Ben was pacing around the room again, his mind racing. He glanced at the table, and walked over to more closely examine the area where the sculpture was sitting in the photo. He pulled the photo out of his pants pocket and unfolded it. “Eros…Why did Stuart write Eros…?” He glanced at the photograph again before walking over to the bookcase behind the desk. Silently, he began reading the spines of the old books. “Here,” he said excitedly as he slid a book from the shelf. “Eros and Psyche: A Fairytale of Ancient Greece,” he said, as if that explained everything.
With his warmest, most engaging smile, he approached Elizabeth and wrapped his arm around her waist. “Lizzie, I need to borrow this book…” Even I could tell he was playing her with the “Lizzie” shit. She seemed skeptical. “Ah…Ben you know I’d do anything for you, love, but father would beat my arse if he knew a book left the estate…” Ben drew her closer, his voice low and sultry. “He won’t know, and I promise another round with you and Edward when I return it. Give me a few hours.” Her face was flushed, her eyes lusty and wanton. She bit her lip as she said, “Okay, but do hurry.” He kissed her quickly on the cheek, leaving the office with the book and motioning for me to follow. Once out of her sight, he grabbed my hand and nearly drug me to the sporty rental car, parked out front and running. “My bags…” I protested. “Everything’s in the boot already, we need to go. Quickly please, Jane!” Oh no, Ben Hunt driving me in a car—in a hurry. It’s a good thing I never got my breakfast.
Chapter Eleven.
As we sped out of the circular driveway in front of the palatial estate, I glanced back to see Elizabeth watching from an upstairs window. She trusted Ben even less than I did, it seemed. A mile or so down the long, narrow lane, Ben pulled to the side of the road—his eyes glancing in the rearview mirror. He let the book fall open, and a pure white vellum envelope fell into his lap from the well-worn pages. In a flowing, old-fashioned script, the word Jane was written in heavy black ink across the sealed envelope. The handwriting matched that on the bottom of the photo—my first clue from Uncle Stuart.
Ben handed me the envelope as he once again looked behind us. “Read it, please. Elizabeth is greedy and suspicious; I don’t expect her to just let us go. We’re out of the estate’s surveillance camera range, but this is a small village. She’ll know what we’re up to soon enough.”
My hands were shaking as I ripped open the elegant envelope, Ben’s eyes on me rich with anticipation. I still didn’t trust him, but I couldn’t deny that I wanted him—Mr. Darcy or not. I never would have found that envelope without him. On my own, I’d have no idea where the statue was, and I certainly wouldn’t have associated the word Eros in the photograph with a book on the shelf. This whole scavenger hunt was getting stranger and stranger by the minute.
Inside the envelope, there was a note written on thick unlined paper in the same handwriting. I read it aloud quickly:
Jane, I hope you’ve found this note before anyone else has. You were always a clever girl, and I have every faith that you will keep our family’s inheritance safe. My solicitor has steered you towards your knowledgeable advisor for guidance, and since you’ve made it this far I’ve chosen wisely. You will need his help, but trust no one. There are many who seek to steal this treasure from our family, but know that it is rightfully and legally yours.
The statue in the photo was moved from The Yellow Room at my request. To find it, you’ll need to answer this question:
I once told you a story about a beautiful nun that I had a secret dalliance with in Italy, Sister Therese. We once had a very naughty tryst in a forbidden, shocking place. Do you remember where it was? Think hard but hurry—you must find the Cupid before anyone else does.
Best of Luck, Stuart.
I was thirteen when Uncle Stuart told that story to my family over mom’s meatloaf one cold winter evening in Toledo. It was always exciting when he came to visit, but as a teenager I was finding his tales harder and harder to believe. Even then I loved romantic adventure novels, and my exotic, well-traveled uncle’s stories seemed to be ripped right from their pages. I savored every word of his adventures, as did my father. My mother, however, found him to be a bad influence, and constantly referred to him as being full of crap. This story in particular drew her ire—I remember her scolding Uncle Stuart for telling such a salacious story to a young girl.
