Rare Objects (45 page)

Her eyes widened in fury. Suddenly she grabbed the ashtray and threw it at me. I ducked and it smashed just behind me, against the front door, clattering to the ground. “It's Andrew, you fool!”

I stared at her in shock.

“It's Andrew!” she screamed again, her voice cracking. I realized she was crying. “I can't just do what I please—not without paying a price! Don't you understand? He's mine!”

She covered her face with her hands.

Stunned, I went to her side, knelt next to her. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

I felt around in my coat pocket and handed her a handkerchief.

She looked up, eyes swollen with tears, and took it.

“When I was fourteen, my father died. I hadn't known him very well—he had lived in Africa, and we, well, we, we'd lived in a lot of places. But it affected me quite badly. He'd left me the pearls. I wore them all the time. I wouldn't take them off.

“That same year, my aunt Elsa was very ill with a terrible fever. It turned her hair white at the age of twenty-three and left her barren. That's when my mother had an idea—that I would join my aunt and uncle on a trip around Europe. The journey was meant to restore us all. We were going to sail over on the
Queen Mary
and visit Italy,
France, Switzerland, Germany. Only Elsa still wasn't completely recovered. She spent most of the time in her cabin, and my uncle Peter and I spent a lot of time on our own. He was very attentive.” She stopped, dabbed her cheeks dry. “Too attentive.”

Like a camera lens coming into focus, suddenly everything sharpened, painfully clear. There was only the sound of rain drumming against the window; a million tiny little pinpricks against the glass.

“I was fifteen when I had Andrew. It was agreed that Elsa would take him. Agreed by everyone but me, that is. At first I didn't mind so much, I was still a child myself really. But as time went on, he was all I could think about.”

I remembered how she had watched him in the park, from across the pond.

She looked down at her hands. “He's not like other kids. That's probably my fault too. Not everyone understands him. Elsa thinks he's mentally deficient. That he should be sent away.”

“Can't you look after him instead? Maybe go away somewhere together?”

She shook her head. “The family has plans for me.” She gave me a weary look. “I can't tell you what a disappointment I've been to them. Everything I do is wrong—who I love, what I am. They're repulsed by me. But at the end of the day, I have my uses.”

“What uses?”

“I don't expect you to understand or approve of me, but I have my reasons for marrying Charlie. James wants a banking alliance, one that gives us a dominant position in the cartel. One that puts Afrikaner interests first. And if it will keep Andrew close to me, then it will be worth it. Of course, his behavior at the party made things difficult, very difficult.”

“Are they threatening you?” I asked. “Are they trying to take him away?”

“They've taken him away from me before.” She was done crying. She folded the handkerchief neatly in her lap. “My life is not my own, May. If I've not been honest about the details, it's because I can't be.”

I looked at the suitcase. “Where are you going?”

“I don't know.” She shrugged. “Nowhere. Sometimes I decide when I'm at the train station, buying the ticket. I pretend I have choices, that I can go anywhere, do anything. But it's just a game I play. I leave and come back. I always come back.”

It reminded me of the elaborate hazards she used to love; small escapes from reality. No wonder she was good at them.

I had an idea. “But what if you really left? What if you traveled so far away no one could find you?”

“Then what would happen to Andrew? And what makes you think such a place exists? If I ever manage it,” she said, “I'll send you a postcard. But you see, no matter what I do, what lengths I go to, James always knows where I am, what I'm doing.” She looked across at me. “He has accomplices everywhere.”

The hopelessness of her position was overwhelming. Worse was the role I had played in maintaining it. Tears of shame and remorse worked their way down my cheeks. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“It's funny. No one ever does.”

I leaned my head against the side of her chair. “I'm sorry, Diana. Really I am.”

“Oh, May!” She looked across the room, out of the window at the sheet of gray autumn rain. “I've had so few friends. So few people I can really call my own.”

I was reminded of Max, of how protective she was, how loyal.

Her hand rested very lightly, almost tenderly, on top of my head. “I really thought you were one of them.”

