Lady Osbaldestone’s voice cut through the tension. “I’m acquainted with Lord Devon, and I’ve heard his version of the arrangement he made in buying the figurine. Although his lordship refused to name the source of the find, the details he revealed were, indeed, as you, Mr. Goodrich, have described.” Lady Osbaldestone sat straighter. “I gather the same sort of arrangement pertained with a certain vase from Pompeii that Lord Wallace snaffled. His lordship was quite chuffed about that, as he informed me on the opening night of a special exhibition of ancient pottery during which the vase was displayed.”
Therese watched as Webster blinked and blinked again—as if to clear dust from his eyes. “Indeed,” she continued, “I am acquainted with several of the curators at the British Museum, and they have given me to understand that the recent manner of acquiring artifacts via what they term ‘aristocratic patronage’ has given them new heart. They feel they finally have a chance of amassing sufficient items to give the public a better understanding of how people lived in ancient times.” She nodded at Callum. “Like you, the curators and, indeed, their governors believe that to be an important part of their role.”
She paused, then shifted her gaze to the professor, who was still frowning, but now in a rather more self-directed way. “Well, Professor Webster?” She felt reasonably certain he wasn’t the sort of man who would feel embarrassed by having his mistaken understanding aired before others. When he glanced at her from under his bushy eyebrows, she continued, “Do you wish to advance any reason as to why I shouldn’t consign this find to your erstwhile assistant, Mr. Goodrich, to guide into the hands of the Ashmolean Museum?”
Webster compressed his lips and all but glowered at her.
Callum shifted, drawing her attention. “If I might make a suggestion?”
Therese arched her brows, then, curious as to what he might say, inclined her head.
Callum gestured at the mound of items on Mandy’s cape. “We’ve already retrieved quite a lot of coins”—he glanced into the hole and saw that Jamie, George, and Lottie had grown bored and returned to sifting through the soil and had amassed another pile to add to the collection; he smiled at the children—“and it seems there are more. In addition, we have multiple other artifacts, and those are of particular interest to collectors like Lovett and Lynley.” Callum raised his gaze and met Therese’s eyes. “Perhaps we can split the find? I can’t see any reason why we couldn’t retain enough to ensure Lovett’s and Lynley’s backing, while also allowing a sample of both coins and possibly artifacts to be donated from you and the village of Little Moseley directly to Brentmore College, for the study of the scholars there.”
Therese managed not to beam too triumphantly; she was delighted with Callum’s suggestion—delighted with him for having the insight, sense, and fortitude to step forward and offer his old mentor an olive branch.
Along with everyone else who had listened to the entire exchange with avid interest, she looked at Professor Webster.
Aware of the attention directed his way, the professor considered carefully, then somewhat gruffly said, “It appears I misinterpreted Mr. Goodrich’s methods and have misjudged his behavior.” He cleared his throat and nodded to Callum. “For that, I apologize, m’boy. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”
There was a quality in the professor’s voice that suggested his contrition was genuine and deeply felt.
Webster raised his head and looked at Therese. “As for the suggestion of dividing the hoard, on behalf of Brentmore College, I would be happy to accept whatever portion your ladyship considers appropriate.”
Therese smiled unrestrainedly. “Excellent!”
Callum circled toward the professor and held out his hand—and after the barest of hesitations, the professor grasped it firmly. Therese’s hearing was excellent, and she made out the professor’s gruff words as he released Callum’s hand. “Forgive me, Callum—I was an old fool. I should have known better than to think what I did.”
Callum smiled faintly, then shrugged and looked down, into the hole. “Best we put the past behind us.” Then he grinned and glanced sidelong at Webster. “I’d say we’ve got our work cut out for us in getting as much of the Hartington hoard as we can out of the ground before dark.”
Webster grunted and looked at the sky. “You’re not wrong about that.”
