by Sandra Byrd
“No, but I should replace it.” He shifted his gaze, but I caught the look of pain first. His father had had the clock stopped, permanently, at the exact moment that Arthur died. It was, the late Lord Lydney had said, a way to remind any and all that Harry failed to bring the doctor to the house in time—and Arthur suffered fatally for it.
“It certainly would be understandable had you replaced it.” No one wanted to be reminded, day in and day after, of their failures, especially if their failure had caused someone to die.
He did not acknowledge that comment. “Why do you ask?”
“The works have been fixed. The clock is keeping accurate time. The past is past.”
“Is it?” His voice turned slightly hard. “I’d thought helping in the war would make my father see me as a man. And then, of my own accord, I rode out with Viero’s treasures—the antiquities my father prized. All for naught. No reconciliation was ever at hand, despite his misleading. He’d like to continue to mete out vengeance from the grave.”
I noticed that he, too, spoke of his father as if he were still alive, and I shivered again. “I’m sorry,” I said. And I was—for both of us.
“Ellie . . .” He reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a box. “I brought a gift for you from Venice. May I give it to you?”
I took a deep breath but did not answer.
“There is nothing I expect from you in return,” he said. “I just thought of you when I saw it. I knew it must be yours.”
I nodded. “For times past if nothing else.”
He flinched, and I quelled my temptation to soothe him. Things were not now as they once had been. He handed the box to me. “Open it?”
I could hardly accept the gift and not open it in his presence. I lifted the velvet lid and drew out an oval pendant of antique brass with filigreed loops all around it, hung on a brass chain. And then, in the center of the pendant, green velvet upon which rested . . . “A mustard seed!” I exclaimed.
He nodded and smiled. “Under glass, of course. Both brought you to mind—the seed of faith and the glass.”
I stared at it, not because I needed to further examine it, but because I needed to collect my thoughts and emotions.
“Thank you, Harry. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” But I did not put it on.
Harry waited a moment, then stood and held out his hand to help me rise from the stone bench; I was glad of it. The cold had bled through my garments to my bones.
He tucked my arm through his. I allowed his arm to remain—it was a gentlemanly offer, and I did not wish to offer an ill-mannered refusal in return. Still . . . the rich promise of the past and the emptiness of the future entwined our arms as the skeletal wisteria entwined around the summerhouse.
“May I call on you in London?” he teased, echoing his letter from Austria.
“I cannot say,” I said. Should I let him call? If I did not see him, how could I best judge if he was now deserving of the collection? But if I did, would I be swayed by my former affections for the man?
I would not allow myself to be.
He took my hand in his own and softly kissed the back of it. “My Ellie. If you cannot say, who could?”
CHAPTER
Three
BLOOMSBURY, LONDON
Next afternoon, Marguerite and I took the train back to Paddington Station, London. We parted with a warm embrace at the station, and I took an omnibus, a long, horse-drawn carriage with perhaps six benches on either side upon which travelers might sit, the rest of the way. Home, a place that was—at last—perfectly safe, secure, and dependable.
When I arrived, our housekeeper, Mrs. Orchard, better known as Orchie to all whom she’d endeared, opened the door. She’d been crying.
“Mrs. Orchard!” I rarely called her that, but I was so surprised to see her undone that it threw me off some. “Whatever is the matter?”
“It’s your uncle,” she said.
My face must have reflected my utter and abject horror because she quickly reassured me with a whisper. “Oh no, he’s not . . . gone . . . but he’s had a bad upset, he has.”
I quickly unwrapped my cloak and hung it on the stand. “Whatever has happened?”
“It’s best he tell you,” she said, nodding toward Mr. Clarkson, who had suddenly appeared in the hallway which led from our workshop, next door, to our home.
“Let’s speak in the parlor,” Clarkson said, and I followed him. Orchie followed me.
Once in the parlor we sat down and Mr. Clarkson explained.
“Your uncle said he was going to meet a client, which I thought was unusual, as he has mostly limited himself to valuing in the workshop of late.”
