by Sandra Byrd
I wondered if she had been a part of the setup with the young men who had been ready to attack me. If I did not take her up on her offer, would they reappear?
“No thank you,” I said and waited. The young woman began pushing her wheelbarrow, and I followed her to the thoroughfare. She’d proven true. I knew two things: our laundry needs went far beyond my collar, and I had no extra money. But my water flowed once more.
I thought for a moment before making an offer. I had two reasons for doing so—but I would only tell her one of them. “I have a proposition for you, Miss . . .” I waited for her to give me her last name. If she would not, I would not trust her further with my household.
She blushed. “Cheater.”
I tried to keep my face impassive.
“That’s the unfortunate truth of it all. Which is why I go by Alice. People tend not to trust you if they know your name is Cheater.”
I smiled. “I trust you. If you’d wanted to take advantage of me, you could have earlier. My household does need some laundry assistance, as you can plainly see. Perhaps you could come and do our laundry one day per week. In exchange, I will allow you to use our water, boiler, wringer, and iron on an additional day for your other commissions. Could we try this for perhaps a month? If the arrangement is suitable for us both, we can continue.”
I pulled a card out of my reticule but hesitated before handing it over to her.
“I can read,” she said, reading my mind at that very moment. “I learned in Sunday school.” She looked at the address on my card.
“My housekeeper, Mrs. Orchard, will keep a sharp eye out,” I warned her.
“Don’t worry. Only my name is Cheater.”
“I believe you.” She promised to come by the very next day. I wanted to look my best at Watchfield House, and we were to leave soon.
CHAPTER
Eight
WATCHFIELD HOUSE, OXFORDSHIRE
We arrived at Watchfield House on the twelfth of October. Uncle Lewis had insisted on coming, along with his large valise which held his viewing glasses, cleaning cloths and solutions, and notebooks. Mr. Clarkson and I indulged him. I thought perhaps he would do better away from London for a day or two. Mr. Clarkson thought that we could use his help in cataloging. In order that Mr. Clarkson retain confidence in our firm, I did not divulge how difficult Uncle was finding his work, but today, at least, he did not seem to be squinting.
As we approached the house, I recalled why I’d always loved it. The facade was of blonde stone, the cornerstones matching, nearly. Perhaps browned butter biscuits would be a suitable way to describe them; the deepened sandy color and texture was just right. The four corners of the house each had a tall chimney, and there were several other chimneys on the roof. The windows were high and arched like aristocratic brows. The grounds slept except for the fallen chestnuts and acorns which rolled restlessly in the wind. Ever since Harry’s mother had died, the house seemed like a beautiful woman who knew she was no longer loved; kept in style, but no longer cherished, alone and lonely much of the time.
When I’d been at Watchfield for the funeral, the house seemed as though it had been holding its breath during the time it had been uninhabited. Now that people circulated through her once more, she could exhale and be revived. Unless I removed the art from her walls, the armor from her corners, the manuscripts from her shelves, the porcelain from the cases, the tables and chairs, the artifacts from the cabinets—in short, stripped her naked of all that made her what she was by removing the collection.
A new butler, one I did not recognize, took us into the green drawing room. I noticed, immediately, that the mantel clock was missing.
Within minutes, Harry came down the stairs to greet us. He was kind and solicitous to my uncle. “I take it you’ve met Anderson, my new butler. I’ve had Mrs. Baker prepare a room for you on the ground floor. Not so much walking.”
Harry and Mr. Clarkson nodded to one another.
Then Harry drew near to me under the watchful gaze of both men who had traveled with me. “Here, at last, Eleanor, are your keys.” There was a personal tone in his voice, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
Mr. Clarkson flinched—at Harry’s use of my Christian name, when I had denied Clarkson permission to use it?
“The chatelaine.” Harry held out the large gold ring of keys to me.
