by Mary Malloy
George’s departure was as uncomfortable as his arrival. He shook hands with Martin and gave Lizzie an awkward kiss on the cheek as she walked him to the door of the suite. When it had closed and latched behind him, Martin put his hands on Lizzie’s shoulders and looked at her.
“He knows,” he said. “He feels guilty that his family shafted your great-grandma, and he knows that you are actually his niece or cousin or something.”
“I know,” she admitted, “and I concede that he knew it all along.”
“Aren’t you angry that he put your life in danger?”
“Oh come on, Mart,” she said, pulling away. “How was my life in danger?”
“Are you forgetting that you managed to climb up onto the roof of his house?”
She could see that he was very serious.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t confront him when we had the evidence right in front of us,” he said, following her toward the bedroom.
As she turned the spread back, Lizzie explained again that she didn’t think George Hatton had ever even considered that she might be susceptible to the madness that led to suicide.
“Then why did he ask you here?”
“Because I’m a good historian,” she said bluntly. “Maybe he did want to repay some debt, or maybe he secretly thought I might do exactly what I did—find the heart—but to suspect him of more than that is to make him more sinister than he is.” She was angry with Martin for pushing the subject. “You shouldn’t have gone through those papers,” she said. “This is my problem and I’ll handle it.”
Martin came around the bed and touched her softly on the hair. “You’re right,” he said, “I shouldn’t have gone through those papers.”
Lizzie resisted for a moment his attempts to pull her into his arms.
“But you have no problems that I don’t share,” he continued, “and I still don’t think you are taking the dangers here seriously enough. Don’t think because I worry about you, or am suspicious of him, that I am not still your greatest admirer.” He kissed her on the forehead.
“I know,” Lizzie said softly. “But you shouldn’t worry so much about George. He’s not so wily that he could manipulate me.”
Martin laughed. “You know you shouldn’t be so flip about the English aristocracy now that you are one.”
She sat on the bed and leaned against the headboard, reaching out for his hand. “You know, Martin,” she said, locking her fingers through his, “I have to admit that there was a moment there when I found that whole way of life at Hengemont quite seductive.”
“Planning to claim your rightful place in the Hatton family?” he asked gently.
She placed her free hand against his face. His eyes, deep and warm, made a small movement as they met hers. Lizzie laughed.
“Hardly!” she said. “Can’t you just picture it? My whole family traipsing over here to move in with the Hattons?”
Martin was smiling, but trying to be serious.
“You admit it’s seductive, though,” he said.
Lizzie still smiled. “Of course it’s seductive. The idea that you don’t have to work, that there are no worries about money, no credit card bills, no anxiety over tenure. God, who wouldn’t love to have someone clean their house, do their laundry, keep the yard beautiful, drive them around.”
“Not to mention the feeling of importance,” Martin added.
“You know, Martin,” Lizzie said emphatically, “I’d rather be known for something I did, some accomplishment.”
“I’m sorry that I am not able to keep you in the style to which you have become accustomed,” he said, half seriously.
“Don’t worry sweetheart,” she said, “I did not become accustomed to it. In truth there is a point at which you realize that even though you’re not doing it the laundry is still getting done, the house is still getting cleaned, the garden is blooming beautifully, and that if it’s not the Lord of the Manor doing it, then it is some serf.” Lizzie grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “I may be descended from the Hattons, but I’m also descended from their servant. I’m prouder of her and what she did than I am of them and what they did.”
“Then you’re still my Lizzie Manning, and not her high and mighty Lady Elizabeth Hatton?”
“Heck, Mart,” she continued, “if I wouldn’t change my name to Sanchez when I married you, why would I change it now for a much stupider reason?”
“Are you going to tell old George that you know?”
“Yes,” she answered, “when the time is right.”
Chapter 24
When Lizzie climbed into the back seat of George’s Bentley the next day, she found that he had recovered his aristocratic calm. He was friendly without being warm, authoritative without being overbearing, the perfect gentleman. The two of them talked strategy during the ride to Salisbury, as if the item they were claiming was some ordinary piece of property and not a human heart. In the front seat, where he had insisted on sitting, Martin chatted amiably with Peter Jeffries.
George had used his connections to make an appointment with the Dean of Salisbury Cathedral at 11:00. At Lizzie’s recommendation, he had asked that Nora Stanley, the librarian, attend the meeting and bring the report of the Keeper of the Fabric, which showed the drawing of the crest on the heart casket. George had his own copy of the same from the hand of Jean-Alun d’Hautain, and Lizzie had copies of the correspondence among Henry III, the Templars, and the Longespèe family. There was no doubt that they had very good evidence to claim the heart. The question was, after more than seven centuries, was it just too late? Did it belong to the Cathedral?
It wasn’t until the car was driving through the gate into the cathedral close that George mentioned casually that Edmund would be joining them. Lizzie found herself suddenly flustered, not so much at seeing him again as at introducing him to Martin. She had not yet sorted out her feelings and had no time to prepare for the scene before it was upon her.
