by Sandra Byrd
I came to the final setting, the hole where the amethyst should have been. A week after Harry had left for Italy and Austria, the amethyst had fallen out somewhere, and I could not find it. I wore the ring anyway. When two months had passed from the time he’d said he’d be back—the empty setting was like the hole in my heart—I yanked it off once more and placed it within my cabinet for good.
Why hadn’t he proposed? That fifth question, the one closest to my heart, yawned like the empty setting.
Was what we shared brass or gold, Harry?
Treasures are to treasure, I’d told Alice. I closed my eyes, and the tears squeezed out. Mama. Papa. Harry. I am never kept. Prioritized. Valued above all. In the end, I am no one’s treasure. I took the ring off again, denied it light by placing it in the back of the dark drawer.
I sat for but a moment, collecting myself, and the words came back to me but slightly changed. Put thou thy tears into my bottle: are they not in my book?
I closed the door behind me—and then I locked it. Orchie, after all, had a set of keys should she need to enter in.
After telling the stories to Alice, I’d recalled a premise my father had taught me and which I’d often repeated. “The story is always good. It charms, it enchants, it informs, it entertains. It brings in a higher value. But it’s not always true. Believe what you see with your own eyes, Eleanor; observe carefully and without emotion. That will reveal the truth. I wish I had.”
He’d meant with my mother; I knew without his having to say it.
Regardless of who tried to blindfold me for the games of bluff going on round me, I must remove the blindfold and then trust myself to see.
I went to my father’s room, which had been unlocked, and checked to ensure that his treasures were all in place. They were. In one drawer was my mother’s jewelry, given to her by Papa. I suppose one could credit Mother for not selling it after leaving my father. I held the heavy garnet necklace in my hand. Maybe I’d have to sell it.
Not yet. Perhaps she’d want it someday. Perhaps she’d want me someday. I held my breath as I put it back into the drawer and locked the door behind me.
Uncle Lewis’s study seemed in good order too. My gaze caught on a shelf about halfway up his bookcase. It was his medieval Book of Hours, the beautifully illustrated prayer guide which had been hand-lettered and painted in centuries past. Had that been there when I’d come to find the bills? I couldn’t remember. Something had bothered me at the time, but I’d been too flustered to investigate. Perhaps he’d been using it to guide his prayer? I checked it closely. All was well.
I locked that door behind me too.
I returned to my room and opened the drawer in my cabinet once more. The necklace I lifted out this time was the mustard seed pendant. I’d wear it, but tucked under my dress. “I find that I do still have faith in myself, in the man who purchased this for me, and in you, Lord. But in all cases, I’m sorry to report, that faith is very, very small.”
The morning post delivered some packages I’d been waiting for—the silver for Mr. Herberts, purchased from a trusted supplier. Aware that the gas bill was soon due, I was eager to deliver the commission and collect the fee. I took out my magnifying glass and my notes and quickly inspected the face and back of each piece of silver, finding them to be genuine. I was thrilled that this would bring in some much-needed income and fairly skipped through the examination.
“Mr. Clarkson?” I thought it would be kind to ask his assistance, as he had been Mr. Herberts’s original contact.
“Yes, Miss Sheffield?”
“I wonder if you might have a look at these coins. They seem fine to me, but a second set of eyes is always helpful.”
“Certainly.” Clarkson sat down at my desk with his magnifying glass, the musky pine scent of camphor-laced paregoric syrup, which quelled his otherwise-constant cough, surrounding us both. I saw him take it by the teaspoonful, always careful not to overdo. It was costly.
He took care with each coin and, in the end, returned to two that I had thought were fine. “I believe this one to be a forgery.”
“What?” I pulled a second chair up next to his and turned up the lamp. “Surely not.”
“Surely so.” A clear note of triumph trumpeted through his voice. I could not blame him. I might feel the same way. He put the coin he’d found to be authentic in my left hand and the one that he’d found fraudulent in my right.
