Leann McKinley

The Diamond Hunter’s Daughter

Copyright © 2023 by Leann McKinley

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Contents

The Letters

About the Author

Also by Leann McKinley

The Letters

Mr. Simon Barnes to Mrs. Henrietta Dover

Dear Henrietta,

so your brother has finally shuffled off this mortal coil. He was a bit of a shuffler, you know, in spite of his height. Hugo Rutherford was a good man. He actually possessed that rarest of qualities, integrity. But integrity will not build you a new roof, as you have apparently come to know.

I am sorry to learn of the faults of the drains, the oven, the pipes, the peculiar arrangement of the fireplace, the servants, the sheep, and anything else you complain of in your letter that I may have forgotten. One can hardly expect your brother to have made many improvements, attempting to live in that great, barren mausoleum of a house on so little income. I’m astonished he did not die of hunger long before. Perhaps you will be able to make something of it, but if you were to ask my advice—and I notice you did not, but I’m going to give it just the same—you will make nothing of it. Leave it in the young Miss Rutherford’s care and let it be. She, no doubt, will find a way to remain alive there. She has done so admirably up until the present time. That house will eat your income. It will devour it like a pack of hungry wolves. Let well enough alone.

* * *

Mrs. Henrietta Dover to Mr. Simon Barnes

Dear Simon,

I do not believe you ever received my last letter. At any rate, I will not rewrite what I already somewhat painfully wrote—my hands are not what they once were, and my rheumatism is only the least of my complaints, so Doctor Smithson assures me. But you must understand that I can hardly refuse to take a little responsibility in the matter. Bronson Grange is grown quite deplorable, but it is certainly habitable, and with proper investments it might be of some value. I should feel it a weight to my conscience if I did not endeavor to save it.

Besides, my first duty is to poor little Celia. Although I ought not to call her little, for she is quite full grown, nineteen years old. But she is so very thin. She is not as tall as I expected her to be—she was a great gawky thing not so long ago I’m sure—but she is still taller than I am. With her spindly arms and her dark hair, she makes me think of a spider in her black gown. She is, of course, quite broken down by the loss of her father. They were so very close every since her mother passed, poor thing,

My arrival at the house for the first time will give you a complete picture of the state of things. My dear Simon, will you believe me when I say I was besieged before I ever made it in the door? A flock of sheep were climbing all over the steps and gnawing the grass plat. A careless shepherd lay on the stone wall with one hand on a carved flute and the other on a half eaten sandwich. I soon had him on his feet and demanded he take his animals away from the front door. To which he replied, he was paid, Mum, paid to be there! By Miss Celia herself. At which time my niece appeared at the door and assured me it was all according to a plan of hers, so that she wouldn’t have to pay a gardener.

Of course she explained all this right out in the open air, before God and the boy and the sheep and everybody. I promptly informed her that we did not discuss the management of the estate in such company, to which the boy replied, “The sheep won’t talk, Mum, I’ll make sure of that. They ain’t no wags.” Celia had the tactlessness to laugh. It was irritating beyond degree.

Celia served tea—in a chipped pot—with the most desolate biscuits—and carried in by an impertinent little girl from the village, who, she claimed, had an ill mother, and was working there for her mother’s sake. Such a lot of hogwash. I’m sure all these people are taking the most dreadful advantage of Celia. You used to call Hugo simple, but he was a paragon of experience compared to his daughter. She seems to think her servants are friends of hers, or perhaps wayward children who need looking after.

I never could abide people who made their servants into a sort of itinerant children. It is a proceeding I could never tolerate.

As far as I can tell, she has no friends. There is an old lady who visits her I am told. I understand Hugo asked her to attend to his daughter’s manners and morals. And although I have not met this Mrs. Rimsby, as that lady is on an extended tour of the North just now, she seems to have made some impression upon the girl. But Celia is really rather buried down here with her acre of house and the remains of her father’s curious expeditions. Therefore, it is incumbent on me to ask you to marry her.

You are the last of our relations who is unmarried, and surely at your time of life a wife would be desirable. You must have someone to look after you, Simon, and I assure you, old age is no matter to take lightly. She is a bit young, and not perhaps the most eligible of young ladies, but she is meek and kind-hearted and quite resourceful. Just the thing for your establishment in London, don’t you think?

* * *

Mr. Simon Barnes to Mrs. Henrietta Dover

Dear Henrietta,

you are an old woman indeed if you think I have the time to marry anyone. The ships may be at sea, but the paperwork they entail is enormous. The management of the trading company is in such a state that I practically live in my office. I take my meals here; I meet my partners here. A wife would find me a mere misery. I am married to my work, and am not likely to be tempted by a slip of a girl who is fond of sheep and without a fortune. Tell her to put on some flesh and go to Bath if she desires a husband.