I nodded my agreement. Uncle had become more and more housebound, by necessity, of course.
“I did not feel it was my place to interfere. However, I was concerned for his safety and followed him from a distance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clarkson,” I said. It was certainly not a part of his professional responsibility to do so but showed his character to be of the best sort that he undertook that responsibility anyway.
“Certainly, Miss Sheffield,” he said. “In any case, when he was about a block ahead of me, he took a turn down an alley. I hurried as quickly as possible, but by the time I reached him, two young ruffians were on him, one holding him back whilst another filched whatever was in his pockets. Upon seeing me, they fled, but not before hitting your dear uncle in the face.”
“Oh no!” I stood. “I’ve been gone for but one day and he’s been harmed. I must see him.”
“He sleeps now,” Orchie comforted me. “You’ll see ’im at supper.”
I nodded and sat down. “I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Clarkson. For thinking to follow him, for reaching him in time, for bringing him back safely.”
Clarkson grimaced. “I’m afraid it wasn’t entirely in time. He mentioned having an envelope of money and was quite distressed over the loss of his pocket watch.”
“Oh . . . oh, dear.” My father and Uncle Lewis had been twins and had purchased very valuable twin pocket watches when they first took over their father’s business.
Mr. Clarkson nodded, his face reflecting the same distress I felt. “I know how he loved it and how costly it was. A bigger loss than his envelope of money, I’d guess.”
“Yes.” Tired from my journey, from my commission to determine if Harry would receive his father’s fortune or not, and from this terrible news about Uncle Lewis, I decided a rest was in order. I stood once more. “Thank you again, Mr. Clarkson.” I took a few steps from the room, and then an icy thought, a worrisome thought, occurred to me.
“Could those ruffians have followed you back to our house? If they knew Uncle had one valuable on him, could they be watching for a time to break in and ascertain if there are others?” Our workshop was constantly filled with the costly rare art of our clients.
Mr. Clarkson looked at me with a little smile, all that could properly be allowed in such a serious circumstance. “I have thought of that. I have taken a piece or two to my residence for the moment and have hidden everything else deep in the cabinets. I will keep a sharp eye out. But I believe it was a crime of chance.”
“Dear Mr. Clarkson, thank you very kindly. Words cannot express how valuable you have become to the firm—to all of us, really.”
Clarkson smiled more widely then. “At your service, Miss Sheffield. I shall see you at dinner?”
For a moment, I was caught off guard. Orchie came to the rescue. “It is Saturday, Miss Eleanor.”
That was right. I’d forgotten. Mr. Clarkson often stayed to dinner on Saturday so he could work late at the workshop. None of us would work on the Sabbath.
“Yes, of course.” I nodded to each of them and then made my way to my room. Once inside, I found I was too anxious to sleep, and so I settled in the chair by the window. I opened the folder Sir Matthew had given me and steeled myself. I would glance over the papers for a moment before resting, to se
e if there were any immediately recognizable irregularities.
Like the newly changed mantel clock.
To my surprise, in addition to the neatly ledgered list of treasures, there was a letter, sealed with the late Lord Lydney’s signet and addressed to me.
Merely looking on his handwriting somehow filled me with dread. I’d not thought he liked me; rather he put up with me for my father’s sake. I’d felt his lip-curling disdain more than once. But my father had also told me, once, that the baron had been overgenerous with some of the commissions he’d awarded my father, so my school fees might be paid.
I sliced through the black wax.
My dear Miss Sheffield, it began.
My dear?
If you are reading this, then you have accepted my commission, as I knew you would. You are a dutiful girl—well brought up despite some unfortunate circumstances.
In any case, it appears that perhaps family curses stalk all of us. This brings me to the point of this letter. I had always expected, despite your uneven positions in life, that my son Henry would propose marriage to you and you would be the caretaker of the vast collection I’ve not only inherited but assembled with the help of your dear father. Of late, it became clear that a proposal was not forthcoming, as Henry was keeping close and constant company with the young Venetian woman. He repeatedly refused to return to England despite my pleadings that he do so.
