by Sandra Byrd
CHAPTER
Thirty-Eight
MAY 1867
I did not have a chance to speak with Lord Audley whilst we were at Watchfield, and it was perhaps just as well. I wanted to speak with him privately, away from the eyes of anyone else, but most especially, away from Harry.
I’d sent a note asking if I might call on him at his London house, and he sent a gracious reply, though it was some weeks before he had an available date. The night before we were to meet, I went over the account books once more. I had reconciled all the monies that were due to Sheffield Brothers but then had repaid myself for the funds I had used to pay company matters by selling my and my father’s treasures. I knew exactly what was available. It was more than I had expected, and while we were not exactly rich, Mr. Herberts had promised his patronage and I had been invited to the April meeting of the Burlington, where my membership was expected to be confirmed.
Harry had been planning for my uncle to move in with us at his homes in London and Oxfordshire if Uncle liked, or he would arrange for him to remain at our home in Bloomsbury, if that was less disruptive.
So I could afford to make a generous offer, one that I could add to as the years went on, if required.
I arrived midafternoon at the large town house. The butler saw me in and then showed me to a private sitting room, one I had not been in during my earlier visit for the club meeting. “Lord Audley will arrive shortly,” he said. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
I sat in a very comfortable chair and looked around the room. There were paintings and treasures and such, and pieces of a very nice collection, portions of which I had seen during my earlier visit. But then . . .
I stood and walked over to a portrait of a man on a horse. The man looked like Audley, but not completely. His father? No. Older. A forebear. It was not the man who had drawn my eye, though. It was the horse. More precisely, it was the barding that the horse wore. It was the exact piece of barding which I had first seen—and then noticed missing—in the third-floor room at Watchfield.
“Miss Sheffield.” Lord Audley entered the room and noticed where I stood. He joined me in front of the painting.
“It’s quite well done, is it not?” he asked.
I nodded, not knowing what to say. I thought I’d offer a leading sentence and see if he picked it up. “Stunning horse. And barding, too. Unusual.”
He smiled. “It has my family crest on it.” He nodded to the portrait and then pointed at a crest appearing in the stonework above the fireplace. “That is, of course, how Lydney knew it belonged to me.”
“May I sit down?”
He helped me round to a chair and sat across from me whilst tea was brought into the room.
Once the maid left, I asked, “Did he . . . did Harry return it to you, then?”
“He did. Apparently he had not been in that room and for some reason became aware that there was a lock with no known key. He had it changed and, when he did, saw this. Among some other items which, I understood, he has seen back to their rightful homes.”
“His father?” I asked.
“Yes. Stole it, I suspect, from my father. My father had always said as much, and it cooled all friendship between our two families. It could never be proven. But now it has, and it has been rightfully returned to our country home, thanks to Lydney.”
I drank my tea for a moment and thanked God for the most auspicious opening that he, and Lord Audley, had provided. “It’s always so rewarding to see something precious returned to its owner,” I said pleasantly. “Do you not find that to be true? For example, a beloved horse!”
Audley laughed. “Oh, dear Miss Sheffield. I hope Lydney understands what a gift to him you are.”
I laughed back. “I’ve come to ask you to sell Abalone to me. You knew I would.”
“I hoped you might,” he answered with a grin.
We sat in my rooms at Watchfield, preparing for the wedding which would take place in a little under an hour at the nearby village church. Marguerite and Francesca were in the room to help me get ready, and we had brought Alice along too. She said she’d come to ensure that my wedding dress was presented exactly so, but the truth of it was she had become a friend, and I wanted her there on my wedding day.
Orchie fussed with a large vase which held many long branches, each with dozens of lovely buds, the same creamy white as my dress, centered with pink tendrils and a button-yellow middle. “They are all over the house,” Alice said. “In every room. In the room for the wedding luncheon. By the door. In here. What are they?”
I remained seated in my chair whilst Marguerite finished my hair. “There is a story, of course, my dear Alice. Would you like to hear it?”
She laughed. “There’s no escapin’ it, I’m sure.”
I smiled back. “You’ll remember when my uncle spoke of the holy thorn of Glastonbury—how that particular hawthorn tree was said to have sprung from Joseph of Arimathea’s wooden staff when thrust into the ground at Wearyall Hill.”
She nodded.
“The trees themselves last but one hundred years or so, but because they were so important, many cuttings had been taken from them. Pilgrims and those committed to seeing the tree blossom grafted pieces of the original tree onto common English hawthorns so that no matter what happened to the original, the tree, and their faith, would be spread, year after year, generation after generation, from old to new. You see? When the original was hacked, it was a pity, but it was not the end. The trees have been spread all over England, and you’ll know them by this distinctive: they bloom both at Christmas, to celebrate the birth of our Lord, and in May, as do all hawthorns.”
“So Lord Lydney wanted you to wait till these were in bloom, then,” Marguerite added. “Your most distinctive wedding flowers.”
“Yes,” I said softly. “He was worth your championing all along. Our love has bloomed twice, too.”
“My fondest desire, to see you happy again, has been met.”
Alice sighed. “That story was worth it, Miss Eleanor. That one was worth it.”
