Holly and Hopeful Hearts

by Caroline Warfield

  One voice rang out over the drone of conversation. “Has the little Jewish girl arrived yet? One is curious to meet a Hebrew chit.”

  Another outburst of tittering giggles greeted that statement.

  The man’s voice went on, “I don’t know whether to expect her face to be coarse or her manners. Do you suppose her skin is dusky?”

  The words forced her to take a step backward.

  The footman, who had leaned to open the door, straightened and looked at her curiously. “Ma’am?”

  Before Esther could act on her impulse to retreat upstairs, Reba’s words held her in place. You’re as good as any of them. She pulled herself up, smoothed her skirts, and raised her chin before nodding at the footman.

  He sent her a cheeky grin. “In you go, then,” he said. He, at least, looked friendly.

  Esther prayed she would find one familiar face on the other side of the door, someone she knew from school or Miss Clemens’s Book Palace who could introduce her. The door opened, and she took several steps inside before conversation stopped.

  “Ah, Esther, you’ve arrived! I’m so glad.”

  The Duchess of Haverford’s voice behind her pulled Esther’s heart up from the depths where it had settled. She turned and sank into a deep curtsey.

  The duchess took both her hands. “My, but you look lovely for one who traveled so far today! Let me introduce you.” Before Esther could react, the duchess led her arm in arm around the room. The introductions made her head spin. Lady Elinor Lacey looked kind enough, and she remembered Miss Vanessa Sedgely from the house-party committee. She barely remembered some of the other names.

  When they stopped in front of a man whose open stare passed all bounds of courtesy, Esther knew she beheld the owner of the disembodied voice she had heard. Face to face, he appeared more insensitive than cruel, more curious than amused at her expense.

  “Miss Esther Baumann, may I present Mr. Wesley Winderfield,” the duchess said.

  Mr. Winderfield bowed quite properly and looked at her with dancing eyes. “Enchanted.” He sighed. “Completely enchanted. I am your undying servant.”

  Winderfield, the annoying man, clung to her side, to her dismay and followed while the duchess continued her introductions, ending with some blessedly familiar faces.

  “Of course I know Miss Baumann quite well, Your Grace!” Lady Sophia Belvoir said. “Felicity will be delighted to see you, Esther. She has been quite anxious to ask you questions about Hollystone Hall’s art collection.” The older girl smiled at the duchess. “She didn’t want to pester Her Grace with questions.”

  “Miss Baumann knows art?” the little man gushed. “How marvelous. A savant in our very midst.” The fool sounded amazed as though he discovered a dog could walk on its hind legs.

  Esther bit back a rude retort. Her father often had cause to deal in art in the course of his business, either because he received fine pieces as collateral or simply because they made sound investment. Their home displayed many of these works, some permanently. He had encouraged her interest and seen to her education by fellows of the Royal Academy.

  “What think you of that one, Miss Baumann?” Wesley Winderfield asked, indicating a large round painting, Raphael’s Madonna della Sedia.

  It was a copy, of course, but Esther examined it closely. A very good one, possibly sixteenth century. “It looks almost contemporary to the original!” she exclaimed.

  “What do you mean, Miss Baumann?” Winderfield asked, looking askance at his hostess. “Do you mean to imply this painting is not an original?”

  “It certainly is not.” The Duchess of Haverford chuckled. “Miss Baumann is quite correct.”

  “A copy, yes, but an excellent one,” Esther murmured, “and quite valuable. I applaud your good fortune to own such a piece, Your Grace.”

  “I refuse to let Lady Felicity Belvoir drag you into a weary discussion about art. Some of us plan card games. Do you play, Miss Baumann?” Winderfield asked.

  Esther would rather explore Hollystone’s treasures with her friend Felicity, but she had no polite way to refuse to take Winderfield’s arm. She just hoped he really was as harmless as he appeared.

  Chapter 7

  The Weasel—as Felicity urged her to call Wesley Winderfield—flirted through the afternoon and the sumptuous buffet the same evening. For a few days, he hovered at Esther’s side. His charm, ridiculous as it sometimes appeared, drew others to her side, but no particular gentlemen sought her out. That suited Esther.

