Lady of a Thousand Treasures

by Sandra Byrd

  “Good sport. Let’s have at it.” My uncle smiled, and I mouthed, “Thank you!” to Harry. It was the first thing Uncle had looked forward to doing in a while. I heard them laughing and dropping things and resisted the temptation to go upstairs and look.

  “Perhaps he’s just needed a man around,” Orchie said quietly.

  Perhaps she was right, I thought. It seemed to do him good, and it was true that Uncle was sprightlier when in the workshop with Mr. Clarkson, too.

  We women joined them in the parlor—Orchie bringing tea—to admire their handiwork. I gestured toward one piece of bough which had slipped from the window casing and, instead, hung like an escaped lock of hair. Harry tucked it into place while looking at me, and I caught his meaning. I nearly felt his touch on my scalp, recalling the moment outside the stables when he had tucked a strand of my hair into place.

  The room sang with Christmas cheer now it was suddenly transformed into holiday merriment. The fresh greenery coolly scented the air, and the frosted lamps twinkled in the softening afternoon light. Harry returned to his carriage for a moment and came back carrying holly. “I remembered you love it,” he said.

  “I do,” I responded with a smile. “Thank you.”

  “Because she’s prickly,” my uncle muttered fondly, and Alice and Orchie laughed.

  Uncle spoke up once more. “I haven’t visited Glastonbury for such a long while. ’Tis a shame.”

  Each of us turned to look at him; though the comment seemed to come from nowhere, I knew what had caused his mind to travel along that path—the prickly holly had recalled the legend of Glastonbury’s holy thornbush.

  “I should like to visit at least once more,” he said, chin quivering.

  Was he aware that he was growing more and more ill?

  Alice spoke up, though she had never addressed my uncle before. “Is there a story there, sir?”

  Uncle Lewis nodded. “There certainly is, Miss Carolina.”

  Alice’s face deepened nearly as red as the holly berries.

  I stepped in. “Her name is Alice.”

  She turned toward me and whispered, “He often calls me Miss Carolina, but I don’t mind.”

  Uncle smiled and corrected himself. “Delightful, delightful Alice. Thank you for indulging an old man his interests, and if you’ve no place to go, I shall tell you the story of the holy thorn of Glastonbury. Dreadful state of affairs when young English girls do not know our history. I shall set that to rights.”

  I brimmed with deepening affection for everyone in that coal-warmed room. “Please, have a seat,” I said to Alice and Orchie. “I shall serve this time.”

  Orchie looked ready to protest, but for this one moment, I wanted her to enjoy the story and not worry about serving.

  Alice sat next to me on the settee and held her cup with her small finger extended. This time, I pursed my lips to quell a smile.

  “You’ll remember from your Sunday school lessons,” Uncle addressed Alice, “that our Lord had the Last Supper with his disciples the night he was betrayed. He drank from a cup—now known as the holy grail. After the Lord’s death, Joseph of Arimathea, a rich man who was a disciple of Jesus, made sure his body was respectably buried, giving up one of his valuable properties to see it done.”

  Alice bit into a biscuit and nodded. “I do remember that.”

  “Legend says that, after that time, our Joseph was so disheartened by what had transpired that he sailed from the Holy Land to England—quite a long journey—for time to mourn and think.”

  “Long journey indeed, I should say so!” Orchie exclaimed.

  I watched Harry as he watched my uncle, deep regard on his face and in his eyes. My uncle had ridden with Harry once or twice when Harry was a boy; my father and Harry’s father never had.

  “When he landed in Glastonbury, he used a walking staff made of hawthorn wood from the Holy Land to right his sea legs into land legs once more. When he made it to the top of the hill, named Wearyall for his tiring journey, he thrust that staff into the ground.”

  I watched my uncle return to life, his voice and blue eyes clear, his memory sharp, completely engaged in the stories and objects which had defined his life.

  Alice leaned over toward me. “It’s clear where you get your love of telling the stories,” she whispered, and I nodded my agreement.

  “Then what?” Orchie asked.

