward talk until we reached the park, and I noted that his tone of voice was as gentle as ever but perhaps not as beseeching as it had been in months past.

  There were others skating, of course; it was a festive event when the rink was lit up with torches.

  Harry took my hand and led me out. “I came earlier. To make sure the ice was thick enough and firm.”

  I warmed. “What a thoughtful and protective gesture.”

  “I told you, I take care of . . . ,” he began but did not finish saying my own.

  He held my hand and kept me at arm’s length for some time as we skated side by side. Although my ankles wobbled for a moment, they soon remembered what to do.

  “Do you remember when we first came here?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I laughed. “Awkward as fawns.”

  He laughed with me. “You were never an awkward fawn. I, on the other hand . . .”

  He switched from holding my hand to linking our arms—a bit closer. He did not miss a step as he did so and steered me smoothly up the Serpentine.

  “You are not awkward in any way,” I said. “Not anymore.”

  He grinned at me as he had when I first fell i
n love with him, and I nearly stumbled.

  Best say it now, I thought, before you lose your nerve.

  “Harry, Mrs. Newsome learned something rather disturbing when we were last at Watchfield.”

  He looked intently at me. “What was that?”

  I took a deep breath, and as I blew it out, a whorl of mist curled into the coolness between us. “She’d heard that you and the signorina were married in Italy.”

  He came to a smooth stop. “Shall we take a seat?”

  I agreed, and he led us to one of the benches nearby.

  “We were not married,” he began, “but in Italy, we told people that we were. It was a chaotic time; war efforts were under way, and people did not know whom to trust and whom not to trust. Viero asked me if I could take his family treasures, his sister, and his mother out of the country till things were settled. He was in a hurry—there were people after him for his efforts too.”

  I nodded. Harry had told me so before, and I’d believed him.

  “There was no time for papers, which were not strictly required but would make it much easier to take the signorina and her mother. Under my father’s diplomatic immunity—ambassador to Austria, no less—they would travel with relative ease. So we told people we were married. But we were not.”

  My face must have reflected my misery. He continued to try to reassure me.

  “We have not been introduced in England as husband and wife. She does not travel with me. We have not entertained. We are not . . . close. There was no need to tell you because there is no charade now, in England.”

  “I’m inclined to believe you,” I said but then thought, All people want to believe what they wish to believe.

  “You must believe me.”

  I could not bring myself to say, I do. “It’s just that you were so late.” And your father insisted the reason you were late is because you preferred to stay in Austria with Francesca, till you learned he was dying and would leave stewardship of the collection in my hands. You would, of course, keep up that charade, till it was all yours once more.

  He looked down at his hands and then up at me once more. “Last year, this year, last night . . . I know. As much as I try, it always seems I’m never what the people whom I care for need me to be: Father. Brother. You.”

  A hush of snowflakes sifted over and around us, providing a gentle lace veil which encircled our intimacy.

  “I spoke with Dr. Garrett about Arthur,” I said. “She affirmed that there is but little one can do when the lungs enter a deadly spasm. Even if you’d returned with the doctor earlier, it is unlikely Arthur would have lived.”

  He looked at me wonderingly, then spoke, his voice gruff with emotion. “You asked her that, just recently, on my behalf?”

  I nodded, and he gently pulled both my hands from the muff and enveloped them in his own. “Thank you, Ellie. I rode as fast as I could. I returned with him at all possible speed.” He blinked twice, thrice. Was he blinking away tears? I had never seen him cry.

  “Be at peace.”

  He circled his finger around one of mine, the one on which he had once slipped the Adore ring. “Where . . . ?”

  “Put away. The amethyst fell out, and I could not find it.” I offered a weak excuse. “I didn’t want the other stones to fall out and be lost too.” He knew me well enough that he could guess I spoke a half truth.

  He tightened his finger around mine once more, and my hand clasped reflexively over his. He held my gaze for a moment, and I was quite light-headed. When he bent toward me, I thought he was going to kiss me, but he didn’t. “Will you attend the dinner at Rossetti’s with me tomorrow evening?” he asked. “You will not be looked down upon for not bringing a chaperone.”

  I would imagine not. Mr. Rossetti’s crowd was quite progressive.

  “I’d be delighted. I’m curious what Mr. Rossetti’s collection might contain. He’s quite notorious . . . and purchases often.”

  “I know.” He lifted me to my feet and set my muff on the bench, which surprised me. “That’s why I thought you might like to attend. You and your collections.” He lightly touched my nose. “I would like my family’s collection to remain at Watchfield—for me and especially my family. But no matter what you determine to be the fate of my family treasures, Ellie, it will not change my affections for you. Nothing ever has, and nothing ever will.”

  “Thank you,” I said softly. “I needed to hear that.”

  “But I’ve decided I must be done striving. I cannot spend my life trying to prove myself to my father, to your father . . . to you. That striving led me to make decisions which, although helpful to others, did not lead to good turns of circumstance and robbed me of my peace. I must be true to who I am and hope that is enough.”

