by Sandra Byrd
Oh, how I’d missed him. I still missed him. I missed his touch—when he held my arm, my flesh yielded, just slightly, like a newly ripened pear. I missed knowing that . . . I was his and he was mine.
I sat on the bench outside the summerhouse, waiting for Harry. He was just a bit late, which made me slightly cross. I did not want to lose any of our few moments together before my father called me back to assist him.
Harry rounded the corner and walked up the garden, toward the bench. His left arm overflowed with flowers. He waved with his right. When he stood in front of me, he spoke, quoting Song of Solomon. “‘Whither is thy beloved gone, O thou fairest among women? whither is thy beloved turned aside? that we may seek him with thee.’”
I blushed. For a gentleman to quote that passage to a lady could only mean . . . well, it was bold. I should reprimand him. But I did not. “‘My beloved is gone down into his garden, to the beds of spices, to feed in the gardens, and to gather lilies,’” I quoted the next verse. Marguerite and I had memorized sections of the book as young ladies, role-playing the pieces and wondering if anyone might speak them to us someday. In a rush of indiscretion, once, I had told Harry—and he had remembered.
He sat down next to me and nestled the bouquet of fragrant lilies in my arms before holding my gaze and softly speaking the next verse. “‘I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.’”
“Miss Sheffield?” Mr. Schreiber said, calling me back to the moment.
“Oh yes,” I said, taking a deep, steadying breath.
Harry looked at me quizzically. “Are you well?”
I blushed again, as I had that day near the summerhouse. “Yes. I was . . . thinking of lilies.”
The others appeared confused, but Harry’s smile, both warm and wistful, told me that he remembered too.
Mr. Schreiber took the next turn and landed in The Stocks. “It appears I shall join you in prison, Miss Sheffield, and can thereby offer some companionship,” he jested.
In the end, Lady Charlotte won the game by landing directly on Virtue. It was a perfect ending to a lovely evening.
She pulled me aside as the others were getting their wraps and calling their carriages. “I’ve heard that you’re to be welcomed back to the Burlington. That an invitation to join may well be forthcoming.”
“Oh, thank you, Lady Charlotte.”
“Please, dear, simply call me Charlotte.”
Friends!
“And I must be Eleanor to you, of course,” I replied. We walked toward her husband, a handsome man who glanced at her with delight and who was speaking with Harry. I overheard some talk about Venetian glass as we drew near to them. Then she and her husband left to bid farewell to their other guests, and I watched as Marguerite headed in my direction.
“I was delighted beyond measure to see you here tonight,” Harry said.
“Thank you, Lord Lydney.” The title tripped on my tongue and summoned a picture of his somber father.
“Harry,” he said. “Always. At least among ourselves.”
My heart pleaded his case. “Harry, then,” I agreed. “I’ll need to return to Watchfield soon—I, as well as my uncle and Mr. Clarkson, who did the most recent inventory of the collection.”
He nodded. “Anytime. Please, telegraph and let me know when. I would like to be present. I’m not always at Watchfield, but when I am, the telegrams are delivered to me promptly.”
“Perhaps the second week of October,” I said. “I have some obligations to tend to first—including my work with the aforementioned prison brigade.”
“I’m delighted to know you still visit the women prisoners.”
“Oh yes. I visit regularly and have earned many faithful friends there.”
“A friend to the friendless. They are fortunate for your friendship. As am I.”
“They would do what they could for me as well,” I said. “At any time.”
He took my cloak from the butler and wrapped it around my shoulders himself. It was a familiar gesture. One he’d often used to gather me in his arms in a socially acceptable manner. One I relished. His voice was low, and he spoke in a tone so quiet only I could hear it. “As would I.”
I melted into the crook of his arm, my body yielding where my heart and mind fought. I would not reply in like manner because to do so could imply a promise I might not keep.
