by Sandra Byrd
“Yes,” she said. “And please call me Francesca.”
I asked her if she would be willing to speak about her family’s treasures that evening and she happily agreed.
After dinner, Mr. Schreiber led us into the library. There were not quite enough chairs for all present to sit; the ladies sat and some of the older gentlemen, while the remainder of the men stood. Mr. Schreiber introduced me. “Miss Sheffield has a fine eye for discerning the genuine from the fraud, and a wealth of knowledge upon which to draw. I’m delighted she will now share with us some of her expertise.”
“Thank you.” My voice warbled. Why weak? I thought to myself. Charlotte has gathered her friends here out of love for you. You are doing what you do best. I had to decide: Was I going to sit in the chair my uncle must soon vacate? Was I taking the helm of Sheffield Brothers?
I was done striving and trying to earn the approval of others. I, too, must be on the outside who I was on the inside. My voice grew strong. “I know many of you have heard of the wonderful Venetian treasures that our friend Lord Lydney escorted out of Venice during the months of war which, happily, saw Venice united with Italy. His friends, the Viero family, have graciously allowed us to appreciate these treasures before they return to their home. Perhaps Signorina Viero would be so kind as to come up and tell us about them?”
The lovely Francesca came to the front and spoke of the goblets, in waves of sea-blues and -greens, fitting for Venice, delicately etched with remarkable skill and openmouthed, ready to receive the riches of Italian water and wine.
She next touched the chandelier, which glistened and twinkled, even in the relative dark of the room.
She spoke of the twisted cornucopias, purest glass with threads of gold woven throughout, as intricate as any embroidery I’d seen, and then the delicate blown-glass water jug. When she held up the yellow perfume bottle, swirled like sunrise gauze, my heart felt no pain. Mama, I wish you well. But we are well and truly parted now. I had learned that every circumstance in life doesn’t have to end happily for the Lord to provide a happy ending.
When Francesca held up the Venetian wedding cake beads, rolled black but with hearts and flowers shot throughout, to celebrate a woman’s best day, de Bennetto grinned at her, and she blushed in return. I then knew which bride’s neck they would next grace.
She introduced me. “Please, my friend Miss Eleanor Sheffield is going to tell you about the Roman treasures, which had been stolen. They will only be in England for another month or two. When my family returns to Italy, we will take them—openly—with us, to return them to their rightful owners.” She turned to Harry but spoke to those gathered. “It is because Lord Lydney paid for these, and then is graciously donating everything back to be repatriated to Italy, that they will find their way into the refounding of the Italian nation.”
Stefano led the applause then; Harry looked down in humility, but I scanned the crowd and saw that they viewed him differently now. I did have a fine eye for discerning truth from falsehood, and with Harry I had confirmed that he was all I’d ever known, and hoped, him to be.
I began lightly but confidently, discussing each of the small Roman items, and invited people to come forward and view them when I was finished. I spoke of the goods that had been designed, commissioned, and purchased solely for religious purposes and were to be stored at the Palazzo del Quirinale, fully crediting my uncle. “He is brusque—but well-meaning. He has a good heart and a wealth of knowledge. From him, and from my father, I have learned nearly everything I now know. I honor them.”
Lady Charlotte spoke up. “I would like Miss Sheffield to explain how she concluded that the ribbed-glass bowl was not authentic.”
A final test! I recalled how she’d encouraged me some months before. “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.”
I took the glass bowl in hand and held my lamp very near to it. As I did, those near enough could see the tiniest bit of the oxidation melt and smiled or gasped, depending on if they had suspected the fraud. I pointed to the place on the bowl where the pearlescent glaze had softened—something that would never happen so quickly, if at all, with oxidation accumulated naturally through centuries of resting buried underground. “False oxidation. But how?”
I then set down the bowl and held up my rope of pearls, the ones I had caught in Alice’s hands when she first came to do laundry in our home.
I remembered our conversation and shared it with those present.
“These are not genuine pearls; they are made of blown glass and then filled with wax to make them heavy.” I handed them to the person standing next to me, and she hefted the weight in one hand. “They are painted on the outside with the gelatin stripped from fish intestines. Even the most discerning eye has difficulty telling the difference. Likewise, our Roman thieves had difficulty discerning that the olive bowl, too, had been painted with fish gelatin to falsely age it.”
I knew many, if not all, in the room had seen, valued, or even owned false pearls such as my own. I held them to the lamp, and the pearlescence melted just as it had on the counterfeit Roman bowl. It was not worth a small fortune. It was worth nearly nothing.
I smiled at the room, and they smiled back at me; Lady Charlotte came forward to thank me and invited the others to view the Roman and Venetian treasures while they may.
Those gathered came forward to view the tables, many of them stopping to speak with me, our friendly camaraderie and collegiality restored, perhaps even beyond what it had ever been.
Charlotte squeezed my hand before she was to slip away to tend to her guests.
“Thank you, my friend. I can never repay you.”
“You need not. That is what friends are for.”
Harry came up and put his hand under my elbow. “Well done, Miss Sheffield,” he whispered in my ear.