The ladies led me downstairs to the carriage which awaited me, and we drove off to the church. The guests were already present, as were the men, including Harry.
After all were seated, my uncle walked me to the altar and delivered me to my beloved. “She is yours now,” he said. “You must treasure her.”
Harry nodded solemnly, and we turned while the vicar helped us to speak our commitment and our vows. As he pronounced us man and wife, I heard a most welcome, most distinctive voice again, deep in my spirit.
I am here.
I looked up at the cross above the altar and whispered back, also deep within my spirit, I know you are. You always were.
Harry and I rode alone in the carriage back to Watchfield.
“Did you bring it?” he asked me.
I nodded and handed the ring to him.
“May I remove your gloves?”
“If you are certain that is appropriate,” I teased.
“We are married now, Lady Lydney. It is most appropriate, as I shall show you later this evening after our guests have left.”
I blushed, and he laughed. “It has been a long time since I have been able to make you blush.”
He eased my gloves off, and when my hands were bare, he slipped the completed Adore ring back onto my finger. “This is where it shall stay. This is where it belongs.” He pulled me close to him. “This is where you belong.”
I closed my eyes in purest pleasure.
We returned to Watchfield, where a wedding breakfast had been prepared for us. Unusually, the table had been set for Harry and me to sit side by side, and when we entered the room, I saw why.
The delicate, most valuable Venetian loving cup had been placed between our two place settings.
“What a lovely thought, for us to use this today,” I said.
Francesca smiled. “Today and as many days as you would like,” she said. “It is our wedding gift to you
and Harry.”
I nearly gasped. “Oh, but it is so dear. So precious.”
Stefano chucked Harry on the back and then kissed my cheek. “And so are you.”
We ate in delight and merry conversation, and then Stefano gave a small speech wishing us well in our married life. As he did, I signaled to Lord Audley, who was seated at the end of the room, and he slipped away.
Harry stood up to speak next. “Many of you will be aware that my beautiful bride was faced with an unusual task some months ago. She was to determine whether the extensive collection housed at Watchfield would remain here or be donated elsewhere. I made no secret of the fact that I wished it to remain, though I said little to Ellie—” he looked at me—“so I would not interfere in her fiduciary duty. I was most delighted when she allowed it to remain. And the reason? Because I knew I would ask her to be my wife and had hopes that she would agree. She did, and now the collection is in the hands of the person to whom it truly belongs. Ellie is now the lady of a thousand treasures. I am a man who needs only one: Lady Eleanor Lydney.”
He brushed away my tear, and I smiled at my friends and my husband as they looked on and chatted fondly. Finally, Audley appeared at the doorway to the room and nodded at me before quickly leaving once more.
“Follow me?” I asked Harry.
He looked at me, curious, but agreed. I nodded to Marguerite, who shepherded the others to follow us out the door.
“Stay here,” I said to Harry, and then I began the five-minute walk to the stable where Audley had arranged to wait for me.
“Ready?” he asked.
He handed Abalone’s reins to me and walked nearby, as the horse was powerful and unused to my lead. We crossed the green, past the summerhouse, and to the front of the lawn where the wedding party and our guests waited.
Harry came forward. I could see a question, and hope not yet risked, in his eyes.
I handed the reins to him and then leaned up to kiss him in front of all. “My wedding gift to you.”
Harry looked at me, then at Audley, and then at Abalone. “But Audley and I made an irrevocable arrangement,” he said.
“I made no such arrangement with your lady.” Audley laughed, and all present clapped.
Harry held out his hand to him. “You’re an honorable man, Audley, and I’m proud to call you my friend.” Audley voiced his like sentiment, and then my husband turned back to me.
Harry leaned over and kissed me like he meant it for all to see; then he took my hand and lifted me, in my wedding dress, sidesaddle on the horse. He swung himself up behind me, and to the applause and whistles and laughter of all who loved us and whom we loved, we stole off, alone, into the distant fields and wooded greens where we’d first fallen in love.
EPILOGUE
1873
I watched them from a shy distance. Harry had our five-year-old twins, Hawthorn and Arthur, in the yard outside the stable, learning to patiently and quietly approach the horses. The horses looked to Harry for their cues, and when he reassured them, they stood still while the boys took turns being placed on a horse, a groomsman holding them steady while Harry led them, gently, around the yard.
When the horses were put away, he played boisterously with the boys in a manner his father would never have stooped to. Each boy was given his affection in turn, and when the boys spied and ran toward me, they held hands. Best of friends. Something denied to Harry and his brother which he was determined to see done for his sons.
You intended for Harry to lose all, I whispered inwardly to his long-dead father, whose hands had been permanently stilled. But he’s gained all instead. What you meant for evil has been turned to good. All that was meant to be then, is now, and ever shall be.
The boys ran up and grabbed me, almost toppling me as they did.
“Carry on,” I corrected them. “Into the house and back to studies.”
Harry came up and kissed me, his face smudged with dust, marking me as he did. “Your sons,” I said. “Chasing horses.”
He smiled. “Come to ride with me?”
“No. A package has arrived.”