CHAPTER
Six
In the workshop Friday afternoon, I wrote letters to sources I thought might have rare medieval coins for Mr. Herberts. I would do what I must to make a success of it for the firm, for my family, and for myself. I would succeed. I turned the lamps high against the encroaching autumn chill, the dull swirl of coal-tainted mist outside the door, and the dread I felt at the decisions I must make. One of the officers Mr. Clarkson had arranged for passed by and waved at me, giving me comfort.
I then took a moment to have a cup of tea and to pray, blessedly easier when I was alone. I asked the Lord for wisdom and guidance as I sought to shore up our finances, two requests of which I knew he approved. I asked for assurance of his presence. Are you here? my heart cried out to him.
Silence.
Disheartened, I set about reviewing a teacup and saucer set for a client, Mrs. Priestly—four of each decorated with intricate red landscapes. She wanted to know if they were in fact crafted by Jacques Boselly, the famous Italian artisan. If so, they would be very valuable indeed. I turned one cup over, and then the second, looking for the maker’s mark, which more than style identified the creator and a piece’s authenticity. The maker’s mark was scribbled on both. It looked genuine. I began to grow excited for my client—these were, perhaps, truly rare and valuable eighteenth-century teaware. A shadow of regret clouded my enthusiasm as I realized that if they were a recent acquisition with little or no provenance, then they, too, might have been looted from Italy in the recent war.
I began to see Harry’s decision to smuggle the Venetian glass for safekeeping in an ever more sympathetic light.
When I turned over the third cup, although the maker’s mark was the same, I could read, beneath it but nearly entirely covered, the faintest impression: Wedgwood. It could not, then, be Boselly.
I took the lamp closer to the piece and raked the light across the surface as Papa had taught me time and again to do. Yes. The maker’s mark had been painted on above the glaze after the piece had been finished. It was fraudulent. I checked all of them more closely, and indeed, they were all imitations.
I set the items into the box and completed my note with unwelcome news, never easy to deliver, but required by both my integrity and my affection for my clients.
I posted the letter to my client and a deck of antique cards for the game Lend Me Five Shillings, taken from our family’s small collection and sent with my thanks for a lovely evening, to Charlotte. Then I returned to the workshop. Shortly after, the afternoon post was delivered, and in it was a large envelope from Sir Matthew Landon, the late Lord Lydney’s solicitor. Alone in the workshop, I opened it and began to read.
Miss Sheffield,
As I am concluding the remainder of the late Lord Lydney’s estate, several packets of his personal and private correspondence have been forwarded to me from Austria. Among them were some additional information regarding the art pieces and a letter, written and sealed apparently just before his death. It is addressed to you.
Please allow me to be at your service if you have concerns or questions whilst you consider the options before you. I shall look forward to hearing from you when you’ve reached a decision.
Yours truly,
Matthew Landon, Esq.
I then opened the second letter, sealed in black with Lord Lydney’s signet stamped into it, as the first letter had been. It was clearly his handwriting, but much weaker and with blots of ink I would not have expected from a man so scrupulous—some of them still had a few grains of setting sand attached. His hand was spidery and the image of such a creature, and of the man, made my ha
nd recoil in near fear. By the letter’s date, I could see that he’d been very near death.
My dear Miss Sheffield,
The bells will soon toll, and I feel that I must share some unwelcome and recently acquired information in case you agree to take on the responsibility I have instructed my solicitor to propose to you.
I’ve come to understand that my son Henry has, from here in Austria, sold the portion of the Lydney Collection that had been painstakingly assembled by my elder son, Arthur, in his final years on this earth. That was in direct opposition to my instructions. I am heartbroken. It was all I had left of my son. If this is indeed true, then Henry was dealing in stolen goods, as that collection, until my death, belongs to me.
I do not know what else may have been sold, Miss Sheffield, nor why. Perhaps you may arrive at a conclusion.
