by Lynn Kerstan
The maid, wide-eyed, bent closer. “What is Angulus, M’lady?”
“The picture tells the story. Here is the angel Gabriel. See how his wings are all gold and he holds a lily in his hand. And this is Mary. She looks frightened, don’t you think? Gabriel has just told her she’s to have a child.”
“Cor! The baby Jesus. I remember. She oughtn’t to look scared, though.”
“Only for a bit, Polly. Mary didn’t have a husband, but the angel told her the baby would come to her from God. After that she wasn’t afraid anymore.” Polly looked up and caught a wistful look in the lady’s huge brown eyes. “These are good books,” she said wisely. “You’ll like ‘em, won’t you?”
“Yes, I shall. Very much. Thank you for bringing them to me. But I want to be sure that nobody ever knows they were missing. If they are kept in a special place, they should be put back soon.”
Polly whitened, and Jillian hastened to reassure her. “You mustn’t worry. I’ll take care of it myself.”
“But you can’t leave this room! Oh, M’lady, Jaspers told every one of us you wasn’t to be let out no matter what. ‘Is Lordship said so.”
“Well, what His Lordship doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He isn’t home much, is he?”
“Uh . . . no, that ‘e’s not. But Jaspers never leaves this ‘ouse.”
“And Jaspers, I understand, keeps very regular hours. I expect I can work around him. What about the others, Polly? If a footman or a maid spies me creeping down the hall, will I be turned in?”
Polly wrung her skirt with both hands. “I dunno,” she said uncertainly. “Some would tell, to get favor, but most of ‘em just tries to do their job and stay out of the way. You’d be takin’ a big chance to go out of this room, M’lady. ‘Sides, they lock you in.”
Didn’t she know it. And the lock couldn’t be picked, because she’d tried. “But you can get in and out, Polly. You have a key.”
“And I’m what’ll get blamed if’n you get caught,” the maid said incontrovertibly.
“We don’t want that. Let’s put our heads together and figure something out. Wouldn’t you like to put one over on Jaspers?”
“Well, yes, I would,” Polly declared. “But only so’s I don’t get put off without a reference. I got nobody to go to, M’lady.”
“Certainly you do. I have a lovely farm in Kent, and you can have a place with me if you ever need one.”
Polly’s smile could have lit a chandelier, but then it darkened and her lips drooped unhappily. “Thank you, M’lady,” she murmured. “Nobody ever said I could ‘ave a place without me knockin’ on lots of doors. But ‘ere is where I want to stay for a time. Ribley’s not much to look at, and needs some backbone in ‘im, but I think maybe ‘e’s the one.”
“Oh, Polly.” Jillian set the book down to hug the girl warmly. “Ribley can have a place with me, too, if things ever get bad here, but meantime I won’t do anything to cause you trouble. On the other hand, I think that between the two of us we can devise a plan to outsmart Jaspers. He’s not very bright, you know.”
“‘E’s not?” Polly gasped, awestruck. “But ‘e’s so big. And ‘e’s a man.”
“Big, stupid, and not much of a man. Don’t let him intimidate you, Polly.”
“Intiminate?”
Jillian grinned. “Push you around. Men have all the advantages if you let them, but they are so accustomed to being in charge that it’s fairly easy to get around them just by using your wits. You are small and female, so they don’t expect anything from you. And even if you get caught out, most of them won’t admit a tiny woman managed to outsmart them. Use what you have, Polly. Slide into them like a knife, between the cracks.”
“Sneaky-like, you mean.” Polly drew herself nearly as tall as her smile was wide. “What is your plan, M’lady?” she asked daringly.
“Good for you!” Jillian began to pace the room. “I think better when I’m moving,” she explained. “Not all my ideas are good, either, so speak up when something strikes you wrong.”
In her whole life, Polly had never heard anyone tell her to speak up. She knew that she wasn’t very bright even compared to Jaspers, but she did know this household. With little else to occupy her mind while scrubbing floors and waxing banisters, she kept track of comings and goings. She practically bounced with excitement. “What is it you want to do, M’lady?”