* * *

Mrs. Henrietta Dover to Mr. Simon Barnes

Dear Simon,

my pen is positively shaking. I do hope you are able to read my scrawl, but the fact is, that we have been robbed! Are you not astonished? Celia is surprised also, but absolutely unwilling to blame any of the wastrels she employs. She and this shepherd boy are thick as thieves. Really, something funny there. She is always traipsing about with him and comes back with her petticoat in such a state! She sometimes carries a net over her shoulder. She claims to be ‘collecting’ things. Whatever for I cannot imagine.

And now this ‘thief’ or whoever it was, broke in during the night and opened the safe—how I do not pretend to know—and stole its contents. He obtained a few papers, of which Celia thinks she may have copies, a rather old family necklace of discolored pearls that no one really cared to wear, and nothing else, as far as I can tell. It is all most peculiar. I do believe I must ask you to come personally and investigate!! I feel most unsafe.

* * *

Mr. Simon Barnes to Mrs. Henrietta Dover

Dear Henrietta,

I see no need to be a silly old fool over a little thievery. Don’t you remember how Hugo spent all those years creeping about the South American rainforest? And the great to-do about those jewels he found? They are at Mansion-house now, but of course there had always been rumors that he kept some to himself. No doubt the story has got round once more and some enterprising idiot thought to profit by it. Be sure and advertise that there is NO treasure in the house and no one has ever found anything of value.

I may see you next week. Business brings me to your corner of England and if I have time—if, Henrietta—I may stop and see you and Celia. Of course, I remember her very well as a girl and look forward to seeing her again. As for her botanizing, Celia has always had a bent for collecting. She learnt it from her father.

* * *

Mr. Simon Barnes to Mr. Henri Favre

Dear Favre,

I believe I have need of your services once again. You may remember a good many years ago one Hugo Rutherford, who made his fortune bringing home jewels from the remoter parts of the Amazon basin? At least, he ought to have made his fortune. Instead, he retired to his ancient house with his daughter and practically disappeared from society. He is now dead, poor soul, and has left behind no trace of these precious minerals. I think they are diamonds, Favre. In fact, I am sure of it, from something Hugo said to me long ago. Unfortunately, someone else knows of them also and is looking for them. I am concerned that his daughter may not be as well protected as might be with diamond hunters circling the place like vultures. So, I would like you to pay them a little visit with me.

If you should decide to marry the girl, Favre, you might not be doing any harm. But if you attempt anything of a more continental nature with her—you shall hear from me.

* * *

Mr. Henri Favre to Mr. Simon Barnes

Dear Simon,

how you malign me! I would never dream of a dalliance with a relation of yours. Unless of course she is very pretty, in which case I shall do as I please. Diamonds, on the other hand, are another matter, and I shall do as you wish. Peculiar how so many men leave such matters to chance. I believe it is unique to a certain type of Englishman, to pretend that valuable things ought not to be treated as if they were of value. But then, if Englishmen did not do foolish things, I would be out of business. So perhaps it is just as well.

* * *

Miss Celia Rutherford to Mrs. Lydia Rimsby

Dear Mrs. Rimsby,

well, he has come at last. I always hoped he would. I know you’ve heard me talk about my cousin Simon many times, for he is practically the only family I have left, besides my aunt of course, and one of the few men that my father really loved. I do not suppose we are very close cousins. The connection is remote enough, but he figures large in my imagination, for he brought me a peach once, when I was eleven, and pushed me on a rope swing until I was too dizzy to walk. And then he sat up half the night talking with Papa and me and treating me as if I had a real share in the conversation, which I could not help liking. I have wished to see him again ever since.

You once asked how old he was. I asked my aunt Henrietta and she says he is almost thirty now. When he first arrived at the house, however, I thought he must be older than that. He is tall, but his shoulders stoop a little. He wears spectacles now, which he did not before, and there are bits of gray in his hair. Although I do not know that that signifies anything.

I happened to be in the hall when his carriage arrived and I’m afraid I was feeling quite lachrymose about Papa. But then I heard his step ringing on the stair, and I looked up, feeling quite apprehensive. Suppose he was actually quite different from how I remembered him? But he came straight across the room and took my hand and told me of his sorrow over Papa’s passing. He spoke at once of how good a man Papa was, which meant a great deal to me. There has been so much talk about how my father never amounted to what was expected of him, or never did make his fortune wandering about over the seven seas. Everyone seems to have expected something of him that he never expected of himself. And after all, I think Papa only aspired to be a good man, and he was. I was pleased that it did not go unnoticed by everyone.