  I nodded. This, then, was the cause of his more confident tone. He led me back to the rink, which had become more open as others had fled the snow and cold. The torches were still lit, though, casting an amber glow over the ice.

  Harry drew me near him as though we were dancing, and in some ways, it was more intimate than dancing. He could take me in his arms for an extended period and was not expected to hand me off to another partner.

  There was no music but that which played in my head. The wind picked up, and instinctively I nestled closer to him. In response, he pulled me in. Perhaps ten minutes later, I started to shiver.

  “Although I am reluctant to do so, I must return you home. It’s grown too cold.”

  His driver was ready for us and had kept a small coal brazier going so our feet would be warm.

  We said little on the way to my house, but this time, it was not due to awkwardness. Neither of us wanted to break the circle of intimacy.

  CHAPTER

  Nineteen

  Harry’s driver pulled up in front of Queen’s House, 16 Cheyne Walk, the home Mr. Rossetti had lived in for some years. Harry stepped out first and then helped me from the carriage. I wore the amber gown Marguerite had lent me and that I’d worn to the South Kensington benefit dinner. I hoped none of the others should remember it, had they been in attendance.

  As we approached the door, the distant church bells quieted but were replaced by a strange noise: a trilling caw followed by staccato cries. I looked at Harry.

  “Rossetti keeps peacocks.” He smiled wryly.

  “In his home?” I asked in wonderment.

  “During the colder months, yes.”

  I nodded. I’d heard that artists were peculiar. I’d not had a chance to meet many of them.

  Once through the door, the peculiarity continued. The foyer was a hodgepodge of cultures—Chinese lanterns set atop what appeared to be an expensive Italian leather cello case. Delicate Persian rugs overlaid with worn bearskin. Some walls were crammed with random knickknacks, others bare but for costly paintings, some of which were Rossetti’s own. Two hedgehogs in a cage looked up at me with as much astonishment as I felt looking down at them.

  I glanced at Harry, and he winked.

  Daringly, I winked back, and he blushed just a little.

  The colors Rossetti painted with were rich but always dappled with light. His subjects reclined in languor among what seemed to be easy riches—always women, always otherworldly. Harry led me to the main reception room, where Mr. Rossetti stood with one of those otherworldly-looking women.

  “Miss Eleanor Sheffield, Mr. Gabriel Dante Rossetti.”

  “Miss Sheffield.” Rossetti took my hand.

  Harry asked if he might leave my side for a moment to speak with another friend, or would I like to come with him. I preferred to speak with Mr. Rossetti, so he left me to the polite felicitations of our host.

  “How did you and Lord Lydney meet?” I opened the conversation.

  “My father and mother, as you may know, were born in Italy,” he said. “They were forced to flee because of their support for Italian national unification. Naturally, that cause remained close to my heart, and Lord Lydney and I often socialize in the same circles. We both kn
ow Garibaldi and the Vieros, of course.”

  “Stefano.”

  “And the beautiful Francesca,” Rossetti added. “Whom I’ve just met for the first time. Would that she’d let me paint her.”

  My ears tingled. “Recently? You met her recently?”

  “Yes. At Watchfield House,” he said. “It was a pleasant gathering—many British and many Italians. Good fortune for our lovely Francesca that Lydney was there to protect her. Some rather threatening men, opposed to the unification in defense of the pope, attended too. They have a long reach, even in England.” He shrugged. “Enough of Italy.” After caressing the cheek of the dark brunette by his side, he took my hand in his own. “I would like you to see some of my collection. Perhaps, then, when you understand the kind of eccentricities I most appreciate, you might keep an eye out for anything I’d enjoy?”

  Oh yes. I would love for Sheffield Brothers to undertake him as a client. But I could not shake from my mind the vision of Harry protecting Francesca.

  We walked into the room where a string quartet played and a somber young man sat at a dilapidated pianoforte. On top of it was a lamp with a Venetian glass shade of unimaginable worth. My instinct was to run to it and secure it somehow so the young man pounding on the keys didn’t cause it to tumble to the floor. Alas, I suspected that gesture would be misunderstood.

  I heard a scuffling noise at my feet and looked in amazement as a squirrel ran by.

  “Did you . . . ?” I asked Mr. Rossetti.

  “A member of the family,” he said.

  Room after room held beautifully painted panels, Russian Orthodox icons, and especially, given the Italian birthplace of Rossetti’s parents, Roman and Venetian works in porcelain, paint, and pottery.

  “This is all truly beautiful. If I find an appropriately named madness of marmots, I shall immediately know with whom they should be settled,” I teased. “But where are your paintings, Mr. Rossetti? I am most eager to see them close up, having admired your talent from afar.”

  He laughed. “Come, Miss Sheffield. I will show you something not many in the house have seen.” We went up a dark stairwell, guided by his small lamp, and as we ascended, I heard peacocks screaming on the lower level while music entirely too somber for a gentle evening with friends played on the first floor. Rossetti led the way, pulling me behind him. Was it quite safe to follow him, alone?