“But no”—Myrtle spoke quietly and crisply as she walked, her pace quick and furious—“my interests are equated to that of a child.” Her relatives still saw her as the small child who’d called the marbles she’d collected as a girl the Elgin marbles, to everyone’s amusement. Nay, to her family, Myrtle was the same girl who read Newberry’s books for wee ones and mistook children’s toys for valuable treasures.
But then, that’s what happened when one sent one’s daughter away: she remained frozen in their memories and minds as the same girl she’d been.
Reaching the end of the hall, Myrtle didn’t break stride, turning the corner quickly enough to set her muslin skirts into a noisy rustle.
As she did, she caught a flash of movement as the door at the end of the hall suddenly shut.
That ever-important room where she’d once spent hours upon hours listening to the tales her brother had told about the pieces he’d added to that curiosity parlor.
Even now, they were likely packing those pieces up and preparing them to be carted away.
And yet . . .
Myrtle reached the door.
Unlike the din of activity on the main levels of the household, a thick silence hung over the room. It was the absolute kind of quiet that left the air humming and rang in one’s ears.
Frowning, she leaned in and looked about.
Nothing.
Not the crack or flutter of a crisp white sheet.
Not the officer-like directives called out by the head housekeeper, Mrs. Stonington.
There was . . . nothing.
As she straightened, Myrtle’s frown deepened.
This meant only one thing.
Her siblings and cousins were at their familiar game of hide-and-seek.
These rooms, however, had been and would always be off-limits.
Why, even the hoyden she’d been as a child sent off to Mrs. Belden’s had known that.
“But nooooo,” she mumbled. “I was sent away.”
Rife with annoyance, she entered the room. “All right,” she called loudly. “You’ve been foun—oh.” Her announcement ended on a shocked little syllable.
A lion-looking fellow spun and faced her.
“Who are you?” she demanded when the man continued to stand frozen, his jaw slightly slack.
She really should ring for a servant. Though given that he was already alone with the items and the house was in uproar, it was more likely this fellow would have made off with her father’s collection before anyone even noticed the household had been invaded.
She reached for the broadsword from the gleaming suit of armor stationed at the doorway, then heaved it up and pointed it at the fellow. “I asked you a question,” she called, using all her energy to point the ghastly heavy weapon, praying he would fail to see the way it shook or the way she remained unable to hold it. Alas, he’d likely have to be blind to not note those particular details.
The stranger immediately shot his palms up. “Oi’m with Mr. Ph-Ph-ippen,” he stammered, his coarse Cockney especially difficult to understand because of the speed with which he spoke.
“You’re with Mr. Phippen?” She echoed that question about her nemesis. The man responsible for her family’s wintertime flight.
“A-aye,” the man stammered, misunderstanding the reason for her question. “’ires m-men and w-women from East London, ’e does.”
“No. No.” She lowered her weapon—or rather, her shoulders and arms broke under the strain she’d placed on them holding it. The still razor-thin sharp tip sliced into the hardwood floors, already weak from age and wear . . . and water.
The man gulped loudly and took a wary step away from her anyway.
“That isn’t what I meant. I merely meant . . .” Her words trailed off as she continued to contemplate the man. “Why would Mr. Phippen himself not see to this particular room?”
“Delegates, ’e does, miss. ’e’ll oversee the transfer of artifacts himself. I’m merely inventorying.” With that, he picked up a notebook and a nub of charcoal she’d failed to note resting on the edge of a rectangular pillar, and held them aloft.
“Oh,” she said dumbly. And yet . . . she didn’t trust him to be in these rooms. Not because of his earlier, erroneous assumption that it had to do with where he was born. Rather, it had to do with the fact that only those who truly appreciated both the value of the items here and the history behind the artifacts should be handling them. This Mr. Phippen, grandest of builders in London, should have realized that.
Unless he wasn’t as grand as people presumed. Unless her parents had been taken in by someone who—
“Miss?” The man’s hesitant query cut across her silent thoughts.
He turned his book around, revealing crude handwriting hard to make out at the distance.
“Been hired to inventory the items and measure them.” He picked up a carpenter’s folding wood ruler, displaying the item for her benefit. “Oi’m in charge of selecting the crates and wrappings.”
He spoke as a man proud of the role he’d been assigned. He said all the right things and had all the right tools to account for his presence here . . . and yet . . . “And you’ll wrap those pieces yourself?” she quizzed, unable to shake her unease.
“Three of us have been assigned the role.”
“Three,” she repeated meaninglessly.
“Three.”
Hmm.
And then something he’d said registered. “Mr. Phippen is overseeing these rooms.”
The man hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, miss. Oversees all of them, ’e does. Involved in every aspect of the projects he takes on.”
That may be, but these rooms were different, not for the walls and the floor and the windows, but rather for the items within. “My father wouldn’t just leave his collection to a builder. He’d trust them to someone familiar with the artifacts here and how to handle them.”
Mr. Phippen’s emissary shrugged. “Oi don’t know that, miss. Oi only know the work Oi’ve been ’ired to do and what was worked out, miss, between Mr. Phippen an’ the earl and countess.”
They stood silently for several moments before Myrtle cleared her throat. “Then I shall let you back to your task, Mr. . . .”
“Henries.”
“Mr. Henries.”
Did she imagine the way his shoulders sagged in relief? Or was it because of the cessation in her questioning?
As Myrtle dragged the broadsword over to its stand and heaved with all her might to get it back up and in place, she watched him.
Sure enough, he set to work, unfolding his measuring stick and just then putting it against the marble bust of a man. That mid–First Century piece from the early Imperial age of Julio-Claudian. Details she knew even without the gold plaque her father had commissioned for the front of the pillar, as he had for all the pieces in this room.
Reluctantly, Myrtle quit the rooms, leaving Mr. Henries to his assignment.
Her father must be getting on in his dotage, for the proud and exceedingly careful connoisseur of artifacts, a man who’d looked with the same reverent awe upon the items in this room as he did his wife, would not simply leave them for someone else to oversee. Nay, it was more likely he’d have handled the task himself . . .