I’m tempted to retreat to my tree, but I turn back. Maybe he can answer a question before he banishes me. “The chair in the drawing room. The one with the floral pattern. Do you know how I can find out who purchased the original?”
Aunt would suggest that his scowl might freeze in place if he continues to make that face at me. “No. Maybe you should Google it.”
What does that mean?
I close my eyes as he strides away, leaving me feeling like a fish out of water. Or a girl out of time. I imagine a normal morning in my own life. The carriages passing the front of the house. Aunt getting ready to have a bite to eat in the breakfast room before she heads out to make social calls to the neighboring cottages. The morning after a ball, the rest of the house would be sleeping in, but the kitchen staff would have meals ready for anyone who decided they needed food. Colette would be being Colette somewhere. But I also remember the freedoms I don’t have in my own time, and it gives me pause.
“Hannah. Are you okay?”
When I open my eyes, Florence is standing in front of me. Her white hair is perfectly coiffed, and her suit is yellow today. I’m still wearing the pink cotton pants and the shirt I’ve had on since yesterday. Aunt would be so disappointed in how sloppy I have become, but these pants are so comfortable that I don’t know how I’m going to go back to corsets and stockings.
I can’t help but throw my arms around her. “Oh, Florence. I’m so glad you’re here. Mr. . . . ah . . . Mr. Trent said he didn’t think you were in today. I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“It’s okay.” She awkwardly pats my back, but she returns the embrace. It makes me feel better. Stronger. “Trent doesn’t know my schedule, dear. What did you need?”
I take a breath, trying to reclaim my composure. “Do you know if there is a record of who purchased the furniture at auction in the 1960s?” I don’t mean to be abrupt as I say it, but we don’t have much time left. I’m sure that the moment I see Hannah’s father today, he’s going to ask me about packing.
She tilts her head to the side, as if she’s thinking. “Of course. The Antiquities Society has meticulous records going back decades. There were a few files damaged by a water main break in the seventies, but I think those were only personnel files, not auction records. Why would you need to know about that?”
For a moment I think about telling her the whole story—after all, once he got over the shock, Jonah reacted so positively when he found out about our swap—but I worry that she’ll think I’m crazy and be unwilling to help. “I’m curious about who purchased it. I heard a rumor about something hidden in the fabric, and I thought it would be interesting to find out if it really existed.”
She chews on her lower lip for several long minutes. “I haven’t ever heard that rumor, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Who did you hear it from?”
I am not prepared for this question. “A guest on a tour yesterday mentioned it.” I try to keep the question mark out of my voice.
She looks skeptical, but she nods. “I’ve gathered from talking to Trent that your, er, enthusiasm for The Elms doesn’t always go over so well with the docents, but I happen to think there are far worse things a young lady your age could be doing with her time. And . . . well, let’s just say I share your passion for this particular house.” She gives me a warm smile. “Besides, history buffs like us are always up for a little treasure hunting, aren’t we? I’ve gone down a rabbit hole once or twice before because of a long shot.”
“Well . . .” I breathe a sigh of relief. “I mean, thank you. Trent said . . . but I just wanted to be sure. . . . Don’t you have responsibilities?”
She nods. “I’m afraid I do. I have a number of people I need to speak to this morning at The Elms. I won’t be able to slip away until”—she looks at her watch—“eleven thirty.”
I’m sure my face shows my disappointment, but what other choice do I have? “Who do you need to speak to?”
“Don’t worry about that. Just come back and find me then.” She smiles and pats my hand. “Have you ever been to the archives at the Historical Society? It’s one of my favorite places. I know the librarian there, and I’m sure he’ll help us.”
We walk away in separate directions just as Trent opens the enormous front doors and the first of the day’s guests enter. Many of them hold devices or tiny cameras. I still can’t believe that this house in which I’ve spent so much time is on display for all the world to visit.
