One
Elizabeth
“Papa!Notagain!”
My father looked up from his worktable, his glass dropping from his eye. “Ah, there you are, my dear. Nearly finished. What do you think?”
I pushed aside the door to my father’s hidden cottage and surveyed his latest creation—a vase about nine inches high with a crack at the mouth that ran down most of the side. It was painted in black with gold relief, portraying ancient-looking figures driving chariots or carrying swaths of wheat or entwined in scandalous embraces. “I think you ought to be in the house reading your books and balancing your ledgers, as Mama believes you are, rather than out here painting vases.”
“Yes, yes, my child, and I will do, when I have cleaned the paint from my fingers. Just a touch more of the gold leaf… there. Now to thrash it about a little for proper effect, yes? Oh, I think it will do nicely in my study, and then after a year, we shall move it to the drawing room, and after that, who knows?”
I shook my head and cleared away his brushes and paint pots. “You’ll never stop, will you?”
He chuckled and hung up his painting frock. “Of course not, my dear. What would be the sport of that?”
I tsked and sighed as I checked his shirt collar and sleeves for paint drops. “Sport, indeed. What shall you do when you are discovered?”
Papa slid his arms into his jacket. “Discovered! Nonsense. Why anyone should bother is beyond comprehension. I have done nothing but add a bit of beauty to the house.”
“And the houses of about twenty others, all of whom think they purchased an artifact from antiquity?”
“And have they not? Who can tell the difference? Why, if there is a difference, it is that mine are better, and I challenge anyone to deny it.”
“And what of our uncle, who brokered these transactions, thinking the pieces were genuine?”
Papa held the door of his cottage for me and locked it behind us after we were both outside. “But they were, my dear! I have not the pleasure of understanding you. A vase is a vase, is it not? It graces the mantel handsomely and improves the aesthetic of any house. I should think it would even hold flowers if anyone cared to defile it so. Why this obsession with where it came from?”
I closed my eyes and counted to three. “Oh, nevermind, Papa. Mama is calling for you through your library door, and she thinks you have gone deaf again. She is so convinced of it she means to send for Mr. Jones to examine your hearing.”
“Well! I suppose I am in luck that she has not tested the lock, then. What seems to be the crisis this afternoon?”
“Oh! Nothing important. Something about Netherfield Park being let at last. I care little for it, but she is perfectly convinced it will be well-stocked with single gentlemen of large fortunes.”
“Truly! Perhaps our new neighbors are fond of antique art.”
“I dearly hope not.”
Papa laughed and put his arm around my shoulders to pull me close and kiss my cheek, as he used to do when I was small. “My darling girl, my vases are not the only works of art I possess. If our new neighbor has any sense at all, he will be at my door within a fortnight, seeking to add a little beauty to his home.”
“A request which you will naturally refuse until his fascination has grown into obsession, and he is willing to offer triple what he once thought an outrageous price.”
“But of course. What do you take me for, an amateur?”
Darcy
Ituckedmymagnifyingglass into my coat pocket and straightened. “Magnificent. Truly, Uncle. I’ve not seen a more exemplary sample of Hellenistic sculpture in many years. The rearing stallion with the hero swathed in his battle raiment—absolutely remarkable. Hercules, is it?”
Lord Matlock shifted his pipe to the other side of his mouth and beamed. “I thought you would approve, Darcy. Lord Elgin was reluctant to part with it, but at last, I carried my way.”
“Did you, now? You did not say you got it from Elgin. I imagine he demanded quite the price.”
Matlock huffed. “Not as such. It’s that former wife of his, bleeding him dry. Pockets to let, he is. He’s moved his entire collection to what is little better than a coal-shed while the debt collectors chase him down. I say, ‘tis is a wonder he can feed himself. When a man’s purse is bankrupt, his principles soon follow.”
I removed the handkerchief from my pocket to dust down the marble statue. Such a fine piece should be accorded all the dignity and reverence I could offer it. “I thought he intended to sell the entire collection to Parliament. A shame for it to be broken up. It is a national treasure, and not necessarily England’s. Byron is fit to be tied over Elgin’s plundering of Athens.”
“Aye, and I would keep these statues safe if by any means I can. There is the ‘collection proper,’ as was, but you must have heard of the shipwreck just after it sailed from Greece. A whole boat full of art sunk to the bottom of the sea and ‘mostly’ recovered?”
I nodded gravely. “You think he has more than he claims?”