Martin opened the car door and took her hand. He looked at her closely.
“You’re nervous about this, aren’t you?” he said softly into her ear.
She was surprised by the question and laughed nervously. “I am,” she said, avoiding his eye and knowing that his “this” was different from hers.
Edmund stood at the door of the church, watching the exchange. Lizzie introduced him to her husband and as the two men shook hands she looked from one to the other. One was fair, one was dark, but that was only the superficial difference between them. She knew everything about Martin from having lived with him for more than fifteen years. She absolutely believed him to be a genius. He was passionate, animated, and loved her absolutely. Edmund was less well known. In the last three weeks she couldn’t say if she had spent fifteen hours alone with him and was uncertain about his feelings for her. Once again she asked herself how much she was attracted to Edmund himself, and how much the attraction might be to Hengemont and the Hatton history that he represented. She dismissed the thought almost as soon as it came into her head. It wasn’t fair to him. He was much more than that. He had been the calming influence that supported her, and his father, through all the ordeal of the last few weeks. In a hundred ways he had proven his thoughtfulness.
The two men were not at all alike, but she was in love with them both.
How far would she have gone toward having an intimate relationship with Edmund that morning at the White Horse? Her thoughts were making her uncomfortable as she watched them talking to each other. Did Martin have any suspicion of her feelings for Edmund? She didn’t think so. He knew that Edmund had rescued her that night and that she liked him very much, but no more.
George came to stand beside her and for the first time that morning, his reserve cracked. He set his hand on Lizzie’s arm and asked her one last time if she was sure this was the right heart.
She put her hand over his as
she replied, “I am absolutely certain.”
“Are you saying that as an historian?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, “all the evidence is there. But I also feel it intuitively.”
“In your heart?” Edmund asked. It was the first thing he said directly to her that day. They had mostly avoided looking at each other or speaking directly during the exchange of introductions, but now Lizzie turned to him and smiled.
“Yes,” she said. “I feel it in my heart.”
They went into the cathedral, where Martin went off on his own to look around while Lizzie and the Hattons met with the staff. The dean was impressed with the evidence they had assembled, as was Nora Stanley. They seemed perfectly willing to agree that the heart buried near William Longespèe the younger was, in fact, that of John d’Hautain.
“What would you like us to do about this now, Sir George?” the dean asked him. “We can certainly change the sign and acknowledge your ancestor.” He turned to Nora. “That’s not a problem is it Mrs. Stanley?”
“Not at all,” she answered quickly. “I’ll write it up this afternoon and get it to the calligrapher.” She rose as if to tackle the task immediately.
“No wait,” George said, “that might not be necessary.”
“You wish to keep this anonymous then?” the dean asked.
“Well, yes and no,” George said, fumbling for words. “Yes, I do want to keep the whole business quiet, and no, you don’t need to make a new sign because I want to take the heart back to my family crypt in Somerset.”
The clergyman and the librarian could not have been more surprised.
George seemed to gain eloquence and assurance in equal measure as he explained that the legacy of the heart had weighed so heavily on his family over the centuries that they could not be at peace until it was buried in their own church. Almost as an afterthought he acknowledged the honor of having it for so many years in Salisbury Cathedral, but Jean d’Hautain was, he insisted, “intended to be buried in our church, and there he must go.”
The silence that followed was so thick that Lizzie felt she could taste it in the cold air. The dean put his elbows on the desk and tapped the tips of his fingers together in the same motion that Lizzie had seen Nora Stanley use the day before. With his long thin fingers, the cathedral effect was even more pronounced.
“Well,” he said finally, “I can’t very well refuse to return remains of which the identity seems so certain, and where you have proof that Salisbury Cathedral was not the intended place of interment.”
He put his hand on the phone. “It will, of course, take a few days to make the arrangements. Were you serious about wanting to keep this all quiet?”
George said that he was.
The dean picked up the phone. “Let me just ask the Keeper of the Fabric when he can work it into the schedule,” he said to George as he dialed. “It should be easy enough to do it one evening this week under the guise of usual maintenance and repair.”
Lizzie, George, and Edmund exchanged looks of excitement, anticipation, and anxiety while the man at the desk talked on the phone. He explained the situation to someone on the other end, heard the response, and turned to George. “It turns out that this evening is the most convenient time for him, as he will have the necessary equipment in the cathedral to make some repairs to the plinth,” he said. “Will you stay for the exhumation?”
George nodded with remarkable composure.
“Right,” the dean said into the phone. “Then we’ll meet you after Choral Evensong.”
• • • • •
George treated the foursome to dinner at an ancient inn called the “Haunch of Venison,” not far from the gate to the cathedral close. Much of the discussion revolved around Martin’s upcoming mural project in Newcastle. No one brought up the subject of their bizarre and macabre plans for the evening, though those thoughts were in the minds of all.