I turned to him. “It would not have been possible without you.”
He shrugged. “I’m happy to see you happy.”
“I would see you happy as well,” I said.
“I’m delighted to hear that. Then there is something you can do for me. I have already asked Mrs. Newsome if she would be so kind as to accompany you to a gathering I’m hosting at Watchfield next weekend. I hope you are free?”
“To my regret, I remain so,” I teased.
He laughed and ran a finger along my jawline as was his intimate, most welcome habit. I had the feeling that if we had not been in a room filled with people, he would have kissed me as he had that night outside my room at the George Inn.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Seven
WATCHFIELD HOUSE, OXFORDSHIRE
We traveled to Watchfield on a Friday afternoon. As our train pulled into the station, Marguerite was nearly as excited as I was.
“There is another secret that lies ahead,” she said.
“Why is it that each time I come to Watchfield, everyone knows the mystery which remains unspoken, except me?”
She laughed and took my bag for a moment as we stepped up into the carriage that Harry had sent to bring us to Watchfield. “It shan’t remain a secret long, dearest.”
When the carriage arrived, the driver pulled up for us to alight at the front door. Harry’s new man had been waiting for us. He came down the front steps to take our bags and treated me most deferentially. My heart could do nothing but sing.
When we went into the house, the new housekeeper greeted me warmly. “Let me show you to your room, please, Miss Sheffield,” she said. “I hope you will find it to your liking.”
Marguerite grumbled teasingly as she shadowed me down the hall. “I guess I shall follow along and hope that his lordship has had some accommodations prepared for me as well.”
I laughed aloud.
Our rooms were one floor up and were perhaps the finest quarters in the house. Direc
tly above mine would be Lady Lydney’s, and both rooms looked out over the extensive grounds. The dogwood trees had come into flower; their pink-and-white blossoms reminded me of the little girl’s tea set my granny had given me as a child. The grass was thriving in emerald, and darling little English bluebells nodded their heads like fairies along the cobbled walkway to the summerhouse.
Then I knew. Besides the lovely view, Harry had wanted me to have this room because it overlooked our summerhouse. The wisteria, which had looked so mournful in September, burst with violet bliss.
“Dinner this evening, miss. And then we’re to close your draperies until eleven tomorrow morning, and his lordship has asked that you remain in your room.” The housekeeper’s eyes twinkled. “I shall bring breakfast to your room.”
I tilted my head. Could I winkle the mystery out of Harry tonight at dinner?
Dinner was supposed to be a quiet affair, but with the Italians in the house, it was delightfully noisy and emotionally expressive.
The widow Viero sat next to me. “Where are your mother and father? Could they not come?”
Francesca batted her mother. “Mama!”
“My mother and father are no longer with us,” I said, honest if not precise.
“What? You have no mother?” She scooted her chair closer to me. “I shall be your mama then.” She sniffed loudly as if to dare anyone to contradict her.
“Thank you,” I replied as she patted my hand.
I looked toward the end of the table and saw Marguerite involved in a deep conversation with Stefano. Both laughed, and each time I looked, their chairs were closer to one another. By the end of the meal, she’d even let her sorbet melt, completely uneaten.
Mama Viero sniffed again. “I thought we would be leaving England behind soon. If this progresses, I may have to remain or take an ‘English souvenir’ back to the palazzo in Venice.”
I laughed. I hope so, Mama Viero. I certainly hope so.
After dinner, a quartet of musicians readied themselves to play in the background whilst we enjoyed cards and conversation. Harry took my hands in his own and held my gaze. “What can I do for you, Miss Sheffield?”
I teased him back. “Any manner of things, Lord Lydney. But what I most want to know is, why keep my draperies closed in the morning? Why must I remain in my room until eleven o’clock?”
He laughed. “Oh no. You shan’t get me to reveal that secret. Nor anyone else. I have sworn them to secrecy.”
“Could you be convinced?” I asked.
“No. At least not tonight.” He smiled. “Later, perhaps . . .”
This night, I was not wearing a secondhand gown, but a beautiful emerald dress purchased with a little of the banknote bounty found in my uncle’s desk. Harry had not asked Uncle to repay the money for the Roman goods; they would be his gift to the Italian people.
The music struck up—the same tune we had first danced to so many years before—and Harry pulled me closer than he had dared as a young man, though we had both desired it, then and now.
His movements were slow and deliberate. I followed. We nearly melded into one another, and at the end of the dance, he led me into the small linen supply room where we had once had our first dance. He drew me near him and kissed me. I answered with a kiss of my own, and emboldened, he kissed me even more deeply. He put his hand on the back of my head and drew me closer so that I could not pull away, even if I had wanted to.
I did not.
His light beard scraped me, and it was a welcome, masculine roughness. After a moment, he pulled away. “We must part,” he said. “For now, my lady. For now.”
I did not respond. I could not. I had no breath with which to speak.
The next morning, Marguerite remained in my room with me.
“You are not quarantined,” I teased. “You should be out with the others instead of remanded to this dark, close room.”
