by Sandra Byrd
He put the document behind his back, and at that moment, we heard a clattering of footsteps come down the stairs. “Eleanor! Miss Sheffield.”
Round the corner came Harry, an Italian-looking man, and Mrs. Denholm.
“What is the meaning of this?” Harry demanded. He was taller than Denholm, younger, stronger, and titled. Even Denholm shied back.
“I could ask the same thing,” he said. “What do you mean by storming my house?”
“He did not storm in,” Mrs. Denholm said quietly. “I invited him in.”
Harry came through the iron gates and took me in his arms. “When I saw your gloves outside the door . . . ,” he said, emotion filling his voice. “Was he holding you against your will?”
“I left the gloves to let you know I was inside, should someone deny it,” I whispered. I looked up at him and then at Denholm, whose face had a determined look of surprise. He had not expected Harry to remain faithful and committed to me. Perhaps because he himself was untrue. “Not truly against my will. Not yet.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Harry asked Denholm once more.
“I’m sure Lord Tenteden told you when you went to collect the funds,” I answered as Denholm seemed to have gone dumb.
“I was arranging for those funds when Antelini—whom I’d stationed outside the prison—came to get me, telling me that you had been whisked away from the house of detention by someone you’d greeted as Denholm.”
Ah! Bless Mr. Antelini. “Mr. Denholm paid the amount due to Tenteden, and he and his most kind wife collected me from the prison,” I said. “In return, I notified Mr. Denholm which of his art might have raised some . . . concern. Mr. Denholm? Could you please show your wife, Lord Lydney, and Mr. Antelini the document we just signed? I’m sure we can count on both the honesty and the discretion of all involved.”
Denholm reluctantly showed the document to those present, thereby ensuring that our arrangement would stand.
“The Book of Hours,” Harry said. “I shall pay—”
Denholm stood firm. “I am not interested in your money, Lydney. I am interested in the Book of Hours. If Miss Sheffield does not agree to abide by her part in this arrangement, we shall have it seen in court.”
My uncle, my family firm, my name—these were worth more than the Book of Hours, as it was unlikely that my uncle would soon even remember he owned such a treasure.
“I abide by my word, Mr. Denholm. Do you?”
He nodded.
I was in a hurry to return to my home, to see if my uncle—and Orchie—were well and if he had returned from hospital. I wondered, too, if Harry had already paid for the Roman treasures. If not—were Pazzo and his men at my home?
As we turned to walk up the stairs, I took Mrs. Denholm’s hand in my own. “You are a most dear lady and a friend. In friendship, I must advise you that the medieval bracelet which was a gift from your husband is not medieval, as the gems do not have the appropriate cut for that era. I’m so sorry.”
She blinked. “Thank you, my dear. Better to know when one has been dealing with a crook.”
She glanced firmly at her husband and then led the way up the stairs. Her husband did not follow us.
Halfway up I turned to Harry. “Wait. Your shepherdess is down there.”
I retraced my steps, but by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, I could see that it had been removed from the shelf and tucked away somewhere in the bowels of the dank wine cellar, along with Mr. Denholm.
I did not have time to tarry—I needed to get to my uncle.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Four
Harry helped me into his carriage—Mr. Antelini joining us—and we drove as quickly as possible to my home. Harry held my hand, but we did not speak, both because we were not alone and because there was little to say until we understood what had happened to my uncle.
The carriage stopped in front of my house, and the driver tied the horses and then opened the carriage door. He helped me out, and I raced up the steps.
I pounded on the door, as I had not taken a key with me to prison, and hoped that someone would be there.
I sensed a presence behind the door, but it did not open. “Orchie! Orchie, it is me, Eleanor,” I called loudly, caring not if the neighbors eavesdropped.
The door was quickly unlatched, and then Orchie gathered me into her arms. She looked to have aged a year or two though only four days had passed since I’d left.
“You’re back!” she sobbed.
I nodded. “Harry is behind me. Uncle Lewis?”