  I knew she’d heard the story from him, perhaps many times. I sensed she was excited to see him so animated again.

  “Then the staff blew, which is to say, flowered. Right there, after it took root. Each year from then on, it bloomed at Christmastime to commemorate the birth of our Lord, and then in May, as English hawthorns do. It, and plants grown from its cuttings, are the only ones who bloom twice.”

  I poured more tea for each of us.

  “Is the story true?” Alice asked.

  I knew Uncle’s faith and his profession were both valuable to him, and he would not offer a mistruth in defense of either. No pia fraus.

  “I do not know. I suppose no one does. A staff blooming has happened once before, for certain.” Uncle reached for the copy of Scripture which rested on a side table and paged through the beginning. “‘And it came to pass, that on the morrow Moses went into the tabernacle of witness; and, behold, the rod of Aaron for the house of Levi was budded, and brought forth buds, and bloomed blossoms, and yielded almonds.’”

  He closed the book. “In any case, it does represent and remind us of all that is true about our faith, does it not? It comes with a cost. Even with faith, life is sometimes wearying, but we persist in walking forward. And there are miracles to be had if we look for them. This bush was not an English hawthorn, but one from the Holy Land. How else did it arrive? That is a mystery and enough to give one pause for thought, is it not, Miss Carolina?”

  “It is,” Alice said, not bothering to correct him regarding her name.

  Orchie stood up to clear the tea and biscuits; I did not assist. To do so once more would be to encroach on her territory.

  Alice followed her back downstairs, and Uncle bid good-bye to Harry, then tottered off.

  Harry and I faced one another in the parlor, silent. I did not want to ask him to leave, and he did not seem to want to go. As the room grew dim, he finally spoke up. “I’d best leave. I have one more visit to pay before nightfall.”

  “By all means,” I said. I did not ask whom he was going to visit. I did not have that right and did not want to overstep. He offered anyway.

  “I’m calling upon your Mrs. Newsome,” he said.

  “Marguerite?” Now I was intrigued.

  He nodded. “I’ve heard she’s fallen upon somewhat-difficult times and collected some greenery for her when I collected yours.”

  I wondered if he’d heard about my difficult times; he did not say. “Oh, Harry,” I spoke quietly. “That is most considerate. Her parents will visit from Dorset over Christmas. I know this will make all the difference to her.”

  “Perhaps it will win her affections toward me.”

  “She’s always championed your cause,” I said.

  “Then your affections,” he said. “I would like to be your champion.”

  I reached up and touched his jawbone, tempted to draw my finger across it to his lips, but I refrained and let my hand fall by my side. We must have nothing personal between us until I decided.

  “I’ll be spending Christmas at Watchfield, of course,” he said. “But would it be possible to escort you—and your uncle—to Glastonbury before I take my leave?”

  I looked up wonderingly. “That would be utterly delightful! However, this season is somewhat slow as far as commissions are concerned.” I could not bring myself to tell him the complete truth. I did not want to be shamed in front of him, and anyway, I had the solution well in hand.

  Strong and self-sufficient.

  “My pleasure. It will be a Christmas gift for your uncle.” He kissed my forehead lightly and bid me good ev
e.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-One

  I met Alice on a corner very near the thoroughfare where she had once guided me to safety. Her clothing was a bit better cared for, and it appeared that she had a nearly new cloak on. I commented on it.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “I’m bartering. You started that, after all, trading your washing for my services. Now I’ve traded a month’s worth of laundry for this cast-off cloak of a rich lady my sister met.”

  “The cloak’s so pretty, and the red sets off your dark hair so well.”

  She laughed, as my sentiment was reminiscent of her comment regarding my white dress and auburn hair. This day, we were not employer and laundress; we were simply friends.

  The cobbles on the street had become uneven over the course of time, and I had to take care to make sure I did not trip and fall. The winter air hung with moisture of a thickness somewhere between exhaled breath and mist, while the chill of it prickled my nose. Alice led me down a few alleys; as we grew closer and closer to our destination, we were wooed by the lovely melody of brass instruments from street musicians afar.