I tried not to react outwardly to what seemed, but might not be, a symbolic gesture. The chatelaine held keys to every room in the house, every desk, every pantry and storeroom and jewelry box. In many households, it held the key to the safe. The wife, not the husband, controlled that. The keeper of the chatelaine was understood to be the lady of the manor.
“Ellie, here.” Harry held the chatelaine toward me. “Go quickly now, before Mother returns, and take what we need for the picnic.”
“She’ll see me!” I protested, but not vigorously. “Or Mrs. Baker will!”
“I’ll keep them occupied,” he said.
I tiptoed downstairs and unlocked the pantry, removed a hamper, then some cheese and a loaf of bread and meat and a pear. Harry loved pears. I walked up the stairs outside the tradesman’s entrance and set the basket there so we could retrieve it for our secret picnic in the woods at the edge of the property later, and then went back into the house.
I held out the keys to Harry. He hesitated a moment before taking them back—I knew what he thought. Perhaps one day the chatelaine would be mine. We were eye to eye, nose to nose. Our lips had never touched . . . yet.
Perhaps at the picnic.
I blinked and returned to the present. I looked at Harry and he smiled. He knew of what I’d been thinking.
“Thank you, Lord Lydney. I’ll let you know if we require anything further, but for now, we have quite a bit of work to do.”
Mr. Clarkson relaxed when he heard my cooler tone, and we set to work.
First, we divided up the areas of the house. We’d account for each item in a given room, noting it on the inventory, and then later, in London, we could compare what was in the house presently to the notes both Mr. Clarkson and Harry’s father had made on their last lists.
I took the great reception room and at first was tempted not to note the missing clock. But why? Because I suspected Harry, that’s why. This will never do. I must be scrupulous in my accounting because I will award this collection with honesty and objectivity. I wrote down the clock’s absence. After inspecting and marking down each item, I progressed to the dining room. The sideboard was bookended by delightful beauties. I hefted a hammered silver saltcellar and its cover and admired it anew. Salt was kept in the little niche below the cover; it likely dated from the Elizabethan era, when salt was precious. Because of that, the saltcellar was placed in front of the highest-ranking person at the table, who would use it first before it was passed along.
I set it down and proceeded to the smoking room, where the gentlemen would withdraw after a meal. Although there were many fine treasures along the oak-paneled wall, I stopped at a majolica wine chiller, likely from the last half of the sixteenth century. It was a partner to the majolica pilgrim’s flask my father had treasured. I closed my eyes. Papa. He had acquired for Lord Lydney the better piece, of course. Lord Lydney had then gifted him with the flask. A rare, expensive piece of art—and history—which Papa had treasured.
A few hours later, Mr. Clarkson and I met in the library. “Could you please open the door to the small room at the end of the third-story landing?” he asked.
I looked at him. I’d opened the upstairs doors, I’d thought. I followed him up—but by the back stairs, which grew narrower each time we turned a bend. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been in this corner of the house. It was, if I’d calculated correctly, just above Harry’s father’s bedroom suite but only accessible by the servants’ staircase.
I tried every key on the chatelaine, and none of them fit.
“I cannot imagine why I don’t have this key. But I shall find it. Well d
one for thinking to check here.”
“It was open last year,” he said. “And empty.”
Together, we walked on. “I’d be obliged if you would join me in the study after I finish the work in the statuary. There are some irregularities with the Roman coins.”
I agreed, and we met my uncle in the foyer and told him what I was after.
“I know the gatehouse keeper,” he said. “I shall seek the key from him, as he’s likely to have a complete set.”
“I’ll help him.” Mr. Clarkson was instantly at his side. “Unsteady gait,” he mouthed to me as he picked up his bag. I reluctantly agreed.
Clarkson took my uncle’s arm and my uncle shook it away, shouting, “I’m not a child!” Mr. Clarkson followed watchfully from a short distance, as he must have done the day my uncle had been robbed.
I went to the study, glad for a moment alone with the coins before Mr. Clarkson arrived. I wanted to be prepared for our conversation. After some time, I became aware that Mr. Clarkson had not yet joined me, and plenty of time had passed. I sought him out—he was just leaving the porcelain room.
