by Sandra Byrd
Francesca’s lovely pieces were still on the evaluation table in the workshop. “Bella, molto bella.” Pazzo caressed the loving cup and glanced covetously at the pitcher. He began to make his way toward the back of the workshop, where we kept our private items and notebooks.
“Harry?” I said quietly.
“See here,” Harry said, but for the moment, they paid him no mind.
A shout came from the back and Pazzo’s compatriot ran toward us with a tiny but beautiful bottle, perhaps one that had held oil at an ancient dinner table. A bottle which appeared to be early Roman, and one which I had never seen.
“That is mine!” Pazzo turned accusingly toward me. “You have said, Miss Sheffield, that you have not seen my Roman treasures when clearly there is one here in your shop.”
Harry turned toward me. “Miss Sheffield? Is that yours?”
I shook my head. “I have never seen it.” I turned to the man who had fished it from the back, near where Mr. Clarkson had once hidden our art from the purported ruffians. “Perhaps you placed it there only to ‘find’ it moments later!” Had Harry been involved in that setup, too? It was unthinkable. And yet . . .
The Italian man ran at me, and Harry stepped between us. “See here! You’ll recall I have been in Italy, have many friends here and there, and am capable of protecting what and whom I want to be protected—here or there. Including Miss Sheffield. There are, after all, only three of you, and there are many, many I can call upon.”
The man shrugged, moved back a little, but did not respond with any humility or acknowledgment. I had the feeling their confrontation had ended in a temporary draw. “I don’t need more than three,” I heard Pazzo say quietly.
Harry turned toward me wonderingly and with a newly added look of suspicion. “You have never seen that?” He pointed toward the Roman bottle.
“No.” I shook my head. Pazzo walked to the back, where his friend had found the Roman bottle, and examined a few other items. All of them were mine or belonged to clients.
Harry picked up his mother’s pelican. “Mama’s . . .”
“I was repairing it, you remember.” I was shamed by the desperation in my voice.
“Months ago? Before you’d returned everything to Watchfield . . . and to me.” He tucked the pelican into his pocket and held my gaze.
“Yes, I simply . . . simply forgot,” I said. “With so much going on.”
Francesca glanced at me with skepticism. “Did you simply, simply forget about taking the Roman items, too?”
“No.” My feelings of kinship with her dissolved. “I have never seen them before, did not know of their existence.” Unlike you, for example, who knew about them all along.
“We will then search this entire building,” Pazzo said.
“No,” Harry responded firmly. He stood in their way, and they did not push past him.
“That would require a search warrant from the police,” I replied. “You will then be required to have proof of ownership for the items. Do you have proof of ownership?”
Pazzo sneered. “I do not require the police to do my work.” He wrapped the precious bottle in one of my linen cloths from a stack next to the delicate figurines. “I suggest you find where the rest of these items are, Miss Sheffield. If one is here, the others are too. I have some other pressing meetings already arranged. They will allow me to return in, say, ten days. That should give you enough time to find them. If you can’t find them, be sure that I will find you, wherever you are.”
“They aren’t here!” I insisted.
“Ten days.” He tipped his hat and left through the door whence he’d come in.
Francesca cried softly in a corner. “Where is my brother? Where are the pieces of art? Will I have to sell my family’s heritage because this woman stole their goods?”
“Francesca,” Harry began, “I hardly think . . .”
And yet, when he looked at me, there was a shadow of doubt in his eyes.
I pulled him aside, tears threatening to spill from my own eyes. “They planted it, Harry—planted it here to blame me. That’s why they followed you here.”
He waited just a moment. “Do you need the money?” He spoke softly. “You referred to it at Glastonbury.”
I shook my head vigorously. I could hardly blame him—it all seemed so unusual. I’d spent the last months questioning him, wondering if he was trustworthy, without a moment’s thought to how he must have felt about my doing so. Wondering if he would sell his family’s goods because he needed the income. Now it was his turn to decide.
“I am who you believe me to be,” I said quietly.
A moment ticked by. “I believe that the bottle was planted moments ago, too,” he finally said. “They planted it to send a message to me: they can reach out and harm whomever they choose to harm. You. Francesca. Stefano. They want their treasures, or they want their money.”
“Perhaps.” I still wondered, silently, if Francesca was somehow involved with them—and perhaps the planting of the bottle.
Harry continued, “I trust you unreservedly. We must trust one another.”
And he did—against all the odds. I was grateful I had not questioned him about the missing barding and risked further eroding his belief in my trust of him, too.
A love match. A trust match.
“Let Mr. Clarkson take care of your clients until I sort this,” Harry said.
“He’s dead,” I whispered. “Mr. Clarkson is dead.”
Harry’s face drained. “Ellie, do not leave the house until I return. Have Orchie or Alice leave to get what you need. They won’t send the police after you because it’s most likely some of their goods don’t rightfully belong to them either. They are dangerous but believe themselves to have honor. If they’ve said ten days, they will wait ten days. But they will not wait longer. Do not let anyone in, and keep the doors locked. Do you understand? I must try to resolve this, and it may take a little time. But I will resolve it within ten days. Do not leave! Promise me.”