  The market street had shops in proper brick buildings with proper doors, of course, but there were also tented purveyors of all kinds of food, clothing, trinkets, and treats.

  “We’ll shop here,” Alice said. “Pretty things for fewer pence.”

  We walked up and down the road, and I soon became aware that even in the street market I would probably not have enough to purchase all the things I’d like to. Alice must have come to the same conclusion because she bought very little.

  Toward the end of the street market, we came upon a large tent, flapping in the wind like a ship’s sail but much dirtier. Water dripped off each corner, but underneath nestled a curiosity shop of sorts with many different items on offer. We stepped inside.

  “I’d like to buy a jewel for my ma. I know they’re not real and such, but she’d still think they were pretty.”

  We stood next to the worn glass case protecting the jewelry from darting hands. I scanned the case, up and down, and then my eyes stopped on a garnet brooch.

  “You like that’n, eh?” the salesman asked. “And right you should.”

  He took it out of the case so the gem and I could become better acquainted, but I think he was more than a little surprised when I withdrew a magnifying glass from my reticule. I inspected the jewels. They were real. Very valuable.

  “How much are you asking for this piece?”

  He named an impossibly small sum. The piece was worth fifty times or more what he was asking for it. Unlike the elites I knew, I suspected he would be gladdened to know the true value of the pieces in his collection.

  “I’m going to be forthright,” I told him. I withdrew one of my cards from my handbag. “This is not paste—it is composed of real garnets and is worth many, many times what you’re asking for it.” When I told him what I thought it was worth, he gripped the counter.

  “Are ya certain?” he asked.

  “Her father and her uncle have been doing this kinda thing for a long time,” Alice spoke up. He had met her before and seemed to trust her.

  “What should I do with it?” he asked.

  “Sell it,” I said. “I can give you a name.”

  He nodded. “How’ll I know they won’t cheat me?”

  “Give them the card I just handed to you and tell them what I told you it was worth.” I’d send him to the pawnshop where I’d sold my mother’s jewelry.

  Alice’s barter for her cloak reminded me of that fine idea. “You might have other things mismarked. Perhaps we could strike a bargain. I’ll look at your jewelry and figurines and tell you if you have anything else you might bring to the pawnshop for more than you’re asking. In return, you allow my friend here—” I nodded toward Alice—“and me to select a few items for our friends and family well under the value of your gain. You will come out far ahead; I can promise you that.”

  He nodded, and the bargain was struck.

  I spent perhaps an hour looking over his cases and found three or four items that would fetch him much more in Whitechapel than he would gain here. For the following thirty minutes, Alice and I wandered through his shop and found soft gloves for the prison ladies.

  “Alice!” I called out to her. “Look!”

  In a far corner was a fairy light, twilight blue with tiny pinpricks throughout, which would seem like starlight when a candle was within. She picked it up and then hugged me. “This is just perfect for Mary!”

  Then we found a beautiful paste bracelet for her mother. “It’s not real, is it?” she asked me, worried, I guessed, that it might be too dear.

  I shook my head and then breathed on it. Alice looked at me oddly, and I laughed. “Real diamonds are cold. If you breathe on them, the fog will evaporate right away, if it even sticks at all. But false diamonds are much warmer, so . . .” I puffed on the bracelet again and counted. “One, two, three, you see? It takes much longer for my breath to disappear.”

  She clapped her hands. “Shall I ask for it?”

  “Yes, certainly. We have done him a favor worth many times what he is giving us in return.”

  We packed up our purchases. “Being at the market with you puts me in mind of Saint Nicholas Day. Our purchase of gifts for others reminds me of him.”

  Alice raised an eyebrow. “Another story, Miss Eleanor?”

  I smiled. “Of course! I always loved Saint Nicholas Day as a girl, though we haven’t celebrated it much since my father died. You know my uncle is fond of religious relics and tales. His mother—my grandmother—was Dutch, and celebrating Saint Nicholas was one of their especial customs for my father and my uncle. Papa would tell me the story of how Saint Nicholas would deposit a treat or some coins in the shoes of anyone who left them out for him. Each year I would dutifully leave out a pair of shoes, and in the morning, I would find some sweets or a coin or some small treasure.” I winked at Alice. “Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of unmarried girls. Perhaps we should speak of him kindly and see if he might assist us somehow, though his feast day has passed.”