I flipped the right-hand coin on its side and held the lamp close. “I can see a faint line where two halves of a mold were put together as opposed to this being poured and struck. Someone has made a mold and replicated the coin.” I had neglected to look at the sides, having rushed and reviewed only the front and the back. An error I would not have made had I not been so distracted of late.
I then looked even more closely. “And there are pits from air bubbles as well.” That would not be the case in a true coin. “I should not have thought these particular sources would be selling frauds to us.”
“It may not have been intentional. Even they may make an innocent or hasty mistake,” Clarkson reassured me. “Accept the ten; we shall source one more,” he said. “It’s rather rewarding to work side by side, is it not?”
“It is,” I admitted. “I’m sorry for this error.”
“I’ve not seen you make another.”
“I’m grateful you found the error before we sent them to Mr. Herberts.”
His face sobered. “I am too.”
Look closely at what’s in front of you, Eleanor. Take your time, and verify.
At the end of the next workday, Mr. Clarkson presented me with a small, long box. “I wondered if you would consider accepting this from me,” he said.
I started to shake my head because it would not be appropriate, but his gentle smile implored me to at least unwrap the ribbon and open the box.
When I did, I saw a lovely new magnifying glass. The handle was carved to fit a woman’s hand and the glass was powerful and perfectly clear.
“I thought perhaps yesterday’s mistake may have been due to the glass and not the valuer,” he said quietly. It was a considerate offer which allowed me to keep my pride.
“Because the gift can be of use to Sheffield Brothers, I gratefully accept,” I said. “Thank you, Mr. Clarkson. This is a lovely gesture.”
“I hope to be of service to both you and the firm,” he said. “Till tomorrow.” He put his hat on and left through the workshop door.
CHAPTER
Ten
I had no faith at all in the doctor who had been tending to my uncle. He’d said there was nothing wrong and that I should stop fussing about it, wasting his time, and only call him if there was blood or crippling pain, in which case he would suggest laudanum.
I decided to ask Dr. Elizabeth Garrett. She’d just opened the St Mary’s dispensary in the Marylebone section of London, not terribly far from my home, and was the first woman doctor qualified under the Society of Apothecaries.
Her dispensary was charmingly calm, with warm-brown woods, lamps that had tiny roses painted upon them, and comfortably upholstered chairs sized especially for the bodies and gowns of her women patients. This time, though, she had agreed to come and visit me at my house.
She was but five or six years older than I, her dark-brown hair softly pulled back from her face. Her father had once managed a pawnshop in Whitechapel, and he had on occasions long past called upon my father for valuations, Uncle Lewis had once told me.
After Orchie showed her in, I met her in the parlor.
“Miss Sheffield,” she said, “I’m sorry you are not well.”
I folded my hands. “I’m quite well, thank you. It’s my uncle about whom I hope to speak with you. He’s upstairs, but I thought perhaps I could describe the situation first, and then you could determine if you might see him?”
“I’m happy to listen and advise—as a friend. But I am not allowed to practice medicine on men.”
I hadn’t realized
. “Just advice, then, perhaps?” My voice echoed my strain. “I’ve no one else trustworthy to enquire of.”
She sat across from me as I explained Uncle Lewis’s situation.
“Decay of nature,” she said softly.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Old age, Miss Sheffield. It pursues all of us. To some it visits inconveniently early, I’m sorry to say.”
“What can be done?”
She shook her head. “Little. You can care for him here at home.”
I thought about the future: our bills, our waning business commissions, the growing realization that I might have to sell all that we owned to forestall debtor’s prison. Our bank account, upon investigation, had not held anything near what I hoped it would, though I saw that we could, by year’s end, just cover our debts. “And should I be unable to?”
“Then the only option is to have him declared a lunatic and placed in an asylum. He could stay there until the end unless he became a disruptive presence.”