“For the moment, I need the freedom of this house. In and out of the library, and any other rooms kept locked.”
“That’s most all of ‘em. The ‘ouse was pretty much closed down when the Old Earl died. I wasn’t ‘ere then, M’lady, but nearly all the upstairs is in ‘olland covers ‘cause ‘is Lordship don’t bring in company. Downstairs, ‘e uses the library and the dining room, sometimes the morning room, and not much else.”
“How long have you worked here, Polly?”
“Uhh . . . ‘bout ten months, I reckon. ‘Is Lordship was sick when I came. Kept to ‘is rooms for a long time. Then he’d walk around the ‘ouse a lot but didn’t say nothin’ to the rest of us. Now mostly ‘e don’t come ‘ome at all. ‘E’s in the government, I think. Nobs in fancy coaches come by sometimes and they goes into the library and talks. Mr. Barrows is ‘is Lordship’s man. ‘andles business things. And Mr. Foxworth is his valet.” Polly blushed. “‘E’s nice. Calls me Miss Polywog. I like ‘im.”
Jillian knew it wasn’t the thing to gossip with servants, but how else could she find out what she needed to know? “And what about the Earl?” she ventured nonchalantly. “Do you like him?”
Polly shrugged. “What has ‘e to do with the likes of me? Don’t expect ‘e knows my name even. Pays fair wages, though, and never raises ‘is voice. I knows about most o’ the staff, M’lady, but you’ll ‘ave to figure out ‘is Lordship for yourself.”
Jillian nodded, her eyes pensive. “Yes, I will certainly need to do that. But for now, we are concerned with ways to avoid him. Tell me what you know of his schedule . . . when he usually leaves and returns. Where does Mr. Foxworth go when the Earl is not at home? And the evil twins . . . everything you can remember.”
When Polly was done, Jillian had a fair idea how this ramshackle household worked. It was something like a hotel, with the Earl an occasional guest and Jaspers running everything and everybody, save Foxworth, by a schedule calibrated to the last second. With some timing and a set of keys, she could wander undetected between ten o’clock at night until whatever hour the Earl chose to return. That had been noon the day she first met him and just before dawn—she’d heard him in the hall—the next two mornings.
“Polly, is there any way you can get me the housekeeper’s keys tonight and return them before she knows they were missing?”
“Mebbe. She likes ‘er sherry of the evening. I can get ‘em off ‘er, but gettin’ ‘em back will be somethin’ else again.”
“I’ve no intention of making away with the family jewels, so please don’t think you’ve betrayed anyone by confiding in me,” Jillian assured her. “The truth is, I may need to escape from here. I also want to return these wonderful books and perhaps find some others for later.” Ones not written in Latin. Anything in English that wasn’t a sermon. “Now let me hear a good sneeze.”
“A sneeze, M’lady?”
“Come on, Polly. You’ve been listening to me sneeze for two days. Try one.”
“Shooo.”
“No, no, honey. Suck in air a few times first. Like this. Uh . . . uh . . . ah . . . choooo! Then sniffle and wipe your fingers under your nose.” Jillian demonstrated, and it wasn’t an act as she grabbed for her handkerchief and blew vigorously.
With a little practice, Polly got fairly good at sneezing. “What’s this for, M’lady?”
“Tonight, I want you to inform Jaspers that you don’t feel well. Sneeze in his face a few times. Work
on your spitting, Polly. Get him good if you can. Give him your key to my room, in case you are too ill to serve me breakfast tomorrow morning, and that will let you off the hook. If I’m caught sneaking around the house, he’ll know it wasn’t you who let me out. Then try to make away with the housekeeper’s keys and bring them to me. I’ll get them back or leave them somewhere for her to find. You’ll be in the clear, whatever happens.”
“Oh, M’lady, I don’t know . . .”
“Neither do I. Fact is, I might not go out at all. But I’ll see the keys safely returned, and tomorrow you’ll have a miraculous recovery and ask for your key back from Jaspers. Tell him it was the dust made you sneeze.”
“No dust in this ‘ouse, M’lady. Trust me for that.”