I stepped into the house and looked into the parlor, which was dark and cold. Surely he wasn’t already laid out there on the long table?
Orchie came up next to me. “He’s in ’ospital.”
“Oh!” I was overcome and about to say more when she held up a hand.
“He can return home tomorrow. He’s much improved. Your Dr. Garrett saw that he was cared for.”
Tears flowed for a moment, and then I wiped them away with my handkerchief.
I sank into the sofa. Harry entered the house, and Orchie took his hat and coat and placed them on the stand just inside the foyer. Mr. Antelini was stoking the coal fire when Orchie joined us in the room, bringing tea service.
“Mr. Sheffield was unwell, as you know,” she said. “I told him you’d gone visiting, and that seemed to bring him peace until that horrible man showed up demanding money or Mr. Sheffield would end up in prison just like you had.”
My chest heaved with anger toward Denholm, but in a clear moment, I also had sympathy for his wife, who was a very kind person indeed.
“Well, then he seemed in pain and was clutching his chest like this—” she pressed against her breastbone—“and so I did what you told me to do and sent Alice for that nice lady doctor. She took him to hospital and found a man doctor to care for him, though I don’t know as to how we’re going to pay for that. . . .”
“Do not worry about that,” Harry spoke up.
She smiled at him. “And then they said he could come back home on the morrow. It will do him a world of good, Miss Eleanor, to see you home.”
“I shall fetch him from hospital myself,” I said.
“We shall,” Harry amended, taking my hand in his own. “Together.”
Orchie looked at our joined hands. “Well, I’d best be preparing a bag: clean clothes—if they can be found—for him to wear home.”
I shook my head. “No. You go to bed now. It’s been a difficult time for you, and you look as if you need a good rest. I can pack the bag.”
She yawned. “I don’t mind saying I could use a bit of sleep—” she came over to me and kissed my forehead—“now you’re safe.”
Harry asked Mr. Antelini to wait outside. Antelini nodded to me.
“Buonasera, Signore Antelini,” I said. “Grazie mille.”
“Prego, Signorina Sheffield,” he replied. “You are most welcome.”
Orchie, ever tending to my reputation, had not actually gone off to bed but was tottering about in the hallway and then the sitting room nearby, loudly enough for us to know she was still there but distant enough that we could speak in private.
“You are safe now,” Harry said. “I can leave Antelini stationed outside for the night, but unless you fear Denholm, there is no further threat.”
“Denholm will do nothing openly,” I said. “He’s a coward. And he knows you are protecting me now. The Roman goods? I’m so sorry, but I have concluded that Mr. Clarkson stole them whilst we were doing the inventory and then sold them overseas, from Bristol. They are paid for? For the moment? Because I shall find a way to repay you.”
“Yes. I paid for them earlier today. The Italians are satisfied. They will not trouble you, or Viero’s sister, anymore.”
I smiled at the manner in which he referred to Francesca, more formally—it was to please and reassure me, I knew. “I am sorry you had to sell some of the collection,” I said. “That must have been difficult
, having just had it returned to you.”
He ran his hand through his hair, which looked even more deeply auburn in the glow of the coals. “I did not sell any of the collection, Ellie.”
“How, then, did you pay for the Roman goods?”
He sat on the sofa next to me; it had not been made for a man as broad as he was from years of riding, and so we were rather close. I did not mind. I suspected he did not either.
“There were a few reasons I wanted that collection returned to me,” he began. “First, I wanted to keep my mother’s things.”
“The pelican,” I offered shyly, remembering the question of whether I had intentionally kept it.
He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “The pelican and other things. I wanted my brother’s items. I wanted my ancestral treasures. But mostly, Ellie, I wanted to keep that collection because, in the end, that collection will be yours.”
A flush of warmth spread through me. Was he implying . . . ? Was he next going to propose marriage to me?