The shock of that forced me to my feet. I sat down again. That would not happen. Uncle Lewis had been a disruptive presence even before his dotage! I could sell all; we could move to smaller quarters. Even better, we could increase our commissions.
“Thank you. I’m so pleased to be able to see a woman doctor. Perhaps there are many more of you to practice soon?”
She laughed, bitter as the willow bark tea she prescribed for headaches. “Alas, no. After I found a loophole, the Society of Apothecaries closed it and has banned admission to women. I’m afraid British women must study medicine abroad if we’re to study at all. Then when we return, it’s unlikely we’ll be licensed to practice. Our world is still not amenable to our fair sex, Miss Sheffield.”
As she turned to leave, I gathered the courage to ask a question I’d had for many years. “Dr. Garrett, I have a friend whose brother died of asthma after having been exposed to horses and hay, to which he had sensitivities. My friend’s father claimed that had a doctor arrived earlier, the brother’s life would have been saved. Is that true?”
She frowned thoughtfully. “It’s always possible, but unlikely. There is but little we can do when the lungs spasm and close. Caffeine, laudanum, alcohol, sometimes smoking tobacco—these are suspected of helping. But if the lungs squeeze closed, there is naught one can do.”
“Thank you. I’d suspected as much.” I was exultant and could not wait to share this reassuring news with Harry. Even as a friend—if that was indeed what we now were—I would want to bring him comfort and peace. I bid her good day and walked with her to the door, where I offered to pay her, and she generously declined.
Orchie tidied up the parlor while I returned to the workshop. Mr. Clarkson waited for me.
“Miss Sheffield?” His voice seemed stern.
I suddenly felt uncomfortable. “Yes, Mr. Clarkson?”
“There’s been an error in my pay remittance. The sum is larger than expected.”
I smiled and exhaled with relief. Mr. Clarkson had passed his test of integrity. He could be trusted. “That’s no error, Mr. Clarkson. You’ve been such a help, and especially with the Herberts commission, it seemed fitting.”
“That’s not necessary,” he said. “I will do whatever I must to see the firm succeed. However, if you insist, the extra will be a welcome benefit to my sisters. I shall see them soon.”
“How kind,” I replied. I had not insisted, but I had placed the amount and offered.
He caught and kept my eye. “I take care of my own.”
I tilted my head. Did he mean his sisters? Me and our firm? Had he heard Harry express a similar sentiment as we’d left Watchfield? Where Harry’s tone had been reassuring, I heard something flinty in Mr. Clarkson’s.
I nodded and began to walk toward my desk.
“Miss Sheffield?” He spoke up once more, but gentler.
“Yes?”
“I’d first asked your uncle about my remittance. He informed me that you had taken over the ledgers and accounts.”
He did not look comfortable with this; most men would not be, I supposed. I held only the faintest hope that Uncle would regain his sensibilities, but I sought to reassure. “I hope it will be temporary, Mr. Clarkson.”
He nodded and spoke reassuringly too. “Of course; I anticipate it will be.”
To my great surprise, not only was I invited to the next meeting of the Burlington Fine Arts Club, but Mr. Clarkson received an invitation as well. He was pleased, and I was pleased for him. It could bring nothing but benefit if offers of membership were extended to each of us.
The meeting was to be held at the London home of Lord Parham, who had an extensive country estate near Bath as well; I had been there with my father. I was delighted that the next event would be held at the home of someone with whom I had a passing acquaintance. In fact, Parham had given me my first piece of glass, one of the small balls he’d had floating in the fountain at Bath. I hadn’t kept it, as it was well before I’d started my own collection.
Mr. Schreiber and Lady Charlotte were at Lord Parham’s home, of course, and she very kindly made social introductions for Mr. Clarkson and me.
“Gentlemen . . . and ladies,” Lord Parham’s voice boomed into the crowd. “I shall lead a tour of my display cases soon, but I thought tonight we might provide a bit of entertainment for some of our newer attendees.”