Simon did not come alone, however. He brought a friend with him, one Mister Favre. I have not met many Frenchmen before, and find him a little intimidating. He is tall, and dark, and has remarkable black eyes that seem to follow one about the room. He keeps himself very well, dresses fashionably—at least I think so, not like the gentlemen-farmers here. His hands are prettily manicured, but I think he is also very strong, for we played croquet after lunch and he lost two balls by driving them too hard. He is also very curious about the house. He is always asking questions about who works here, and what rooms my father used most. A most curious gentleman.

My aunt disapproves of him. I hope he stays. I hope they both stay. I am of course immensely thankful for Aunt Henrietta’s care, but she is a trifle hard work as a companion. It is very pleasant to feel that I have more amiable companions about the house. But don’t tell my Aunt Henrietta that, if you please.

You always told me not to write anything in a letter that required a promise of concealment. I ought to discard that last part, but then I must discard the whole letter. So I will just have to trust to your kind indulgence for my folly.

* * *

Mrs. Lydia Rimsby to Miss Celia Rutherford

My Dear Celia,

I am quite capable of distinguishing between malicious gossip and the confession of a weary heart. I know how patiently you bear with your silly aunt, and I hope and trust your cousin’s presence is a comfort to you. As for Mr. Favre—I wonder what his motives are. I know you told me that your father disposed of all those diamonds he found long ago, but I have often wondered. There were certainly rumors after his break with the head of Mansion-house. I would be careful of this Mr. Favre. He may have his own motives for being curious about the house.

* * *

Miss Celia Rutherford to Mrs. Lydia Rimsby

Dear Mrs. Rimsby,

I shall be on my guard against Mr. Favre, but really, it is quite difficult to be on guard with someone who is so pleasant. Mr. Favre is a great naturalist, you see, and has begun taking me out with him in the mornings. He hasn’t much knowledge of the fauna in this part of England, but he knows a great deal about comparative anatomy. He is teaching me so much.

Only, it is all a little spoiled because I do not think Simon likes me riding out with him. At first he seemed pleased that we were getting along. And he seemed pleased also at Mr. Favre’s curiosity about the house. They have both been unaccountably curious. Unless they are looking for diamonds. That probably does account for it. But as they ask all the wrong questions, I doubt they will have much success. They are looking for Papa’s little hiding places—he had a good many of those—but they don’t use logic. Papa was a such a very logical person.

But yesterday when I came in—well, it was a little unfortunate. Mr. Favre had shot a fox while we were out in the field, and sat down at once to skin and clean it. He offered to let me help. I was a little dismayed at first, you know, but there is such a fascination for me in peeling back skin and fur and seeing the inner workings of the animal. It was quite remarkable. Mr. Favre said I was a very apt pupil. We washed well at the pump after. But when we came into the house—well—Mr. Favre kissed my hand at parting. I think he was only being a bit light-hearted. He had been paying me little compliments all morning, but I do not think they meant much. And then Simon walked in just as Favre got hold of my hand. They exchanged an odd look. Simon did not seem pleased. It made me sad to think that I may have disappointed him.

* * *

Mr. Henri Favre to Mr. Simon Barnes

Dear Barnes,

don’t think I don’t know why you contrived this little errand for me to London. You think I am spending too much time with the girl. I warned you that if I found her to my taste I would act accordingly, so you ought not to be surprised. It is true that she is not of the sort one usually calls ‘pretty’. A silly, light-hearted word well suited to a good many silly, light-hearted females.

Your little Celia is something more than that, though you may be too preoccupied to see it. She is a young woman still, but she possesses a great deal of steel. I have never before seen a woman cut up a fox.

She has deft, graceful hands, Simon. Watch her pour out the tea, or tie up a bandage on that scullion working in her kitchen, or some such humble task. Such fingers! The glossy hair, the undeniable figure, the erect way she carries her head—with a little cultivation, a little attention, she would indeed be a beautiful creature. It would be a very real pleasure to teach her something more than flowers and bones. Oh, a very great pleasure. Come Simon, let me come back to the house. There are the diamonds after all. How else will you locate them?

* * *

Mr. Simon Barnes to Mr. Henri Favre

Dear Favre,

I will find them without your help. Indeed, if they were found, at the cost of Celia’s innocence, they would be worth no more than dust.

