by Sandra Byrd
I looked up at the cross hanging above the altar. Once more I heard it, this time quietly, in my heart. I am here.
Tears welled. He’d heard my plea and answered me, reassuringly, once more.
Thank you for speaking to me, Lord. Please, do not stop, for I sense my trials are far from over.
That week I indulged in what I felt was a second necessary extravagance, a hired carriage for several hours. First, I took the carriage back to the pawnshop in Whitechapel. Before I alighted from the carriage, I held the beautiful gold-and-pearl set in my hand and tried to imagine my father fastening the heavy necklace around the neck of my mother, who must have loved him on that day, their wedding day, surely? She loved all things that glittered, and he’d loved her.
I squeezed back the tide of melancholy threatening to drag my heart under. I had loved her.
How had it gone wrong?
There was, I now knew, no chance of her wanting it, or me, back. I opened the door and strode in.
The shop’s owner evaluated the set with a rather colder eye than I just had and gave me a handsome sum. He looked approvingly at the carriage tarrying for me outside.
“I’ll see you soon,” he called after me, hopefully.
I did not tell him that I had no more jewelry to sell.
I tucked the money deep within my gown’s inner pocket and then instructed the driver to take me to the prison.
“Yer old man in there, eh?”
I didn’t answer. Whether he meant my father or my husband, I didn’t care for him to know that I had neither. I paid him to wait for me while I made my visit.
My boot heels echoed sharply through the long, stony corridors. There was little joy to be found within, and with a deathwatch of cold blowing through the building, the prisoners burrowed into wherever they could to keep warm. The closer Christmas came, the more likely they were to sink into the slough of despond, as Bunyan had written, missing gifts, family, friends, and even Christmas pudding. Who could blame them?
Jeanette waited for me in the usual area; it was she alone.
“Th’ others are not well,” she said. “Old Rosie died this week. Cholera.”
Old Rosie had not been as old as Mrs. Orchard.
“I’m sorry.”
“I am too.” She held her hands out. “They’re a bit better, as you can see. I’ve a friend who’s been able to trade something for the tallow candle nubs, and she lets me rub it in.”
I smiled encouragingly, but the flesh on her hands looked as torn up as ever. The bones were bent in awkward and unexpected configurations from rheumatoid arthritis. “Last month when I was here,” I said, “I noticed a young woman, perhaps eighteen years of age, who was newly admitted.” I explained which cell I’d seen her placed in.
“Oh yes, that’d be lil’ Nancy,” she replied. “She never comes out of her cell unless she’s ordered to. We’ve tried, miss; we really have.”
“Why doesn’t she come out?”
“Sadness. And fear. Fear’ll do that to you in here, then. You start thinking people don’t like you or they’re coming for you.”
“Do they?” I whispered. “Come for you?”
She nodded. “Sometimes. We’ve got old Mistress Hopkins who helps keep them away. When she can. We make a ring around the new ones, try ta help who are most likely to get it.”
I dared not ask, “Get what?”
“She reads, though.”
“Mistress Hopkins?”
Jeanette cackled. “I think not. Lil’ Nancy.”
“Maybe if I brought a book next time, you could ask her if she’d like to meet with us?”
“Oh yes,” Jeanette said. “Maybe that’d break her out of her fright.”
We talked about her children, who had been allowed a brief visit and two of whom had come, and she asked about my family and my work. Then we prayed together, about my troubles and hers, and bid our good-byes. As I made my way to the carriage, I asked the Lord for a special financial provision of some kind to buy gloves for the ladies.
On the way home I thought how badly I did not want to be imprisoned. I thought of my overwhelming debt and laughed to near sobs. The carriage driver looked back at me with alarm.
I regained my calm. My strength. I believed the sale of the jewelry would provide enough to clear our debts, and then the New Year would surely bring further commissions. Mr. Clarkson had been currying favor to ensure that happened, as had I.
