by Sandra Byrd
At the top of the stairway, Rossetti unlocked a door. The room was dark; the roof had been partially replaced with window glass, so on a bright day the sun could stream in from all angles. This night, though, the glass was smothered with drifts of snow, and the only light came from the dim lamps which sputtered even as Rossetti tried to raise the light level.
The room was filled with paintings on easels, some nearly complete, some skeletal sketches. In the corner, an unfinished painting reposed, and Rossetti led me to it.
The painting was of a woman at her dressing table, long tresses of hair like endless ocean ripples spilling in front of her, caught in a comb whilst she stared into the distance. Her dressing gown slipped from shoulders as milky white as the roses behind her. He’d labeled it Lilith with a piece of paper propped against it. I looked once more at her dressing table. The pink-and-gold perfume bottle looked familiar to me. Where had I seen it before?
“The painting glows with a life of its own. I could almost enter the woman’s reverie.”
“Do you think this painting will be worth its commission?” Rossetti pressed, a tint of urgency in his voice.
“I do not doubt that this will be highly sought after. The talent is undeniable.”
On the way out of the room, I noticed a second painting which was nearly complete. “May I?” I asked.
He nodded his approval. “A Christmas Carol,” he said. “I’ve named my artistic interpretation after the sung custom, as Dickens himself did.”
“The model is not someone I recognize from your other work.”
His face flushed with pleasure. “I’m delighted that you know of my work. Her name is Miss Ellen Smith. She’s a laundress.”
I smiled and thought of my own dear Alice. In the painting, Miss Ellen Smith played a costly golden instrument.
“Thank you, Mr. Rossetti. Seeing your art is an early Christmas gift.”
He took my hand in his own and kissed the back of it. “Should you find yourself in need of a situation, I should love to paint you. That beautiful auburn hair . . .” He reached a hand up as if he were about to take one of my locks in it, and I stepped away. Still, a compliment, honestly given and graciously received, is one of life’s small, unrestricted pleasures. I was happy to have been both offerer and recipient with Mr. Rossetti.
Of a sudden, I remembered what had bothered me and returned to the painting of the lady at her dressing table. “This pink perfume bottle. It looks familiar. I do believe I have seen it before.” I knew I had. It had originally rested on her gilt dressing table and then later been stored near Lady Lydney’s porcelain pieces with a few other pieces of exquisite glass. It being a perfume bottle—like my own mother’s—and glass meant it had made an impression on me which I now recalled.
His smile cooled to wary. “It belonged to Lady Lydney.”
“Has it . . . ?” I must ask. “Has it been sold to you?”
“No, no, of course not. It was loaned to me by my friend Lord Lydney. I have already returned the item in question.”
I exhaled relief. Harry was not selling off items from the collection—at least as far as I could see.
We turned toward the doorway. Harry stood there; he’d come looking for me. By the look on his face, it was clear he’d overheard our conversation. “I believe my mother would have enjoyed seeing her items in the portrait,” he said rather pointedly. “And her perfume bottle was not a part of the collection.”
I blushed. He knew I’d been questioning him. And yet—was that not my charge? “It was kept with a few other glassworks in the pink room,” I said with assurance. “And marked on the inventory, so I was not aware that it was a personal item. But I am glad I have asked because now there is no doubt.”
Harry graciously acquiesced. His irritation melted away, and my defensiveness softened as we made our way downstairs. Dinner was served, and I did find the conversation enlightening; I was seated next to Mr. Murray Marks, who had a firm which competed, in a friendly manner, with Sheffield Brothers. He and his wife were delightful, and I thought strengthening that collegial connection could not hurt.
He was a member of the Burlington Fine Arts Club.
As we made pleasant conversation throughout the meal, my mind was teased back to the Christmas Carol painting Rossetti had shown me. After the meal, the ladies rose to make their way to the parlor for tea and the gentlemen to the smoking room. As we stood, I was delighted to find one other person in attendance whom I knew.
“Lord Audley.” How strange it was that I should be comforted by his presence—only in this unusual atmosphere.
“Miss Sheffield. I’m amused that Lord Lydney has brought you to this rather raucous gathering.”
“There are many treasures herein.” I felt the need to defend Harry whilst he spoke with someone across the room.
As soon as Audley moved away, I slipped back toward the dark stairway. This time, I did not have a lamp for light.
In a nearby corner stood the most magnificent stringed instrument. I thought I had seen it, too, in Watchfield House. Was it that very same one? If it had belonged to Harry’s family, was it a personal object, like the perfume bottle, and therefore able to be freely given? Or was it a documented part of Watchfield’s art and therefore something Harry could not give away? I was nearly certain that very piece had appeared in the Christmas Carol painting that Rossetti had shown me. I tiptoed up the staircase, turning the corner once, twice, thrice till I reached the top floor again. Unsurprisingly, the distractible Mr. Rossetti had forgotten to engage the lock when we’d left it an hour or more earlier; I opened the door.
Inside, I tried to turn the lamps on again. One sputtered on; one did not go on at all. Sometimes the gas had trouble reaching all the way to the topmost floors of houses, especially if it was in demand, as it was during the winter months.