He drank some of his tea and then set the cup down. “It became apparent to me some years ago that my father had no intention of providing an income of any sort to me, though he was well able to.”
I sighed. “That was, unfortunately, clear to all of us.”
He looked sad for a moment, then pressed on. “Although he could have claimed them, the horses were left to me by my mother when she died. He did not demand them, having, one hopes, some respect in seeing her final wishes through. Despite his acrimony toward me, he truly loved my mother.”
As did Harry, I knew. When his mother died, he’d been left without a defender.
He continued, “I decided that I could breed the horses, and I began to do well at it; the studs are high quality, and word began to spread. Little by little I’ve built quite an enterprise. Even whilst traveling back and forth from Italy. It’s grown more quickly in the last year or so.”
“Marguerite had mentioned something along those lines,” I admitted.
He turned fully toward me. “Until I had sufficient income in place, Ellie, I was in no position to take a wife.”
He held my hand but said nothing more. Should I prompt him? What woman wanted a proposal to come from a prompting?
Well, I did, perhaps. “I understand and am gladdened to know that is remedied.” I would say no more.
“I had to offer Signorina Viero the cover of my name to transport her safely from Italy and then again for a few days whilst I arranged for the payment for the stolen Roman goods. For her safety and for her brother’s.” He smiled. “Viero is well. He will return for his sister and mother within a month or two.”
“I am so glad to hear of that,” I said, and I was. “So there is no longer need to give Francesca the cover of your name?” I hinted.
“No.” His face grew somber. “Because to pay for the goods which have gone missing, I sold Abalone.”
I set my teacup down so hard it nearly clattered. I thought I heard Orchie scurrying in the background, but she did not appear. “Harry. No. Not Abalone. Not only is he your favorite, but he must be the foundation of your stud—so well-known, such good lineage.”
“It was necessary. He was the only asset I had which could bring in enough resources to cover both the Roman goods and your debt.” He met my gaze. “I do not regret it. My honor means more—and I have done for Viero what I said I would do. My love for you means more—and you are safe now.”
“Perhaps you might buy him back someday?” I offered.
He shook his head. “No. Our understanding is that this would be an irrevocable arrangement.” He looked sad and boyish for a moment. “As it turns out, Abalone was more generous to me in the end than was my own father.”
He looked down at his hands. I thought of taking him into my arms but sensed that this was not a moment for clucking and feminine pity, as Uncle would say. Instead, I drank the remainder of my tea and then flipped the cup over.
I pointed to the maker’s mark on the bottom. “In order to claim his own work, a maker stamps or paints his unique mark on the cup and then glazes over it, making it permanent.
“Now I—” I turned the cup back over—“could tell without looking at the mark who had made this. I am very used to seeing them, of course, so they are easy to recognize. The distinctive design that the maker used. The colors he preferred. How he was able to make something both beautiful and useful.” I smiled a little, recalling my discussion some months past with Marguerite. “But if there is a question, the mark will always tell.”
I set the cup back down. “You, my love, have been proved to be authentic.” I gently touched his face, those weary lines, and continued, softly. “You have your Maker’s design all over you. His mark is stamped in your loyalty. Your kindness. The way you put others before yourself.”
I touched his hands, each in turn. “The friendship you offer to all and your fidelity toward them, in your vow to Stefano and others. Your courage in taking his mother and sister to safety. Your beauty as I see it and have always seen it.”
He took my hands in his own and raised them to kiss the backs. “Thank you, Ellie.”
“You will collect me in the morning to fetch my uncle from hospital?”
“Undoubtedly,” he said, his voice slightly roughened. I saw him to the door. He put his coat on, and I took his hat from the stand and put it on his head in as wifely a manner as I could muster.
He smiled before leaving. He knew.
But still, he had not proposed.
I closed and locked the door behind him. Orchie, hearing that all was now quiet, toddled off to bed. The fire was dying out, but although I should have been spent, I was not. The events of the night and, indeed, the days which had come before it, had added nervous energy, and I feared I would simply lie awake for hours till I saw Harry returned for me and my uncle safely home.
