by Sandra Byrd
“But not the collection?” It was worth an untold sum. Without it, Harry’s homes would be stripped bare of everything but the carpets and the drapes.
For as long as I’d been alive, the baron had depended on our family firm, Sheffield Brothers, to acquire, value, caretake, and curate the art. That’s what our firm and others like it did for our wealthy patrons. Now, with my papa dead and Uncle Lewis flickering unreliably as he approached seventy years of age, there were no Sheffield brothers. There was only me.
And dear Mr. Clarkson, of course. But he was not family and therefore not a principal in the firm.
“Not the collection,” Sir Matthew affirmed. “The late Lord Lydney indicated to me in a letter and legal documents, latterly, when he became certain that his demise was imminent, that he wanted to leave the disposal of his art at your discretion. He does not trust himself to make the right decision because of his persistent grief over the death of his first son, Arthur, and disappointment in his second son. I’m sure you must understand that disappointment better than most.”
I remained resolutely silent in word and impassive in expression.
“The late Lord Lydney knows you, as your father’s daughter, will understand the care and importance of each piece—as well as have the judgment and experience to determine where it should finally be housed.”
I do not want this responsibility. “What would the late Lord Lydney have me do?”
Sir Matthew smiled. “He told me you’d agree, and he is right, as always. His son does not seem to have an interest in art, unless the pieces may be sold to fund the purchase of horses for sport and amusement, that is.”
At that, I looked up. “Pieces have been sold?” Mr. Clarkson had said nothing to me of this after the last inventory, so it would have to have been more recent. “The new Lord Lydney is buying additional horses with the proceeds?”
“I cannot say. I cannot say upon what he draws an income, even. Likely he has none, as his father did not provide one for him.”
I nodded. I did not know what to make of that. A year earlier I would have defended Harry’s trustworthiness and honor. Now? I was not certain. And it was true—Harry had no love of antiquities.
Sir Matthew continued, “As your final duty toward the Lydney Collection, and as Sheffield Brothers’ final task as longtime curators and co-stewards, Lord Lydney would like you to carefully consider the options and then choose to donate the entire collection, in his name, to the South Kensington Museum.”
I shivered, suddenly realizing, He speaks in present tense, as if the man were still alive!
“Or, upon reflection, you may decide that his son meets the qualifications his father does not currently see, though he once did, and allow the collection to remain at Watchfield House. The late Lord Lydney prefers that it be left in the hands of someone who will not sell any part of it. He wants it to be seen, enjoyed, and appreciated as the pieces relate to one another.”
Marguerite slid a book sharply back into the case.
My stomach lurched. “I am to decide if Harry is disinherited or not?”
Sir Matthew grimaced as I mistakenly used that familiar name. “Harry? There is no engagement, is there? His father was given to believe . . .”
I shook my head. “There is no arrangement.” That had become clear when he’d promised to return by early last spring but did not return for six months more, and then, I’d since learned, with a Venetian beauty in tow.
“You have no professional contracts with the South Kensington, either?” Sir Matthew asked. “It would be best if, during the period of trusteeship, you have no personal or professional understanding with either party which could call your objectivity into question.”
I shook my head again. I could but wish that Sheffield Brothers had a professional arrangement with the budding museum or its supporters.
“Good. I shall make that clear to the potential recipients, as well.” The solicitor handed a packet to me. “You are to determine where the treasures will go. Your firm has been paid to carry out its responsibilities until the conclusion of the year, is that not so?”
“Yes,” I replied. A commission long since spent.
“Please do not speak of this matter with anyone who might profit from your decision until said decision is final,” Sir Matthew continued. “You’ll find papers within that may supplement your own inventories and perhaps inform your assessments.”
I stood and took the packet from his hands. “How long do I have?”
He appeared to calculate. “It’s a little more than three months till the year’s end. It will take me that long to conclude probate and further details with the estate. Is that sufficient?”
“Yes.”
“Very good, Miss Sheffield. I shall forward any further pertinent documents should I come across them.”
As soon as he left the library, Marguerite drew near. “What shall you do?”
I sighed. “I could simply decide, here and now, to have done with it and give it all to the museum. I already know Harry’s not trustworthy.”
“Do you?” she asked. She must have seen the anger I felt cross my face because she put her hand up as if to quiet me. “I agree, dearest, that his disappearing for six months—especially in light of your, er, unspoken understanding—does not speak well for him. And yet, for the many years that preceded those six months, you trusted him implicitly.”
“I was an untested girl. I held foolish dreams. I misinterpreted his actions.”
She laughed quietly. “You are far too wise for that. Though none of us is immune to being misled by our hearts.”
“You think he should have it, then?” I asked, bewildered.
“I think you should investigate and find the truth, as you always do with your treasures.”
I opened my mouth to tell her that Harry was not one of my treasures. Was he? I closed it without speaking.
He left me and did not return when he said he would. Not once, but twice.