“I promise,” I said.
He embraced me quickly and then escorted Francesca and her Venetian treasures into his waiting carriage.
CHAPTER
Thirty
MID-MARCH 1867
On Sunday, I told my uncle that I was unwell and we would not be attending church that morning. I did not tell him I’d promised not to leave the house.
“You look well enough to me,” he replied with a tremble.
“I’m certain I’ll be in fine sorts within a week or two,” I told him. Our roles, too, had changed. He now looked to me for reassurance and provision where once I’d looked to him for those ingredients which made up a confident life.
On Monday the eleventh, Alice arrived. I pulled her aside and, after explaining the situation, asked if she might be willing to help me for a week.
“Lord Lydney thinks it better if I do not leave the house until he’s resolved our concerns, and I tend to agree. However, it’s most important that I communicate with a client I am supposed to meet on Wednesday. Would you be willing to take telegrams for me?”
“Of course I would,” she said.
I telegraphed Lord Tenteden and asked if we might meet at my workshop. I did not hear back.
On Tuesday, I had Alice send another telegram. Still no response. No matter what I had promised to Harry, I had to venture out of the house.
Because the treasures were so valuable, I wrapped them carefully—sneaking the Book of Hours when my uncle was napping—and took a hired carriage. I arrived at Lord Tenteden’s lofty London town house and asked the carriage driver to wait for me—an extravagance, indeed, but it seemed safer, given the current circumstances.
I walked up to the door and rapped the knocker. After a moment, a butler appeared.
“I’m Miss Eleanor Sheffield,” I said. “Here for an appointment with Lord Tenteden.”
He looked me up and down and then handed a note to me. “Good day, Miss Sheffield,” he said and close
d the door.
Bewildered, I stood paralyzed for a moment before picking up my bags and walking back to the carriage. Once in the carriage, I opened the note.
Miss Sheffield,
It has come to my attention that there is some doubt placed upon your valuations and the authenticity of the objects represented by your firm. I have heard this from my friend Lord Parham only of late.
I shall be at the Burlington Club meeting tomorrow night, and shall make further enquiries. Until my confidence is restored, I am afraid an exchange of your antiquities for the debt owed is not possible. I shall send someone to collect the funds on the morning of the fifteenth, as previously arranged.
I slid the note back into the envelope, dread encasing me. I would, of course, not have the required funds two days thence.
At home, I asked the driver to tarry once more whilst I delivered the antiquities; I hid them under my bed and instructed Orchie to answer the door to no one.
Then I went to the telegraph office myself. The first telegram was sent to Lord Tenteden, assuring him that my valuations were proper, but that I could have his funds, in any case, in a matter of a week, if he’d be so gracious as to wait.
Next, I sent telegrams to Harry, both at London and at Watchfield, as I knew not where he was. I told him the amount of money I needed to have by Friday morning for a most urgent debt, and could he respond posthaste. I remembered my confident promise to myself that I would not rely upon his money to pay my debts. I had truly tried every other means.
Perhaps I should have availed myself of his offered generosity earlier on. I comforted myself with the thought that I would give him the flask in return, and it would be at Watchfield as it was meant to be. And that Uncle could keep his Book of Hours.
For the present.
None of us slept well on Thursday night. I stayed in the parlor and prayed, and Orchie made batches of Cornish pasties till the wee hours. The more agitated we became, the more agitated my uncle grew. No word from Harry, nor any money.
On Friday morning, the fifteenth of March, I dressed serviceably and began my work, hoping that Harry would appear with some funds. At ten o’clock a knock came on the door and I opened it to see a man whose cherubic face belied the sharpness of his voice.
“Do you have the funds for Lord Tenteden?” he asked. “It’s the fifteenth, and my client has been quite patient, after all.”
“The funds are en route,” I said. “Lord Lydney will deliver them very shortly. A few more hours—perhaps Monday at the latest.”
He did not smile and bid me a good day.
I closed the workshop. I shut the lights off behind me though it was but midmorning. I returned to the house and calmly gave Orchie instructions on how she should proceed should what I expected transpire.
Why hadn’t Harry responded in any way? Had he well and truly left me to my fate? More worrisome—and likely—he himself had met with harm, perhaps in the matter of the missing Roman antiquities.
Orchie cried quietly.
“I shan’t be too long, I hope.” I tried to sound more confident than I felt. “Lord Lydney will surely appear and bring a cheque. Please have him proceed to the house of detention with a receipt after paying my debt in full.” I gave her the name and address of the man to whom the funds would need to be delivered.
“And if he doesn’t come?” Orchie asked.
“Then please send a note to Lady Charlotte Schreiber and ask her if she might locate a buyer for the pilgrim’s flask.” I did not know if that would be enough once the expenses for the court were added to my debt. My heart hurt, but I must suggest the last possible item which we might sell to keep ourselves afloat. “And perhaps the Book of Hours,” I added softly, “if need be.” That should cover their complete expenses for some months, should it take longer for me to be freed. “You might call upon Mrs. Newsome to see if she can help further. But I instruct you to pay the household expenses for you and for Uncle first. Do not use the money to release me until all household matters are arranged and Lord Tenteden is paid.” I would not have them in the workhouse or the asylum, even if it meant I might remain in debtor’s prison.
