Lady of a Thousand Treasures

by Sandra Byrd

  She seemed to notice my glance but took it to be toward her fan. “It was my mother’s. Like most collectors, I started with one piece. One small item which came to me laden with emotion and meaning and beauty. I know you’re given to collections, Miss Sheffield. Did you come by that as a matter of family practice or as a matter of the heart?”

  The drone and heat in the room and Lady Charlotte’s pointed question drew forth an unwelcome memory.

  After dancing class, Marguerite’s mother returned me home. I pushed the door open. “Papa? Mama? Orchie?” The house was strangely quiet. Abandoned.

  Orchie appeared in the hallway, her face stricken.

  “What has happened?”

  She shook her head and said nothing, but the tears flowed. Instinctively, I knew. I had sensed this was to come since I’d overheard Mama and Papa speaking. Since I’d seen Mama clinging to that wealthy man after I followed her, once, when she’d left the house after an argument.

  I ran to her room, crying, “Mama! Are you here?” I opened her wardrobe. It was empty. I ran to the kitchen, to the dining room, to the parlor, where she’d loved to sit and read. I sobbed, “Mama! I’m here. I need you. Are you here?”

  My heart beat in my throat. Orchie reached for me, and I shook her off.

  The door to my father’s library was closed, and behind it, he wailed like a struck animal.

  Orchie placed her considerable body between me and the door. “No.”

  I slunk away, back to Mama’s room. She had left but one thing that I could see: her beautiful ruby-and-silver perfume bottle. I lifted the cap, closed my eyes, and inhaled. It smelled of Otto of Roses, the hundred-leaved rose, the lingering fragrance of which signaled my mother had been here once. She’d left the bottle behind . . . along with Papa and me.

  “Mama,” I cried through choking tears. “Why have you left me?”

  “Miss Sheffield?” A hand rested on my arm. I shook myself back to the present.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “The heat of the room.”

  “Your collection?” Lady Charlotte prompted.

  “Coincidentally, my own collection started with something of my mother’s. A silver-and-ruby perfume bottle.”

  “How lovely.”

  I nodded and as a matter of will dismissed the past from my mind.

  A man who was at least a decade younger than Lady Charlotte smiled at her in a most personal way. She blushed. “My husband, the Right Honorable Mr. Charles Schreiber.”

  I apparently had not been discreet enough to keep my surprise from my face, but that did not seem to put her off. Indeed, she seemed amused. “I was married to another good man for many years, but he, unfortunately, passed away. Mr. Schreiber was hired to tutor my sons, and after a respectable period, he proposed marriage to me. I said yes.”

  “And now you collect—together,” I said.

  “Oh yes.” She placed her fan back in her small, tasteful handbag. “We are a partnership in every way, Miss Sheffield. It’s most accommodating. You may enjoy something similar,” she teased coyly. Did she speak of the pleasant Mr. Clarkson, who was now well-known to be attached to our firm?

  We were called to listen to Lord Audley and his father discuss the art, nearly all of which was magnificent, and afterward, the group began to disperse. I had hoped for an invitation to the next meeting, but none was forthcoming. Perhaps Lady Charlotte understood my despair, for she came alongside me before taking her leave.

  “It’s but your first visit, dear. We can hope for more.”

  I nodded, trying to remain optimistic.

  She continued, “I’m hosting a dinner party and an evening of games next week. Would you care to join us?”

  I smiled. “Oh yes, I would be delighted to.”

  She held up a hand. “Before you so readily agree, I must disclose a detail to you. My husband, Charles, made an acquaintance during some of his collecting in Italy. Lord Lydney . . . the present Lord Lydney.”

  Harry.

  “He will be there, as my husband is keen to learn about the antique glassware he returned with from Venice, though he’s been told none of it is for sale. I know about your trusteeship and the decision which must follow it. If you feel comfortable attending, still, I would most enjoy your company; please bring a chaperone if that makes you more comfortable. Give it some thought, and send me a reply.” She handed me a calling card, and we said our good-byes.