Marguerite waited for me to speak, and finally I did, after a realization. “This collection was my father’s as much as the late Lord Lydney’s. I must see this honestly through—where would it be best placed?—though it’s most likely that in the end, I will come to the same conclusion his father did.”
“Delivering those valuable objets d’art to the South Kensington Museum would be a fine means by which to serve justice to the new Lord Lydney,” she said. “Is that what you intend?”
“Does Harry know you are his champion?”
“I am your champion, dearest. But I have witnessed several occasions when you were happy together and I want to see you happy again—under whatever circumstances make that possible. I don’t want you to rush toward a justice which may not be just.”
“Why shouldn’t justice be served? I have been led along and then abandoned. Giving the collection to the South Kensington may be just after all.”
“That’s very possible; perhaps it’s even probable. His father has asked you to confirm that. And if you determine that justice will be served, it should be served cold, and I shall be gladdened when you find happiness elsewhere.”
Would I find happiness at all? Marguerite had not, not really. Perhaps happiness was not something to wish for.
We left the library, and as we entered the main reception area, all eyes turned to me. Now I knew why. Perhaps Sir Matthew had told them—perhaps the late Lord Lydney himself had signaled his intentions to his friends. The young woman I had seen with Harry earlier appeared to circulate through the crowd, more hostess, it seemed, than guest.
They all watched as Harry looked at me and I back at him. He began to make his way toward me. I did not move.
Friends and associates of the old man likely believed the late Lord Lydney had placed this decision in my hands because he trusted me but did not trust himself to see or act with impartiality after the untimely death of Harry’s older brother, Arthur. Perhaps they were right. But Lord Audley was not amiss in po
inting out that the late Lord Lydney had not been a pleasant man, nor one who was reluctant to use other people to reach his own goals regardless of the cost. It had been no gift to force me to decide whether to plunder the house of the man I’d once loved. To do so would be to publicly confirm his father’s claim that Harry was neither trustworthy nor honorable.
But did Harry deserve the collection, should it be freely given? That raised the next question: Had he ever deserved me? My heart, so freely given?
Harry finally arrived at my side and drew close to me, the bergamot and spice of his cologne enveloping me. The color of his eyes, which changed from hazel olive to hazel brown with his mood, reflected affection—hazel olive. I took a deep breath to steady the swelling emotions his nearness provoked. Instead, the scent of him made me waver even more.
He glanced at my ring finger and found it bare. “Seven tonight?”
He did not need to say where. I knew.
Duty-bound and prepaid, I could not avoid determining the fate of the riches. I could, however, have declined to meet Harry at seven.
But I did not.
CHAPTER
Two
The summerhouse was midway between the big house and the stable blocks, deep in the property. It was a private place where none visited or tarried after the gardener had quit of his duties for the day and returned to his home for stew and a pint. Now the garden was being dismantled ahead of winter, and there was but little in the room of the beautiful, butter-colored stone temple with high, long windows and Roman columns circling round it, holding up the roof.
I opened the door, and as I did, leaves blew in a path ahead of me. Some were hands of ruby and amber, supple and newly released from the trees. A few were brown and parchment dry, curled like a lady’s locks around a hot iron, the first to succumb to an early autumn. I headed toward the rows of stone benches which faced one another in the center of the room, surrounded by forlorn garden statues with cracked foreheads or a crawl of moss upon them.
In my younger days, when my father had come to stay at Watchfield and care for the late Lord Lydney’s collection or strategize a purchase, he brought me along too. After my mother left us, Papa feared that she would visit whilst he was gone and snatch me away. I liked to let him indulge this fear because it made me feel wanted, but I had no reason to believe she’d even recalled my existence.
When Harry was not at school or university, he and I would ride, or I’d first help Papa, and then the two of us would meet in the summerhouse, away from prying eyes and thirsty ears, and talk and play cards and pretend we had no interest in one another except as friends.
Until, of course, we admitted that we did.
The room was dark and cool, and I shivered and repented of having come. I blew out the lamp so as not to draw attention. I soon heard the crunching of footsteps and the creak of the iron hinges as the door opened. Someone stood in the shadows.
He appeared in front of me. Harry. He glanced at the space beside me on the bench, just enough for him to fit near me, closely. I moved to the center and spread my dress out so he could not fit, and he took a seat on a bench across from me.
“I’m on time.” He flashed that half-pirate, half–lord of the manor smile at me, and I hoped I did not appear as unsteady on the outside as I felt on the inside. The air between us crackled.
“I’m heartened to know that reform is possible for everyone.” I kept my voice tidy.
He laughed aloud, his eyes crinkling with faint lines which appeared to be new. Although he was as delightful to look at as ever, his face appeared more rugged and perhaps somber. I’d heard war could age a man quickly—even a man who was merely midway between twenty-five and thirty. He seemed more mature. Solid. “Ellie. I’ve missed you so,” he said as he leaned toward me.
I looked down and blinked back tears. “I could not have known.”
