by Sandra Byrd
Harry announced that we would divide into teams to play sardines. He handed out cards with letters and numbers on them. The card numbered one would be the “sardine” for that team, lettered A all the way down to E. The sardines would hide somewhere in the house—“private rooms and servants’ quarters off-limits,” he said—and we would all seek to find where our team’s sardine had hidden. As soon as we did, we would pack in with him or her until the team was fully assembled. The last person to crowd into his or her “sardine tin” would lose and be required to sit out the first dance.
Lord Grimsby, the man who had his eye on Marguerite, was the sardine on my team, C, but I saw him trade cards with someone else after spying which team card had been assigned to Marguerite. We gave the sardines time to spread out and find a hiding place; then the room emptied.
I calculated there were perhaps fifteen members on each team, and it would take us all some effort to work out into which space our team would cram. That would give me enough time.
I slipped to the back of the house first. Why had that room, and that room alone, been locked? Without a key made available to me? I must know.
Because Harry had said that servants’ quarters were off-limits, I thought it likely that I could make my way up to the third floor via the back staircase unnoticed. I wondered if perhaps the door had been unlocked since my last visit. Perhaps because I’d asked after it . . . or because there was a party being held, if it were a supply room of some sort.
The music swirled in the background, becoming quieter and then finally still as my own heart’s pounding grew louder. I had not taken a lamp. I rounded the corner of the first-floor stairs, and the area grew, suddenly, completely dark. A door slammed shut in the distance, and my heart leaped.
Nothing. I let my eyes adjust and then rounded to the next landing. As I stopped to squeeze my gown into the smaller space, I heard a footstep fall just behind me.
Who could be following me? Why?
I waited a moment and then made my way up the narrow staircase to the top, where there was but one door at the end of the long corridor. I tried to twist the handle, but it was firmly locked.
I shook the door lightly. Nothing. I heard footsteps one floor below me. There were no other rooms nearby, only a staircase leading to the lower servants’ quarters. Should I continue walking? Did someone tarry in the shadows? I could shout, but I was unsure that anyone would hear me this far back in the house and above the music.
Why would I need to shout?
I took hold of myself and continued walking down the stairs, one at a time, till I was one floor lower. I heard some commotion in a linen closet. I pried the door open and heard breathing and muffled voices.
“Are you Sardine C?” I asked quietly.
“But no,” came a woman’s answer and a giggle. Was that a foreign accent? Was Signorina Francesca in there on her own? Or was Harry . . . ?
I shook the thought from my head. There were dozens of people in attendance, after all.
I wandered all the way down the hallway and opened the door to the small closet in which Harry’s father had stored his cigars. A whiff of sweet, nutty, smoky, and stale greeted me.
“Are you Sardine C?” I asked.
“No,” a man said. “Go downstairs, and you’ll find them.”
Ah. He must have found C while looking for his own team.
I went down to the first floor and heard a small scuffle coming from the large coat closet. I opened the door.
“Are you Sardine C?” I whispered.
“Yes!” came the reply. I snuck into the closet and pulled the door shut behind me, then made my way to the back, where seven or eight sardines, men and women, packed in close quarters.
Another woman soon entered the closet and came to join us. There was a long silence. A muffled cough. A hand rested on my right shoulder.
“Don’t forget what I told you, Miss Sheffield,” a voice breathed in my ear. “He’s not proved faithful to anyone but himself.”
My gown was so big and the players so cramped that I could not turn to see who was whispering, but this time, I knew. Lord Audley. Claiming Harry was selfish and disloyal. Would he know? They’d gone to university together, and their families had been great friends.
The closet door opened again, and because the light was behind him like a halo, I could see that it was Harry. He asked if this was where Sardine C was, and Lord Audley answered tersely. Harry made his way to the very back, and as he got close, he spied me and smiled.
He’d placed us on the same team; I knew it. I smiled back, though a degree or two cooler than I might have done a year earlier.