The day of Mr. Winshaw's departure arrived all too soon. Mr. Kessler was going to the train station to see him off, while I stayed behind to look after the shop. In the end, our parting was brief and awkward; he slapped me a bit too roughly on the shoulder and said, “Take care of yourself, Fanning,” before picking up his bag and heading to the door. I didn't know what to say, so I just stood there, as wooden and ridiculous as one of his round-eyed African sculptures.

Then he stopped and dug a woman's silk scarf out of his coat pocket. For a second, I thought it was a gift. But instead he said, “Oh, listen, would you do me a favor? This belongs to Selena—do you mind dropping it off at the auction house for me?”

“Of course,” I agreed, hoping my disappointment wasn't too obvious.

And then he left.

I folded the scarf, smelling thickly of Emeraude perfume, and put it in my handbag. Persia wound around my ankles. I tried to pick him up, but he pounced on top of Mr. Winshaw's desk and curled into a ball on top of his papers.

That night after work, I walked the several blocks over to Freeman's Auctioneers to return Selena's scarf. They were having an evening viewing prior to an auction, and I was directed to the second floor, where Selena was overseeing a collection of estate jewelry. As I approached from across the room, Selena recognized me, and her face lit up. “My goodness, I almost didn't know who
you were! I absolutely
adore
your hair! How brave of you to go red!”

I didn't bother to explain.

“Mr. Winshaw asked me to return this to you.” I handed her the scarf.

“Oh.” Her face fell. “Thanks. Well, that's over then,” she added grimly.

“What are you talking about?”

“I told him to keep it till next time.” She gave me a rueful look. “That I'd pick it up when he got back.”

“Well, I'm sure he just didn't want you to be without it. Perhaps he thought it was your favorite.”

“I doubt it.” She turned to face a mirror, knotting it expertly round her neck. “To be fair, it's not as if he didn't say as much early on. And he hasn't been very attentive lately.”

“Oh. Well, men are idiots!” I was both relieved and yet oddly protective of Selena. “A girl like you, you could have any man you choose!”

“Yeah, well, I keep choosing the ones that don't want to be chosen.”

“I've danced that step,” I told her. “Not as much fun as it looks.”

“Hey!” It suddenly dawned on her that I might be decent company. “Do you want to get a drink? I get off soon. There's a place around the corner that isn't half bad.”

It would have been nice to go out, to shake off the low spirits that Mr. Winshaw's departure had brought on. But I'd gone back to working with Mr. Baylor and was determined to see it through this time. I pushed my hands into my pockets. “You know, tonight I have to get home. How about I buy you coffee someday instead?”

“Sure.” She glanced around the empty department. “God! I hate late nights!”

I gazed at the glass cases filled with diamond necklaces and sparkling gemstones. “It can't be all bad.”

“The worst thing is watching them being bought for other women. I came close once, on a pair of garnet earrings, but the man was too old and wanted too much for them, if you know what I mean.”

Then there it was, among the other pieces in the case: the black agate ring of Nemesis, gleaming with the same dark luster it had the first time I'd held it.

I felt a sudden, sick flip-flop in my chest. “Where did that come from?”

“What?” Selena bent over to see. “Let's see. Yes, we got that in a couple of days ago, along with this string of pearls.” She pointed to the necklace lying next to it. “Normally we don't take such small lots. But both are excellent pieces. Apparently it's Roman.”

It was a shock to see it again. I had an eerie, uncomfortable feeling, as if it were tainted. It was more than just a ring; it was a harbinger.

“But
where
did you get it?” I asked again.

She slid behind the counter, pulled out a black leather ledger, and began thumbing through it. “Here it is,” she said finally. “Lot number 133, a Roman gold and black agate ring with an image of a goddess on it, offered for sale by . . .” She squinted. “Oh, it's anonymous.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, it means the seller doesn't want to be identified. It happens all the time. Not everyone wants to advertise that they're forced to sell the family jewels.” She referred to the ledger again.
“In this case, the proceeds go to a third party: a Miss Julie Hanover at a bank in New York.” She closed the book. “Are you all right? You look a bit pale.”