  Later that week, I sent my reply.

  Dear Lady Charlotte,

  I would be delighted to attend your dinner party. The invitation was so very kind and very much appreciated. I especially appreciate the extended invitation to my friend, Mrs. Marguerite Newsome. We look forward to the event, with pleasure.

  Sincerely yours,

  Miss Eleanor Sheffield

  One night, not long after the note was sent, my bedroom was dark as a closed coffin and as still as the air within it when I awoke to the sound of shattering glass. I heard it once and then twice, the second time more subdued. I sat up in bed, my breath heaving. I could not remain in bed, though. What if my uncle had fallen?

  I pulled a dressing gown around my sleeping gown and slid my feet into my carpet slippers. I lit the lamp on my table and held it out before me as I made my way down the hall. The house, without the coal stove going, was bitingly cold and my teeth chattered, whether from fear or chill I could not discern. I clamped my jaw to stop them.

  I went first to my uncle’s room. I could hear him, even through the closed door, snoring in jerks and jags. He was safely abed.

  Downstairs, next to the kitchen, was the small room which had been made into a bedroom for Orchie. I heard her breaths, in pillowing wisps and bubbles. She, too, was abed. I had to rouse her, though. I could not go out into the rest of the house on my own to see what had happened.

  I opened her door and shook her. Her sleeping cap was askew, and when she saw me with the light, she came instantly awake. “Someone is about the house,” I said. I could see the fear writ on her face, but she too put on a dressing gown and followed me down the hall. We checked each room, one by one, hearts pounding. What would I do if someone should be there?

  “The workshop,” I said. “I must check it, too.”

  “Them men what roughed up your uncle . . .” She whispered my fear and I nodded my agreement. On the way I spoke a silent prayer, asking the Lord to have protected the few pieces of art yet entrusted to us for restoration, most of which were irreplaceable.

  Once at the door to the workshop, I quietly turned the knob. I heard Orchie, behind me, inhale and then hold her breath. I was as frightened as she was. But I had to move forward.

  I pushed the door open and immediately felt the snake of cold air. A breeze. Orchie and her lamp followed me in. “Hello?” I called into the shadows. “Is anyone here?” I peered into every corner but saw no one. I peeked into the cabinets, but the art seemed blessedly undisturbed.

  Thank you, God. And thank you, too, Mr. Clarkson, for having thought to bring the important works out of the front room at night.

  “You stay here and run down the street for help if you hear me scream,” I told Orchie. Her eyes widened but she nodded and lagged back.

  I made my way to the front room.

  “Miss Eleanor—look!” Orchie called from behind me, pointing to the front windows. Two panes were broken, only large enough for someone to have reached in and grabbed a relatively inexpensive framed print.

  “Not big enough for anyone to have entered.” Orchie sighed with relief.

  “Follow me back to the house,” I said. “And return to bed. I shall get dressed and then sit in the workshop all night until Mr. Clarkson arrives and can call the police. I can’t risk anyone coming back to steal anything more. If I scream, run next door for help.”

  Orchie appeared about to protest but I held up my hand. “I insist.”

  She grumbled and mentioned ’twas not likely she’d sleep whilst awaiting a scream, but she did leave the
room. I quickly dressed myself and returned to the workshop, where I sat in my chair until I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “No!” I shouted as I came awake.

  “Miss Sheffield,” came a soothing voice. “Do not be alarmed. It is I, Mr. Clarkson.”

  I nearly wept with relief. “Oh, dear. I must have fallen asleep whilst waiting for dawn.”

  He smiled gently and helped me to my feet. “Please don’t worry. You’ve done well. I shall report this to the police and see to having the glass replaced. You’ve handled this admirably, but it is not a task for a lady. I’m here to care for it now.”

  I was about to protest but was so overcome with fatigue and relief that I did not have to tend to the situation on my own that I gladly accepted his assistance.

  “What should you have done if a burglar had remained on the premises? You could not have protected yourself,” he scolded lightly. He was right.