They walked back along the narrow streets of the oldest part of Salisbury. The night was cold but exceptionally clear and the white face of the cathedral was lit against the dark sky. The dean’s reference to the night’s business as an “exhumation” made the hairs on Lizzie’s arms stand at attention as they walked across the dark lawn of the close. Martin reached out and found her hand and held it tightly.
From the church they could hear the sounds of Evensong, the last service of the day. The ancient hymn, simply sung in a building of such immense age, size, and grandeur, had a powerful effect on each member of their party as they slipped through the side door of the church and into the last row of folding chairs. Unlike earlier in the day, when the winter light had streaked in through the windows, now the cathedral was lit only in small pools around the lamps and candles. Lizzie couldn’t help but look at the small effigy of the boy bishop lying nearby, his blank eyes wide open and staring straight up. He had no idea that he was about to donate the heart that had lain beneath him for centuries, for transplantation into a new effigy.
As the service ended and people began to exit through the side door, Lizzie saw three men with tools and what looked like a large easel waiting at the back of the church. When everyone had gone except themselves and the clergyman, the three men came forward. One was introduced as Bill Bracken, the Keeper of the Fabric; the other two were his assistants. Lizzie nodded to them. This Bill was not at all what she expected. A burly man with white hair and a red face, he seemed an unlikely exhumer. While the two younger men chipped the cement away from underneath the effigy, he set up work lights and a framework with a pulley over the tomb. It was only half an hour before they were ready to attach felt-padded metal clips to the corners of the effigy, and with the three of them, the job of lifting it off its bed with a rope through the pulley was easily done. As his assistants held the stone suspended, Bill Bracken reached into the narrow cavity beneath it and pulled out a box. In the darkness, Lizzie could hear the voice of the dean of the cathedral, praying for the soul of John d’Hautain.
Everyone in the church waited silently as Bill handed the box to the dean and turned to help his comrades ease the stone back into place on the tomb. The only sound was the loud ticking of the old clock works displayed in the aisle where they were standing, and the scraping of a steel trowel as new cement was laid in between the effigy and the stone beneath it. Though she knew she was awake, Lizzie felt as if she were in a dream. The cathedral was now dark except for the single pool of light around them. It seemed almost slow motion as George Hatton was handed the box and turned it to look at the design on its surface. He sat in one of the chairs with the box cradled in his lap and looked up at Lizzie, as if for confirmation that this was indeed the right thing to be doing.
Lizzie went and sat next to him. George tilted the box toward her and into the light. Even with the grime of centuries on it, there was no mistaking the dull gleam of gold, or the device enameled on its top. The hearts, the castle tower, the sea, were all perfectly visible.
“That’s it,” she whispered.
“Yes,” George nodded, “I know.” He handed it to his son and turned back to Lizzie. “Even I can feel it,” he said.
Edmund was the only one who had thought to bring a towel to wrap it in and a travel bag in which to put it, and he now carefully packed it up. His father stood up and turned to the dean.
“Thank you,” he said, reaching out to shake his hand. “And thank you for keeping this quiet.”
Behind them, the two young workmen were almost finished cementing the stone back into place.
“I would like you to sign a document for me,” the dean said, gesturing the way back to his office, “just to make the transfer of the remains legal.”
George nodded and went with him.
Edmund indicated that he would prefer to wait outside and Lizzie and Martin quickly echoed his sentiments. They went out to the side porch of the cathedral and from there walked out to
the expansive lawn. The stars were bright above them.
“Hengemont or London?” Lizzie asked Edmund.
“Well, if you two don’t mind,” he answered, turning the collar of his coat up and securing the bag with Jean d’Hautain’s heart under his arm, “I think we’d like to get this back to Hengemont as soon as possible.”
“Yes, of course,” Lizzie said, hurriedly. “How about a night at the White Horse?” she said to Martin.
“By all means,” he answered. “I’m dying to see the place.”
Chapter 25
Now that we have this thing, I assume we’re supposed to bury it in the tomb intended for it,” George Hatton said as he sat with Lizzie, Martin, and Edmund at the White Horse pub. The gold casket with John d’Hautain’s heart was in the middle of the table. Lizzie, Martin and Edmund had each examined the box to see if it could be opened, but it would have required breaking through the solder; it remained tantalizingly mysterious.
Lizzie had been thinking about where the heart should be buried, and now she answered George’s question carefully. “I’m not sure it’s as simple as putting it in the Crusader’s tomb.”
“What do you mean?” George asked with surprise. “Now that we’ve got the heart back after all these years, don’t you think that she intended it should be buried?”
Lizzie looked to Martin for moral support. He looked back steadily. She turned to George and then to his son. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and the truth is, I don’t think that there is any consciousness in any of this.”
“What?” George sputtered. “You can’t mean that my sister spent her whole life in an institution for nothing.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Lizzie said calmly. Under the table Martin slipped her hand into his. “What I mean is that I think it is her feelings that have lasted all these years, not her intentions.” She did not speak the name of Elizabeth d’Hautain.