Miss Julie Hanover was Diana's alias. And those were her pearls too. But why was she selling her jewelry?

“It's not just any old goddess, you know,” I told her. “It's Nemesis, the goddess of revenge.”

Selena wasn't convinced. “There's a cupid on it. And it doesn't look very dangerous.”

“Isn't that always the way?”

“So”—she leaned closer—“who did it belong to? Anyone famous?”

“I think I saw it in an antiques journal. The shop is full of them. It's just strange to see it in person, that's all. I must be tired,” I apologized.

Stretching, Selena stifled a yawn. “Me too. Well, I guess pieces that old don't really have owners. They make their own way through time.”

It was surprising to hear her being so philosophical. “That's one way of looking at it.”

“Everything we sell will probably outlast us, isn't that an odd thought? It was here before we were born and will be here long after we're gone. God, how dreary I am tonight! That damn scarf has made me morbid. I need some good luck for once!” She sighed.

I felt in my coat pocket, took out the crooked pin my mother had given me months ago. “Here—” I handed it to her. “Maybe this will work.”

“A crooked pin?” She laughed. “You don't believe that old wives' tale, do you?”

I shrugged.

She tilted her head provocatively, stuck out her lower lip. “Sure you don't fancy a drink?”

“That pout works on men, but not on me.” I smiled. “Maybe another time.”

As I headed to the trolley stop, I thought about the ring, how untouched it was by everything that had happened around it and would happen . . . Selena was right. It would journey from hand to hand, continent to continent, decade to decade—a time traveler made of agate and gold.

We were the fragile ones. The ones who, like Mr. Tresalion's salvaged objects, needed to be rescued, reimagined, restored.

The trolley came. I got on and sat next to the window, leaning my head against the glass. Beneath me the car swayed like a boat, heading through rough water. Emptiness swelled; tomorrow, it would just be me and Mr. Kessler again.

Where was Mr. Winshaw now?

The world is full of things you will like that you just don't know about, he had promised.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what I didn't know.

When I opened them again, a man was sitting across from me, reading the evening edition. Words seemed to float in front of my tired eyes.

“Diamond Heir in Fatal Shooting,” read the headline. “Two Gunned Down at Plaza Hotel. Society Playboy Killed.”

The body of James Van der Laar had been found lying on the bed in a suite in the Plaza Hotel with a bullet through his head. Next to him was the body of his lover, Charlotte Smith Reynolds,
known as Smitty to her friends. A police investigation concluded she shot him first before killing herself.

It was, apparently, a well-known affair in society circles. James Van der Laar had a reputation as a serial seducer and barely bothered to conceal his adulterous relationships from his young wife. He'd known Smitty for years, and there were rumors that they were at one time engaged. However, his devotion to the Afrikaner cause made it impossible for him to marry an English-speaking wife. Instead he chose Heleen Van Bek, a fellow South African and daughter of the owner of the largest platinum mines in Rustenburg. Smitty continued to hang on, however, convinced that one day he would divorce. The papers speculated that when he attempted to end the affair, she became desperate.

I remembered the hushed conversation I'd overheard the night of the party; Smitty's pleas, James's promises. It had been effortless for him to lie—to me, to Smitty, to his wife. Like the air he breathed.

From then on, the press spent many editions combing through James Van der Laar's romantic past, sifting through a long list of suspected lovers—would-be actresses, socialites, chorus girls. Soon stories of the Van der Laars' Boer origins, South African diamonds as large as a man's fist, and shadowy dealings with foreign governments replaced the tales of sex and scandal. “All That Glitters” was the cover story in the
New Yorker
the next month. I didn't bother to buy it.

The scandal culminated in the announcement, discreetly posted by the Peabody family, that the engagement of Diana Van der Laar and Charles Peabody had been called off by mutual agreement. And that Diana, who had been traveling, would remain abroad for an extended stay.