I have an hour and a half to wait. I spend part of that time in the tiny gift shop near the kitchen. I’m amazed that they sell replicas of my lucky locket. On a long shot I ask the clerk if she’s ever heard of a mystery involving a key. (She hasn’t.) I run across the grounds to the weeping beech and back to the house four times. (I feel sure I’m getting faster.) When I get tired of that, I wander through a few of the rooms, reading the notes on the walls about the history of the house (taking care to skip over anything about what happens to the inhabitants).
Finally it’s time.
Her automobile is on the side of the house where all the visitors park. It’s yellow, but that’s not the only thing that is unusual. “Your . . . car . . . looks different from the others.”
“This, my dear”—she gestures proudly at the machine—“is a 1953 Packard Caribbean. I’m particularly partial to the whitewall tires.”
She opens the door for me, and I slide into the interior. It’s made of a soft caramel-colored leather. “Did you say 1953?” It’s still fifty years after my own time, but as far as I can tell, the car is a time traveler like me. “I like it,” I say when she nods. “My uncle has a 1905 Buick,” I say, without even thinking about it.
“Does he?” Florence gasps. “I would dearly love to see that. Is that your father’s brother?”
It’s too late to correct my mistake, and I have no idea if Hannah’s father has a brother, so I just nod, hoping the lie won’t get Hannah into trouble.
The ride is so smooth and quiet, it feels like we are riding on a piece of furniture. Riding in Uncle’s automobile is bumpy and rough, although that might have a good deal to do with the quality of the roads in my time, not the car. I’m tempted to ask her to drive around a bit, but then I remember our looming deadline. I’m supposed to be back in the mirror at six o’clock to compare notes with Hannah.
“I appreciate your waiting so patiently for me, Hannah. I’ve been collecting some impressions on the house from some of the staff. I was able to speak to several of them this morning,” Florence says casually as she eases the vehicle onto Bellevue Avenue. There are so many automobiles on the road—it seems like everyone must have one. In my time they are still a relatively new invention. She drives much more slowly than everyone else, so it’s not much different from riding in Uncle’s new car. Several times, someone honks and she waves good-naturedly.
“Are you a newspaper reporter?” I can’t think of any other reason she would have for collecting impressions of the house from the staff.
She laughs. “Oh, nothing like that.” But she doesn’t elaborate, and we ride the rest of the way in awkward silence. Thankfully, the trip takes only a few minutes. We stop near the Tower, where we met Alex and Ethan yesterday. When we arrive, Florence leads me up the front steps. It’s not a building I’m familiar with, but it feels like something that has been here a long time.
“Excuse me,” Florence says to a clerk sitting behind a large desk. “I need to see Jeffrey.”
A young man dressed neatly in a suit and tie emerges from a door behind the desk. “Mrs. E.-B.! It’s always so nice to see you!” He pumps her hand enthusiastically. “To what do we owe the pleasure this morning?”
It is so obvious that this man is trying to win favor with Florence. I have no idea of his motives, but I’ve seen countless people fawn in the same manner over my father and my uncle when they are trying to impress them.
Florence nods patiently. “We need to see the archives of The Elms’ auction in 1961.”
> “Well.” Jeffrey clears his throat. “Of course.” He leads us into a small room with a large table. He flips open an object the size of a thin book that looks something like Hannah’s device, only bigger.
“So,” he says, looking up and cracking his knuckles. “What do you need to know and how can I help?”
“Dear.” Florence puts her hand on Jeffrey’s shoulder. “We’re working on a top secret project. Would you indulge an old woman who has been affiliated with this facility since you were in diapers? We just need a few minutes of privacy.”
Jeffrey can’t contain his disappointment. “But, Mrs. Ensminger-Burn . . .” He pauses, clearly hoping she’ll change her mind. “I thought I could help you with the computer. . . .” His voice trails off.
“I’m perfectly capable of managing the technology, my dear,” she says, patting him on the arm.
He sighs and stands up, as though his indulgence in her request is exhausting. He pauses again, clearly hoping, and then with another big sigh, he quietly leaves.
Florence sits down in front of his device, gesturing for me to follow. “They digitized the records years ago. We can access decades of data archives through this.”
