I’m relieved to think there is a chance that it has not been opened in more than one hundred years, but on the other hand, I have no idea how to get inside.
I rummage in my pockets, hoping something I brought with me to pick the lock will work. There weren’t many sharp objects in Hannah’s room, but I found a pencil, a tiny jeweler’s screwdriver (I’m amazed, but apparently Hannah makes jewelry—she has a whole box of beads and wire), and a piece of metal bent into a spiral.
Nothing works.
There is no way to get into that room without the key. Or dynamite, which doesn’t seem plausible. The only person I can think to ask for help again is Florence.
She’s my only hope to try to track down that chair and key, if Hannah can’t do it in 1905.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Hannah
TURNS OUT, IT’S NOT HARD to find the chair. Well, sort of. It’s not hard to find out where the chair is, if you know who to ask . . . which Jonah did. (He was able to slip a note—well, part note, part drawing, since he doesn’t read or write all that well—into the sugar bowl of the tea service that was sent up from the kitchen for me. Don’t get me started on how completely terrible I feel over getting Jonah involved in this mess, especially now that he’s going to get blamed for a crime he didn’t commit. It really doesn’t ease my guilt that he still keeps risking his job to help me.) The problem is that the chair is nowhere near where we are. Specifically, it’s on the 6:02 a.m. train to New York City, where it will get some sort of special remove-red-wine-from-imported-silk dry-cleaning process.
I can only hope the focus of their attention is going to be the stain itself and not on the whole chair. I know I tucked the key deep into the padding of the arm and Jonah stitched the rip neatly, so a surface cleaning shouldn’t reveal its hiding spot, but still.
Here’s praying it won’t matter either way because in the meantime Maggie will have broken into the tunnel room and found the painting and all will be set to normal in both our time periods.
But at the moment I’m having a super-tough time clinging to that hope. I know how hard that room is to break into.
Because Jonah and I are currently trying to do it too. Luckily, his job involves lots of time in the coal tunnel, so as long as I’m not caught with him, he won’t arouse any suspicion by being here. At least we have that going for us.
If Maggie can’t get in but we can, the endgame is the same. We can find a new hiding place for the painting, she can find it there in the future, and all will be perfection.
If we can get in.
We’ve already tried a slew of other keys I was able to sneak out of Mr. Berwind’s desk drawer, but no go on any of them. Nada.
“Maybe a hairpin?” I suggest. Even if Maggie can’t wear her hair all the way up, she has a ton of these, probably to keep the sides pulled from her face. So luckily I have one handy. The only good thing about big skirts is that they come with big pockets.
“Who builds a door with hinges on the inside?” I ask, but Jonah just grunts. He’s crouched eye-level with the lock, concentrating really hard on trying to pick it with the bent pin.
I answer my own question. “I guess someone who doesn’t want the door to be discovered, huh? Was your, um, friend who gave you the key the one who installed it? Or do you think it was the architect’s inside joke? Or maybe Mr. Berwind ordered it? It’s really kind of genius.”
“He did say Mr. Berwind didn’t know about it. I’m fairly certain only he did. Too bad he made it impossible to break in,” Jonah says, falling back onto his butt. “I don’t see any way to retrieve the painting without the key itself. Besides, we’ll have to clear out of here. It’s almost time for the coal delivery, and this tunnel will get busy for a bit. I’ll have to help with that, but perhaps we can continue to share ideas for possible solutions via notes in your lunch service.”
But what possible solutions? As much as I’ve been dying to see things outside this house, I can’t just leave Newport and race to New York City to track down a chair. For one thing, how would I get there? It’s not like I can order an Uber or hop an Amtrak. Yes, Maggie lives there most of the year, but she can’t just take off for home on a whim. A girl my age in this time would need a proper chaperone, gobs of luggage, believable reasons for going.
I have none of those things.
And forget sneaking there. As Maggie, I’d have zero chance of blending. Society women—even girls—attract attention. While I know a ton about this time period, I really wouldn’t have the first clue how to get around on my own outside the walls of The Elms; I’m barely treading water inside them.
But all this worry is masking what’s really making me feel like all Mr. Berwind’s keys are in the bottom of my stomach, as opposed to in my pockets.
Jonah.
If we DO find a way to get to the painting and hide it somewhere Maggie can find it in the future and set things right for her and me, Jonah’s life is still ruined.
And I have to tell him that he’s the one who has to take the fall. I don’t know exactly when he’s accused, but he is. Only, how do I tell him that? I lay awake for hours and hours last night trying to come up with a plan to clear Jonah’s name, but there’s no possible way. We can’t change what’s already written in the history books. Clearing him would strand Maggie and me and alter the time line of history.
And yes, it’s true that we already changed things slightly by ensuring that Augustus-You-Bustus didn’t end up with the painting. But I’m desperately clinging to the hopes that in the time line where he did steal it, he followed through on his plan to destroy the painting right away to keep Mary Cassatt from getting credit for it, and then he resumed his regular life as a struggling artist, so therefore the course of his own future didn’t alter based on whether he nabbed it or not. At the very least his name was never recorded in the history books, so I think we’re okay there.