He stood as near to me as acceptable, which was very near given that was the point of the game, and we were, of course, in the company of others. His side pressed against my own, and as the door opened and someone new joined us, it gave him reasonable cause to draw even closer. He leaned over and let his cheek rest against mine before turning his mouth to my ear.
“You are stunning. Beautiful,” he whispered.
A pleasurable warmth spread throughout me, prompting a smile. The last person finally opened the closet door, and we all tumbled out, back to the dance floor.
Harry took my hand as we exited the closet and I let him hold it, unwilling to let go.
When we returned to the room, the strings were playing the dance music that, presumably, Signorina Francesca Viero had requested. Within minutes, Lord Audley came to ask me to dance.
Marguerite raised her eyebrow at me across the room, and I smiled. I was in no social position which Lord Audley would consider, we’d had no conversations which would lead me to believe he was interested in me romantically, and I’d learned he was already happily affianced to a wealthy American.
I consented to dance, and he was a most pleasant partner. When I looked up, I caught Harry looking at us with badly hidden jealousy. I admit to it: it pleased me.
Lord Audley escorted me off the floor and brought me water with lemon.
“You continue to warn me,” I teased him. “It’s not necessary. Why do you persist?”
He laughed. “Despite what you may have observed, Miss Sheffield, chivalry is not dead. There are some among the nobility who still act with noble intentions. You may count me among them.”
He bowed and left my presence. I was not left unattended for long. Marguerite’s skills as a lady’s maid had brought plenty of eyes and attention my way. I hated to admit it, but it bolstered my confidence. Perhaps a woman might be allowed beauty and capability, both.
As Harry danced with Signorina Viero, I kept my eyes on others. Then he came to ask me to dance, and I agreed. “I see Audley seeks to usurp my place,” he teased, but there was an edge to his voice.
“What place is that?” I asked sweetly, holding his eye as we passed one another and switched round partners and back.
Because I had not yet decided on the collection, he could not say anything personal or which hinted at an arrangement.
“On the dance floor,” he offered weakly. Then he laughed merrily, which made him yet more attractive and recalled to my heart hundreds of memories. His rough and sweet laugh had always undone me.
Lord Audley and his fiancée came to stand nearby; Harry was to my left, and Lord Audley just to my right. The gentlemen greeted one another cordially and discussed horses. I turned to his fiancée, and we discussed the fine musicians. When Lord Audley left, Harry drew near me and said, “Audley at your one side, now and in the sardine closet, and me at the other, puts me in mind of The Shepherd of Hermas.”
I recalled the book; it was an ancient Christian manuscript. I was delighted that Harry was aware of it, and my surprise must have been reflected on my face because he laughed once more. “Ellie, you are surprised? I don’t prefer antiquities, but I am happily well-read.”
I blushed, caught out, and I knew he spoke the truth. “Do tell me—how does Lord Audley put the story in mind?”
“All people, the sto
ry teaches, have two angels: the shepherd of iniquity and the shepherd of righteousness. Each desires to descend into a person’s heart and shape her emotions and choices. A person must be careful, the writer cautioned, to understand and manage both angels, but only allow the angel which leads to righteousness to guide her path.”
“I’m delighted you think of Lord Audley as promoting righteousness,” I teased. “I shall tell him so, next time we partner at dance.”
At that moment, a song struck up. My eyes widened. “You arranged for this song to be played!”
“Indeed, I did.” He smiled and took my hand. “May I?”
I looked at Harry now, a man and not a boy. He, too, had recalled our first dance.
My mind returned to us at a house party his father once gave.
It mattered not to me that Papa had not been invited to the party the baron was hosting. Papa was an honored friend in many ways, but not a social equal.
I did not seek to be a social equal either. I went to the library to take a book or two back to my room—the baron had given me full permission to do so. On my way out of the library, I saw Harry.
“Ellie. Come with me. Meet me at the summerhouse.”