When I returned home, there was a card from Charlotte. “She came by calling hours,” Orchie said, smiling. “I didn’t tell her that except for Mrs. Newsome, who’s practically family, we don’t have callers. When I told her you were at the prison, she said you should feel free to call upon her tomorrow, if you like.”
I embraced Orchie, and she shrugged me off as if she were uncomfortable, but I could see in her face that she loved it. She was almost family too. I must do what I could to help us all. I could not see her in the workhouse, dying of cholera as many had this past year.
Perhaps Charlotte had come by with good news.
The moment Charlotte greeted me in her parlor, I knew she did not have good news to share with me. Her face was kindly, as always, but not filled with the exuberant joy I’d seen in it before.
I wondered if we’d ever dine together in the Green Dining Room that Mr. Morris was going to design.
Her parlor was lovely—frosted lamp shades, and those lamps blazed brightly against the dark assault to the spirit that was deep winter. Her maid brought out tea—Earl Grey—and biscuits.
It had been so long since we’d had the margin for Mrs. Orchard to make biscuits that I rather overindulged myself. Or perhaps I just enjoyed their sweetness to counterbalance the bitterness I suspected my friend was about to deliver.
Surprisingly, Charlotte did not deliver bitter news. “I have a few objects upon which I would enjoy your opinion.”
I knew she did not require my opinion on anything. I determined at that moment that I would live in forthright honesty and not fear, as I had promised the Lord in my prayer. “A test?”
She smiled; I did not think she was offended by my direct statement. “We, as admirers of art, are not afraid to test items, are we, Miss Sheffield?” She picked up a figurine and knocked it, gently, against her teeth. It would, quite likely, have been a most peculiar sight to those who did not understand that teeth will tell the truth even when the mouth lies. If one knocked a piece of porcelain against one’s teeth, it was easy to tell if it had been restored or not. Originals would feel firm and bony; those parts which had been restored would be slightly sticky to the tooth touch.
She continued, “We should not, therefore, be afraid of testing others—or of being tested ourselves. It is only by testing, or being tested, that we understand whether the substance or the person is as it appears to be or is merely masquerading.”
She took my arm in hers, and we walked to her husband’s study. “I agree,” I said. “I thought that our time at Lord Parham’s, with the notebook and parade of items shown to those being newly considered, was a test of some sort, though it had been presented as an amusement?”
“Ah, yes.” She let go of my hand in front of a small writing desk. “Lord Parham. Apparently he had some questions about your evaluations, and if you had perhaps been looking over the shoulder of someone else marking notes.”
“He suspects me of cheating?” I was suddenly more sympathetic to Alice.
“He was not so direct, but it was understood that his concerns could jeopardize any request for membership which you may present.” She turned to face me. “And, perhaps more ominous, Miss Sheffield, he directed doubt toward your firm’s reliability.”
I understood. He sought to derail me.
“No one has asked me to do this, but I believe you to be as capable as you appear. So, Eleanor, what do you say about this French writing desk?”
I looked it over carefully, not wanting to rush as I had with Mr. Herberts’s coins, but also w
ondering if she wanted the truth or, like Lord Parham, a honeyed misdirection. “I do not think it is French,” I finally said. “We English prefer oak, but the French find it rustic—unless it is bur oak—preferring walnut or rosewood instead.” I had looked the piece over. “Sunlight and wear seem to have aged it uniformly. Except here.” I pointed to the drawer. “A new wood. Married, badly, to the old.”
She smiled. “Yes, that is exactly how I would have put it.” She took my arm again in a most friendly way, and we returned to her parlor.
“Just last week, someone brought this piece of Derby ware to me. What do you say about it?”
I gasped. “Lovely!” I turned it over. “Early 1770s. The anchor and the overlinked D for Derby tell me everything.”
Charlotte smiled again and indicated I should take a seat. Her maid freshened our tea and biscuits. “The maker’s mark will tell us everything we need to know about a piece, won’t it, Eleanor? If it’s genuine.”