  Alice laughed.

  I stopped walking.

  “What is it?” she asked. “I didn’t mean to make fun . . .”

  “Oh no,” I said. “It’s just that, well, I didn’t buy anything for my uncle.”

  We turned back to the market, and as I had not needed to spend all of my money for the other gifts, I had some remaining. In one of the market stalls, I found an old book, a tiny volume of pocket proverbs which might have been printed a hundred years earlier. I bargained for it.

  Alice grinned. “I don’t know that I believe in patron saints of unmarried girls. Girls like me ’ave to be a bit more practical.” She steered us to a stall selling Christmas greens.

  “We already have holiday greens,” I began.

  “Not the right ones,” she insisted. She led me to a small booth which sold the few flowers tough enough to prosper in such a season, as well as row upon row of hanging mistletoe balls.

  “How much?” She pointed to the balls of entwined holly, ivy, and ribbon. From the bottom of each ball hung a piece of mistletoe—under which one could kiss one’s desired.

  The greensman named a price, and Alice scoffed. “No. Just for two of them, tha’s all, not the lot. Just two.”

  They agreed on a price for two very small ones, and she handed one of them to me. “Merry Christmas. Let’s see if your Saint Nicholas or my mistletoe balls are better at bringin’ round the men.”

  I laughed, and she saw me to the thoroughfare, where we parted ways.

  That night, I waited till I heard my uncle snoring and then quietly opened the door to his room. Despite Orchie’s best efforts, things were askew, as he had become disorganized and was fearful of sleeping with the wardrobe doors closed. Sometimes he emptied the wardrobe completely. Orchie had told me he would not allow her in the room to tidy up any longer.

  I found his shoes and set the
m far enough out from his bed that he would be certain to see them upon awakening. Then I slipped the small, antique book of proverbs into one of the shoes and a boiled sweet into the second. It was some days past Saint Nicholas Day, but I did not think Uncle Lewis would mind.

  I crept back out, beaming, and could hardly wait to hear his whoop of joy come morning. I’d make sure we’d celebrate it on the proper day in the years to come. Papa would have liked that.

  A few days later, on the morning of my prison visit, I was up before Orchie. I went into the kitchen and set the kettle on the burner. Then I ambled into the parlor and turned the lights up against the soporific winter darkness which slowed morning ambitions. With the room brightened, I saw the twist of Christmas green with which Harry had swagged the windows.

  I closed my eyes and relished the memory of him doing it. For me, it had ever, always, and only been him. But I could not let that guide my decision.

  I emptied the large reticule I normally carried when tending to an evaluation, filling it, instead, with the gloves and other gifts. I took the omnibus and then walked the remaining distance. Though it was about a fortnight ahead of the Christmas celebration, I was eager to bring my gifts to my friends.

  When I arrived at the prison, I was surprised to find a familiar face waiting for the warder to allow her through. “Mrs. Denholm!” I exclaimed. “I am delighted to see you here.”

  “I contacted the committee shortly after your visit, and although they told me I might wait until the New Year, I thought, what better time to spread some cheer than Christmas?” She held out a basket with some religious tracts. Next to the booklets snuggled tiny linen pouches.

  “What is in these?” I asked.

  “Spices mixed with salt.” Her voice was hesitant. “I thought they might appreciate that with their meals.”

  “An inspired gift. I’ve never heard of it being offered, and yet it’s perfect. They’ll be so very happy to have you visit.”

  I walked down the halls, silent as a tomb in the merriest of seasons. Instead of the smell of bread and puddings, I discerned cold stone and dripping iron. When I made my way into the room in which we were allowed to meet, Jeanette and my other prison friends waited for me. Jeanette pushed a younger woman out to the center. Little Nancy.