“The keys?” I asked. “It’s been more than an hour.”
“We did not reach the gatehouse. We sat for a moment to allow your uncle to catch his breath, and he fell asleep. I stayed with him for a while so he would not wander off, and then escorted him to his rooms before completing my work in the statuary. I was just about to return to you.”
“I shall demand the key myself, then, at the gatehouse. I have been awarded trusteeship. As to the Roman coins,” I said, “I have reviewed them and share your concerns.”
He nodded. “Last time I was here, I noted that there seemed to be a few coins that were fake. You remember the story of those two men who had been manufacturing forged Roman coins.”
I stared at him. “You didn’t say anything to me months ago.”
He stared back. “Your father had approved the purchase. . . .”
My face heated and he smiled sympathetically.
“I didn’t want to shame him,” he said quietly, “if he’d been duped while . . . ill.”
“Thank you. We should note them now, though.”
We returned to the room where the coins were held and jotted down notes together. “More seem to be missing as well,” Mr. Clarkson said. “Coins that were, I believe, legitimate. And here several months ago.”
My heart sank. Could Harry have been selling things after all, as his father had accused to Sir Matthew?
We worked side by side, noting items and asking one another’s opinions. It was pleasant; I could not deny it. Clarkson shared my interests, knowledge, and enthusiasm. What’s more, he’d been discreet about Papa. I thought about how happy Lady Charlotte and her husband were, traipsing across the Continent in search of treasure. But hers had been a love match. Must they all be?
After we completed the coins, I returned to the pink room, which had been a favorite of Harry’s mother.
There had been three people to whom Harry’s father had shown affection: his wife, Edith, Lady Lydney; his oldest son, Arthur; and my father, William Sheffield, whom he had met at Oxford. They’d been sworn brothers much as Stefano and Harry were.
I paused at the pelican pendant which had been Lady Lydney’s particular favorite, savoring its story. The pelican looked as though it had a tiny crack, and I wrapped it in fabric and slipped it into my reticule to repair in London if I could.
The rest of the figurines and objects appeared to be intact. Except . . . I couldn’t be sure, but as I counted the rare porcelain statues, there seemed to be one or two missing. With a thousand pieces or more in the collection, it was impossible to be certain with a glance, even for someone with my familiarity with the items. After making a few notes, I walked to the gatehouse and looked for the keeper. This gatehouse—one of four, situated at the north, south, east, and west entrances to the estate—was the only one still in operation. We had driven by it hours earlier.
“How can I be of help?” the keeper asked. His voice was cold and defensive; he looked like he’d been drinking or napping, or both.
“I’m looking for the keys to the room at the end of the third-floor landing,” I said. “Lord Lydney has requested I do a complete inventory, and I require the key for that.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and his eyes shifted. “I don’t have that key.”
I did not believe him.
“Are you certain?”
He nodded insolently. “Only Lord Lydney has that key. And his valet.”
“Which Lord Lydney?” I asked. “The recently deceased or the present one?”
He said nothing.
“Then I shall complete my account of the gatehouse, directly.”
He raised his hand in protest. “Again? Your man did it not so long ago.”
“Inventories are taken regularly. Mr. Clarkson is inventorying the house at this time, and I will note, afresh, what is in the gatehouse receiving areas.”
I did not look around his living quarters, but I did go into the large room where packages were delivered and stored until his lordship or his man called for them.
There were newly arrived boxes from Austria, of course, many of them. I lifted some of the lids, already pried open, and found that they were Harry’s father’s personal items. Nothing from the collection as far as I could tell. To the side of the room sat two crates stamped in Venetian. I lifted the unsealed crate tops, one after another, and sorted through the hay and cotton protection before gazing at the most beautiful blown glass I had been privileged to see.
The Venetian treasures.
Goblets, in waves of sea blues and greens, fitting for Venice, delicately etched with remarkable skill and openmouthed, ready to receive the riches of Italian water and wine.