I agreed with her. When our calling hour was up, she took my hand once more and said, “Do not despair.”
Is she the powerful person I need to see my way through?
“The club will not meet over Christmas, of course. But in February, after you’ve made your decision about the Lydney Collection . . .” She let the sentence dangle. “And it will be held at Mr. Denholm’s house in March. I understand he is quite close to your Mr. Clarkson and greatly admires you as well. Perhaps that would be the time to apply for membership.”
I tilted my head. Was she in favor of my donating the Lydney Collection to the museum? That would be sensible; after all, she was a great supporter. But she did not seem to be the kind of person whose affections could be bought.
Maybe. I just did not know.
CHAPTER
Seventeen
One day shortly after, Mr. Clarkson and I were in the workshop; I repaired broken porcelain which had belonged to a client’s mother, and he sent out correspondence to people he had met at the Burlington in hopes of garnering more commissions.
The door to the storefront opened, and he stood up. “I’ll see who it is.” I remained hunched over my work. Within a minute he returned. “They’d like to speak with you, Miss Sheffield.”
Without asking who they were, I knew instinctively. Debt collectors.
I went to the storefront, and Mr. Clarkson followed me. I could hardly dismiss him; this was business property, and they had called here rather than at my house. Perhaps he wished to ensure that I was not left alone with them, and for that, I was grateful.
A constable again. Two men in black overcoats, collars turned up against the muck and wet they had ushered in with them and which had fouled my floor.
“Miss Sheffield?”
“Yes. And you are . . . ?”
“We’re here on behalf of Mr. Christopher Dodd. He requests his funds be remitted immediately.”
“Mr. Dodd . . .” My mind raced to place the name.
Mr. Clarkson came up behind me and spoke softly. “The Sèvres porcelain platters for Lord Canterwood. We purchased them from Dodd and delivered them to his lordship. Was Mr. Dodd paid? According to these men, no.”
What had happened with the money paid for the platters? I shook my head. I did not know. I turned back to the men in front of me. “May I have a few days to investigate this? Please, leave your card, and I’ll see to it that your monies are remitted in full.”
They agreed, with a quiet, gentlemanly threat to return if the funds were not received within a fortnight.
After they left, Mr. Clarkson turned toward me. “Did you know about this?”
“No. But I shall speak with my uncle about it.”
“He probably won’t remember,” Clarkson said. His voice was cool and casual, and it startled me. Was he unfeeling toward my uncle? Or was there perhaps something else amiss?
“We won’t get others to sell to us on behalf of those who would commission us if this becomes common knowledge.” He spoke like a man with experience.
“I know.” I returned to the house and sought Orchie. “Do you know if my uncle might have squirreled away money?” Because if it was not in the bank, where had it gone?
She shook her head. “Oh no. There’s no money stashed.”
“I need you to look carefully. In his room. I cannot do it, but you can under the auspices of cleaning.”
She agreed, and in the meantime, I unlocked my father’s bedroom door and then his curiosity cabinet. I plucked his watch from it and then locked the cabinet again. It was the partner watch to the one which had been stolen from Uncle Lewis. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “But I must do this to save us all.”
Orchie came back. “I found no money in his room. I searched everywhere.”
I brought the watch to Mr. Clarkson. “Would you know of anyone who may be interested? With the remittance, I could pay Mr. Dodd.”
He considered my request and then said, “I would. Leave it to me. And . . . I heard you called on Lady Charlotte Schreiber.”
I nodded slowly, questioningly.
“Some members of the Burlington mentioned it to me. They know we are close. . . .”
I caught my breath.
“We do work together,” he amended.
“Yes, that is true.”
“Was the visit successful?” He put down the pincers with which he had been adjusting the balance wheel of a pocket watch.
“I believe so,” I said. “She asked me to identify some Derby ware, and I did. She had me look at a writing desk, which I knew was not French, and I pointed out the mismatched wood which was badly married.”