Jillian sighed.
“But I’ll think of sumfin’.” Clearly, Polly wanted to be a part of this adventure if there was one. “You read the books and ‘ave a good nap, M’lady. When everyone’s to bed, I’ll come back with keys arid anythin’ else I’ve found out.”
Jillian crossed over to pump her hand. “Comrades then, Captain Polywog. Us against Jaspers. You tell them I’m too sick for dinner. Tell them I’ll probably sleep through the night.”
“Yes’m. And I’ll slip some rolls in my pocket when I bring the keys.” With a salute, Polly bounced into the hall and Jillian heard the lock turn.
POLLY WOKE HER near midnight, with keys and a lovely basket of cold roast beef, slices of savory cheese on fresh bread, and raspberry tarts, compliments of Marcel Gribeaux. Everyone was in bed, she was told, except Foxworth. No one knew where he was. The Earl had gone out in evening clothes, and Polly heard him tell Jaspers not to have anyone wait up for him. The coast was clear.
Jillian sent Polly off to bed, nibbled at dinner, and wondered if she really felt like exploring. It was almost more fun planning than doing, with her head pounding and cheeks hot, but the cold had settled into her chest so she wasn’t likely to rouse the house with sneezes. There might not be another chance, after all, and she needed to return the books.
Candle in hand, she slipped downstairs to the library, found the glass case with ease, and lined the books in place. The enormous grandfather clock showed a little after midnight and Jillian studied it thoughtfully, the gleam of an idea lighting her eyes. Swinging open the casing, she carefully moved the large hand one minute past the time. The ormolu clock on the mantel was similarly adjusted. It would take a while, but if she reset every clock in the house, Jaspers would be late for everything. Only a minute, but it would drive him crazy . . . like the famous Chinese water torture. She giggled.
The Earl’s desk beckoned like a siren, and Jillian couldn’t resist that, either. She opened drawers stacked neatly with papers, all very impressive looking. The center drawer had pens, ink, cigars, a pile of calling cards, everything in its proper place. No clutter anywhere. It was enough to make one ill. Her own drawers at home overflowed with things she never used and couldn’t bring herself to throw away. The bottom drawer, larger than the others, seemed to be stuck, and when she wrenched it open Jillian found it stuffed with unopened letters. Sifting through the pile, she recognized her own handwriting on several envelopes.
It was true. The Earl really didn’t open his personal mail. A sealed envelope, edged in black, caught her eye and she drew it out curiously. It was franked by the Marquess of Lassiter. Her heart skipped a beat. The Lassiter estate bordered her own. What had the Earl of Coltrane to do with that family?
She felt it carefully. Thin. No date on the envelope. Terrified of what it might contain, she slipped it near the bottom of the pile and closed the drawer. Perhaps it meant nothing. Marquesses and earls probably wrote to each other as a matter of course. In any case, she couldn’t tamper with private correspondence.
Had she been alone in the room, she might have made off with the letter anyway, but her father’s spirit was everywhere in this house. It spoke to her from paintings and prints on the walls, from a Ming vase on the desk, and most especially from the collection of early Roman perfume vials clustered on a shelf near her elbow. If she lifted the graceful stoppers, fragrances of centuries past would scent the room.
Da was more present in this room than in her own house. After his wife died, he spent nearly all his time abroad, searching out just such valuables for collectors like the Earl of Coltrane. She saw him rarely, for a few months every two or three years. When Gerald Lamb came to England by way of Dover he’d stop first at home, allowing himself the privilege of owning for a brief time the wonders he brought for those rich enough to afford them. Then he’d hie off to deliver them and arrange another expedition.
Jillian missed him when he was gone and enjoyed him when he came home, but she understood that her father was only happy pursuing his art. And in his way he took care of her, placing her in the care of Annalisa Lindstrom. Annalisa died, tragically, when Jillian was fifteen, and he returned from India when he got the news. By then his daughter had been on her own for more than a year, and she felt perfectly capable of managing the household and farm. He wanted to be convinced. A few months later he set out for China and she never saw him again. He was buried somewhere near Shanghai.