In less than a minute, both men were in the hole, and all the others had gathered around; it was quickly agreed that Simms would return to the manor and fetch tools for digging out and ferrying the hoard to safety, while Callum and Webster took turns to dig, and Lottie, Jamie, and George dealt with the looser soil while larger lumps were passed up to willing hands waiting on the rim of the hole for further breaking up and sifting.
Simms returned, and with Callum and the professor supplied with more appropriate tools, the excavation went faster.
For her part, Therese kept her eyes on the sky, but although the clouds thickened as the light slowly waned, and even though the wind dropped and the scent of snow intensified, none fell.
At last, Callum and the professor straightened and handed up the tools they’d been using, then stood in the now much wider hole and peered at the ground.
The professor huffed. “I believe that’s it—at least for now.”
His gaze on the ground, Callum nodded. “I think we’ve cleared the cache.” He glanced at the roots of the toppled giant. “Whoever buried it placed it at the foot of this tree, thinking to return to it sometime.” He turned and looked toward the clearing. “Further excavation to see if we can locate the villa itself will have to wait.”
The professor nodded. With Callum’s assistance, the older man climbed out of the hole. Callum lifted Lottie out, watched the boys as they scrambled up to the rim, then grasped the hand Simms held down and allowed himself to be hauled out.
Thoroughly satisfied with all that had transpired thus far, Therese looked to the others. “Pyne?”
The woodcutter had been helping as eagerly as anyone. He came forward and bobbed his head to Therese. “Aye.” He glanced upward. “If we go now, we should have just enough time to fetch your yule log in.”
They went, all of them. They tramped through the woods, following at Pyne’s heels, with Simms steering the handcart he’d brought, into the bed of which they’d loaded their treasure. The cart bumped over branches and slid over dead leaves, but it was deep enough—and there were eyes enough on it—to ensure nothing fell out.
Finally, when they were deep in the woods to the north of the house, Pyne halted and pointed. “There she is.” A large, thick log lay waiting in a small area cleared of leaves. “Just like I left her.” Pyne ran a hand over the bark, then patted the log as if it were sentient. “A perfect log for your purposes, this is. She’ll burn strongly but steadily and see you through the night to the dawn.”
Therese smiled. Clearly, Pyne was one of those who remembered the old ways. Living as he did, constantly surrounded by and at the whims of Nature, she couldn’t say she was surprised.
All the males gathered around the log. Simms unwound the rope he’d carried, and advice on how to harness the log for hauling came from all sides.
Ultimately, however, it was Mrs. Haggerty who showed them the best way to tie the log, leaving two long sections of rope to act as hauling reins; the old cook was another who “knew things.”
Once that was done, they set off, walking through the woods and taking turns to drag the log along; even the professor and Therese took a turn. Laughter bubbled, and a sense of achievement buoyed the group’s spirits. Simms followed close behind the log, pushing the handcart, and the younger men assisted as they descended the uneven slope that would eventually return them to the manor’s grounds.
Therese fell back, the better to consider whether she needed to meddle any further, but Callum and Honor were walking side by side, and their expressions and the way their gazes met and held suggested they, at least, had found the right path forward. The professor and Callum had
plainly buried the past, and Webster walked on Honor’s other side, but not too close.
The party came to a slippery section, and Callum took Honor’s hand and helped her over it, then, instead of releasing her, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and they walked on, closer than ever.
Therese smiled to herself and shifted her attention to the other couple in whom she had an interest. Indeed, an even deeper interest.
Melissa and Dagenham remained with the knot of Henry’s friends, yet for all that, the pair might as well have been walking alone. Each had eyes and awareness only for the other, but there was a quality of uncertainty between them now—very much as if each saw something they wanted, but couldn’t see how to reach for it.
While the tenor of their whispered exchanges, the way their heads dipped together, spoke of a closeness that—in Therese’s experience—meant only one thing, a sense of imminent hopelessness seemed to have afflicted them both.
Therese viewed the pair with more sympathy than she allowed to show; she could read the signs. They’d reached a certain understanding, and with the wealth of decades of experience behind her, Therese could guess what would happen next.