  “Do you think it was the people who stole my uncle’s watch?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Very possibly. You’ve not had this kind of situation before?”

  I shook my head. “Never. Will they do more damage yet? Is my household at risk?”

  He looked contemplative. “I hope not. I certainly hope not. But it is entirely possible.”

  CHAPTER

  Five

  Mr. Clarkson had spoken to the police, and they reassured us that they would be walking by our home and workshop each evening for some time, so I was relieved and well rested when it was time to attend Lady Charlotte’s game night. Marguerite was to be ready at seven, and when I arrived with the hired carriage, she stepped lightly out of her front door, and someone closed it behind her.

  “You seem more enthusiastic than I feel,” I said.

  “I certainly present myself as more enthusiastic than you do,” she said, slightly tart.

  “What is that to mean?” I smoothed my dress in front of me. It did appear a little careworn. I rearranged the folds so the thin areas of fabric would remain hidden.

  “Eleanor. You would never allow one of the pieces you manage or place on offer to go as untended or as uncared for as you allow yourself.” I felt struck. She reached out a gloved hand and took my own gently. “I’m sorry, dearest. That was thoughtless of me—but still true. You are a most beautiful woman. If only we could be allowed to see that.”

  “I’m not meant to be beautiful. I’m meant to be capable.”

  “Cannot a person be both?” Marguerite fluttered her fan at me, knowing I was trapped. If I were to disagree, I would be calling her out as either unlovely or incapable.

  “Checkmate,” I said, and she laughed.

  “Thank you for inviting me to come along. What is a poor old widow to do for an evening’s entertainment otherwise?”

  “You are neither poor nor old.” I quietened my voice. “Though widow is still true.”

  I caught a shadow of sadness before she hid it again. “Yes.” Her husband had died two years earlier. She squeezed my hand once more. “Poor is nearly true too.”

  I hadn’t realized. I squeezed her hand in return, and we rode on in silence.

  We arrived at the Schreibers’ home, Langham House in Portland Place, just as the evening lamps were being lit. Lady Charlotte greeted us.

  “I’m delighted you could attend. I shall introduce you to some others whose company I am assured you will enjoy and hope that you’ll feel quite comfortable. Dinner will be served shortly, and then we will divide up into groups to play games. In addition to collecting fans, I collect board games. Did you know?”

  “I did not—but what a delightful idea!”

  I conversed comfortably and casually with some of those Lady Charlotte introduced to me, as did Marguerite. I had quickly scanned the room and did it once more. Harry was not yet present.

  But then well ahead of the seating for dinner, he arrived.

  He still took my breath away. His black tailcoat was magnificently tailored, and under it was a deep-burgundy vest; tucked beneath that was one of the high-collared white shirts he always wore. When he saw me, his face lit up with both surprise and pleasure. His surprise told me that while Lady Charlotte had warned me he would be in attendance, she had not warned him that I would be here. His pleasure seemed authentic. It warmed me, though I remained wary.

  He reached into his pocket and lifted a gold chain with a pocket watch, then winked at me. I knew what he was telling me. “See? I’m not late.”

  I smiled and nodded my acknowledgment. Marguerite looked at him, then at me, and smiled too before turning away.

  My dinner companion to the right was a man who owned a match factory, and I found him to be most agreeable company. He enjoyed pretty things and made no disguise of that; he had made his fortune providing fire to all and jobs to women who could do no work but assemble matchboxes at home and was proud of both. I made a point to mention Sheffield Brothers and indicated that Mr. Clarkson and I would be glad to value or acquire for him at any time. He said he would think on that and appeared pleasant. I was heartened.

  To my left was the wife of one of the other members of the Burlington. She made abrupt conversation when she had to but made it clear she felt that as a woman involved in a profession, I belonged below stairs, if there at all, and not as her dining companion.