“What else can that tell you? Information about the Berwind family?” I try to keep the quiver out of my voice.
“Yes. These archives have everything on Newport going back to the mid-1800s.” Florence beams like Colette does when she has beaten me at something.
I take a deep breath. I am not here to find out about my life or the lives of my family. And I’m not even sure I would want to know how things turn out. “Right. As you know, I’m curious to find out who purchased the original of the Louis XV–style armchair reproduction in the drawing room at The Elms.”
She touches the buttons on the device, and I realize it’s the modern equivalent of a typewriter. I don’t know how it works, but with just a few strokes to the keys, she looks up with a smile. “Ada and John Stillwater purchased that chair.”
“That is astonishing.” I can’t keep the amazement out of my voice. “All that information is in that little device?”
She gives me a bemused look. “Well, of course not, dear. It’s in the Net. Or the Web. Or the cloud. Or whatever they call it these days—it’s hard for us old folks to keep up. Not like you youngsters, who were born knowing how to text those emoticon thingies.”
I don’t have time to ponder the mysteries of twenty-first-century technology. I’m just glad it works so quickly.
My palms are starting to perspire, and I move closer to Florence, peering at the screen. “How do we contact them?”
She cocks her head to one side. “Shouldn’t be too hard.” A few more swipes on the keys, and she says, “Oh no.”
“What?”
“It looks like they moved in 1986.” She lowers her glasses and stares at the screen.
It can’t be. All this technology, and it’s a dead end? How will I get back to 1905?
She makes a few more keystrokes. “Wait. Here’s something.”
“A Stillwater relative who contributes to the Newport Antiquities Annual Fund lives in Chicago.” She smiles. “Do you want to know if they still have the chair?” She pulls out her device, and before I reply, she’s entering numbers.
“Drat,” she says, and holds up her telephone for me to hear a stiff voice on the other end of the line.
“This number is no longer in service. Please hang up and try your call again.”
“Hello! Can you tell us—”
Florence hits the button with the word “end” before I finish asking my question. “It’s a recording,” she says. “It appears we haven’t updated our records.”
It takes three more tries with different numbers before someone answers.
“Hello? Mrs. Jones? Would you happen to be related to Ada and John Stillwater?” Florence asks, and then pauses. “Florence Ensminger-Burn from the Newport Antiquities Society. Your parents purchased a chair at auction in Newport, Rhode Island, in the sixties.” She looks at me while the person on the other end talks. “No, nothing like that. We are just curious about the provenance of the chair.” She grimaces. “Can I put you on speakerphone?”
She presses a button, and the laughter of a woman is amplified. “I love that chair. I’m not interested in selling it.”
“Mrs. Jones,” I say, remembering not to yell, and trying to keep my voice even, like Florence does. “My name is . . .” I pause so as not to stumble over her name. “Hannah Jordan. My father is the caretaker for The Elms, and we don’t want to buy the chair.” It surprises me how easy it has become to pretend to be Hannah. “I’m looking for a key that might have been hidden in the armrest of that chair.”
Florence raises her eyebrows at me, but Mrs. Jones gasps from the other end of the connection.
“How did you know? My brother found that key when he ripped the upholstery on the chair,” Mrs. Jones whispers. “We never told anyone. We were kids playing hide-and-seek. He’d been forbidden to even touch that chair. It fell over, and the key slipped out of the upholstery on the arm.”
I let out a breath. “You found it? Do you—”
She continues over me, speaking as though she’s reliving a dream. “He was seven and I was nine. We thought it was magic, this big old skeleton key with a gold filigreed handle. When Todd picked it up off the floor, it was as though time stopped for just a moment.” She takes a breath and goes on. “That sounds silly, doesn’t it. Anyway, for years it sat on his desk, but when he was in high school, he strung it on a chain and wore it around his neck.”
I glance at Florence. Even though she doesn’t know how important this is, she still reaches up and squeezes my hand. I whisper toward the phone, “Does he still have it?”