  The second day, she paused before the door to the breakfast room, bit her lip, and hoped. Surely, it is too early for the Weasel. When the footman opened the door, she scanned the room, and her heart soared. Felicity Belvoir had arrived before her as they had planned, and—joy of joys—she saw no sign of the Weasel.

  Two steps in, she saw a man turn from the buffet and almost tripped. Felicity was not alone after all! The Earl of Hythe, looking like the perfection of English manhood in his fashionable coat and perfectly tied neckcloth, smiled at her. Her eyes flickered over his perfectly groomed hair, handsome face, and… She swallowed at the sight of his form and well-fitted trousers and felt heat slip up her neck. The earl laid his plate on the table and inclined his head toward her.

  “Miss Baumann,” he said in greeting.

  Esther bowed deeply and felt her hands shake when the earl held out her chair and asked what she preferred to eat.

  “Coddled eggs and toast will do, my lord, and thank you,” she replied, breathless at the thought of an earl serving her breakfast.

  The amiable young man proved as easy to talk to as his sisters, however, so much so she found herself confiding that she found the Weasel’s attention somewhat confining.

  “I can see where he might have that impact on a lady.” Hythe chuckled. “You may be spared today. He will sleep until noon after—” The earl hesitated, and Esther suspected that he believed ladies ought to be spared whatever the Weasel, and for that matter the other gentlemen, had been up to the night before. He cleared his throat. “He has agreed to take a part in a billiards tournament this afternoon.”

  “Yes, but this evening…”

  “The hunt ball? Never fear, Miss Baumann. I’ll rescue you if he crowds in again.” He smiled warmly, and she found herself growing more comfortable.

  When he offered to escort Esther and his sister on their planned tour of the house, she discovered that she liked him very much. The three began their quest in the Hall’s gallery and then wandered out into passages and stairways covered with fine pieces. The collection made Esther yearn to see what the Grenfords, the Duke of Haverford’s family, had at their primary seat or London home.

  The earl demonstrated the sort of general knowledge of art that any well-educated man—at least one who paid attention—might have. Between them, the earl and Esther gave Felicity a primer on styles and artists. He didn’t talk down to Esther and never contradicted her observations, but it wasn’t until he mentioned one particular bronze that she realized he actually respected her expertise.

  “It sits nestled in a window alcove on the third floor of the guest wing,” he told her, leading them in that direction. “It looks Roman to me, but I wondered what you might think.”

  He led her to a sunny alcove with windows on three sides. A marble pedestal about waist high had been placed in the alcove, and a small bronze statue sat on it. She might have known it would be a horse. What else would draw a gentleman’s attention?

  “What do you think, Miss Baumann?” the lord asked, rocking back on the balls of his feet like an excited schoolboy.

  Her hands itched to touch the object. She clutched them behind her back to avoid temptation and leaned over it, moving her head every which way to see it from every angle.

  “So, is it Roman?” he demanded.

  “Greek, actually, or perhaps both. Or perhaps a copy.”

  “Can’t you tell?”

  “For certain? No. If it is fake, it is exquisitely done.
” She stood upright to look at him. “The Romans were master copiers, turning out many fine reproductions of Greek work.”

  “Hence both.”

  “Or neither. It’s difficult to tell.”

  “But you quickly identified the Raphael as a copy.”

  Esther brushed his words aside. “The whereabouts of the original Raphael are well known. Besides, paintings are easier.” She looked back at the lovely little piece. “I do know one thing. Whoever did this had great skill. If it is a copy, it wasn’t done by a hack.”

  The earl nodded gravely, lost in thought.

  “You have an eye for quality,” Esther told him.

  “Not as much as you do,” he said with a grin.

  He’ll make some woman an agreeable husband.

  The earl noted that the sun had come out, and, if they bundled up warmly, they might take a turn around the gardens.

  The poor man must have had his fill of my babbling. “Take your sister out for some air, my lord,” she said. “It’s time I checked on my Aunt Dinah.” She watched them go and breathed deeply, needing a moment to calm herself.

