Page 5 of The Lady Glass
Her chest tightened, and not because of Helena’s absence but because of the opulence of the room. So Helena was a princess now? Theresia shook her head, refusing to be jealous of the oversize furniture, the silk bedding, or the freshly cut flowers unappreciated in the vacant bedchamber. The only thing she cared about did not seem to be within the four walls, so she pulled the door shut again.
She passed Lady Caspar’s room and resisted the temptation to open her door too. She would wait until tomorrow, after herstepmother left town, to search there. The next door marked her stepmother’s personal sitting room. Theresia’s nerves stretched as tight as her violin strings. It had been in this room that she’d seen Papa’s most prized crystal vase for the last time. The treasure was meant to be Theresia’s dowry and was worth a small fortune. Any patience she’d had suddenly fled. There was no waiting to check this room, even if it meant facing Lady Caspar again. Her desire to see the vase once more screamed at her to open the door and demand the vase’s return.
She reached for the handle with one hand while tightening her fist with the other. A sharp yank followed by a thrust from her wrist pushed the door open with greater force than she’d intended, and she had to catch it from slamming into the inside wall.
Empty.
Of people, that is. But not empty of one sparkling bohemian crystal vase.
Hervase.
After shutting the door carefully behind her, Theresia’s lips burst into a smile. The vase sat on a mantel above a small fireplace, and the light from the window caught on its intricate cuts. Like a beacon in a storm, it beckoned her with its unparalleled safety and the freedom only it could offer her.
She reached for it, grazing her fingers across the bottom of the cold glass to the base of solid gold up to the top that was embedded with a rainbow of expensive gems. Being the daughter of a famous glassblower had once been terribly exciting. Papa had been adventurous, bold, and a master of his craft. Before she could pick up the vase, a memory of Papa showing it to her for the first time flooded over her. His smile, full of pride, could be heard in his voice.
“Do you know the legend of the Bohemian glassblowers?”
“Yes, Papa. The Great Spirit led our grandfathers to thebeechwood forest by the river and taught them how to make glass. The music came next, which is why I must practice my violin. Right, Papa?”
“You are correct, myzlatícko. Tradition must be preserved. And we were promised treasure untold, our people and our culture being—”
“The greatest treasure of all,” she finished for him.
“But it isn’t a legend, dear one. It’s truth. And I am living it. The trade secrets of the glassblowers have been passed down through the generations. They are the reason our people have flourished despite the wars and the attempt to steal our culture from us. The very gift given centuries ago now runs through my veins blessing us. My crystal decorates the Hofburg Palace, and I have commissions from other royal families all over Europe.”
And yet he’d saved his most prized piece for her. After all, she was his zlatícko—his little gold.
“There is magic in this one, my zlatícko. And it’s all yours. Look at the precise cuts and the way it sparkles. Someday you must hold it in your hands and see both the past and the window to your future reflected there. Believe in the legends. They are more than stories. This vase is living history blessed by the Great Spirit of old. When the time is right, give this to your husband, and your future will be blessed and protected.”
She did believe—both the legend and in the saving power of her dowry.
Or, at least, she had believed at one time.
Now she wanted nothing more than to claim her dowry, return home, and forget England altogether. Her eyes lowered and her stomach pinched with worry. Her father could never have known how small her chances to marry would be with no real presence in Society. With what little money she had earned, along with the monetary gift from the stranger today, she wouldtry to book passage back to her native land, where she would find a matchmaker and marry the son of another glassblower. Her position in Society had mattered to her father, but it didn’t matter to her. Making the journey on her own would be difficult, and marrying a stranger harder still, but seeing the vase made her yearn for a husband who valued the glassblowers’ traditions enough that he would choose not to sell it. How she longed to see it on the mantel of her family home to bless and protect future generations just like her father had wanted.
Voices outside the door caused her hand to still on the glass. Logically, there was no reason for alarm. She had reached her majority and had every right to collect what belonged to her. She had never seen her father’s will, but certainly her stepmother would not stand in the way of a vase when she’d claimed everything else. Even so, a swirl of panic swept through Theresia.
Many times over the years, she had wondered if her stepmother would allow her to retrieve her dowry. Why had she not waited until tomorrow to come for it? The plan had been to be patient and meet with their solicitor, and sneaking into Lady Caspar’s sitting room and risking her ire was not part of it. She needed to hide. Mrs. Stone would not have approved of what she did next. The drapes were too thin for any covering, so she dove behind the sofa just as the door opened.
She felt like a much younger girl, stooped between the wall and the sofa, but if Lady Caspar discovered her, Theresia doubted she’d just be sent to her room for a child’s punishment. Her stepmother’s words from earlier returned to her mind:“Until I find you somewhere else to live.”The sentiment brought with it a wave of nausea, and Theresia brought a hand over her mouth.
“You should have come yesterday as agreed.”
Why was Lady Caspar speaking French? Her voice drew nearer as her footsteps brought her deeper into the room. Theresiahovered closer to the red Axminister carpet, her heart pounding, ready to leap right out of her chest.
“There were complications,” a man’s voice responded in French too, his irritation evident.
Was this Lord Caspar, the new husband? Was he French? Surely not. Theresia would have thought she’d have heard as much. Lady Caspar despised foreigners and had said her husband did too.
“You should have found a way to come,” Lady Caspar said, as if the entire world should bend at her bidding.
“Whether I came yesterday or today makes no difference if you are not ready to do business with me. You know I offer a generous price. I do hope neither of us has wasted our time.”
Business? So this was not Lady Caspar’s new husband after all. Theresia was tempted to steal a glance so she might have a face to put with the voice, but she didn’t dare.
“I am indeed ready.” Lady Caspar’s voice took on an edge. “In fact, the sooner you take it off my hands, the better.”
“As happy as I am to hear of your decision, we must be discreet. No one—not even the servants—must know the vase has been sold, especially to me.”