Even in the dim light, I could make out the golden stringed instrument on the Christmas Carol portrait. It was Italian.
But so was Mr. Rossetti’s family.
I was tired, distressed, and most likely seeing familiarities among the unfamiliar; I had viewed so many treasures in the immediate weeks past that they ran together in my mind. I looked at the instrument closely. It was nothing I truly recognized; it was not from the Lydney Collection, I was certain. I nearly cried with relief. Between this truth now affirmed and locating Arthur’s treasures, I believed Harry had not been selling off pieces of his father’s art against the injunction in the will. Nothing else had been found missing! I was pleased with myself for checking, though, as I’d determined to be thorough no matter what I might find.
Suddenly I sensed someone else in the room. Had Harry followed me again? I heard a noise, a soft noise, but very definitely one which had not been present moments before.
I stood still and heard it again. I sensed it was from a far corner of the room. Should I flee? Or walk rather casually out of the room?
As I reached the door, knowing I could now flee down the stairs, I turned to stare at the corner whence the noise came.
I looked up. And up. Craned my head and looked higher. Then I laughed aloud when I saw it: an owl on its perch.
CHAPTER
Twenty
It was the middle of December, and I had about two weeks in which to make my decision. The tense feeling at the workshop and home was a direct foil to the merriment of the season. I prayed constantly about the decision I was to make, but the answer was never clear to me.
Perhaps God was not going to tell me what to do. That thought heartened me, just a little. One does not need to give detailed instructions to adults. And yet, I desperately did not want to make a mistake. The gravity of the situation was not lost on me, as I had little money to spend on Christmas festivities, gifts, or decor in anticipation of the rent and other bills due on January 1.
If I were to give the collection to Harry, once he owned it, he would be free to propose marriage and thereby provide some financial stability for myself and my famil
y, if not my firm.
If I were to give the collection to the South Kensington, it had been implied that many commissions and a heightened awareness for the firm would follow—though there had been, of course, no guarantees. Those commissions would be of financial benefit, but—honesty allowed me to admit—I should be quite proud to be the first Sheffield daughter to rescue and helm our firm, though I understood I would need a man beside me to do that.
I did not want to be responsible for its downfall, humiliation, and closure. Apparently I could do that as a woman on my own.
One day, Mr. Clarkson told me the sum he’d received for my father’s watch; it was not as much as I’d hoped for, but it would be enough to pay our debts by the end of the year, including Mr. Dodd’s invoice, which had precipitated this sale, plus a little more. In my enthusiasm, I embraced Mr. Clarkson as I would any friend. He smiled, which warmed his face and made him positively handsome, though he was always rather pale due to his coughing illness.
Mr. Clarkson and I had also sent out several enquiries regarding an Egyptian treasure for Mr. Denholm and had settled on a limestone block from a tomb, dated thousands of years earlier. Mr. Clarkson carefully wrapped the block in linen, and we then set out to deliver it.
The Denholm home in London was grand; he had purchased it from an aristocrat whose family had seen better days. Our hired carriage pulled up in front of the square and let us off. Mr. Clarkson carried the bag which, to my eyes, looked rather larger than required for the limestone. Perhaps he had wrapped it thoroughly and carefully and in many more layers of padding than would typically be required. That would be understandable. It was most valuable.
The butler led us into the parlor. Mr. Denholm was there and, surprisingly, so was his wife. Her gray hair was pulled back with sapphire hairpins which twinkled authentically, as did her necklace.
She reached out her hand toward me, and as she did, I noticed a sapphire bracelet over her white gloves; the stones were beautifully faceted and picked up the light.
“Please,” she said, “let’s have tea.”
We four sat around a beautiful table of the finest French walnut while her day maid, in white and black, served tea from a silver urn that I suspected was Russian. The room was decorated with holly and ivy, cheerfully anticipating the Christmas season.
“I like old things,” Denholm said loudly. “When your money is new, it’s important that you surround yourself with things that are ancient. Gives you credibility and gravitas.” He laughed at himself, and Mrs. Denholm smiled gently and looked at me. She understood how indelicate it was to mention money but was certainly not going to correct her husband.
“Well, don’t tarry; let’s see it.” Mr. Denholm stabbed toward the bag in which we’d brought his treasure.
“I would like Miss Sheffield to do the honors,” Mr. Clarkson said. “She was instrumental in fulfilling this commission. She both sourced and authenticated.”
How kind of him to give me credit! Perhaps it was an intent to restore confidence in my abilities with the members of the Burlington; Charlotte was working on my behalf in that area too.
I stood to speak while Mr. Clarkson unwrapped Denholm’s piece some feet away. “You’ll see that although this is limestone, it is nearly white, and not the greenish-gray we’ve come to expect. That means it was from the tomb of a more highly ranked individual. We’ve verified that the stone is correct for the time, and the inscription is written in the hieroglyphics for the era. See here?” I pointed to the sides. “It’s properly chipped. If it’s old, it’s going to be chipped. Think of the people who have touched this, Mr. Denholm. The man who quarried the stone—likely a slave who had nothing for himself, but whose efforts are held here in our hands, thousands of years later. The artisan who carved it—he does not remain, but his work does. Perhaps the widow and children touched the stone as it was laid, thinking affectionately of the man who was gone but fearing what lay ahead for them.”