A chandelier which glistened and twinkled, even in the relative dark of the room.
Twisted cornucopias, purest glass with threads of gold woven throughout, as intricate as any embroidery I’d seen.
A blown-glass water jug that looked too delicate to be a drinking vessel.
A yellow perfume bottle, swirled like sunrise gauze. My heart clenched. Mama.
Venetian wedding cake beads, rolled black but with hearts and flowers shot throughout, to celebrate a woman’s best day. Which bride’s neck had they graced?
I wrote down piece after piece because, after all, it was on the property even though I knew it belonged to the Vieros. I hadn’t told Lady Charlotte, but my personal interest centered upon glass. It was both fragile and strong, liquid and solid, opaque and clear, vibrant and still. Complex as the best of us are. I cherished it.
I put my hand to my still-bare neck. That was why Harry had chosen the mustard seed necklace for me. He knew how I loved glass.
I came to the final, smallish crate, marked with a stripe of blue paint but no wording at all, and found it empty but for the packing straw. Perhaps it had held items used for the baron’s burial? As I left the gatehouse, I walked the lawn to collect my thoughts and noticed the door to the summerhouse was slightly ajar.
I pushed open the door and saw the shadow of a figure on one of the stone benches move. “Harry?” I called quietly.
I walked in a little further and could see, of a sudden, that it was not Harry. It was the young Venetian woman, reading a book in the dim late-afternoon light.
She slowly turned to look at me, her dark eyes matching her dark hair. She stood, smiling, and although I was loath to admit it, she was beautiful.
“Signorina Francesca Viero. And you must be Miss Eleanor Sheffield.”
“I am. I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“It is not a disturbance. Sit down, per piasser.”
“I wish I could. But I have much cataloging to do this day.”
She smiled and looked around the empty room, as if to ask, “Then what are you doing here? There is nothing to catalog.” “I see. Harry—Lord Lydney, me scuxa—said you were coming to Watchfield today. I enjoy e
scaping to this very private summerhouse—often. Have you cataloged the Venetian glass? Those which belong to me?” There was now an edge to her lilting voice.
“Indeed, I have,” I responded. “They are beautiful. Your family has a treasure and craftsmanship beyond compare. They are on the property, so I must mark them down.”
She shifted and, for a moment, looked profoundly uncomfortable. “Do they all seem . . . Venetian to you?”
Was she concerned that her family’s treasures would prove false somehow?
“Yes. All Venetian. Of course. You have a concern?”
Relief swept across her face. “No, no. I’m very proud of my family and what we do, what we have always done, and hope always to do.”
I nodded. I’m working as steadfastly for my family tradition as you are for yours. “I hope you find your visit here in England to be a lovely time, something to remember when you return home. How long will you be with us?”
She fanned herself. “We’ve just had a telegram today telling that the Austrian emperor has ceded Venice—we can now join Italia.”
Good. Not too long then.
Envy does not suit you, Eleanor. I softened my heart and my tone. She’d just fled a war. “I’ve met your brother. I found him most agreeable. If there is anything I can do to make your time here more comfortable, please let me know.”
She softened too. “I sincerely hope my brother is well. We have not heard. I am most comfortable; Lord Lydney has seen to that. You do realize—” she fanned herself once more—“he is a hero. You’ve seen the treasures. You know their value. They are five hundred years old, some of them. Without his lordship’s help, they would have been looted or demolished—we’d had threats. My mother and I would have been left unprotected, or my brother could not have fought. Harry risked himself for us, Miss Sheffield.”
Her thoughts and insights—indeed, her proclamation—further bolstered my growing conclusion that Harry was the honorable man he presented himself to be, that he was to me, and not the duplicitous man his father claimed him to be. According to her, Harry had carried the treasures from Venice out of loyalty and affection for her brother, who deeply valued the antiquities. Despite my happiness at hearing her recount his valor, I twinged with an unwelcome stitch of returning envy.