I used my chatelaine keys to open the bureau in his study, in which we kept the delivered post, and he prized the lid off the small crate which had been delivered.
“A Book of Hours,” he said. “And a porcelain shepherdess?” We set the Book of Hours on the desk, and he took the shepherdess to the window to look at it in the light. “I recognize this, somehow.”
I nodded. “It was your mother’s. Mr. Clarkson had stolen it to copy, if you’ll remember. But the original was left in his rooms and then, after his death, disappeared. I saw it at Denholm’s house once.”
“Now I recall.”
I held a letter aloft. “Mr. Denholm died a sudden and rather painful death some weeks ago. I sent a letter of condolence to his kind wife and she, in return, has now sent these to me. She couldn’t have whilst he was alive.”
We discussed it for a moment and then talked about the day and the week ahead. When I turned to face the room again, I touched Harry gently on the arm. “Look,” I whispered.
My uncle, who was normally very far gone into his mind, was standing in front of the desk with the Book of Hours, my boys at his side.
“May we touch it?” Hawthorn asked, his fascination plain on his face.
“Indeed, you may,” Uncle replied, and my jaw dropped. I would never have been allowed to touch that as a child.
“Will you read a page to us?” Arthur asked as he touched the page, completely captivated.
“Certainly, my boys,” Uncle Lewis answered, and the two boys leaned in as he began to read.
Harry put his arm around me. “Your sons,” he said. “Chasing treasures.”
I patted my abdomen, where our new baby nestled. “Ours, my love. A cherish of children in a circle of love.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
COLLECTING
It all started with a cow creamer! I first became aware of the mania for collecting, especially among the Victorian and Edwardian British, while watching an episode of Jeeves and Wooster: “Jeeves Saves the Cow Creamer.” In it, a certain set of men were trying to outdo and outmaneuver one another to acquire and keep a silver cow creamer. Wodehouse played the scenes for absurdity, of course, but in that poking of fun was a truth we all recognize—collecting can become a competitive sport.
Today’s culture reflects the continuing interest in collections, and understanding and appreciating what those who came before us collected. How many of us enjoy watching Antiques Roadshow, for example? We gasp along with the owners when a rugged, torn blanket is valued at tens of thousands of dollars, or a treasure long believed to be a rare work of art is discovered to be a fake.
Collecting was and is both personal and public. Before there were museums, viewing other people’s collections was a way to see what they had gathered from their travels, purchased on their own, or inherited from their family. There’s pressure, then and now, for wealthy art owners to donate for the good of all. The largest museum, at least by the sheer number of pieces, is the Victoria and Albert. It has nearly 150 galleries with items from over 5,000 years. The museum had its beginnings in the Great Exhibition of 1851, the brainchild of Prince Albert; in 1854 it became the South Kensington Museum, and finally ended up with its most fitting name, the V&A, in 1899.
REAL PEOPLE
One of my great pleasures as an author is weaving real people in among my fictional characters. In this book, the person who brought me—and I hope you, dear readers—considerable delight is Lady Charlotte Schreiber.
Although I found Lady Charlotte Schreiber in several sources, the richest trove was found in the book Magpies, Squirrels and Thieves: How the Victorians Collected the World, by Jacqueline Yallop.
In the book, I learned, “In a departure from the usual model of the gentleman’s club, women, too, were invited and by 1867 there were eight female members (of the Burlington Fine Arts Club).” Also, “Charlotte’s
journals are littered with references to helping out her sister collectors. In November 1869, for example, she spent ‘two very pleasant hours’ with Mrs. Haliburton, a widowed china collector who became a regular visitor and correspondent, and in June 1884 she called on Lady Camden, in Eaton Square, to discuss china. By the 1870s, Charlotte was already being recognized as an expert, and she was able to use her unusual level of access to the male worlds of curating and dealing to act on behalf of her female friends both at home and abroad.”
Lady Charlotte had a most unusual life, marrying a much-younger man (fourteen years her junior) for love, after her first husband’s death. You can view part of her collection of fans and parlor games, which she donated to the British Museum, here: http://www.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/search.aspx?searchText=schreiber+collection
Dante Rossetti was another real person who appears on the pages of the novel; he was a poet (as was his sister, Christina), an artist, an eccentric, and a collector. There is much to be read about him, too, in Magpies and elsewhere. His painting Lady Lilith, which appears in my book as the painting he showed Ellie in which Harry’s mother’s perfume bottle was a piece of staging, was sold by Sotheby’s as I was writing this novel. It sold for £680,000, or nearly one million US dollars. The promotional material the auction house put forward tells that the painting was shown at the Burlington Fine Arts Club in 1883, though it was painted, signed, and dated in 1867. Rossetti lived on Cheyne Walk, very near to where Miss Gillian Young, the heroine in my book A Lady in Disguise, lived just a few years later.
One interesting—and creepy—fact about Rossetti’s life is that he was so distraught when his wife died of a laudanum overdose that he had a manuscript of unpublished works buried with her. Many years later, short of cash and addicted himself, he had the grave dug up to try to reclaim the work and sell it. Too bad he didn’t make that £680,000 in his lifetime!
