Jane laughed nervously. “The very idea!”
“No, no,” Uncle said with an impatient wave of his hand. “I did not mean the creative sort of art. The man is brilliant at evaluating rare and costly collections, and he told me you had the same interests and an enviable eye.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but what did you need, exactly?”
“I want someone who can tell me what is what, and I depended upon your father to help put down the value of certain articles at the estate. It is not only the rumors of theft troubling me. I had a letter from Mr. Bingley last week that Rumfield is being a bit of a bother over the affair, and I would not like to lose my fee merely because no one knows the worth or origin of some silly old vase.”
Jane clapped a hand to her mouth and stared at me. She was shaking her head and gesturing wildly with her free hand.
“You know,” I said slowly, my eyes still on Jane, “I do believe I could be of some help. Papa taught me all about such things. I would be happy to try, at any rate.”
“Excellent! I will wait by the carriage while you collect your wrap.”
Uncle Philips went out, and Jane rushed to my side to clasp me by the arm. “Lizzy, what are you doing? You know nothing about real art!”
“I know enough about the fake stuff! Don’t you realize those items in dispute are probably ones Papa made? I would rather give our uncle something that will satisfy him than force him to look elsewhere for advice. Only think if he feels it necessary to bring in a proper expert?”
“Indeed, that could be very awkward.”
“Keep Mama distracted while I am out. And if Papa should return smelling of paint or with pottery dust on his shoes, hide him away until I am back!”
“You can count on me, Lizzy.”
Darcy
“Justalittlelower...a little lower...”
“Is that it?” Bingley called. He was dangling by his fingertips from the leaded glass window overhanging the second-floor library shelves, his toes brushing the tops of the wood.
“You are quite safe. Only do not throw yourself from the window like...”
Too late. Bingley gave a swing of his legs and skidded off the top of the shelf, banging every protruding surface from the front of his body on the ledge on his way down. His fall was accompanied by such a rapid succession of thuds and smacks that none could say how many bruises he would number by the time he reached the bottom.
“Bingley!” I rushed to his side. “Are you quite all right?”
He rolled over, one hand clutching at his middle and the other holding his nose, which was already running red. “I think I have broken... myself.” He fished for his pocket handkerchief to stem the flow. “This is quite a to-do!”
“Good heavens, you have done yourself a mischief. Come, we must get you up and away before you stain the rugs. No good sneaking in if you leave a trail of blood in your path.”
Bingley groaned and permitted me to help him up. “I would to heaven there was another window! I do not fancy climbing back up that bookcase.”
“We shall use the door when we leave. Here, take my handkerchief. Yours is already soaked through.”
Bingley blinked and pressed the new handkerchief over the spoiled one. “The door. Of course. Pity that was the only window we could find access to. By the by, how did you learn to do that? It was devilish clever.”
I gritted my teeth and ushered him more quickly down the stairs before his wounded nose could leak out all over the floors. “In my youth, I had a companion of questionable morals and a father who did little to impress upon me the unsuitability of following in his ways after my mother’s death. I learned many things I ought not to have. Bingley, the bleeding is not about to stop. Take my second handkerchief. I fear we must get you out of the house at once.”
“Yesh, I dink so. But how shall you carry on? You cannot know wish items to eggsamine.” He squinted, then pinched his nose harder.
“I am far less concerned with the art in the house than with your condition. Make haste, for the handkerchiefs are nearly spent.”
We were down the stairs now, passing by a grand entertainment hall on our left and a drawing room on our right. Bingley, for whatever foolish reason had inspired this bloody adventure, stopped dead and refused to move forward.
“Nere it is,” he said through his blocked nose. “In ne drawing room.” He tilted his head back, as if that would stop the bleeding faster, but it only made him sputter. I pushed his head forward again.
“There what is?”
“Ne collecshon of vases. Four alnogever, and... egad. Do you suppose by nose is bwoken?”
