A Sparkle of Silver

by Liz Johnson

  Oh my, but he is handsome. His narrow mustache is so refined and elegant, and his smile makes me want to fall into his arms. Mama has always warned me away from men. “There ain’t near enough good ones,” she says. But surely Claude is one of the good ones. Certainly he’s always been kind to me. And whatever his shortcomings may be, life with him would never be boring. There would be so many adventures, enough money to buy a house on the beach beside the Chateau. Perhaps near the creek to the south. I love the sound of it as it bubbles and gurgles its way to the ocean. The water is so clear that you can see right to the bottom of it.

  On the beach, Claude lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my palm. If I had been wearing gloves, it would have been nothing but innocent.

  I was not. But I could not make myself chastise him for any impropriety. Not even when he kissed the inside of my arm. All the way up to my elbow. Below the sleeve of my dress, his mustache tickling my arm, his breath warm against my skin, he stopped.

  I did not want him to.

  Am I so very wicked?

  He sighed when he stopped, and I think he wanted to keep going as well. But he said only that I was truly beautiful and that I could be in the moving pictures, except then he would not get to work with me. I think that made him sad.

  I managed a strangled giggle and tried to tell him how much I long to work with him. I could only focus on the shiver that ran across my arms and had absolutely nothing to do with the breeze off the water. Somehow the rolling waves and endless blue expanse had disappeared. There was only he and I. Together.

  And when he raised his head, I let him kiss me.

  June 26, 1929

  My maid is gone. Jenny was not mine exactly, but she was one of the housemaids on loan to the guests each morning. She always brought fresh towels piled to the ceiling. They were so soft and fluffy and smelled of sunshine and gardenias. And she often laid out our clothes for the day, taking care of any wrinkles.

  This morning she did not appear. My dress still hung in the armoire, simple cotton and decorated with all the wrinkles my trunk could give it. Jane’s as well.

  We did our best, taking special care with our hair. But when Jane stabbed herself for the third time while pinning up her great chestnut waves, she gave up and declared that she would much rather have one of those new short hairstyles. I almost think she is serious.

  When we did finally make it to breakfast, Angelique and Willa and Betsy were whispering unabashedly just inside the dining room. I could not make out their words, but the tension was absolutely palpable. It drew us to them. We were merely moths and they the lamp. As we approached, their voices rose, and I could not help but wonder if this was a performance, and Jane and I the audience.

  Willa squealed that we would never believe what had happened. Mr. Dawkins had fired her.

  Jane and I looked at each other, both terribly confused. Angelique was quick to tell us that Jenny had been caught stealing from Betsy’s room the night before. Betsy nodded right along, holding up the gold bracelet that had nearly been taken from her.

  It is stunning. Truly. The golden band glistened in the light, the intricate design work as delicate as Betsy’s wrist. Rubies and emeralds make it look like a Christmas decoration—one that costs more than Papa will earn in his entire life.

  But I cannot begin to imagine why Jenny would want to take it. She would never be able to wear such a thing. It is so easy to recognize, especially on such a small island. And if she tried to sell it, she would have the same trouble.

  Why on earth would Jenny try to take something so noticeable? If I were to steal something—not that I would ever ponder such an unlawful act—I would choose Angelique’s string of pearls. So beautiful and as fresh as the oysters they came from. But they are common. Well, they are not common on a Georgia farm, but Mr. Dawkins gave Lucille a long string of them only a few nights ago. She tittered like they had come off of Mr. Ford’s motorcar assembly line. They are stunning against the flawless skin at her neck.

  None of this explains why Jenny is gone. Angelique said Mr. Dawkins had to release her. There was no other way. He cannot have a thief in his employ, under his roof. I suppose she is right.

  The whole situation bothered me so much that I snuck away from the rest of the party as they ventured out for another excursion. When Jane asked why I wasn’t going to see the lighthouse, I begged another ache in my head. She wanted to know if it was from my accident. Of course not. But I was instantly reminded of George, and I wondered if I could find him somewhere beneath the shade of a tree. That would have been terribly inappropriate. Especially after my walk with Claude yesterday.

  Instead I snuck up to the library to continue the novel I began last week. This is one by Jane Austen about a man and a woman who despise each other upon first meeting. I am thankful that Claude and I had quite a different introduction.

  I fully enjoyed the book, but my mind kept wandering to Jenny. If she had indeed tried to steal the bracelet, had she also taken Jane’s missing brooch? And what about the misplaced necklace? Where would she have hidden them in her little room?

  six

  Meet me in the maids’ quarters.”

  Ben jumped as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The whisper in his ear traveled across his shoulders and down his arms, causing an uncontrollable shiver.

  The voice was familiar, but the urgency was new since they’d searched the library three days before. There was no time to stop Millie as she brushed past him on her way into the parlor. She didn’t even acknowledge him beyond that barely-there command, her gloved hand hooked into the elbow of a man in a black tux. She followed the man through the giant doorway and beneath the arch of carved wood showing ducks and dolphins and a turtle making its way down what was clearly a beach. Even after nearly ninety years, the animals were unmistakable.