Ben anxiously interrupted my memories, impatiently asking, “Well? Where did he shag the nun?” I put the note back into the envelope, and looked into Ben’s entrancing, nervous eyes. “It was in Ravenna…on some emperor’s daughter’s sarcophagus. I asked if it was creepy, and he said simply that it was beautiful. I can’t remember the name of the place...” Ben nodded in understanding, clarifying, “The Mausoleum of Galla Placidia. The building used to be part of The Church of the Holy Cross, by the way. Fucking a nun on a coffin—and you call me a freaky freak?”
“So we’re going to Ravenna?” I asked, a little too much adventure-craving excitement in my voice. He shook his head as he started the car and shifted into first, the car lurching onto the narrow lane. “Not Italy, Jane. According to Elizabeth, the sculpture was in the room when she locked the door. Besides, Stuart didn’t drag us to Scotland to hide the sculpture in Italy, and he wouldn’t risk taking it through customs. I suspect the answer to his question of where is a mausoleum…most likely the one on the estate. Abercorn Parish Church is our next destination, and it’s two minutes away.”
Chapter Twelve.
Within minutes, we were creeping down a walled, narrow dirt lane as the sky began to cloud over, the somber heavens threatening to open up into a cold rain. There was an old iron gate protecting the church, but that morning the gate was open. The church wasn’t what I’d expected; compared to the opulence of Hopetoun House, this building seemed simple and neglected. It was old, the kind of “old” that we don’t have in Toledo, or even in America. Ben told me on the short drive that a church had been on the site in some form since the eighth century, with parts being medieval, but a restoration in the early 1800s altered it significantly.
It was smaller than I expected, a low, squat building made up of colorless gray stones with a dark, sloping roof. The church itself looked like several buildings shoved together, the product of centuries of expansion. The churchyard was littered with gravestones of all shapes and sizes, most falling apart, and many resting on their sides on the muddy ground. “It’s just over there,” Ben said with a chirp, “that’s the mausoleum. I have no idea how we’ll get in, unfortunately.”
Ben pointed in the distance to a separate building, the stone matching that of the main parish. Large bushes obscured the entrance, and lush, verdant vines covered the façade in menacing attempts to invade the sacred, ancient space. Ben turned off the engine to the car and stepped out onto the rocky path. I waited in the passenger seat; I’d become fond of his gentlemanly habit of opening my car door. He helped me out, his long fingers intertwining between mine as we walked toward the building. I should have been excited about finally obtaining the sculpture, but I was more excited about Ben holding my hand.
As we approached the heavy wooden door, my designer boots sticking in the putty-like earth, Ben took a deep breath and said, “This is it, Jane.” He let go of my hand to push back an overgrown bush that was blocking our path. As he tried the door, it slid open with a loud creak. It was dark inside, and a sudden curtain of dread gripped me. Not fear of the macabre mausoleum, but dread that once we found the sculpture, my time with Ben would be over. Even then I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that our fledgling flirtation would last beyond our shared adventure.
Ben walked in ahead of me; I think he mistook my stalling at the entrance for fear of the creepy place itself. I was suddenly pulled from my thoughts as I heard him speaking with someone, a man. As I walked into the ancient burial place, their voices echoed in the cave-like building. The butler from Hopetoun, Allen, was standing inside, leaning against a gothic-looking burial vault. He wa
s dressed in a dark suit, but a less formal version than the night prior. They broke off their conversation as I approached and stood next to Ben. Allen nodded to me, “Miss Andrews.” I nodded back, completely at a loss as to what to say. In the center of the floor sat a small sculpture—a chubby angel, lying on a pillow. Even in the dim light from the open door on an overcast day, the piece glistened. The sleeping Cupid from the picture sat there, right in front of me; far more small and fragile than I’d expected. The journey was over, and my inheritance was finally mine. I hoped it was worth something, and that Ben would honor his offer of ten thousand dollars for the piece. Despite the pang of guilt I felt at being so eager to sell something Uncle Stuart clearly valued and wanted me to keep in our family, I needed that money.