Yours truly,
John Arthur Douglas, the Baron Lydney
As I read it, I could hear his voice, and it made me quiver as it had when he had spoken to me while he was alive. I knew he was dead—Harry had been with him when he died, and he was well and truly buried, and yet somehow, he felt alive in his ability to reach out, still. I slumped back in my chair. Lord Lydney had always preferred Arthur to Harry; none who had ever observed them could doubt that. Arthur was golden; he was named not only after his father but after the famed King Arthur, a legend beloved of every Englishman. Arthur had traveled with his father—and mine—to collect treasures.
Despite their father’s clear preference, Harry and Arthur had loved one another, and their mother had tried to smooth over the widening chasm that their father’s disdain for Harry had caused. Unfortunately, overcompensation led her to prefer Harry until her death. The situation had often put me in mind of Jacob and Esau, brothers who might have been affectionate with one another but for the divisive choices of their parents.
In the end, Lord Lydney blamed Harry for Arthur’s death—he’d been sent for the doctor and hadn’t returned with him in time, though he’d ridden with all speed. His father had never forgiven him. Arthur’s collection, like the clock, would certainly have been a thorn in Harry’s side. I could not fault him for wanting to rid himself of the unwelcome freight of guilt and disfavor such pieces repeatedly delivered, but it would not have been proper to do so before they passed down to him.
There would now be a fifth concern, a fifth question to resolve before I could, in honesty, allow Harry to keep the collection: Had he sold Arthur’s treasures?
As I was about to pull Mr. Clarkson’s inventory from a cabinet to verify the contents of Arthur’s collection, our lights flickered, then went out.
Orchie soon burst through the door. “We’ve got no gas,” she said. “No lights at all.”
Mr. Clarkson had left early; he had some personal affairs to tend to, he’d said. I missed his help but could address this matter on my own.
Once I’d ascertained that all our gas lamps were out, I walked out the front door and peered up and down. Perhaps there had been a service disruption on our street? But no. The other houses were well and warmly lit. “I shall visit the gas company quickly,” I said, pulling on my cloak. “Perhaps there is a line break. If so, it must be looked at immediately.” I did not mention the potential for a fire, but by the stricken look on Orchie’s face, I knew she recognized the danger.
“Do not fret,” I said. “I shall soon return.”
I often passed the gas office on my way to the omnibus, so I knew where it was located and made my way there directly. I spoke with the man behind the front desk, explaining my situation. He asked for my street address, and when I told him, he looked it up.
“I’m sorry, miss, but there are considerable monies due. It’s the final business day of September, and we cannot wait any longer. We have sent invoices and pleadings to no avail. The gas must remain shut until the invoices are paid.”
I reeled. “This can’t be. . . .”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his eyes remaining on the accounts to help me avoid further humiliation. “But it is.”
“I have an infirm uncle and an old housekeeper,” I said.
“Perhaps your husband . . . ,” he began.
I certainly did not want to tell him I had no husband to protect us and risk being robbed once more.
“I shall return on Monday with the amount due. My word is my bond. But in the meantime, would you please restore our gas?” I couldn’t image how distressed and disoriented Uncle Lewis would become living in the dark for three long days.
He took pity on me but could not restore the gas until an installment on the amount due was paid. It was too late for me to return with such a payment that night.
I hurried home. Perhaps the envelope stolen from Uncle Lewis had been meant to pay the bill?
Orchie greeted me at the door again in a fluster of upset, which was becoming distressingly common.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “The gas will be on by Monday.”
We spent the evening hours in the dark, with cold meals from the larder and my uncle confused and carrying on to himself about the men from the alley who had hit him and stolen his watch. It was enough to make me cry. After comforting him as best I could, next to the light of the coal stove and with a candle lamp nearby, I walked to the telegraph office and had a note sent to Mr. Clarkson—could he please not come to the workshop, or for dinner, the following night.
Monday morning, I had to explain the misunderstanding to Mr. Clarkson. “One bill was paid, and another let go in error,” I said with forced cheerfulness. “It’s all been taken care of now.”