  Less clear was why she’d whispered so urgently in his ear. And the reason it still echoed inside him.

  A herd of tourists thundered down the hallway, their stomps on the original wood floors dragging him from his wonderings. He looked up just in time to step out of the way of the guide, who strolled backward without a glance over her shoulder.

  “Howard Dawkins loved to throw parties, but they weren’t your typical evening soirees. He filled his home with guests all summer long, and his Chicago colleagues sometimes visited around the holidays to take advantage of the Georgia winters.” The docent—he thought her name was Felicity, but he couldn’t remember for sure—flicked her wrist in a wave toward the parlor behind her and offered each of the children a mischievous grin. “After dinner, Mr. Dawkins and his guests retired to the drawing room to play games and enjoy a drink. Let’s see what they’re doing this evening.”

  Like every one of the paid ticket holders, Ben leaned toward the entrance, Felicity’s tone an undeniable invitation to peer into the past.

  Taller than most, as he had been at nearly every stage of life, he had no problem looking over the heads of the group. They shuffled to the edge of the red carpet, breath held and eyes wide.

  And that’s when Millie made his heart stop.

  Looking up from her hand of cards, her lashes long and black, she winked at her audience. “I suppose I’d better let him win tonight.”

  A burst of giggles followed, every eye in the group looking across the gaming table to the sleekly mustached man Millie had clung to on her way into the room. Everyone except Ben. He couldn’t seem to look away from her cheeky smile and knowing eyes. Despite her scarlet evening gown and redder lipstick, this was the same Millie who had worn shorts to get coffee and nearly caused a scene in his class. This vision with a halo of golden curls pinned at the nape of her long, slender neck. They were one and the same, two parts of the whole.

  Just like his mother, who had two sides.

  His stomach took a leap, but Millie’s laughter shook him free of his sudden plunge. So deep, so joyful. The sound trickled over him like the lightest summer rain, soothing and wel
come. And the absolute opposite of Patty Thornton.

  Millie wasn’t like his mom. At least, he didn’t want to believe she was.

  But reasoning out the truth in his mind and knowing it in his heart when he looked at his partner were very different things. Millie played a role. And she’d been doing it since the night he met her. She put on a dress and performed her part for an audience. Then she changed into her cutoff jean shorts and played an entirely new part for him.

  Patty had done the same. She’d doted on him, seeming the concerned parent. His lunches were packed for school every day. His clothes were clean and folded and on the foot of his bed every afternoon. His car had gas in it, and his wallet wasn’t empty. From his perspective, she’d looked like the perfect mom. Most of the time.

  The problem was the side he hadn’t seen, the side that had been busy convincing near-retirees to let her invest their money. That was the side that had pocketed every dime. That was the side that had sat in a courtroom, so cold, so detached. That was the side that hadn’t even apologized when the judge gave her the opportunity to do so.

  That was the side she had hidden.

  Or the side you refused to see.

  He cringed at the memory. He’d been barely twenty at the time, but he’d been certain he knew his own mother. It had been just the two of them for so long that he’d convinced himself she was just what she appeared.

  But he knew the truth. He’d been afraid to ask the hard questions, even the obvious ones.

  Patty had never held down a job, so where did the money come from to pay the rent, keep the lights on, and buy him a car? He’d wanted to believe it could have come from his dad, but that lout hadn’t even bothered with a wave as he walked out the door and never looked back.

  His mom had straight-up swindled him right along with every one of her victims.

  But Millie wasn’t the same type of woman. Millie had been up-front from the beginning, hadn’t she? She’d told him what she was looking for. He hadn’t asked a lot of questions in that first conversation, and she’d told him just enough. There was a treasure, and at least some of it had belonged to Ruth. Millie was looking for what was rightfully hers. Right?

  A tiny prick at the back of his skull jabbed him a few times.

  Right?

  Ugh.

  The dull nudge turned into a sharp ache as most-likely-Felicity led her group away, leaving Ben and the thunder at his temples to focus on Millie, who had never once confirmed that Ruth held any claim on the treasure. Of course, she couldn’t have confirmed his assumption because he’d never asked.

  Brilliant.

  Millie giggled at something her costar said, and she was back. No longer the sultry eyes and throaty laugh, she was the Millie he was coming to know, the Millie who read the last page of a book first. Who teased him for walking on carpet he’d never have considered treading on before. Who whispered to meet her in the maids’ quarters.

  But that was after his shift, which wasn’t over yet, despite his wandering mind. Scrambling after the tour group, he gave her a little wave and caught the nod of her head just as he turned a red-carpeted corner.

  “This isn’t the maids’ quarters.”

  “Of course it is.” Millie fumbled for a folded sheet of paper that she’d procured at the front entrance, pulling it from the pocket of her shorts. “It says so right on the map.” She pointed to the room on the second-floor blueprint.

  Ben shrugged, a slow smile worming its way across his lips. A dimple appeared in each cheek, but she refused to let her scowl fade.

  “Besides,” she said, “you’re the one who’s late.”

  “I’m not late.” He held up his hands, his smile growing more generous with each passing tick of the grandfather clock at the end of the hallway. It echoed in their pause. “I was right on time. At the maids’ quarters.”