Now, in this house, he seemed alive again. She took up her candle and wandered from room to room, using the keys to open locked doors, pausing only to reset the clocks and savor bits and pieces of her father’s life spread everywhere. The Earl of Coltrane had been his chief patron, and wherever she looked was evidence of their collaboration. A tiny sculpted bull, Cretan, she thought. A tall statue of a many-breasted Anatolian goddess. Although her father preferred antiquities, there were paintings, too, by Raphael, Titian, Fra Angelico. Some she remembered, some she’d never seen. And, curiously, there were empty places—alcoves where a statue or vase would have been, markings on the wall where a frame once hung. In this fastidiously ordered house, it was easy to tell that pieces were gone. Sold off, perhaps. She wondered briefly if the new Earl had financial problems or just didn’t like art.
And where was the Dancer? Through the darkened halls, in the eerie silence of the huge, cold mansion, Jillian went from room to room looking for her. The Dancer was the most rare, the most valuable of all the things her father had ever brought home for the Earl. Etruscan, he guessed, although the piece defied categories. Defied the ages. Carved from pale, translucent jade, she was delicate as the wink of a firefly and so graceful one expected her to leap into the air. Never had Jillian taken to anything like she did the Dancer, and her father had wanted to give it to her, but he could not turn down the price offered by Richard Delacourt. The enormous commission would ensure Jillian’s future.
With renewed determination, she examined every room. By now-the search had become a pilgrimage, and it led her, inevitably, to the door of Mark Delacourt’s suite. She peered through the keyhole.
There was a light inside, but all she could see was the outline of a great canopied bed. The Earl wasn’t home, and probably his rooms were lit against his return. Why stop now? Fumbling with the keys, she tried several, but none fit the lock. In frustration she wiggled the latch, and suddenly the door sprang open.
“Ah, Your Majesty,” came a deep, rumbling voice.
Chapter Seven
A STOCKY, MUSCULAR man rose from his chair. “Do come in,” he invited with a broad smile.
“I . . . who . . . oh, dear. You must be Mr. Foxworth.”
“The same,” he acknowledged with a courtly bow. “If you are looking for His Lordship . . .”
“Oh, no. Absolutely not.” Jillian set the candle on a polished etagere. “I’m not supposed to be here, of course. Why did you call me Your Majesty?”
“Are you not Queen of the Visigoths?”
She chuckled. “More like Buffoon of the Grand Entrance. Did you only hear about it, or were you an actual witness to my humiliation?”
“Humiliation? My d
ear, you were magnificent. At last, the mighty Jaspers was vanquished. I never thought to see it.”
“Nonsense. Jaspers is a silly, stupid man. No challenge at all. Polly tells me he’s sporting a huge bandage, like he’d been ravaged by wolves.” Her dimple flashed. “I didn’t even break the skin.”
“Just as well. Vinegar in his veins, I expect, or acid. Can I persuade you to keep me company for a while?”
“The Earl—”
“Won’t be back for hours. You are perfectly safe.” Jillian cocked her head. “Do you always sit up all night waiting for him, Mr. Foxworth?”
“Not him. This.” He pointed to the chessboard and she padded over to take a look.
“You’re in trouble,” she said after a minute.
He pulled out a chair. “Please.”
With a sigh, she sank down and planted her elbows on the table. “I’m in it if he comes back, Mr. Foxworth.”
“Foxy.” He settled across from her. “Obviously, you play.”
“Rarely now. My governess taught me, but I’m sadly out of practice. Give me a moment.” Foxworth sat back, observing her with interest. Even swaddled in a disreputable flannel nightgown and voluminous robe, she reminded him of the bright, iridescent hummingbirds he’d loved to watch in India. Poised midair, wings beating so rapidly they did not appear to move at all, the tiny birds were pure energy. So was she, her bare toes curling on the carpet as she studied the chessboard intently.
“All the obvious moves will kill you,” she decided. “I see at least three enticing traps.” She looked up at him with approval. “You’ve been too clever to stumble into them.”