Mr. Denholm touched the stone in appreciation.
I continued, “Then the hands of the discoverer. The hands of those who transported it—tempted, perhaps, to steal such a valuable object but knowing that the probability of death awaited them if they were caught.”
“Quite right.” Denholm was still caressing the stone.
“Then the hands of the man who owned it before you, and finally . . . your own hands.”
At that, he grasped the stone in both hands. “Yes. Mine now.”
He set it down, and his wife had the maid pour more tea. “My bracelet is always in the way,” Mrs. Denholm said as she lifted her teacup.
“Your jewelry is lovely,” I commented, now she introduced the topic.
“It’s medieval.” She smiled proudly and touched the bracelet. “Edwin procured it for me.”
I peered into my teacup and steadied myself. “How generous of him.”
I looked at Denholm, who beamed.
I looked at Clarkson, who blinked a warning to me.
The bracelet could not possibly be medieval. Stones from that era remained more typically rounded; they only began to be faceted in the style of her stones within the previous hundred or so years. It was possible that the bracelet was real but more contemporary. It was also possible that it was a fraud.
Clarkson stared intently at me. I remembered the words my uncle had spoken to me. “Truth is not always a welcome houseguest. Many are willing to ignore a weak or missing provenance to own the notables their peers crave.”
Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Denholm knew that the bracelet was not real and would not appreciate my making them aware that I knew too. I did not know.
Mr. Clarkson and Mr. Denholm took a short parade around the room to review a recent acquisition; I spoke with Mrs. Denholm, as women will, about charitable causes, as she led me through her home.
“I do so enjoy my time visiting with the women in the prison,” I said.
She looked surprised. “Enjoy?”
I smiled. “Some are not so very different from you and me, except, perhaps, they have started out planted in soil which was rockier and then made decisions which are difficult for the poor, but not always the well-to-do, to overcome.”
“I would like to feel more useful,” she said. “I shall make enquiries with the committee.”
Soon, we stood and said our good-byes. I overheard Mr. Denholm saying something to Mr. Clarkson about a second Egyptian piece. Apparently Mr. Clarkson had split the commission for two pieces between himself and the firm. I could not blame him, but if that continued, and I was not invited to become a member of the club, it would not be for the betterment of Sheffield Brothers.
“About the bracelet,” I said to Mr. Clarkson on the way home, “should we have told her that the era was not correct? Are the stones even real?”
“They did not ask for it to be assessed.”
I shifted uncomfortably. Still, I thought she’d prefer to know.
“The commission from Denholm for the Egyptian art will cover many, if not all, of our expenses in January,” he said, trying to reassure me. He laid a hand on my arm, and I smiled but then politely moved away. Our expenses? What expenses did we have?
A counterfeit of conservators. A collusion of collectors. My father had not allowed Sheffield Brothers to operate in such a manner. I knew he would have kindly pointed out the truth.
The whole matter made me feel unclean.
The kitchen smelled of wheaten baking breads and sweet plum puddings being prepared and set aside to ripen. I’d spent a small amount of the Denholm commission on Christmas preparations, and it was well worth it. We had given Alice a little extra to stay and help Orchie in the kitchen, and it was a merry time, the three of us in our aprons. Now the expenses were caught up, I’d quietly instructed Orchie to send a food packet or two home with Alice in the weeks before Christmas.
“Here.” Alice handed back the fairy light to me. “My sister is sleeping much better now—thank you, Miss Eleanor—though she was rel
uctant to see this go. I’d like to see if I can buy something else pretty for her at the market. Would you like to come? To see the Christmas wares and such?”
I thought of Jeanette. “I’m looking for gloves. Perhaps they’ll have some there?” I certainly did not have the funds to purchase anything on the high street.
“They will, Miss Sheffield. They will.”
I’d found some silver paint from the workshop, and we were applying it to the walnuts which would be hung from the tree on Christmas Eve when we heard a knock on the door upstairs. Not everyone had Christmas trees, of course, but as my father had always tried to make things cheerful after the disappearance of my mother—and we all loved beautiful things—our family always had a small one.
“I’ll see to it,” Orchie said, and moments later she reentered the kitchen followed by a large wrap of ivy. Large as a man. Then the man behind it popped out!
“I’ve come to deliver Christmas greenery.” His eyes were bright with the winter chill.
I stood motionless, but my heart raced forward. Harry.
Uncle Lewis had heard the commotion—and no doubt had smelled the baking—and soon bungled down into the kitchen.
“Well, if it’s not Father Christmas,” he greeted Harry warmly.
Harry responded with a man-to-man smile. “Not quite Father Christmas. But if you’ll allow me to stay, I’ll be happy to help you hang the greenery around the staircases, windows, and such.”
A dubious look crossed my uncle’s face. It was unlikely that Lord Lydney, first or second, had ever participated in anything like household chores, but we did not have a manservant. “Have you hung greenery?” my uncle asked.
“No. But I’m game to try.”