Orchie nodded. I did not give her further instructions because I did not know what else to do or say. I remonstrated with myself that I should have arranged this with Harry sooner, or have sold the pilgrim’s flask sooner along with the snuffbox and curiosity cabinet. In truth, though, I hadn’t because I thought I’d had until the last moment to save what remained of my papa, with the promise of Harry’s assistance at any time.
Truly, I had to admit and confess, it was pride which had done me in. I hadn’t wanted Harry’s help. I wanted to remain strong and self-sufficient in his eyes and in my own.
This time, it was not Harry who had waited too late. It was I.
Promptly at two o’clock, the debt collector walked to my front door. A constable was at his side.
I opened the door. “Yes?”
“Are you Miss Eleanor Sheffield?” the constable asked. I was grateful that it was not the same policeman who had escorted me from Mr. Clarkson’s home.
“Yes,” I said.
“Come with me, please.”
He put me in the police cart, which was dry but uncomfortable. Neighbors looked out from their windows, and I was glad that he’d let me walk on my own. Soon the gossip would spread like a kitchen fire among the neighbors. Who at the South Kensington would be the first to hear?
The streets were rough, and I heard the cries of London—watercress, flowers, pies, cheese, chair repair. For the first time, I understood what it was like to have no say at all over my own life. I must do only as the law permitted me to do. I was at the mercy of those who did not necessarily value mercy.
We pulled up in front of the prison, a place I had arrived at many times in better circumstances. Once inside, I appeared before the warder, who recognized me.
“Are you able to pay this debt in full?” he asked.
“Not presently.”
“That would be a no, then.” He wrote something on a piece of paper. “You will be held here, in detention, until you appear before a magistrate to plead your case. At that time, he will assign a prison term. You will remain in prison until your debt is paid or your time of incarceration, as he warrants it, is completed. Is that clear, miss?”
“Yes,” I said. “When . . . when will I appear before him?”
“As soon as convenient,” he reiterated. “For him.”
“Perhaps a week or two,” the constable whispered to me as he took his leave. “Good luck, miss.”
I was whisked away to the next room, where a female warder checked me for contraband.
We walked in silence down a long, narrow corridor. Should I have wanted to, I could have reached my arms out and dragged my fingers along each wall. If I had, I knew the blackened filth that had hardened upon them through the years would stain my gloves like the shame staining my soul. It seemed to me that the hallways grew narrower as we walked, and I found myself heaving for breath.
As she led me down the hall, I felt as though I were suffocating with the foul stench of filthy air which, like those women trapped within these walls, rarely circulated. I’d overheard the warders talking once about how they nearly lost the contents of their stomachs when they first entered those deeper hallways, and I swallowed hard to avoid a similar reaction. Faintly, I could also smell the pinch of chloride of lime, which was used from time to time to “freshen” the air. Jeanette had told me that it burned her lungs. Now she struggled to breathe deeply at all.
The woman warder opened a door and nearly pushed me in. “Enjoy your first night under Her Majesty’s roof,” she said with a cackle. She stood outside while showing me the contents of my room.
She indicated a slit on the wall. “Push that—” she pointed to a red flag on a rough hook—“through the slit if you are sick or in need of the closets in a hurry. Yer food’ll be delivered and you’ll get exercise in the morning and
chapel on Sunday.”
“Thank you,” I said politely.
She laughed. “There’s no need for high manners, missy. You answer to me now.”
She clanged the door shut and left me to look around the room.
The moment I heard the lock engage, I felt unable to breathe, as though I were facedown in a bath and someone held my head so I could not raise it to air. My lungs hungered. I sat on the small bed, and the room itself seemed to close in around me. I was acutely aware that there were imprisoned people on top of me, and likely below me, and in every room all around. I wasn’t underground, but I felt as though I were. There was a small window, but it was high and dim. You shan’t be here long, I comforted myself. Harry will certainly arrive with the funds within hours. You won’t be here for even a day.
I stood in the center of my cell, which was perhaps six feet by ten feet and whitewashed. There was a small shelf upon which rested a wooden bowl and a wooden spoon. The lower shelf held a Bible, a book of prayers, and a hymnal, though I knew most of the prisoners could not read at all.
There was no desk, nor anything with which I might write. How could I reach out for help?
Help would have to come to me.
The plank which served as a bed had splinters sticking up, which I tried to smooth down, to little avail. At the head was a pillow of sorts. It was a rough feed sack which had been stuffed with coconut fibers. The end remained untied, which made me wonder what kind of vermin had squirmed their way in and were already sleeping.
Surely they would wake the moment I laid my head upon them.
At the foot of the plank was a folded woolen blanket. I opened it, gently, and dust motes escaped into the air. Once open, I could see that it was stained—with what, I did not know—and greasy. I let it fall to the floor.
I sat on the plank, grateful that I had been allowed to keep my own clothes for now. I suspected that if I were convicted for the debts, I would be issued the ill-fitting prison clothing my prisoner friends wore and the boots that “talked”—that is, their soles flapped openly from the boot bottom.
