“Lot number ten,” intoned the director of Sotheby’s, “is this exquisite necklace of a cross. In topaz. Acquired by Charles Austen, brother to Jane Austen, from reward money received for capturing an enemy ship whilst in the Royal Navy. Accompanied by a similar but not identical cross, also in topaz. Both on solid-gold chains and described through a series of Austen-Knight family letters as belonging to each of Jane Austen and her sister, Cassandra. Affidavit copies of those letters are included in the catalogue before you.”
Yardley knew that the famous film star now sitting in the third row was most interested in three items from the catalogue: a simple gold ring with a turquoise stone that had verifiably belonged to Austen, the two topaz necklaces, and a small portable mahogany writing desk that had passed down through the Austen family over the years. Although Sotheby’s could not confirm that Jane Austen herself had written at the desk while at home or travelling, this was one of only two desks known to have belonged to her immediate family. The other one was lost somewhere in private hands.
“Lot number ten,” the director repeated. “Bidding begins at one hundred pounds, with a presale estimate of one thousand. One hundred pounds—do I hear one hundred?”
The actress gave the slightest nod of her head.
“We have one hundred pounds. Do I hear one fifty? One hundred and fifty pounds?”
Another nod, this time from a few rows back. The actress looked back over her left shoulder, then glanced quickly at the gentleman across the aisle.
Bidding proceeded like this for several minutes. When one of the bids went from one thousand pounds to fifteen hundred, the auction-house director looked over at one of his other colleagues standing along the mirrored wall to the right of the podium. The two men exchanged nods. “Two thousand pounds,” the director announced sharply. “Do I hear two thousand?”
Yardley had started watching the gentleman in silent conversation with the actress. He was as handsome as a movie star himself and well over six feet tall, his hatless head towering above those of the people seated around him. He was wearing a tailored suit in dark grey, with dark-chocolate-brown brogues. He was not checking anything—not his Cartier watch, not the catalogue, not the faces of anyone else in the room except hers. He showed no apprehension or anxiety of any kind. As the bidding accelerated, the price now far exceeding previous estimates, most of the crowd started to lean forward in their chairs, whispering excitedly to their neighbours. But the man just kept calmly, almost casually, lifting his right index finger, over and over, as if bored with the proceedings.
“Five thousand pounds!” the director was exclaiming, as the audience started to murmur its approval even more loudly. All the faces in the room were now swivelled to watch the famous Hollywood actress and the man across the aisle from her.
“Going once . . . going twice . . . sold! Two topaz crosses belonging to Jane Austen and her sister—sold for five thousand pounds to the gentleman in row three.”
The actress jumped up from her chair and rushed over to the man, and he smiled in his seat while she hugged him. He looked up at her, at that remarkable face, and it was clear to Yardley that everything the man was doing—everything he was bidding on today—was in service to that face. Everyone else got to see it stories high on a screen—but right now, it belonged to him, as much as those two topaz crosses did.
The ring was sold as lot number fourteen, this time for a record-setting seven thousand pounds, and again to the actress and her partner. The writing desk was sold for almost twice as much, its lack of official verification only slightly dampening the price, and an American collector of no known affiliation outbid the British Museum. Yardley had winced at the sale—he believed that all of these objects should remain in England or at least be kept together as much as possible.
At the end of the auction, with record amounts raised, Yardley and the director of Sotheby’s invited the actress and her fellow buyer to celebrate with the team over champagne. As they raised their crystal flutes in a toast to the day’s success, Yardley asked the actress what her plans were for the jewellery.
“My plans?” she repeated. “I don’t know—I guess to wear them.”
The idea of something so invaluable—and so culturally significant—being tossed onto a dressing table or, worse still, lost in the backseat of a cab, started the beginnings of a migraine for Yardley.
“But their worth . . . ,” he began to say.
“Their worth is for Miss Harrison to decide,” the gentleman interjected. “That is why I bought them for her.”
Yardley noticed for the first time something less than pure exhilaration on the actress’s face as the other man said these words. Yardley wondered at the degree of their intimacy—wondered if the purchase was part of a larger transaction of some kind. He had heard the usual rumours about actresses from the stage or screen, yet he would have liked to have given this one the benefit of the doubt.
“Actually I was being a little glib just now,” she said apologetically. “I seem to be doing that more and more of late. I guess the excitement of the day must be getting to me. I will of course make sure that these most prized possessions are given the care they deserve.”
She looked over at Yardley as if in appeasement, and he noticed yet again her wonderfully adaptable manner. So very American, he suspected: she would put a foot wrong, then just as quickly—and as charmingly as possible—put everything right as if it cost her nothing.
“Were you pleased, at the sale?” she was now asking him.
Yardley sipped his champagne thoughtfully before putting the flute down. “I was pleased at the success, yes—I’ve been trying to land the Godmersham estate for years. It’s so rare, as you know, to find any substantive collection of Austen artifacts. All that’s left now is the Knight estate down in Hampshire—but apparently the current Mr. Knight’s impossible to deal with, and the sole heir, a Miss Frances Knight, is an agoraphobic spinster, of all things.”
“Agoraphobic?” the woman’s companion asked, finally looking up from the paperwork before him.
Yardley, noticing the woman give the man a curious look, continued, “Yes, phobic of the outdoors—doesn’t leave the house.”
“That’s such a shame,” the woman said. “And so very Gothic.”
Yardley smiled. He could tell that she, like himself, lived with one foot stuck in the past.
“I just hope she cares enough about Austen,” he added. “You and I both know how much I would love for as many of her possessions as possible to stay in England.”
She gave an irrepressible smile and looked over at her companion before speaking further. “Well, Yardley, I have some great news for you then—they will. At least mine will. I am moving to England.”
“Well,” Yardley exclaimed, “this is good news. I had no idea. Ah, it is all making sense now. Where will you be living?”
“We”—she looked again at the gentleman as she said the words—“we will be living in Hampshire. Of all places! What do you think of that?”
“I think that quite perfect, under the circumstances.” Yardley looked down at the bare engagement finger on her left hand. “So, the ring?” he asked with a smile.