  He leaned heavily on those words, and it made her stomach drop. “This is the maids’ quarters, as previously established.” She flapped her paper map again, but the impotent flop of her wrist did little to convince even her. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “See the beds and the dressers? And there’s no running water.”

  Ben followed her command, ducking his head into the simple square of a room. Matching twin beds covered in unremarkable brown blankets abutted the far wall, and a simple wooden dresser along the adjacent wall clearly held two sets of toiletries.

  He simply shook his head.

  “But . . . the guide said so?” She hated the way she sounded so deflated, hated how he might be right. “How do you know? They always point this room out, and . . .” Again she flapped the map in his direction.

  “And you believe everything they say on the tours?”

  “No-o.” She knew that some of the furniture passed off as antique was really a re-creation of pieces that had been destroyed during a fire in the fifties. She knew that the wallpaper in the dining room had been ripped and repatched with a mere fabrication. But those were important parts of the home’s history. Surely they wouldn’t have fabricated a maids’ room.

  “How do you know?” she asked again.

  He shrugged, but his eyes never wavered from hers. “I just do.”

  “Have you been searching the house? Are you looking for the treasure yourself?” She clamped her mouth shut as his eyes grew to the size of the estate’s gold-rimmed dinner plates, and he jerked back as if she’d smacked his shoulder. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

  “I’m sorry.” Whispering through her fingers, she tried to find better words. But they weren’t there. There was nothing to say after she’d accused him of double-crossing her—in so many words. She hadn’t meant to. She hadn’t even considered the possibility until that very moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re trying to . . .”

  “Steal your treasure?” The words came out like they were being dragged over a gravel driveway.

  She nodded. And then shook her head. “Are you?” This time it was her eyes that went wide, and she scrambled for an explanation. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize I was . . .” Worried? Anxious? Uncertain of him?

  Ben crossed his arms, his lean shoulders still broad enough to stretch the fabric of his knit T-shirt. Not that she’d noticed. But the heroine in the novel she was reading—Genevieve—had spent three pages thinking about her Sir Robert’s shoulders.

  Not that Ben was like the hero in her story. She didn’t need a hero. She needed a fortune. She did not need broad shoulders and expressive blue eyes and a generous smile.

  Nope. She didn’t need or have time for any of that.

  “Listen, I know we don’t know each other very well. I totally get that. And you’re trusting me with a lot.”

  That was it. He stopped right where he should have gone on. He offered no promise that she could trust him. He didn’t assure her that he was a good guy or that he’d never take off with her money. He simply offered an unwavering gaze.

  That was better than most promises. It was real.

  When he did continue, he said only, “We both have something to bring to this partnership.”

  She didn’t want to seem too eager, but her question came out before he even finished speaking. “Like what?”

  “You have the journal and access to the only person who heard those stories firsthand.”

  She nodded slowly, and his arms relaxed to his sides before he went on. “I know the real history of this property and the location of the actual maids’ rooms.”

  “Looks like I’m bringing more to this partnership than you are.”

  Lifting his eyebrows, he seemed to consider her argument for a long moment. Finally he said, “And I promised not to get you fired for sneaking around the estate at night.”

  Her giggle wouldn’t be subdued even as she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “Fair enough. Partners?”

  He looked down at her outstretched hand. “I thought we already were.”

  “Let’s make it official. I�
�ll trust you and you’ll trust me. And neither of us will run off with the other’s share.”

  A dark shadow slithered across his face. It was there and gone in an instant, but it left her cold, and she almost pulled her hand back. But he grabbed it before she could.

  “Partners,” he said.

  “Partners who—”

  He cut her off with a quick wave of his hand. “Sneak around the house and find the treasure.”

  Something deep in her stomach still rumbled with an uncertainty she couldn’t name. He had said the right words, looked her directly in the eye. She could trust him. She had to, or she had to cut ties now. And that wasn’t really an option. So she pushed down the uncertainty and moved forward.

  “To the maids’ room, then.” Turning around, she began marching. He cleared his throat and she stopped midstep.

  Peeking over her shoulder, she squinted in his direction. Ben said nothing. He just pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.

  Spinning around again, she muttered under her breath, “Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

  His grin set her insides to rolling as she tiptoed along. She couldn’t afford to let an errant step on a squeaking floorboard announce their location to anyone in the area.

  The thought made her slam on her brakes, and Ben ran smack into the middle of her back. They both wobbled for a precarious moment. Grasping her shoulders, he kept them standing by sheer force of will and firm footing.

  “What is it?”

  His breath at her ear sent shivers down her arms, and she couldn’t help but wrap them around her middle. “We’ve been too cavalier, haven’t we?”

  “What do you mean? Do you think security is onto us?”

  “They might be. Or Juliet.” She lifted a shoulder, brushing against his arm. Which was warm and solid. That was just what the heroine in her book would think. And this was not like that. Not even a little bit. “We just haven’t been very careful.”

  With a slow nod, he caught her hair against the whiskers on his cheek, tugging it gently. “Sure. But who do we have to hide from right now? The cameras are turned off after the last tour.”