Page 88 of Why Do Earls Fall in Love?
“Don’t bother with tea for me, my lady.” The older woman moved slowly but steadily with Whiddon’s support. “We’ve come up with something else to keep your hands busy.”
Whiddon seated their guest. “Madame Calas is one of the refugees who passed through Broadscombe after leaving France. She lost a valuable heirloom on the way. I told her how William discovered the story of the thefts perpetrated on some of those refugees, by the smugglers who were purported to be helping.”
“It is a very great shame that your brother lost his life pursuing such old secrets,” said Madame Calas with a shake of her head.
“Thank you,” Whiddon said gently. “We do not wish his sacrifice to be made in vain.” He turned to her. “Charlotte, I asked Madame Calas about the piece that was stolen from her. It sounds very unusual. She began to draw it as she described it to me and I was struck by the idea that you could perhaps sketch a realistic image of it, from her description. We could use the image when we speak to the pawnbrokers and fences who might know something of it.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. Let me get my sketch pad.” Coming back with it, she settled into her chair and nodded. “Tell me as much as you can remember, Madame, and we will see if I can come up with something close to it.”
“It was a necklace. Very old. It had been in my family for generations. It contained twenty-five amethysts. They were all cut with a beveled edge and set in silver.”
“Oh, my goodness.” Charlotte pulled out the appropriately colored sticks.
“In the middle hung a pendant, made of four separate stones. A large oval one hung lowest. The others were narrower and arranged on top of the main stone, like this.” She used her fingers to illustrate the design.
Charlotte began to draw. She asked questions occasionally, as Madame Calas talked on, painting a picture in words that Charlotte sought to capture. “Is this close?” she asked eventually, turning the sketch for the older lady to see.
“Oh, well done. Very nearly perfect.” Madame pointed out a few corrections. She took the sketch and ran a wizened finger over it. “Oh, I forgot, it had a small, round stone at the back, where the catch was located. It lay against your nape and teased the gentlemen with a glimpse now and then,” she said with cackling laugh.
Charlotte added it. “How beautiful it must have been.”
“Yes. You’ve captured it.” The other woman blinked back tears. “I’m far too old to make use of it now. There’s not even a window in my rooms, to catch their sparkle in the sun. But I would dearly love to see my granddaughter have it.” Her lip trembled. “She works so hard.”
Charlotte laid a hand over hers. “We will do all we can to make that happen.”
“It’s very good of you,” the old woman said faintly. “Both of you.”
“Now. Your mission is complete. Would you care for tea?”
“No, thank you, my lady.” Madame Calas struggled to her feet. “I should like to go home now. If you would be so kind, my lord?”
“Of course.”
Solemn, he met Charlotte’s gaze for a long moment before he took the woman’s arm. Charlotte followed them downstairs and bid her farewell at the door.
“Bless you, my dear,” the old woman said as she left.
Charlotte eased the door closed behind them, then went to the parlor to peer out the window and watch the carriage pull away. She stayed there, lost in thought.
The idea of the crimes Whiddon’s father had perpetrated had always been appalling. Now it felt more . . . concrete. Specific. What had Madame Calas’ life been like in France? Certainly, far superior to what it had become in England. What might it have been, had she kept her necklace with twenty-five precious stones?
Charlotte still stood at the window sometime later, when Whiddon returned. He looked tired and careworn. She went to him at once and burrowed into his arms. “That poor woman,” she said softly.
“It’s a travesty,” he said, holding her tight. Letting her go, he began to pace about the parlor. “I want to drag my father here and make him sit in a room with these people, make him listen to what their lives have been.” He gripped the mantel with both hands. “God’s teeth, but I’d like to kill Hurley, too. We need to find him. And those jewels.”
“We will.” She went to stand near him. “But listen to me, Gabriel. I saw her face. You’ve given her hope.”
“But what if we fail? Will I have made things worse?”
“We will not fail. We simply will not. But you’ve helped already. I could see it. You’ve returned some of her faith, just by trying so hard.”
He stilled, clearly thinking about what she’d said. “I hope you are right.”
“I am.” She frowned. “But you’ve given me a thought. We cannot force your father to meet these refugees, but what if we told their stories another way?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember, the first time we were talking about art—and we both enjoyedThe Costume of Yorkshire? Each print a dramatization of a different profession and person? What if we created a similar project? An image of each of the refugees, with their stories accompanying the print? We could publish it as a book and donate all the proceeds to them and their families.”