But Jonah’s name is all over history’s pages.
It totally stinks, but in order to get back to the right time line, so we can swap places and history can unfold the way it is supposed to, Jonah’s gonna have to take the fall. And I’m gonna have to convince him to do it.
Jonah, who has been nothing but kind and eager to help, and who’s been a true friend to me in a place where I had none.
I steal a glance at him as I trail him out of the tunnel. He smiles at me, and it’s so sweet and friendly that my gut twists even harder. This guy didn’t even know me before yesterday, and he has totally risked his job a billion times since to help me. He believed everything I told him when literally no other sane person would have, and his ideas and support have been the only things holding me together through all this. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to confront Augustus-You-Bustus either time if Jonah hadn’t been beside me as backup. I mean, I never would have known where to hide the painting if he weren’t here.
And now I have to take a knife and stab him in the back.
Which sucks big-time.
Jonah holds up a hand to stop me just before we step out of the tunnel, and I crash into his arm. He puts a finger to his lips and jerks his head at the opening. Someone’s there!
Once again Jonah saves the day. Couldn’t he be a jerk or something, so it wouldn’t feel so terrible to tell him he’s about to spend his life on the run? We ease deeper into the shadows.
“Goodness, it’s distasteful,” the voice is saying. Colette! What’s she doing down here?
I hold my breath and strain my ears so hard, they hurt.
“I can finish taking your statement upstairs, miss. I can search for the kitchen boy on my own and return once I have what I need from him.”
Oh God, it’s happening already. I thought I had more time! Next to me Jonah gasps. I nudge him with my foot and whisper the quietest “Shh!” imaginable.
Colette must be talking to a police officer, since he said that thing about taking a statement.
“Of course it’s true. My niece would hav
e no occasion to lie, sir.”
Mrs. Berwind is down here too? This is getting worse and worse.
“Beg pardon, ma’am. I certainly didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. So, you were saying, you were on the staircase and saw . . .”
Oh no! What if Colette spotted me talking to Maggie in the mirror? How would I ever explain that one to the Berwinds?
“I saw a boy around my age, maybe even younger, dressed like a servant. I’d never seen him before, and I know all the upstairs staff. I mean, maybe not by name, but . . . Well, at least I recognize all their faces. He wasn’t one of them.”
Gee, aren’t you just so wonderful, Colette? Couldn’t be bothered to learn the names of the people who wait on you hand and foot. But that’s okay, because you could pick them out of a lineup. Ugh.
The cop talks next. “So you didn’t recognize this person?”
“I did not. Though, when I described him to Aunt, her lady’s maid was in the room, and she said it sounded like I was talking about this Jonah person. She said he’d have absolutely no reason to be upstairs. None at all.”
Colette sounds positively giddy as she continues. “Since I was just turning the corner on the staircase, I saw him but he never saw me. He poked his head into the hallway and looked around to make sure no one was watching. Then he darted out and dashed away. Clearly he was doing reconnaissance and planning his escape route. There’s no other possible reason why he’d be in the drawing room when his place is down here. Well, that’s it, then! I’ve solved the crime, haven’t I? I suppose the newspapers will want my interview. Auntie, I may need a new dress for the photographs.”
At least it’s Colette who made the accusation. It’s already so easy to hate her, so I won’t have to tarnish my good feelings about anyone I grew up admiring, like the Berwinds themselves.
But then it slowly sinks in.
I might not be the one placing him under suspicion, but I’m responsible for Jonah being charged in the first place. The newspaper articles from the time of the theft said only that a reliable eyewitness account from a member of the household put him at the scene of the crime and that his disappearance from Newport led investigators to believe he was guilty. But he never would have been at the scene of the crime yesterday if not for me! So it has always been my fault. My stomach churns, and I’m afraid I could throw up right here and now. I can still admire the Berwinds, but I just might despise myself.
“Just a moment,” Mrs. Berwind says, jerking me back to attention. “Mr. Birch, was this the same boy who was helping Margaret with the water spill yesterday? Might that have been what he was doing in the drawing room? We did encounter him there ourselves, after all.”
Beside me Jonah exhales slowly at the exact time that I tense.
No. No, no, no, no.
“Indeed it was, madam,” the butler answers. “Shall we find your niece and clear this confusion up?”
“Let’s be on with it, then.” Mrs. Berwind leaves, and there is a rustling of skirts outside the tunnel.
“I have to get to my room!” I whisper as soon as the noises fade. “No—wait! You have to come too and hide there! We can’t let them find you.”
“Who cares if they find me? You’ll be upstairs telling everyone I was in the drawing room helping you yesterday. On the other hand, discovering me in your room would create an entirely different sort of confusion.”
I exhale, grab his hand, and pull him from the tunnel with me. “Jonah, I need you to not ask any questions right now. I’ll hide you in my bedroom closet, but we have to hurry up the back staircase before they make it up the front one. So I need you to run.”
To his credit he picks up the pace even as he says, “But—”
I look over my shoulder as I take the stairs two at a time. “Jonah, please. Trust me.”