“Please, please look at me.” He spoke softly. I looked up and he continued. “I’m only just back with my father’s remains, so I could not have reached you sooner. And whilst away, I wrote.”
“You wrote that you would be delayed because you needed to help your Venetian friends. Again. Then your father needed you—has he ever needed you? Then but once more to say you’d be home soon and hoped you could call on me. Could call? How very detached.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry. I did not realize how careless that may have seemed, and in the rush of circumstances around the war and my father’s illness, I’d figured you would see the situation as I did. It was thoughtless of me. I thought of you constantly.”
“What happened?” I asked. “Why did you not explain in your letters?”
“I could not,” he said with quiet confidence. “A war was under way. While Father was the ambassador to Austria, I was secretly helping free Venice from Austria to return it to its own people. To indicate in any way either by letter, telegram, or even a messenger that I was helping the other side would have compromised my father.”
“I suppose that’s understandable,” I admitted. “But this is not the first time you had to leave to help others. Last year you were needed to ride to deliver documents between Austria and Venice. And you spent an inordinate amount of time in both places.”
With his father? With the Venetian signorina?
“I felt I was needed,” he said. “I hurried as I could. You’d agreed to it, that time.”
That was true; I had. Reluctantly. But each year’s situation seemed to delay things, to push us further apart. “The year before, when my father was still alive, you had to help Garibaldi in London—and then back to Venice again, taking months longer than expected. My father died before . . .” I left it unsaid. My father had hoped that Harry and I would be married, that he would see me safely into the hands of a man who could care for me.
Harry held out a hand to me; I did not take it. “I’m beyond sorry, Ellie. If I could undo that, I would, and I’m filled with remorse that I cannot. I have always admired your strength and self-sufficiency, and I hoped both our fathers would consider my purpose and actions in the past years to be noble. I was trying to show them I am a respectable man, though I may not be just like them. I was also trying to do some good in this world with what I had to offer—my ability to ride and to be a go-between. But no matter what good I may have done over the past years, along the way I seem to have, understandably, lost the respect and affections of the one who matters most.”
I did not correct him. Perhaps he had. I wiped my tear away with a handkerchief and put on my brusque efficiency again, a cloak which suited me very well indeed. I’d begun to learn to care for myself.
“I hope I have not lost them permanently.”
Harry waited for reassurance, which I could not presently give.
He ran his hand through his hair. “May I explain why I was a little late this time?”
“Six months is not a little late, but yes, you may explain.” I could hardly hold the man to account, even for the time he’d been gone. We were not engaged. We had not made a verbal promise. Perhaps our love had been, as Juliet spoke in Shakespeare’s play, too like the lightning which ceases to be before one could say, “It lightens.” But he had given me that ring and that kiss, and we had both known what was implied but unsaid and now undone.
“I’d intended to stay but a month, as I’d told you I would. Then Father became ill, and so I remained in Austria at his request; he repeatedly pleaded that I stay near. He indicated that it would be a comfort to him—yes, I was surprised as well that he wanted me near him. I thought maybe he wanted the two of us to be at peace before he died. But no.” He looked down for a moment before looking up again, his countenance lifting a little. “You remember Stefano Viero?”
Oh yes, I remembered Stefano. He had been Harry’s closest friend and sworn brother at Oxford. “Of course.”
“In addition to my work transporting war documents, Viero asked me to come and secretly collect his family treasures—the blown-glass objects his famil
y has been famous for, in Venice, for nearly five hundred years. Priceless treasures. National treasures, and he didn’t want them thieved.”
I nodded. “During the last war, Italy was looted.” Even British collectors had set off for the Continent to see what ancient artifacts they could carry away in the uproar.
Harry nodded enthusiastically at my agreement. “You’ll recall that Napoleon once stole the bronze horses from St Mark’s in Venice and brought them to Paris.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. Always the horses with Harry. “So you collected the treasures. Glass treasures? Is that all?”
“Yes. I spirited them out of Venice to Austria, and then to England, for safekeeping and protection. Stefano will come to collect them when all is settled again there.”
“Is that young lady one of the treasures you brought out of Venice?”
He grew wary. “Francesca?”
My head snapped up at the use of her Christian name. Harry, no fool, noted it immediately.
“Yes, Signorina Viero is Stefano’s sister. His mother, widowed, came as well. I could hardly leave them unprotected in a time of unrest. Their son and brother was fighting for his country. I came to know them very well during visits at their family home. They’ll remain with me until Viero comes to collect them, too, as soon as the final negotiations are complete. We haven’t yet heard from him,” he admitted. “We’re hoping he is well.”
“I hope so too.” I liked Barone Viero.
He did not bring up the trusteeship, nor should he have. And yet, I had a question.
“Harry,” I began, “did you have the mantel clock replaced? The one in the green drawing room?” I hated to bring up a painful subject, but I needed to know because it worked now, and it hadn’t for years. I couldn’t imagine Harry had had time to have it fixed. But he was not supposed to have removed anything from his family’s collection, either.
