by Sandra Byrd
After a hearty dinner, we repaired to the salon to read and rest. Uncle fell asleep by the fire, and when he awoke, he asked Orchie, “When will dinner be served?”
She looked at me nervously. “You’re hungry again, then?”
“Again? You haven’t fed me yet!” he roared.
I stood. “Let’s fetch the Christmas crackers, shall we?”
Uncle nodded pleasantly, and I brought them from the foyer table, where I’d left them.
I handed Orchie’s to her first. She tugged the ends, and the cracker popped open, revealing a token good for a tin of ground drinking chocolate at a shop nearby. “Oh, what a delightful treat this is!” she said and truly did seem delighted.
My uncle tugged the ends of his cracker next, and after a little difficulty, he maneuvered it to snap open. Out fell one of the tawdry thorns in glass baubles from Glastonbury. “He can’t have thought those were true relics, antiquities . . .”
“No, I do not think so,” I said. “I believe he jests with you.”
My uncle laughed. “It’s great fun. It’s been so long since someone played a prank on me, and I quite enjoy it.” I was glad that his thoughts seemed lucid for the moment and that he could see the fun in a man-to-man jest. It honored and respected Uncle Lewis as a man, rather than offering feminine pity.
“Go on then,” Orchie said. “Crack yours open!”
I tugged the ends of mine, and as I did, a festive spray of confetti, a note, and a tiny pouch flew out. I read the note. I am who you believe me to be. I blinked back tears as I returned to our conversation over dinner at the inn.
Then I opened the pouch. In it was a beautiful amethyst, the perfect size to replace the lost one in my Adore ring.
I did not believe Uncle understood the meaning of the replacement gem, but Orchie did. With it, the ring, and perhaps my heart, would be made whole.
We said our fond good nights and I brought my jewelry repair kit from the workshop to my room, then closed and locked the door. Opening the drawer, I withdrew the Adore ring. I ran my finger over the rough hole whence the first gem had fallen and been lost. I settled the new amethyst into its spot, folded the tiny prongs down around it, and slipped the ring onto my finger for a moment before taking it off once more.
I would wear it again, but only if Harry placed it on my finger.
At my desk, I sorted through the papers that Sir Matthew, the late Lord Lydney’s solicitor, had given me. He’d charged me with learning if Harry was now trustworthy—indeed, worthy at all.
If Harry lost the collection, he would lose all his beloved Arthur’s treasures.
If he keeps the collection, he might sell all of Arthur’s treasures—and the rest.
If he lost the collection, the pelican in her piety might be stored out of eyesight forever.
He’s not even asked for it back.
Stories are powerful, but they are not all true. Which was the true story? The story that Harry’s father told everyone, including Harry himself: that he was selfish and not to be trusted? Had I believed that story? Should I have?
But his father had lied about Arthur’s collection. That much was clear.
I turned the lamp down and changed into my dressing gown.
Signorina Viero had spoken of Harry’s valor. That was true, wasn’t it?
Some valuers claimed that something of little value was quite costly. Others claimed that something of great value was worth nothing. Both deceived for their own gains. Was Lord Lydney like one of them? In the end, as Papa had taught me, I must not believe the stories people told me but rely on what I saw with my own eyes and judged with my own instincts.
Yes, Harry had been late in returning from Austria. But otherwise, and even in that, I had never seen the man prove untrue.
Yet, whispered the specter of my misgivings. Or have you?
Lord Audley, who had proved most friendly to me and who knew Harry and his circle well, had warned me, “My help comes as advice: he’ll exploit your goodwill, you know. As he always has, as his father condescended to your father. Their benevolence has never been selfless, has it, Miss Sheffield? Nor have either proved faithful, at the end.”
I’d set about to find the answers to five questions to prove Harry true. Did he care about others’ interests? His risking much for his friend Viero, and his gentle gift of Glastonbury to my uncle, would say yes.
Did he tarry in Austria longer than was required? His earnest desire to earn his father’s affections, which I had oft witnessed, and Francesca’s affirmation would say he did only what he’d felt was required.
Had he sold pieces of Arthur’s collection? Most certainly not.
Had he sold treasures to pay for his own interests? I could find no evidence of that.
The fifth question, dearest to my heart, remained unaddressed but hinted toward. Why had he not proposed marriage?
If I awarded the wealth to the South Kensington, I would curry favor with those who would help me keep my firm, and a home for myself, my uncle, and Orchie. But they would hide some of the treasures—and perhaps allow their powerful benefactors to rifle through and “trade” them.
No promise has been made by the South Kensington collectors. Nor could one have been.
It would put you on equal footing with Lady Charlotte. Perhaps I could achieve that on my own.
The plaque with the Sheffield Brothers name outside the donation will bring constant attention. This was true.
In the end, I had been charged with determining where the valuable art belonged, and I believed the pieces belonged together, on display, in the home for which they had been collected.
I believed the story about Harry that I saw with my own eyes, not the one his father had promulgated.
I quickly wrote two letters—one to Sir Matthew Landon, the solicitor, informing him of my final decision. One to Harry, thanking him for his lovely Christmas gift and apprising him that I was returning the collection to him, and had informed Sir Matthew as much.