I try not to let the lead weight that hits my stomach slow me down as I utter those words.
The fact that Mrs. Berwind is the perfect society woman means that she moves serenely and deliberately along the first-floor hallway to the central staircase and then up it. It’s close, but we have just enough time for me and Jonah to reach my room using the servants’ stairs, and I slam him inside my closet before there’s a knock on my door.
I try to slow my gulps for air, which is not exactly easy after booking up two flights of stairs. “Coming,” I manage.
Taking another deep breath, I answer. “Oh. Hello.”
Here’s hoping they buy my innocent act.
“Margaret,” Mrs. Berwind says, following me deeper into the room and gesturing for Colette and Mr. Birch to join her. The officer lingers in the doorway, looking about as uncomfortable as I feel. “This gentleman has some questions for you regarding the boy who was helping you with that water spill in the drawing room yesterday.”
“Oh. Okay. I mean, um, certainly.” If ever there were a time to remember to speak like Maggie, it’s now. No slang, Hannah. You can do this.
The policeman clears his throat and says, “Now, you fetched this Jonah person to clean the water?”
Even though the door to my closet is shut tight, it feels like Jonah’s eyes are pinned to me. I know that he’s in there one thousand percent expecting me to eliminate him as a suspect and move the investigation along to someone else.
And I want to so badly, it hurts.
But.
If I do that and they clear his name, the time line shifts. The whole future changes. What does that mean for everyone I love? Jonah and I are becoming friends and he’s great, but we’re talking about people I love with all my heart. Like my dad.
As much as I want to help Jonah, I just can’t take the risk.
I take maybe my deepest breath ever and face the policeman. “Well, I wouldn’t use the word ‘fetch.’ After all, he was right outside the door. Almost lingering, to be honest. Which I found odd, but he was there to help with the spill, so I guess I didn’t really think about it too much.” I pause, making sure I have everyone’s full attention. Then I add, “Only . . .”
They lean in. I squeeze my eyes shut for the quickest of seconds and say a brief prayer for forgiveness.
“Only what?” Mrs. Berwind asks.
“Well, I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but he did keep glancing at the sheet covering the portrait, and . . . I’m just now remembering this! He asked me if I was excited about the unveiling, and when I said yes, he said, ‘It’s such a lot of money to just hang on a wall,’ which was a very odd thing to say. I replied I didn’t know anything about its value, and he just said, ‘A custom portrait like that . . . it must be worth a lot.’ ”
Colette sucks in a breath. I can’t be sure, but I swear I hear the softest thud from inside the closet, almost like Jonah slumped against the wall. The lead in my stomach moves all the way to my feet. I’ve never felt so horrible in my entire life. But I have to keep going. I have to do this.
“I just attributed it to him being from a different class, and I thought perhaps it’s not rude to mention money where he’s from, so I let the whole topic drop. But then . . .”
This time it’s the officer who says, “Go on.”
This is it. I go in for the kill. “Well, a bit later I decided I wanted to thank Jonah for his help, since my aunt and Mr. Birch here interrupted us before I’d had the chance, so I asked Mrs. O’Neil if she might point me to where I could find him, and she said . . . she said . . .”
“What?” Mr. Birch urges, before remembering his place and clearing his throat. “Pardon me.”
I shrug. “She said yesterday was his day off, and once he’d taken delivery of the coal in the morning, there would be no reason at all for him to be in the house prior to reporting in the evening to assist with the midnight supper that accompanied the ball.”
The police officer snaps his notepad shut. “I’d say we have what we need, Miss Dunlap. Thank you.”
“Let’s remember who first cast suspicion on this Jonah person,” Colette says, pushing past me to foll
ow the officer into the hallway. Mrs. Berwind and the butler follow. “I’ll still speak to the press. Auntie, I can get a new dress, right?”
I close the door on them and sink onto my bed. Not only is the chair containing the key hopelessly far away, and the room containing the painting helplessly locked, but I’m dreading the moment when my closet door will creak open and I’ll have to stare at those two betrayed eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Maggie
IN THE FOYER I’VE JUST about worn a trench in the marble floor. I’ve gone over it a thousand times. If I am to find the key, I have to determine who bought that chair at the auction. I’m not sure what time Florence arrives, but I hope it’s soon—and that she knows how to help. I plunk onto the step inside the front door to wait.
“Hannah. You’re not supposed to be here.” It’s the unhelpful silver-haired man from yesterday. “Guests will start arriving in a half hour, and I can’t have you sitting here, looking like a bump on a log.”
I bow my head. “Of course. I was waiting for Florence. Do you know when she arrives this morning?”
He frowns. “You should not be bothering Mrs. Ensminger-Burn. I have no idea if she’s planning to be on the property today. And even if she is, she does not have time for your antics.”
“What?” I stand and almost trip up the few steps into the foyer. “I need to talk to her. She’s the only one who can help me.”
“I do not care one iota about what you need. Your father is supposed to be keeping you out from under my feet. I suggest you make yourself scarce.” He taps his foot and points toward the servants’ staircase until I start to move.
The Art of the Swap Page 17