She looked around at the fresh opulence of new linens and old, treasured furniture. “What a prison, Miss Sheffield. What a prison. As a matter of fact, I shall serve as your lady’s maid this morning. Maybe for the last time?”
“Do you have plans to flee so soon?” I asked. “Perhaps to Italy? I thought, after watching you with Stefano Viero, that perhaps it is you in need of a chaperone and not I.”
She laughed. “You are not qualified to be a chaperone, Miss Sheffield. Not yet, in any case.”
“My fondest desire is to see you happy again. And I suspect I shall.”
She laughed again, and the sound of it gladdened my heart and brightened the room.
She then helped me into a beautiful gown the color of the wisteria which was blooming near our summerhouse and brushed my hair so that the auburn tresses fell around my shoulders.
“Are you not going to pin it up?” I asked. “I look rather heathen with my hair about my shoulders like this.”
“You look beautiful,” she said. “Free and young and ever so pretty. Does it matter to you what others say you look like today? You are no heathen, and all know it.”
I smiled. “It only matters to me what one person thinks.”
“I believe I can vouch that he will find you mesmerizing.”
At precisely eleven o’clock—Harry had assured me he would be on time—Marguerite opened the door to my room and led me down the long hallway. I could hear people gathered in the large drawing room, but it had been screened off and in any case, Marguerite marched me right past.
We stepped out onto the dew-kissed grass, our boots barely touching the ground. Whither was she leading me? Soon, I saw. The summerhouse.
As we got closer, I could see that Harry waited for me outside. Marguerite handed me over to him and then kissed my cheek before disappearing back into Watchfield.
I expected Harry to take me into the summerhouse, but he did not. Instead, we stood outside. I was poised to jest with him about what we were to do next or did he not know, but then a horse came from the stables, not too far away.
It was a white horse, ridden by a man in a fine riding suit. As it approached us, I saw another horse leave the stable, this one also white. Soon, a third rider appeared on yet another white horse and then a fourth. The fifth white horse was ridden—though quite slowly—by the ungainly Mr. Herberts, who tipped his hat at me as he passed.
“What . . . ?” I began. I understood why I’d been confined to quarters. I would certainly have seen all these horses and riders being readied.
Harry placed his finger over my lips but for a moment, shushing me. “All in good time, Ellie. All in good time.”
The parade of silent white horses continued, and as I counted, the twentieth horse approached.
“Abalone,” I whispered. Being ridden by Lord Audley! “What has happened?”
“Audley purchased him,” Harry said simply. “But that is not what this day is about.”
As he spoke, the first rider circled back on his white horse.
“May I tell you a story?” Harry took my hand in his own.
“Certainly!”
“I’ve told you how I love the Uffington chalk horse. How when I saw it on the hill on the way to Watchfield, I knew I was soon to be home. There are many stories about the horse, but one of my favorites is the ancient belief that because of the Uffington horse, real white horses could predict the future husband of an unmarried girl. You see—” he turned toward me—“the girl would count the number of white horses she saw until she reached one hundred. Then the first man she shook hands with after that would one day become her husband.”
The horses paraded by once more. “I could not find one hundred white horses,” Harry said. “For as many horsemen as I know. But I could find twenty. I am hoping that if twenty horses come by five times, that will be good enough for me to claim the one hundred horse myth. Or rather, for you to do so.”
He dropped my hand, and we stood, side by side, watching the horses walk. The birds chirped in the air around us, and the breeze rustled the new leaves buddin
g from the trees, fresh leaves which spoke of new seasons of life and hope. I glanced at the summerhouse behind us and in my mind’s eye saw us as a young man and woman, and then as a grown man and woman, now. All had come to fruition in the right time.
As Abalone came by for the fifth time, Lord Audley tipped his riding hat toward me, and I watched Harry as he smiled at Audley, struggled a bit with him being on Abalone, and then faced me. Seeing Audley on his horse, and the fact that he’d done all this for a story, which he knew would mean more to me than a simple proposal, confirmed why I had only, and ever, loved this man.
“That is the one hundredth white horse, Miss Sheffield,” Harry said.
It was up to me, I knew, to shake his hand. I held out my gloved hand and took his.
“Yes.” I nodded. “Yes. Always yes. Yes today. Yes tomorrow. Yes until the chalk hills pass away, which they never will.”
Lord Audley smiled and rode away, leaving the two of us alone in front of the summerhouse. Harry kissed me in agreement, in tenderness, in protection and affection and commitment. He kissed me in passion. I answered in kind.
I held out my hand, where my Adore ring belonged, and envisioned it there, amethyst intact. Fifth question—would he propose marriage?—answered now. But it had required faith to trust him, the faith of a mustard seed, and to return the collection to him before I had that last answer.
As we walked back to the house, the crowd which had been gathered in the room, waiting, spilled out onto the lawn and, with cheers and whistles and applause, celebrated with us.
“Marry me in May?” Harry asked as we walked.
“May?” I asked. I wondered why he wanted to wait more than a month.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I have not finished with surprises, Ellie. It must be none other than May.”
Then I thought, Yes, May. Because, Lord Lydney, I may have a surprise of my own.