I shook my head. “I cannot. Papa is expecting me back upstairs.”
He sighed. He wore black tie and tails; I was in a teal gown that one of the ladies from church had helped me to purchase. Pretty, but not above my station. Harry pulled me through one of the hidden servants’ doors into a linen supply room near the ballroom to try to persuade me.
“They won’t notice if you are gone. He’s old. He will be asleep soon.”
I laughed. “Papa is not old, and he will be up reading long after the music stops.”
At that, the musicians magically struck up the next song, a slower song, one with the violin’s siren cry to intimacy.
The room was small, but we were alone. Harry held out his hand, so I set my book down on the floor. Then he took both my hands in his. “May I?”
His hands were warm, and then mine were too. I looked up, startled, as he put one arm around my waist. I had not, in my ladies’ day school, envisioned that this would be how my first dance would transpire: intimate, two of us, no chaperone, no crowd.
He pulled me closer and against my better judgment, I let him, and imperfectly, then perfectly, to the beat of the music we danced our first dance. At the end of the song he held me from him—reluctantly, it seemed. I disentangled our hands.
He bowed. “For now, my lady,” he said. “For now.”
When the present dance was over, Harry spoke once more, softly. “Regrettably, I have duties to which I must attend. Do you depart in the morning?”
“I will stay and complete the inventory. And then Mr. Clarkson, Mrs. Newsome, and I will depart for London.”
“Ah . . . Mrs. Newsome.” His eyes twinkled. “I shall have to invite her to my Twelfth Night festivities so she may bring along her charge. In the meantime, I will call on you in London, if you’ll allow.”
If I were honest, I did not truly mind his machinations to keep me in his presence. But would he want me here for Twelfth Night if I decided against him with the collection? That decision would have to be made first. It seemed, after my mistake with Lord Parham, that awarding the collection to the South Kensington might be the only way in which I might save my family’s firm. I nodded my assent.
Harry kissed the back of my hand and ensured his lips stayed pressed against my thin glove much longer than socially required. Then he pulled away from me and seemed reluctant to depart. Finally he bowed and took his leave.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the widow Viero staring at us both. Harry left, and she came to speak with me about pleasantries and the forthcoming holidays and her homesickness. Her English was broken. I switched to Florentine, which surprised her, I think. “My father saw to it that I was well educated,” I said.
“Admirably so, che bella. And your mama? She is not with you tonight?”
“No.” I shook my head quickly and bid her buonasera, good evening, then took my leave before she could ask further questions about my mother. Someone would likely tell her soon enough, anyway.
On my way up to my room, I turned my glove so that the back of it, where Harry’s lips had been, touched my own lips. It was the closest I would get, perhaps ever again.
I waited an hour, nearly two, until I thought all were asleep. I listened carefully and heard nothing but the arthritic bones of an old house cracking in the cold. I slipped into a heavy dressing gown and slid my feet into furred slippers. Then I took the back stairs down, one at a time. To be true to my duty, I must learn what was in that upper room.
CHAPTER
Thirteen
The kitchen had been quickly cleaned and emptied. The scullery maid slept in her corner. She was too young to be snoring, but likely the poor lass had done more than her share of work that evening, so snore she did. I let my eyes adjust to the dim light and then turned the corner toward the butler’s pantry.
I slid my hand up the side of the pantry door and found it locked. I sighed with disappointment. The keys were in the butler’s room, most likely.
I dared not break into a room where a man slept. A dim light flickered on in the butler’s room; he had a window which looked onto the hallway, and I did not want him to see me. I quickly crept back up the stairs to my room and sat on the bed, thinking. Praying. Nothing came to mind.
I flipped open the Bible and paged through it, passing the time, looking for a word of encouragement.
Ten minutes later, I pushed it aside. As I did, it knocked my bag, in which the chatelaine of keys jingled. I’d told myself that I’d keep them until I no longer needed them for inventories and such. Truly? I wished them to be mine.