She wasn’t entirely surprised when, apparently spontaneously, without glancing at Dagenham, Melissa started to sing her part of “The Holly and the Ivy.”
Her clear alto floated through the wood, haunting and sweet.
Dagenham’s eyes had locked on her face. When the moment came, he took up the refrain. Between them, they sang all six verses of the song—to the delight of the others, but, Therese wondered, at what cost to themselves.
When the final note died, Mrs. Haggerty nudged Mrs. Crimmins and started to sing a song about the yule log, and as Mrs. Crimmins and Tilly and Dulcie joined in, Therese discovered her staff had fine voices and also knew a thing or two she hadn’t about the old ways.
The children were delighted and skipped before the log, and then the company reached the manor’s grounds, and in a giddy, laughing rush, Henry and his friends took the ropes and hauled the log around to the front door.
All the men lent a hand maneuvering the log into the house and, under Crimmins’s direction, placed it just so on the bed of shavings and twigs Crimmins had laid ready in the hearth in the front hall—the original hearth of the manor’s great hall and the largest in the house.
Therese called for ale, cider, and mulled wine, and the group repaired to the drawing room to warm themselves before the fire there. When everyone was sipping, she looked around and, smiling, said, “What a very eventful afternoon we’ve had. We’ve found the Hartington hoard, we’ve dragged in our yule log, the carol service will come tomorrow, and…” She caught her younger grandchildren’s eyes and raised her glass. “It’s nearly time for Christmas.”
Predictably, the three cheered, as did everyone else.
It was, Therese thought, a fitting end to the day.
Chapter 12
In the Hartington Manor household, Monday had been designated “Plum Pudding Day.”
As Therese and her brood would decamp from the village the following morning, Monday had been chosen as the most appropriate time to distribute to every house and cottage in the village the dozens of puddings the manor’s kitchen had produced.
Along with his usual fee and a sizeable tip, in recognition of his assistance in locating the hoard as well as providing the yule log, Pyne had been gifted with a pudding the evening before. But when Monday arrived, the rest of the puddings, wrapped in red and green cloths, stood stacked on every available surface in the manor’s kitchen, and despite her fiercely proud expression, Mrs. Haggerty swore she couldn’t wait to see the last of them.
The day had dawned chilly, damp, and foreboding, as if more snow was massing in the clouds and would soon fall.
Originally, the household had planned to distribute the puddings at the carol service, but with the search for the hoard concluded, during the celebrations the previous afternoon, they’d arranged for the erstwhile crew of searchers—along with their carriages—to gather at the manor after breakfast to aid in ferrying the puddings to their destinations around the village.
Mrs. Crimmins and Mrs. Haggerty were in charge; they had a list of destinations, and in many cases, given some village families were large, there was more than one pudding assigned to an address.
Jamie, George, and Lottie begged Therese to be allowed to commandeer the manor’s gig. Given Jamie was now a responsible ten-year-old and Therese felt confident in his ability to manage the manor’s quiet gray mare, she agreed, and after reporting to the generals in the kitchen, the three youngsters were the first to set off, carrying five puddings to be delivered along the lane—one to the vicarage, one to the Moodys, one to old Mrs. Harmer in the cottage by the village green, and two to Mountjoy’s Store.
Therese waved the trio off, then welcomed Henry and his friends, who had just driven up in their curricles.
With much laughing and joking, along with Mandy and Melissa, who had waited for the young men, the group tramped into the kitchen and reported for duty. Mrs. Crimmins and Mrs. Haggerty seized the opportunity to send the curricles—driven by Henry, Dagenham, and Thomas Kilburn—first to the more far-flung and out-of-the-way cottages.
As the groups emerged from the kitchen, burdened with plum puddings, Therese smiled and nodded encouragingly and, privately, thought it a pity propriety dictated that Melissa and Dagenham couldn’t be allowed to travel the lanes alone. Instead, George Wiley climbed into Dagenham’s curricle beside Melissa, and he and she balanced the six puddings with which they’d been entrusted as Dagenham flicked the reins and set his pair pacing out along the drive.