He nodded but gave me a rather dubious look. He was a smart valuer too. I was certain that he was able to discern the truth of our situation.
Later that afternoon, after the gas had been restored, Orchie came bursting through the door of the corridor connecting the house and the workshop. “There’s men here to see you.”
“Me?” I asked.
“Well, not you, but Mr. Lewis. He’s not well. I thought I’d come get you, I did.” She buried her head in her apron.
I straightened my dress and pulled my shoulders back. Perhaps they were here to enquire about a commission?
When I arrived in the parlor, I saw two men, expensively and severely dressed, and a member of the Metropolitan Police Force. They did not smile. My gait grew weak, and I steadied myself on a chair back for a moment.
“Gentlemen? May I help you?”
“We’re here for Mr. Lewis Sheffield.”
“Miss Eleanor Sheffield. And you are . . . ?” I asked.
The tallest man took off his hat. “Mr. Jacob Adams, ma’am. Solicitor. We’re here representing our client, Lord Darlington.”
Our longtime landlord.
He continued. “I’m confident our continuing correspondence has been delivered, as promised, by the Royal Mail. Therefore, I must come to the regrettable conclusion that Mr. Sheffield is either unable or unwilling to settle your accounts with us. He is months behind on rent. It is only because of the longstanding relationship with our client—many, many decades—that we have tarried in pursuing this matter. It is now the first of October, and current and past rents are due. Unless we have remittance in full today, we must take the unfortunate action of appearing before the magistrate to request relief, either by complete remission of the debts or by a sentencing to debtor’s prison until said remission has occurred. The household will, of course, be evicted as well.”
I steadied myself once more on the chair back. “Debtor’s prison?”
“Do you, or does your uncle, have the complete payment?”
I was shocked at his direct, impolite approach. He must have read that into my silence. He showed the invoice to me. It was a large sum, indeed. “Perhaps it has been paid already and not credited?”
He shook his head. “It has not. Do you have receipts?”
“I can look. Can you wait but a while longer?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Sheffield. I’ve little p
atience at this point. The receipts do not exist as they have not been paid. I have been trying for a few months, on behalf of our client, to collect the debts your uncle signed for.”
“I have just now become aware of this matter,” I said. “My uncle has been unwell. I wonder if I might ask for some grace. I will have many new commissions, certain to bring the necessary funds. Should my uncle go to debtor’s prison, it is unlikely your client will ever see the funds he desires. Perhaps two months? I will continue to remit small payments on the debts due each month in the interim and keep the rents current, of course. I can submit this month’s rent by the end of the week.” I did not know, even as I said it, how I could possibly pay back rent and our long-overdue gas bill—in addition to the current household expenses—in two months. I’d have to review the accounts.
Mr. Adams stared at me for some time, and I did not flinch, though I wanted to. “Will you personally sign for these debts?” he asked.
I did not answer.
“If you will not, I’m afraid we shall have to press forward.”
I thought about my uncle’s distress and disorientation the previous long, dark weekend. He would die if sent to debtor’s prison. Additionally, if it became known that we were not paying our accounts and were turned out of our home, we’d be unable to purchase additional supplies or have a workshop, and worst, we’d take on a tarnish that our clients would not want to be associated with. In a profession such as ours, reputation was everything. We must inspire trust, or all was lost. It seemed to only have been the better of two or three months since things had gone wrong. Surely I could right them.
“Yes,” I finally agreed. “I will sign—if you will give us until the end of the year to clear the account.” I’d added on an additional month and hoped he would let that slide by.
He smiled. “Done.”
He said he would have papers drawn up and I said I would sign them.
Orchie showed them out, and I sank into a chair and into despair. We’d had fewer commissions, it was true, and Uncle Lewis had been unable to attract as many new clients as my father had; it was the very reason we had hired someone to come into the firm the year before. I’d begun to understand, of late, that Mr. Clarkson desired to be a partner.