In any case, I’d tried all the keys on the upper room. I closed my eyes and thought and prayed. I considered that the baron’s room—well, not Harry’s room, but his father’s—was directly below the room I wished to access from the hallway. Perhaps there was another entrance? I knew Watchfield had other secret passageways and staircases. Harry and I had slipped through them on occasion.
Perhaps there was one in Lord Lydney’s suite of rooms? I did have the key for that.
I slid my slippers back on, took the keys from my bag, and slipped out the door again, taking a small candlelit lamp with me.
Down the hallway, quietly, so quietly. Murmurs and laughter swelled from another room.
I found my way to the suite of rooms and inserted key after key into the lock, hoping one would work before I was discovered. I could certainly not claim I was inventorying at this time of night.
Finally I turned a key, holding my breath. The door opened, and I stepped inside.
The furniture in the room was covered with linen preservation sheets, but the cabinets and armoires were not. Something caught my eye on the dressing table. The mantel clock. Harry had not sold it! He’d simply removed it from public view, and who could blame him? It and its constant, silent condemnation were not pleasant to bear whilst his father was alive, and now he was dead, Harry wanted that condemnation banished.
I looked around the room’s walls, seeking a door which might hide a hidden passage upstairs, but found none. Then I noticed that one wardrobe was much larger than the others, certainly larger than would be required for the clothing of a man rarely in residence.
Instinct. My papa had always told me when I felt something, trust it. Trust myself, even if it was the tiniest feeling that I was right. A little trust in myself was all I needed. A small amount of faith would work wonders.
As I opened the wardrobe door and stepped inside, I found it empty. I next saw a thin panel of wood toward the back which did not match the rest of the cabinet. I ran my hand over it, pressing in as I did, and it popped up. It was a locking lever. When I pulled down on the lever, the back of the wardrobe opened and a narrow staircase appeared out of nowhere, exactly as a secret door reveals a hidden room. I began to clim
b the stairs with excitement.
At the top of the stairwell, I pulled down on a second lever, repeatedly, but it stuck; perhaps the wood had swelled from lack of attention or the joint had been poorly made. Just when I was about to give up, I tugged once more and—reluctantly, it seemed—a door opened into the room.
One small window allowed a faint trickle of moonlight to leak in in addition to the light of my lamp. When my eyes adjusted, I could see exactly what was in the room.
Armor. A golden helmet with a dragon for a crest. A circular shield upon which was pressed the protective image of Mary, mother of our Lord. A cutting spear. Another shield embossed with the face of the evening. Finally, the sword, in the fashion of Excalibur.
Armor styled after that supposed to have been used by King Arthur, for whom Harry’s brother, and his father, had been named. Shields inlaid with gold and silver, richly embossed with images depicting war. This was Arthur’s portion of the collection—the very pieces his father had accused Harry of selling. And yet they were right here in a tiny, hidden room accessible only through the late Lord Lydney’s rooms. He would have known of that secret lever, a lever only someone familiar with the tricks of ancient woodworking—my father had taught his lordship, as he had his daughter—would have been able to puzzle out.
I was overwhelmed with relief. Harry had not, as his father had claimed, sold Arthur’s riches! It had been a lie.
I heard a noise. I turned and stared at the suits of armor. It seemed to me that one of them moved. Eleanor. Be rational. Suits of armor don’t move on their own.
Someone could hide in that suit. I would not see him until it was too late.
I tentatively walked over to one and pushed it; it swayed on its hanging rack. I looked up. The eye slits were empty.
Now that my sight had fully adjusted to the dark, I looked around. There was a costly and rare piece of armor from a Polish hussar. To my knowledge, it had never appeared on any inventory, and I’d not seen it. I saw a piece of rare Chinese armor. That, too, was completely unfamiliar. In the far corner was a bejeweled reliquary for which I’d never seen an account.