Allen looked back to Ben, and continued the conversation that I’d interrupted.
“So Stuart…Stuart…” Allen’s eyes misted over; I realized they’d been close.
“It’s okay, John, take your time. I know it’s hard for you to talk about him this soon,” Ben said gently to the man I knew as Allen as he glanced over at me apologetically. He knew I was confused. He took my hand in his again, and looked into my eyes warmly. “Jane, John Allen, butlers are usually referred to by their surnames, was very…er, he and Stuart were…”
“We were lovers, Miss. I loved him, and I think he cared about me. I miss him dearly.”
“Oh,” I said a little too loudly. Uncle Stuart was gay? But what about all the stories of his escapades with women? “So you moved the sculpture here?”
“Yes, Stuart didn’t trust the Hopes. He instructed me to move it here the night of your arrival to the estate, but I have no idea why.”
“So you grabbed the key while Elizabeth was…distracted?” I asked, shooting an angry glance at Ben.
“No, Miss. I have copies of all of the keys to the estate. A trade secret handed down for centuries. I’d be grateful if you’d keep that detail to yourselves.”
Ben walked over to the sculpture and ran his fingertips across the finely carved surface. He rocked it from side to side, as if testing its weight. “I have to get back to the house, I can’t risk being missed. The family will be in an uproar about the sculpture being moved; Sean Devane is on his way. Lord Hope intended to give the piece to Devane, while Lady Elizabeth was intent that it belonged with you.”
“Thanks again, John. You did the right thing, I promise.” As Ben turned his attention back to the Cupid, John Allen looked at me and silently mouthed the words “be careful” as he nodded toward Ben. He quickly exited the mausoleum, his footsteps crunching as he walked down the rocky lane back toward the estate.
Ben finally stood, lifting the sculpture up and holding it at waist level over the worn stone floor. With no warning or change in his expression whatsoever, he let the exquisitely carved Cupid fall to the floor—smashing it into a several large, ruined pieces.
Chapter Thirteen.
I stood there, frozen, as Ben looked down at the ruined sculpture. The crash was no accident; he’d intentionally destroyed the object I was seeking. His apathetic eyes met mine as he knelt down and examined the shards that littered the centuries-old floor.
“What the fuck?” I hissed, finally finding my voice. He didn’t answer; he didn’t even look up.
“Ben, you led me here to ruin my inheritance? They all warned me, but I wouldn’t listen. Now I have nothing…” I was painfully aware that I wasn’t referring only to losing the Cupid sculpture. Ben’s attention toward me had evaporated the second Allen had walked away.
He removed a vellum envelope from underneath one of the larger shards and looked into my eyes. “Warned you of what, Jane?” I gasped as he held the envelope out to me. “I need to get rid of this litter, I want them to think we already have the Cupid. Read the clue, quickly, we need to get out of here.” As he gathered the shattered remains in his coat, I ripped open the envelope from Uncle Stuart.
Jane,
Very well done, my dear. I apologise that you must go to such lengths to obtain the Cupid, but I trust that once you are aware of its importance, you will forgive me for your troubles and understand my reason for being overly cautious.
When you were nine, I told you about my work doing archaeological excavations in the mid-1960s. You were reading a story about Christopher Columbus at the time, and I told you that North America had been explored by Europeans long before Columbus. Tell your partner on this journey what item I was futilely searching for in Canada, and they will be able to guide you to the next clue. You will need to search through many of these items to locate the next envelope.
Good luck, my dear. You’ll need help, but trust no one.
Having gathered up all signs of the smashed Cupid, Ben held them wrapped up in his coat. I handed him the clue, his darkened eyes scanning it. “I’d guess he’s referring to Vikings?” Ben asked. I nodded, surprised Ben would get that far with the clue. “Yes, he was in Newfoundland, some French sounding place, digging for remnants of a Viking settlement there. Vineland or something?”