  She hadn’t lied about her aunt. Esther found the woman sitting up in a frilly bed jacket, sipping her chocolate. “Dressed and up, I see,” she said. “What have you done that is useful?”

  Esther bit back a smile when she remembered just how long she had been “dressed and up.”

  “I toured the house with my friend Felicity and her brother,” she told the old woman.

  “You went walking with a young man!” Aunt Dinah interrupted. She chewed her lower lip. “I suppose his sister lent you countenance, but you must be cautious, Esther. Young men are not to be trusted. They are-are… a hazard to young women.” She punctuated that odd statement with a sharp nod. “Who is this man? Is he anyone?”

  “He is the Earl of Hythe.”

  “An earl! Oh, my. Yes. Goodness. That’s all right, then. The sister accompanied you. Must be acceptable.” Aunt Dinah took another drink of chocolate and picked up a book in pink binding with flowers embossed in the cover, obviously satisfied that she had done her duty as a chaperone. She waved Esther on with a flick of her hand.

  Esther turned to leave, but something moving under her aunt’s coverlet caught her eye.

  “What is that?” she asked, but her aunt pretended not to notice. She lifted a corner, and a small gray head appeared. Black eyes blinked at her. Esther jumped back, and the kitten, gray from ears to the tip of its tail, leaped down and ran out the open door.

  Aunt Dinah kept her eyes in her book, but Esther wasn’t fooled, especially when she noticed a saucer of cream just inside the door. She shook her head and crossed to her own room.

  Reba proved less encouraging. “A sister is well enough, Esther, but don’t go wandering down those passages alone with a man. A lady—”

  Esther made a wry face. “I know what a lady would and would not do, Reba.”

  Why hadn't she had gone with her friends? Why hadn’t she jumped at the chance for a turn around the gardens with the handsome earl? Every other girl at the party would have.

  “He is goyim, girl—not a Jew. Nothing will come of it,” Reba went on without looking at her.

  Does she think I want to marry every man I speak to? I don't, even one as pleasant as Hythe.

  Before her restlessness could overtake her, a footman knocked at the door, and Reba brought over a message.

  “Sophie and Felicity are making plans with some of the others,” she told her companion. “They invited me to join them.”

  “What plans?”

  “They don’t say. I’ll be back to dress for dinner, if not before,” she said with a smile, and skipped out before the older woman could lecture her further.

  She found the sisters and Miss Cedrica Grenford, who twirled a feathery quill in her hands and seemed intent on making a point.

  “We’re deciding on costumes for the masquerade,” Felicity told her in lieu of greeting.

  Esther sat with a thump. “Masquerade? Aren’t those scandalous?”

  “Dear me, no,” Miss Grenford said. “Not in the Duchess of Haverford’s household.”

  Sophia raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips as if she might make a sharp retort. She did not. “They don’t need to be. Miss Grenford suggests we use it as an opportunity to demonstrate an interest in English history. It’s to take place on the evening after Boxing Day.” Her lips twitched as if she suppressed a smile, but Sophia Belvoir would never be so unkind as to mock another.

  “Improving subject or no, I fear the available costumes may limit us to the English kings and queens,” Felicity said, gesturing toward the jumble of boxes and trunks against one wall, “although I make no doubt Lady Miranda will come as some sort of pagan goddess.”

  “Felicity, really! You don’t know that!” Sophia said with a reproving look. “And you’ll shock Miss Grenford.”

  “What do you have so far?” Esther asked.

  “Sophia claimed Elizabeth already,” Felicity moaned. “I am trying to decide between Anne Boleyn and Mary Queen of Scots.”

  “Who else do you have on your list?” Esther asked.

  Miss Grenford raised the hand with the quill and scanned down the paper. “How about Mary of Modena? You have an exotic air and could pull it off.”

  Exotic air? Does she mean not English enough? “The woman who caused James II to be deposed? I think not,” she said out loud. Queens don’t get much more non-English than that.