I set the letter down for a moment. Harry told me that his father had pleaded with him to remain until his death. His father, however, claimed the opposite. I could not imagine Harry lying to me. Could I? But I could also not imagine Baron Lydney pleading with his unloved son to remain with him, as Harry maintained. I turned back to the letter.
I concluded that my assessment of him after Arthur’s death was accurate—untrustworthy and selfish. However, in case anger, disappointment, or illness has clouded my vision, I have decided to leave this decision in your capable hands.
In my eyes, Miss Sheffield, he deserves neither my title, my estates, nor my treasures. I cannot deprive him of the first two. Should he be deprived of the third? That is now for you to decide. Would it be true to say that you believe you know him as well as anyone?
I am enthusiastic about the new age of museums, Miss Sheffield, as I know you must be, where all can see the many treasures afforded by the few. Perhaps you will determine that this, then, would be the highest and best use of my fortune. The final decision will rest with you.
Sincerely yours,
John Arthur Douglas, the Baron Lydney
I felt as though I’d been chosen to be the blind man in a game of blindman’s bluff. Blindfolded and spun around and around till I could not tell which was right and which was wrong. Who spoke the truth? Who lied? Perhaps chess was a better analogy. Whose pawn was I, and to what purpose?
I steadied myself to focus on the weighty decision that lay ahead for me, the stewardship of a great fortune. But from time to time, my thoughts snagged on two sentences and would not be released. “He was keeping close and constant company with the young Venetian woman. He repeatedly refused to return to England despite my pleadings that he do so.”
Hours later I met with the men at dinner. The lamps were low—too low, I thought, abnormally low. Why? It did help hide the age of the pale-gray wallpaper which, in turn, was designed to conceal the soot powder from coal and lamp splatter. A collusion of small portraits had been carefully hung to hide the worst stains. The table, though it would comfortably seat eight or more, had been neatly set for three. The linens, I noticed, had begun to fray a bit. The men wore ties—though Uncle Lewis’s was quite old and startlingly dotted with bits which called to mind meals recently past. Mr. Clarkson was neatly dressed, his thick brown hair parted in the middle without a stray out of place, and newly shaved—a face not altogether unpleasant to gaze upon. His clothing was fashionable though perhaps trailed by a season or two, which I certainly understood. I knew it was important to him to dress as though he were capable of mingling with our wealthy clients but without any pretensions to equality. He did so very well indeed.
I greeted my uncle with a kiss, which he waved away. “I’m so sorry,” I said.
“Nothing worse for a man than to be the object of feminine pity,” he replied. I retreated to leave him his dignity but was shocked and saddened by the purpling bruise on his cheekbone and the sudden shake in his voice.
“How went the funeral?” Uncle asked after Orchie delivered the first, meager course. It seemed to me that the portions grew smaller as the year grew longer.
“As to be expected,” I answered. “Somber.”
“I didn’t know him well,” Mr. Clarkson said. “The deceased, that is.”
“I knew Lydney,” Uncle Lewis blustered, then raised his hand to Orchie, who smiled and nodded. She returned to the kitchen, as I knew she would, for a platter of Cornish pasties. Again. It was an unusual dinner course, but we indulged Uncle Lewis nonetheless.
“Can’t say as I’ll miss him a bit—nor will any honest man, a cohort among which he could not count himself—though I’ll miss his commissions, that’s for certain.”
“Dear Uncle, that is most unkind,” I responded.
“I’m too old to feign affections. I’m keen on the commissions that will now come to us from those attached to the South Kensington. They are much needed, though I hate to see his son done a bad turn.”
“On the few occasions we met, I thought the baron seemed a decent sort of man,” Clarkson said. “He certainly assembled an admirable set of possessions and put his riches behind his passion.”
Uncle continued, most indiscreetly, “Those museum commissions will come, and I suppose we’ll have the late Lord Lydney to thank for that . . . and you, too, m’dear.”