Therese watched them go. There was a certain fragility in the way Melissa and Dagenham were interacting today, enough to leave Therese uneasy. Dissatisfied. But there was little if anything she could do. Sadly, when it came to her granddaughter and the handsome viscount, matters were, in this instance, out of her hands; altering facts was a feat not even she could accomplish.
In contrast, with a laugh and smiles all around, Henry set his curricle bowling down the drive after Dagenham’s, with Mandy and Roger Carnaby sharing the seat beside him, then Thomas Kilburn took Simms up with him and set his bays pacing in the other curricles’ wakes.
Once the carriages were away, Therese returned inside, shut the front door, and walked to the dining room.
Callum, Professor Webster, and Honor had taken possession of the dining room table, the surface of which Mrs. Crimmins had covered with an old blanket. The professor and Callum had their heads together, poring over the assorted coins. Before they’d left the manor yesterday, the entire crew had assisted with washing and cleaning the coins and all the other items extracted from the site in the woods. Now, Callum and the professor, both wielding jeweler’s loupes, were engaged in making a detailed inventory, while Honor sat with a sheet of paper before her and a pen in her hand, noting their findings in a neat script as the pair of scholars—erstwhile mentor and successful graduate—worked their way through the hoard.
Therese stood in the doorway and watched for a moment; the men were so engrossed neither noticed her, but Honor did and sent her a quick smile.
Callum had arrived early that morning, just as Therese and her brood were sitting down to breakfast, and she’d invited him to join them. He’d eaten with the sort of appetite she associated with gentlemen who lived alone, and when the children had asked, he’d explained what needed to be done before any division of the hoard was attempted—namely, that a formal inventory of the find needed to be made.
“The inventory must be beyond question, of course.” He’d caught Therese’s eye. “Would you be agreeable to myself and the professor collaborating on that?”
She’d arched her brows. “Of course.” Then she’d added, “But if I’ve understood Honor’s plaints correctly, the professor needs to devote himself to finishing his treatise.”
“As to that”—Callum had pushed a las
t piece of bacon around his plate—“I have to leave to go north on Wednesday at the latest, and I would prefer to take the inventory—or at least the list of pieces for which you agree to allow me to negotiate a sale—with me. In this season, Lovett and Lynley will be on their estates, and I can drop in and speak with them on my way back, after Christmas.”
He’d paused, staring at the bacon, but she’d doubted he’d actually been seeing it, then he’d glanced at her. “I thought that, if the professor would consent to helping me finalize the inventory today, then as I’m aware of all the latest happenings in the area he’s addressing in his treatise, in light of our rapprochement, I could work with him in gathering the final references and so on tomorrow, and also return to Oxford immediately after Christmas and work with him and Honor to expedite the completion of the treatise in time.”
Therese had hidden a smugly satisfied smile and had graciously inclined her head. “That sounds like an excellent plan. Once you’ve finished with that piece of bacon, perhaps you should walk to the cottage and lay your proposal before the professor and Honor?”
After reading her approval in her eyes, Callum had relaxed, grinned, and done just that. Consequently, there the three were—the professor, Callum, and Honor—creating a scholarly inventory of the Hartington hoard.
Callum looked up from the piece he was examining and said—dictated—something to Honor. The professor grunted a wordless assent, and Honor duly entered whatever the description was into the inventory.
Finally noticing Therese standing in the doorway, Callum said, “Your ladyship, I’ve been meaning to ask… Yesterday, you referred to the hoard as the ‘Hartington Hoard.’ Is that the name you would like formally associated with the find?” He waved at the inventory. “For instance, should we label this the Official Inventory of the Hartington Hoard?”
Therese thought for a second, then nodded. “Yes.”
When she said nothing more, Callum studied her, then inquired, “Is there some reason for that, other than Hartington being the manor’s name?”
Lady Osbaldestone’s Plum Puddings: Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Chronicles Volume 3 Page 21