There’s a sadness in Mrs. Jones’s voice as she answers. “My brother died last year. But that key always brought him good luck. He wore it under his uniform when he shipped out to Vietnam in ’71. He had it on when he was injured in battle. He always said it was the reason he met Genevieve in the hospital while he waited to get sent home.” She sighs, and I can almost hear her wipe away a tear.
Florence clears her throat. “We are so sorry for your loss. Thank you, Mrs. Jones, for sharing your story.”
“Wait!” I don’t mean to shout, but I’m afraid one of them is going to break the connection. “Does someone in your family still have it?”
“It’s funny that you’re asking about that key. After Todd died last year and my nephew moved Genevieve into the nursing home, he gave the key back to me. We never really knew where it came from. I always had an idea that it must have been hidden in that chair for a reason.”
“It was,” I whisper. “And I have reason to believe that it could be the key to solving the mystery of the Margaret Dunlap portrait heist.” But as I’m saying this, I realize that if the key is with Mrs. Jones in Chicago, it will take weeks to get here. My heart starts beating as if I’m running again. I have to go with Hannah’s father to California.
How can I ever do that?
“The heist, my dear?” Florence whispers, her eyes crinkling in confusion. “Are you sure?”
“Oh my goodness!” Mrs. Jones practically shouts from the other end of the line. “Really? I’m holding it in my hand right now,” she says. “But I . . . I’d hate to part with it. It means so much to me.”
We are so close. I can’t keep the tears from forming, and I brush my face, hoping Florence doesn’t notice. “I don’t need to keep the key, Mrs. Jones. I just need to open something with it.”
Florence inhales sharply and then looks at me with a sparkle in her eye. “Mrs. Jones. If I could guarantee that we’d return the key to you, would you be willing to let us borrow it? The Antiquities Society will cover overnight shipping, and I will personally ensure that you get it back.”
Overnight?
“This all sounds so mysterious,” Mrs. Jones says. “And I do love a good mystery. If you will guarantee that I’ll get it back,
I don’t mind loaning it to you for a while. I guess it does feel like it belongs at The Elms. I’m running out to do a few errands; I’ll ship the key to you this afternoon. You’ll see what I mean about it feeling magical.”
I can’t believe our luck. I’ve found the key. “We can really get it overnight?”
Now that’s magical.
• • •
As I feared, the moment we are back in the automobile and even before she starts the engine, Florence turns and looks at me, eyes shining with excitement. “Tell me more about this key.”
I bite my tongue. More than ever before, I want to tell her about the mirror and the portrait and about how I’m not really Hannah Jordan. But I can’t. “Would it be okay if I told you the whole story tomorrow? I don’t know for sure that anything will come of this key, but it’s something I’d like to do for myself, if that’s all right? I promise I’ll tell you everything later, though.”
“How do you know it has something to do with the heist?” she asks. I can tell she is trying to piece the puzzle together, but I just squeeze her hand. Even in the warm air, it’s cool to the touch. “Where did you hear about the key again?” There’s a familiarity about her that tugs at my heart, and I want to tell her. But I can’t find a way to say the words “time travel” out loud.
“I need to be sure I’m right before I involve you more than necessary.” I squeeze her hand again. “You know I appreciate your help.”
She nods and starts the car. “I respect your request for secrecy, though I don’t really understand it.” Her tone is clipped and professional. Not at all the conspiratorial tone she had just a few minutes ago. “I’ve been obsessed with that portrait and the heist since I was a little girl. I’ve always wondered what the true story is.”
We ride in silence for the rest of the drive to The Elms. I’ve hurt her feelings, and I feel terrible. But I simply cannot reveal the secret. If Hannah wants to, she can decide to tell Florence more after we swap back to our rightful places.
I think about how anxious I am to get home, but there are parts of the twenty-first century that are beginning to grow on me. I shall certainly miss the freedoms I have had here. I glance over at Florence driving. Tomorrow it will be back to being shadowed by a nanny and sewing with Colette and a total ban on running.
The Art of the Swap Page 18