I stared intently at my pasty, as though it were about to come to life.
“Isn’t that correct?” Mr. Clarkson asked after a moment or two. “With the considerable donation to the South Kensington, right here in London, Sheffield Brothers shall be looked upon in a rather amiable professional light.”
“How do you already know—?” I began sharply.
“Everyone knows.” Mr. Clarkson cut me off, then looked down. “I’m sorry for that interruption; please forgive me. It’s enthusiasm for the future of the firm, of course.”
“Please continue,” I responded in a more subdued voice. He was right to be invested in our outcome.
He spoke more gently then. “It seems Lord Lydney had shared his plans with a few friends, his solicitor, and perhaps his son. Word traveled in the past few weeks. Swiftly. I learned of it just before the funeral, from Mr. Denholm, when I delivered a piece of jewelry to his wife. Only it seemed proper to let Sir Matthew himself explain the terms to you.”
“What shall you do?” Uncle asked me.
I sipped my water before continuing. “I’m sorry, Mr. Clarkson, Uncle Lewis. But Sir Matthew has requested that I not discuss the matter with anyone who may profit by it until a decision is made.”
“Then make the decision, dear, and off we go!” A flake of pasty stuck on my uncle’s beard, which wagged as he chewed.
“I shan’t be hasty with the final duty we’ve been charged with by the Lydney estate,” I replied. “But I shall be deliberate.”
After the pudding, Mr. Clarkson excused himself to the workshop. I told him we would meet him there soon and then stayed to speak with my uncle.
“The old man did you a favor,” Uncle said.
“Lord Lydney? I think not. He left me to do the task he did not have the courage to do. He did not want to look like the villain, depriving his only living son of his family treasure. Should I decide against Harry, I’ll look like a vengeful villainess.”
“‘Heaven has no rage, like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury, like a woman scorned.’” He cackled, and my eyes widened at his quote. Then he seemed to rein himself in. “I’m sorry, my dear. I beg your pardon. What I meant was that, rather than give the collection
to the South Kensington directly, which would have benefited you not at all, he left it for you to bestow upon them so that you might curry favor with those in charge. It was, perhaps, a gift to make up for what his son did not, in the end, do for you. And for the many years your father worked on his behalf,” he reminded me. “It’s your papa’s collection as much as anyone’s.”
I heard his sorrow resting atop what must have been a frightening assault. He did not speak of the lost watch. I did not think he ever would—to save me, and perhaps himself, from revisiting the grief. He blinked back a tear. “I shall see you tomorrow,” he said. Orchie came up behind us and wiped his mouth with a linen; he had begun to drool just a little but did not seem to be aware of it.
I walked into the hallway that connected our home to our shop and workroom. Our firm had always been run by two brothers. Twins ran in the family, and one brother had always lived in one house and the second in the other. Uncle Lewis had never married, and after my mother had me, she’d said, “Although you’re a pretty bauble, I have no desire for any more children.” It was clear there were to be no twin sons.
After my mother disappeared, my father had invited Uncle Lewis to move in with us, and they’d converted the second house into our workshop, where we cleaned, repaired, and gave valuations for pieces of fine and decorative art, manuscripts, silver, and the like. In the front was a small storefront—a newish concept in London, for antiquities—mostly to draw the eye and conversation of passersby.
Mr. Clarkson was at work repairing a chip on a fine porcelain cup from China. The workroom was too tidy and bare; we did not have enough commissions.
“Uncle Lewis was unwell and has retired for the evening,” I said.
Clarkson nodded at me, then paused in his work. “Miss Sheffield . . . may I call you Eleanor?”
I looked down for a moment and then back up.
“No, no, of course not. Decorum is altogether important for ladies of reputation,” he said.
“I’m wondering where I might find the inventory list for the last visit you made to Watchfield House?” I had asked Mr. Clarkson to go in my stead earlier in the year because I had not wanted to be mourning at Watchfield after it was clear Harry was not returning for me.