Should I post the letters?
In the end, I could only trust myself. I could not award Harry the collection because I loved him, though indeed I did. I must give him the collection only if it was the right thing to do.
I sat and prayed and thought. Then I decided.
I dressed once more and crept out of my room into the dark household. Stood, letters clutched in my hand, and looked at the grate. The coal had dwindled to embers, hissing protest on their slow journey to death. I put on my cloak and hat and pulled up my boots. I walked down the dark, slippery way and placed the letters deep inside the green postbox before I lost my nerve.
It was irrevocable. It could not be undone.
Christmas passed, as did Boxing Day, and the following week Mr. Clarkson would be back in the workshop. Harry had written how pleased he was that I had chosen to keep the art and artifacts at Watchfield. He assured me that he would take good care of them and that he looked forward to seeing me very soon. His letter seemed enthusiastic, but had I perhaps hoped for more?
Maybe he would speak of more in person, at Twelfth Night.
There was but little to do as the season was quiet. Most of our clientele would be at their country homes or celebrating in London with family until after Twelfth Night. When Mr. Clarkson did not return to work as expected, I decided to pay him a visit, to ensure that he was well.
Marguerite accompanied me; it would be most improper for me to visit alone, something Mr. Clarkson would certainly point out.
She had first to see her parents off on the train, so by the time she arrived at my home, it was late afternoon and the sun, such that could be seen through the veil of coal mist, had already begun to wane in strength.
“Thank you for coming.”
She nodded. Her face was more drawn than I’d seen it for some time.
“Are you quite well?” I asked.
“Yes.” She took my hand. “My father introduced me to someone.”
“Well, then!” I e
xclaimed. I caught the look on her face. “It did not go well?”
“No potential for either love or trust, I’m afraid. Father said beggars cannot be choosers and that until I choose more wisely, perhaps he and Mother would forestall their visits. I’m not quite a beggar . . . not yet.”
I laid my hand over hers. “It’s difficult to make such choices.”
She nodded. “And you? You are certain about your choice?”
I shook my head. “I am not certain. But the choice has been made.” A drift of doubts wafted against my previously confident resolve.
The driver rounded the corner into a neighborhood which was on the edge of disrepute. “Have you been here before?” Marguerite asked.
“No cause to. Perhaps I should turn back?”
“No, dearest, once begun . . .”
I agreed with her, and soon we pulled up in front of a tall house whose door was as untended as the unruly child who opened it. “Whatcha want?” he asked.
“We’re here to see Mr. Clarkson,” I said politely. “Can you tell him Miss Sheffield has come to call?”
The lad sneered. “Tell him yourself. He lives upstairs.”
Marguerite and I made our way up the stairs. An older man, perhaps the lad’s father, followed us, calling out unseemly remarks.
I turned around, but the man had blocked our way down. “Perhaps Mr. Clarkson will be so good as to escort us to the waiting carriage,” I said. Marguerite nodded her agreement.
Once we reached the door at the top of the stairs, I knocked once, twice. Finally the door opened.
“Miss Sheffield! Mrs. Newsome.” Mr. Clarkson appeared flustered, and his eyes were slightly glassy. “I would not have known to expect you.”
“I had some concern for you,” I said, “when you did not appear at the workshop as expected.”
“Do come in,” he said. “I’ve been a little unwell.” The threatening man still blocked the stairway down, so we had little choice. Clarkson glared at him, and he disappeared into his own rooms on the lower floor.
Mr. Clarkson’s front room was threadbare and empty of nearly all expected furniture. Wherever he was spending his income, it was not upon creature comforts. The light was wan, and the entire room smelt of spoilt meat that had still been cooked, the camphor scent of his paregoric syrup, and the pinching musk of the chemicals which warded off moth infestations.
Mr. Clarkson coughed and could not seem to recover himself. “The damp. The coal . . .” He shrugged. “I hope you had a merry Christmas!”
“Indeed so,” I said. Marguerite hung back by the doorway, but I scanned the room. In a corner cabinet, I noticed a fine figurine. A shepherdess and a shepherd, dancing in a field with two tiny sheep between them.
Where had I seen that before?
I kept my face steady and did not allow myself to glance at it again lest he notice what I had suddenly realized. It was one of Harry’s mother’s figurines from Watchfield. A very expensive piece, indeed.
Stolen?
“Have you notified the South Kensington committee of your decision to donate?” he asked cheerfully.
I backed a bit toward Marguerite. “No. In fact—it’s just as well you know now. I have returned the collection to Lord Lydney, whom I believe to be the rightful owner.”
In an instant, Clarkson’s face transformed into a twist of red rage. “You’ve done what? You foolish, foolish woman. You have utterly ruined yourself and your firm.”
It was no longer our firm. It was my firm.
“I don’t believe . . . ,” I began, shocked by his sudden lack of decorum, especially in front of Marguerite. I’d hoped to tell him that we could continue to build upon the clients we’d always had and that he had procured, but he did not let me finish my sentence.
And yet, I should not have been shocked. He had spoken to me out of turn, surprisingly so, once or twice before. I had, perhaps, not wanted to see the seriousness behind those incidents, knowing the firm needed him still.