I’d pack Uncle’s bag.
I went down the hallway and pushed open the door to his room. It smelled foul. It was a muddle. I did not care what his preferences were; I was going to tidy it up. I was a firm believer—perhaps passed along to me by my Dutch grandmother—that a tidy environment would lead to an organized mind.
First, I picked up all the clothing that had been strewn on the floor. I tidied the personal items on his dressing table and put his shoes neatly next to a chest of drawers, for now.
Once close to the chest of drawers, I could smell the most dreadful odor. I nearly turned away from it. Could it be a dead animal? I could not ignore it. It was unsanitary, at best. I opened the lowest drawer and within it found perhaps two dozen Cornish pasties in various states of mold and decay. I held back a gag and went to fetch an old sheet in which to wrap them for permanent disposal.
I used a rag to ensure I had cleared the drawer out from front to back, and then I wiped up the side of the drawer. As I did, the rag caught on something. I wiped again. It caught again. I knelt as low as I could, peered inside the drawer, and found what seemed to be a hidden lever.
Yes! As I looked it over carefully, I saw that it was crafted by the same firm which had made Lord Lydney’s wardrobe. Perhaps my uncle—or father—had sourced them both. This tall chest of drawers had hidden door latches. I tugged on one lever, and the drawer above it, which had been locked, opened.
I took out the first thing my hand touched. It was the miniature portrait from his study—the one I’d suspected Clarkson of stealing. Perhaps Uncle had just wanted it near him? Or he’d suspected Clarkson of stealing things too, and didn’t especially want this one to be taken?
I turned it over in my hand, and as I did, the top portrait fell off. Underneath was a portrait of a young woman who looked, just a little, like Alice. It was clear that the portrait had been painted many years ago, but it was very finely crafted. At the bottom of the portrait was painted, in the tiniest script, Carolina.
That must have been why Uncle had referred to Alice as Miss Carolina from time to time, as his mind slipped further back. I cou
ld not know, nor would I ask him, but I suspected Miss Carolina had been a sweetheart, perhaps one forbidden to him and thus hidden in the portrait locket. I tried to open the larger two drawers, which were above the two I’d just opened, from the front. They, too, were locked.
I felt around for another secret latch, found it, and tugged. When I did, the drawer above popped open just a little, and I heard a sound like glass rattling.
“Oooohhh.” A moan escaped my lips. Could these be? No. How could they be?
Oh, Harry. I’m so sorry. Abalone, irrevocably sold.
I looked in dismay at the items hidden in this drawer, and then very gently eased open the drawer just above it. Nestled in old clothing, things I had not seen my uncle wear for some months, were treasures. Roman treasures. All ancient, and all made of glass.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Five
I looked the Roman treasures over carefully and then brought them to the workshop, where I looked them over once more with my eyeglass. Precious—some of them. Irregular, others.
I sat there for a moment, and then a thought bolted me from my chair. Might there also be a hidden drawer in Uncle’s study?
I ran up the stairs and sat in his large chair, opening all the drawers. Nothing was new, except I now saw a false-fronted drawer, manufactured, of course, by the same craftsman who had made the others. I reached inside and triggered the lever; the drawer popped out just a little. I pulled it open and looked inside.
“Oh, my goodness!” I reached my hand in to pull out stack after stack of invoices with banknotes pinned to them. Uncle Lewis had apparently withdrawn the money to pay some of our larger invoices—perhaps ones he normally delivered in person? He had then placed them here for safekeeping, forgetting that they remained unpaid.
Of course, I could not sleep. I lay awake nearly till morning’s light thinking about the treasures, mulling over some irregularities I’d noticed in a few of them, and praying about what to do. I finally got up and readied myself for the day. The water in which I washed was unbelievably warm and clean, and I was grateful for it in a new way. I put on one of my best dresses, cared for by the skillful hands of Alice.