  Determined to find a solid English name, she pulled the paper away from the woman and looked the list over.

  One name struck her. She walked over and rummaged through the boxes, pulling out a gown of silver lace over gray underskirt and giving it a shake. “Can this be given a Tudor look?” she asked, holding it at arm’s length to look it over.

  “The sleeves are certainly wide enough,” Sophia mused. “I think it might work if we flatten the front and add a white fichu to raise the neckline. We’ll all need board fronts if we’re to come as Tudors. Who do you have in mind?”

  Esther pulled the gown across her front, holding it in place at the waist with one hand and at shoulders with the other. “Lady Jane Grey, of course,” she said with grin. “Or at least Lady Jane in gray.”

  “Perfect!” Felicity exclaimed. “I think I’ll do Anne Boleyn. I could tie a red ribbon around my neck. Wouldn't that be famous?”

  “Gruesome, rather,” Miss Grenford said with a shudder.

  “If we want to convince Hythe to be Henry VIII, that might be a bit awkward,” Sophia pointed out.

  “Ugh. It would make me your mother, too. I think not. Mary Queen of Scots it shall be. I can still wear the red ribbon.”

  “Will he do it? Your brother seems like a good sport,” Esther said over laughter. She folded the silver gown over one arm.

  “Do you like him?” Felicity asked, eyes dancing.

  “Felicity!” Sophia exclaimed.

  “Oh my goodness,” Miss Grenford gasped at exactly the same time.

  Esther felt her cheeks burn. She swallowed hard. “I haven’t met a Belvoir who was anything but charming. His lordship’s conversation this morning proved delightful.”

  Sophia nodded her approval. “If I might risk being as forward as my sister, Esther, did you find my brother attractive?”

  “Any woman would! His face and—” Esther stopped and bit her lower lip. “Yes.”

  “He’s very young,” Sophia said in a warning tone.

  “I can see that. You needn’t fear I have designs on your brother. If he helps me avoid the Weasel, I shall be grateful to him, however.”

  Sophia watched her shrewdly. “I suspect, dear Esther, that the truth is your heart is already engaged elsewhere.”

  Esther hadn’t thought it possible to color any more brightly, but the heat creeping up her neck made her doubt it.

  “Is it someone here?” Felicity demanded.

  Esther stared at her tightly clasped hands, aware o
f the Belvoir ladies' scrutiny. “There might be, but he would never come here. Perhaps there would be someone if I found a man who respected learning as much as a well-run household.”

  Before Felicity could press for more, Sophia murmured, “Just so.”

  Chapter 8

  Wind and tides in their favor, Rochlin and Adam reached London at dawn on December twenty-fourth and dashed up the stairs of the War Department sooner than either dared hope to deliver receipts, reports, and gratitude to Glenaire. Adam left them then, the two friends to make their grim errand to Chadbourn Hall and he to deliver one final report.

  Nathaniel Baumann looked on his protégé with astonishment. “I expected two more weeks at least! Come, come, sit. You look exhausted—and none too tidy, let me say.” The older man viewed the receipts with satisfaction. His obvious relief surprised Adam. The man rarely showed doubt or insecurity. “Found the man himself, I see, and delivered every crown and pence. Good, good,” Baumann said, rubbing his hands. “How did you find Rebbe Nahmany?”

  “As wise and shrewd as ever. Happy to strike a blow to the Corsican.”

  “And the War Office?”

  “Satisfied. More than satisfied. Glenaire sends his personal thanks.” Baumann appeared pleased at that, but Adam leaned forward before the older man could launch into further discussion. “Is Miss Baumann in?” he asked.

  The banker sank against the back of his chair, brows raised. “My Esther?” His lips twitched. “Hundreds of miles through hostile territory into a war zone, sharp doings with the War Department, and your first concern is to ask after Esther?”

  Adam squeezed his eyes shut. Not well done. He had thought of little else for days.

  “My daughter is a guest of the Duchess of Haverford at Hollystone Hall this week, Halevy. Is there something you wish to discuss with me?”

  “You let her go?” Adam exclaimed, eyes wide.