“Just as good a time as any to let you know, then, that I shall not be returning to Sheffield Brothers. I don’t need you anymore—I’ve plenty of clients eager to work with me now.”
“You’ve been cultivating clients outside of your work with Sheffield Brothers, using our materials, workshop, and reputation?”
“One has to look out for oneself, Miss Sheffield. It seems I was correct. Rather than the help and entrée I’d always hoped it might be, your firm’s name would now be a shackle to me. By alienating Lord Parham and giving the collection to Lydney, you’ve no chance—none—of being accepted as a member of the Burlington.”
“But Lady Charlotte Schreiber—”
“You are naive, Miss Sheffield. You shall see. You followed your misguided heart and gave those riches to a man who cares not for you because you were blinded by unwise affections. Lady Charlotte follows her husband’s lead—as she should.”
“I gave the collection to the person whom I thought deserved it, to keep it in situ where I believe it belongs. You’ll recall, Mr. Clarkson, that my father played a significant role in acquiring and caring for those pieces. I had his best interests in mind as well.”
“Your father,” he sneered. “In his cups mostly.”
I turned away to temper my retort, and as I did, I noticed a medieval chalice lightly rimmed with what appeared to be precious gems. I stared at it up and down. It looked old. Was it real? I felt I’d seen it before.
“Come, Eleanor.” Marguerite took my hand. I glanced once more at the shepherdess figurine, and this time, Clarkson saw me. He seemed emboldened, somehow. Unafraid of my recognition.
“Good day, Miss Sheffield. I’ll be watching your downfall with sad resignation.” He snatched some papers from a desktop and then threw them toward me. I bent to pick them up and saw they were invoices.
“That’s right,” he continued. “Monies owed by Sheffield Brothers to clients—just like Mr. Dodd. I had been holding them off on your behalf until the collection was donated to the South Kensington and I could negotiate on behalf of Sheffield Brothers. Now that will never happen, and you’re on your own.”
I looked down. Three invoices.
“They are outstanding debts, Miss Sheffield. Due now. Past due, actually. Who shall want to sell to you without immediate payment, which you shan’t be able to offer without a steady clientele? These people—” he pointed to the papers in my hand—“already know the situation. And others shall too. Word travels quickly.”
“You had no right to speak on behalf of the firm. Or me. Or to take our mail or receipts.”
“Could you have paid them a month ago? Last week?”
No.
“Lord Lydney will assist me.”
“Lydney?” He barked a laugh. “He is shameless and undeserving of either the collection or your affections. A thief like his father.”
His father had been a thief; that much was true. The stolen antiquities in the room above his bedchambers—I had checked the inventories, and many had never been noted—proved that. Had Clarkson seen them when he’d done the Lydney inventory without me?
“Good day, Miss Sheffield. Good luck. And good riddance.”
He closed the door behind us.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Four
TWELFTH NIGHT, JANUARY 1867
WATCHFIELD HOUSE, OXFORDSHIRE
By sheer force of will, I held the disturbing knowledge that I would have to contact new creditors very soon. The beastly threat of debtor’s prison had been quickened and fed, but I must put that aside during our time at Watchfield. If I were to be affianced, I would, perhaps, be able to hold the creditors off longer because they’d know my solid standing and that I’d have connections to highborn clientele.
“Harry’s kept the tradition,” Marguerite said as we approached the front door. Indeed, he had. Or his new housekeeper had—he’d mentioned in the telegram he’d sent with specifics to the weekend that he’d hired new household staff. None remained, n
ow, from his father’s era. Erased, excised, and dismissed.
I read but did not trace the writing on the wide, dark oak double doors—18 † C † M † B † 67—not wanting to remove the chalk with which it had been drawn. “Eighteen sixty-seven,” I said. “Christus mansionem benedicat; may Christ bless this house.”
Yes, please, may God bless this house in 1867 and beyond in a measure in which it has not ever been blessed.
Harry’s new man must have seen our carriage arrive because he soon opened the door without our needing to knock.
“Miss Eleanor Sheffield,” I said and then indicated Marguerite. “And Mrs. Marguerite Newsome.”
He showed us into the house, assigning a footman to direct us to our rooms.
“Harry has engaged rather more staff than his father had,” Marguerite said to me quietly as we followed the footman up the wide staircase. I had been thinking the very same; the house had been cleaned and polished throughout, which was no simple task given the miles of woodwork.
Marguerite’s room was next to mine. “I shall take a brief rest and then help you ready yourself for dinner later?” she asked. She had circles under her eyes; perhaps it was simply that she’d grown thin. Also, I did not think she had fully recovered from the punitive silence her father held toward her when she did not agree to his whims. I squeezed her hand and agreed.
I changed out of my traveling dress and then took the keys to the house—which I had not yet returned to Harry—with me.
I made my way along a corridor to the study. Next to it was the large room, at the back of the property, in which Lady Lydney’s porcelains had been stored and displayed.
I walked to the case where I expected the shepherdess figurine would be missing. But it was not! Mr. Clarkson had already returned it. How? When?