He looked up at me. “It’s never good when things—or people—are badly married. Your wood—was one refined and one common?” He held my gaze. “One old, one new?”
One aristocratic, one middle class? I felt he was referencing Harry and his title and me and my middle-class status. I did not look away. “Perhaps. In any case, I had the idea that she found my answers satisfactory, and she reassured me that there may be another opportunity to join the club soon.”
He rested his hand on my arm, lightly, but for a moment. “I fervently hope so. But if not, I am ready to be a formidable presence for us . . . for Sheffield Brothers, I mean.”
“After all,” he’d left unsaid, “we are both middle class.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clarkson.” I hoped my voice reflected my genuine gratitude.
Then he lifted a letter toward me. “Mr. Denholm has asked me to secure ancient Egyptian artifacts for him. He’s asked me personally, but I wonder, in light of the situation that the company finds itself in, if you’d prefer that the commission go directly to Sheffield Brothers?”
I sat down for a moment. I’d had no idea that Mr. Clarkson was accepting commissions outside of the firm, but I supposed that must be all right because Clarkson himself had connected with Denholm long ago. He had not been a Sheffield client first. We did need Mr. Clarkson and his abilities as much as he needed us and our name and reputation—both of which seemed to be under review.
“You may do whatever you prefer. It’s completely at your discretion.”
“I think it would be quite enjoyable for us to locate such a treasure together,” he said. “You and I. Would that appeal?”
I heard the implicit arrangement in his suggestion. We would work together. Nothing more. Not yet, anyway. “I would find sourcing the items together quite satisfactory,” I agreed.
“Splendid. I shall inform Mr. Denholm that you and I will find him something unquestionably old and rare and deliver it forthwith. Then I’ll send a note by messenger to one or two people I think might be able to help us.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I shall look forward to it.” I loved the hunt and the chase and the satisfying feeling of providing to our clients something rare and beyond their expectations. And the story, of course.
Mr. Clarkson was certainly qualified to partner with me, and I with him.
He’d done well caring for
our business. And my uncle. And perhaps me.
As I gently packed the china for the next day, I looked up at the shelf with Lady Lydney’s pelican. I would complete the repair on it soon.
For my outing with Harry, I would dress with care, as had become my pleasant habit, at Marguerite’s urging.
Alice knocked at my bedroom door. “I took a extra hour or two with your white dress. No spots now, and I took one a your uncle’s razors to remove any of the little nibs poking out on your cloak. See?” She ran her hand down the cloak like a mother might run her hand down a child’s dress, to smooth it.
“It looks beautiful, Alice. Thank you so much.”
“’Twas a wise choice. With your reddish-brown hair and all, resting against the white, why, he won’t be able to resist you!”
“How did you know I was planning to wear this for an evening out?” I teased. Eager anticipation heated my face, and I knew my eyes must be shining with expectation, too.
“I have someone I’m sweet on,” she said. “I understand.”
She handed my white fur muff to me. Mrs. Orchard had buffed my ice skates, as it had been a year or more since I’d worn them.
Alice left for the evening, and Orchie served Uncle Lewis a tray in his room. I declined to eat. My stomach was fluttery, not only in anticipation of our evening together but because of the question I knew I must pose. I must ask Harry about the signorina.
I sat in the parlor, the lamps turned just slightly lower but with plenty of coal for once, as my mother’s necklace had fetched a bit of relief. I looked up at the clock.
Five minutes late. That was fine. The extra time would allow me to quieten myself a bit, regain my composure.
Five more minutes passed, and he had not arrived. I picked up a lady’s magazine and began to page through it. There were ideas for Christmas celebrations and advertisements for sewing notions and the very best advice for keeping help, but I was distracted, of course. I could not remember a line I’d read only moments after I’d read it because, while my eyes might be following the sentences, my mind was elsewhere.