Charlotte looked at me sidelong. Had she known this was to happen? Lord Parham distributed small leather notebooks and thin pencils—to me, to three or four other men in the nearby crowd, and to Mr. Clarkson.
“Do you know what this is about?” he whispered. “Did they do this last time?”
I shook my head.
Lord Parham continued, “In each room, I’ve identified an object of particular value and desirability. Perhaps some of our newer guests would be willing to note the suspected provenance and value of each?”
We smiled, attempting to appear good sports. “A test,” I whispered to Clarkson, who nodded his agreement.
The first item was, I knew, an ice cream cooler. It was Sèvres porcelain from, I thought, about the time of the French Revolution. The Nordic blue-and-gold design looked rather Russian to me. I guessed that it had been made for Catherine the Great because she was said to have loved things that glittered and were cold—Russia, diamond sashes, and ice cream. I noted a value and moved on.
Next was a French chest of drawers paneled in Chinese lacquer. I noted what I thought was the proper date. A flintlock pistol, a piece of field armor, a gilded perfume burner, the latter surely from a court. Perhaps Versailles? I hazarded a guess.
I wrote my thoughts in my notebook, and Lord Parham collected it along with the others. He handed them to a man nearby, and several people, including Lady Charlotte Schreiber, followed that man out of the room.
We trailed Lord Parham, and I greatly enjoyed viewing the other items in his extensive collection, but I kept looking for the group that had disappeared to come back. Soon they did.
Charlotte drew near me. “Your answers were quite right.” She squeezed my arm. “As were Mr. Clarkson’s.”
It had been a test, and we’d passed!
We mingled among the crowds, and Lord Parham approached me—a singular honor. “Come, my dear,” he said. “I’d like to show something to you.”
He led me to his library, which was peopled with marble statues, and pointed out one which reposed on his desk. “Do you recall this?”
I closed my eyes and reached through the catalog of thousands of pieces I’d seen in my life. Something about the slightly pink coloration of the marble brought the statue to the front of my mind.
“My father,” I said. “He sourced this for you.”
He smiled, but rather than warm me, it unsettled me. Perhaps it was that his lips were as thin and red as earthworms. “Yes. He was a fine man.”
We talked for another moment, and out of the corner of my eye, I spied an urn, Grecian, presumably.
Something about it troubled me. As we walked past it, I stopped and looked it over. Suddenly I knew what was wrong. I thought I might be of even more value to Lord Parham, and thereby other collectors with whom he might speak, if I pointed it out.
“What is it, my dear?”
But would he want to know? Should I speak up? He was my father’s friend after all, and I should treat others as I would like to be treated. “You have a home filled with beautiful, authentic treasures,” I began. “I don’t want to cause alarm, but I believe this Greek urn to be a reproduction.”
“Of whatever do you speak? It’s beautiful.”
I gently touched the urn. “It’s beautiful, of course, but it’s perhaps too beautiful. If this were, indeed, five hundred years old or more, the surface would have pits and cracks. The inside would be slightly darkened from having held contents of any kind.”
His face grew angry. “It is in perfect condition because I paid a premium for an untouched urn.”
“There are no untouched urns from that era, sir.” I kept my voice respectful. “They were created for use. I’m sorry, Lord Parham. But I thought you might want to know.”
He turned on me. “I think you’ve gone rather beyond yourself, young lady. I’ll have you know that Mr. Crespin—whose family sourced antiquities for many years before there were Sheffield brothers wailing in a nursery—personally located this item for me and sold it to me years ago. Your father overindulged you, and your uncle is in his dotage. I feel no need to indulge your arrogance, nor am I in my dotage. If I may say so, I do not think many will do business with those they may learn are indiscreet.”
I looked around the room, not sure how to answer. Parham would not meet my eye; only his many marble statues looked at me, blind, deaf, and dumb as they must remain to keep their places. A mute of statues.