“Vinland,” Ben sputtered out hurriedly, “in L’Anse aux Meadows. What sort of artifact was he digging for?” I could hear the panic in his voice, the silent urging for me to hurry. For the first time on our adventure, I realized Ben was frightened. I was also in awe of the depth of his knowledge; no wonder Uncle Stuart steered me to him for help.
“Burial objects. He was looking for burial stones, specifically ones in the shape of a pig? He never found any, and he was fired after a few weeks for getting drunk and running naked through the camp—something he did often.” Ben seemed to anticipate my answer, and began walking toward the door with his bundle of litter. “I don’t suppose we’re headed to Newfoundland, are we?” I asked as I followed him back to the car. After shaking the broken pieces from his coat into the corner of the trunk, he pointed toward a small stone building near the main church. “Stuart may not have found Viking hogback stones in North America, but we’ll find some in the church’s museum over there. In fact, hogback stones are unique to this region, probably a Viking and Anglo-Saxon hybrid creation. They are called that because of the shape, like a hog’s back, but they are more likely made to represent Danish roofs or Viking longhouses because of the shingles carved in. They covered the coffin, like houses for the dead. They also resemble an overturned ship; the ones found here at Abercorn are from the eleventh and twelfth centuries.”
Ben took my hand again, his fingers intertwining naturally with mine, as we walked toward the tiny museum. The heavy wooden door was unlocked, and Ben pushed it open without releasing my hand. As he flipped the light to the small room on, several massive stone monuments were illuminated. “I’m sorry about earlier, for not trusting you.” His warm blue eyes scanned my face impassively, his fingertips raising up and caressing me quickly across the cheek in an unplanned gesture of familiarity. “No worries, Jane. You shouldn’t trust me, or any of us for that matter. Stuart was right.”
He released my hand from his warm grasp as he scurried to the first stone. It was an enormous monolith, roughly carved centuries ago to cover the coffins of the dead. I could see why they referred to them as “hogbacks”—lying prone in the museum, they resembled large hogs lying in the mud. Ben was busy while I was wandering the cozy area like a tourist. He was searching around the stones, as if an envelope must be near. “Shit, there’s nothing here,” he said in disappointment after he’d thoroughly searched the final hogback stone. “Underneath?” I offered. “Jane, these weigh about a thousand pounds. No, I think these stones are too easy of an answer. Stuart wanted this search to be challenging. I have a feeling the next clue may be a tad further away from Hopetoun. Stuart said we’d need to search through many stones—Abercorn has only a few such stones. I think we need to head to Govan.”
Govan. Now that sounded exotic and far. I was getting excited at the sound of it. “So, Govan has Viking stones, are we headed to Scandinavia? I’ve always dreamed of seeing Denmark, Norway, S
we—” “Jane, we’re not going to Sweden, and this isn’t some game to me. This is important. Govan is now part of Glasgow, here in Scotland. Govan has one of the finest collections of hogbacks in the world, and I suspect that’s where our next clue lies. Let’s get out of here, and pray that I’m correct.” I could hear the lack of confidence in his shaky tone, but I believed in him.
We walked back to the car at a clipped pace just as the frigid mist began to drop like a curtain from the ominous clouds overhead. The second my seatbelt was secured, Ben barreled from the church’s narrow lane, in reverse. I was really glad I didn’t have any breakfast. When we finally began to travel forward, I took a deep breath and began to relax, at least a little. “How did you know the sculpture was fake?” I asked, breaking the tense silence. “That piece of rubbish was a porcelain monstrosity the likes of which an old woman would buy at an estate sale to decorate her garden. Stuart probably bought that on eBay; it was a terrible likeness of the Cupid. He made an opening in the bottom, inserted the envelope, and resealed it. The Cupid we are seeking, the one in the photograph, was carved from fine Carrera marble and bears the sculptor’s mark.”
The Hunt for Eros Page 6