  After dinner, we retired to the salon, where Lady Charlotte had several tables set with her board games. The room was warm with both the fire and the many lamps which had been placed to best show off their own prizes. It was papered in a pattern which reminded me of the Garden of Eden, thick with vines and flowers and birds, their heads turned so one eye of each spied on the room. We gathered round in merriment—there were sixteen of us in attendance, neatly divided into groups of four.

  “I have here—” Mr. Schreiber held out a closed fist—“sixteen straws, each dipped in color. We shall draw straws, and the four that match in each color set will begin as a table group. The winners from each game shall gather for the next round, as will those who came in second place, and so on.”

  Mr. Schreiber passed the straws. The one I’d selected was tipped in blue, and I went to the blue table, which held an antique version of Game of the Goose. It was a fine place for someone like myself, so deeply immersed in history, to begin. It was the first board game, begun in Italy, perhaps by a member of the infamous Medici family.

  In the center of the board was a beautiful illustration of an aristocratic Italian lady sitting at a games table with a band of merry musicians surrounding her. The match maker, my dinner companion, handed a playing piece to each of us. Delightfully, they were not the standard pieces which had come with the game but were little collectibles from, I imagined, the Schreibers’ collection. Mine was a thimble which looked to have been about two hundred years old. When I looked up, I saw Lady Charlotte smiling at me as I inspected it. I smiled back.

  The game goal was to make it all the way round the board, advancing as we threw dice and landed on spaces which would move us forward, backward, or across. The first person to reach the sixty-third square won. The game was rousing fun, and I quite enjoyed the company of all at the table.

  Unfortunately, one of my throws landed me on the skull.

  “That means death,” the match maker’s wife said to me quietly. “You must return to the beginning and start all over again.”

  There was no way I could win. They all looked at me—none wanting the setback to spoil the cheerful mood. I would not allow it to do so. “Sometimes starting anew is the best way to move forward. Even if it seems like you’ve lost.”

  At that, the match maker’s wife clapped her hands in approval. The game concluded, and we switched tables.

  Just ahead of the third and final round, Lady Charlotte waved to me. “Miss Sheffield!” She patted the spot beside her. Then Harry effortlessly slid into a chair at that table ahead of another man who’d been hovering nearby.

  The man toddled off to a different table, and Harry smiled at me. Had h
e slid in just in time, just so he could be near me? If so, I rather admired his daring.

  Our round was the Game of Virtue Rewarded and Vice Punished. “Lord Lydney will explain the rules,” Mr. Schreiber announced to our foursome. He grinned. “Lord Lydney, are you quite familiar with virtue being rewarded and vice being punished?”

  Harry looked at me, softly, but without turning away before answering, “Oh, indeed so. And from the prettiest of hands.”

  A frisson of familiarity passed between us, a wave of intimacy. I imagined the others must have felt it too. I did not wish for the tide of that intimacy to recede.

  “Your father enjoyed parlor games, did he not?” Lady Charlotte asked Harry. “I believe I saw him at an evening of games last Christmastime.”

  Harry nodded. “He certainly enjoyed games. His favorite was Questions and Commands.”

  His voice held no rancor—I could not recall a time when it ever had, despite the bitterness his father had directed at him—but all present glanced away anyway. Questions and Commands had fallen out of favor in gentler circles.

  “Let the game begin!” I spun the totem first and landed on the square marked for the House of Correction, which meant I lost three turns. I think all were aware that I had been significantly set back in the first game, but I was expected to remain a good sport, and I did. “Perhaps this is so I can minister to the ladies therein more effectively.”

  “Are you part of the ladies’ committees which visit the prisons?” Lady Charlotte asked.

  “I am,” I affirmed.

  “Well done.” She took her turn and landed on Charity, which meant she could take two more spins. “I think I’ve robbed you of the charitable position, Miss Sheffield.”

  “I have known you but a little while, but I have found you to be most charitable. Earned and deserved,” I replied.

  Harry landed first on Folly, laughed aloud once more and caught my eye, and I could not help but laugh with him. He was such pleasant company. He did not take himself too seriously and yet he could be serious-minded when the situation required it. His conversation was witty and others-directed. Not selfish.