* * *

Miss Celia Rutherford to Mrs. Lydia Rimsby

Dear Mrs. Rimsby,

it seems Mr. Favre is gone for good, but as Simon is still here, I don’t mind a great deal. It is so very pleasant to sit with him in the evenings and talk. You know I sometimes wondered if I imagined too much into that one evening, when he stayed with us and talked so long with Papa. But now I don’t think so. He is a very interesting person to talk to. He is a good storyteller, and he laughs at my own stories—in all the right places. Papa is the only one I know who would ever do that.

He used to be full of questions about Papa and the house, but he seems less inquisitive about that now. We walk about the garden in the evenings—the long summer days make this so very enjoyable—and we talk about the people who live on the estate. The cottagers, the rector, the fish monger, all of them have their own peculiar drolleries. And their foibles too, which occasionally require diplomatic management. One of dear Papa’s faults was that he never took quite enough interest in the people here. Even when he settled down at home, his mind was always on remote places. I was really pleased that Simon showed an interest in some of my local farmers and their families. And he has given me good advice on some of the aspects of farm management that have puzzled me.

For his part, he tells me about all the curious characters he meets in London. And he tells me stories about his own childhood. I wish I could have seen him as a child, running about the countryside with his hoop and his dogs. It all sounds a pleasant contrast to his London life now.

He does not seem to stoop as much, or even to need the spectacles, unless he is reading. Aunt Henrietta says that the country air does him good, and I am inclined to think she may be right. He certainly looks well. There is a glow to his face now, and a charm in his manners, that was a little more latent at first. Indeed, I do not miss Mr. Favre at all. In fact, I much prefer Simon’s blunt honesty to the other’s insinuating compliments.

We are invited to a dance at the Hays. He says he will take me. Do you know, I found myself thinking five times in one day about what I will wear? I have been going to dances at the Hays since I was a child and I don’t think I thought more than twice about what I should wear in all that time. But now the question seems full of import.

The fact is—I rather like the idea of dancing with Simon. He has asked me already, you see, for the first two dances. I am not a very good dancer, and I shall be so plain in my black gown. I should like it to be special, this dance. I do so like Simon being here, but he is always saying how much he needs to return to his work in London. I suppose he will go, eventually, and then, well, I will have this dance to remember, at least.

Dear Mrs. Rimsby,

how foolish are all our hopes and plans for the future! The day of the dance at the Hays, who should turn up but Mr. Favre! And to my complete bewilderment, he brought with him a necklace, as a gift to me, and insisted I put it on before the music even began.

As soon as I took my place beside Simon in the dance, he asked about that necklace and I told him where it came from, and the way he looked at me! I cannot explain what was in that look, but it made me flush up horribly and feel so hot inside! I wished I had never touched the necklace.

All through this long anticipated dance, Simon hardly said a word to me or looked at me, except to say once that I was a very good dancer, which I’m sure was just a meaningless nothing. He had a word with Favre afterwards, and then spent the evening sitting in a chair in the corner.

Favre asked me to dance, which I at first refused, but he kept asking—insisted he had come all this way solely for the pleasure of dancing with me. I felt it would only confer greater distinction if I refused, so I did dance with him. He was charming, which was pleasant at first, so I accepted a second time, but I grew tired of him. I spent most of the evening in the corner, wishing Simon were talking with me, and not glowering from that chair.

He bid Favre a rather angry good-bye and helped me into the carriage himself. We rode home in absolute silence.

* * *

Mr.Simon Barnes to Mrs. Henrietta Dover

Dear Henrietta,

as you probably now know, I am returning to London. It was but a fool’s hope. I ought to have known, as it was your idea. I am too old for her, and too stuffy and dry and dull. Perhaps it is a blessing in disguise that Favre turned up at that dance, for it showed me plainly how my suit with her is likely to fair. She is a gifted young woman, with great powers of mind, a gentle spirit, and sure to blossom into a very attractive young woman. I suggest you take her to London and buy her some decent clothes. She is a far greater treasure than anything else you are likely to find in that house.

You may do as you like about Mr. Favre, so long as she is properly chaperoned. However, she could do a great deal better. For my part, I am only concerned for her happiness.

* * *

Miss Celia Rutherford to Mrs. Lydia Rimsby

Dear Mrs. Rimsby,

do you think it would be too out of the way if I wrote Simon a letter? He is my cousin, you know, an old connection. I do not think it would be wrong. I think it is only my own motives that make me suspect myself. I miss him very much. If he is content with a remote cousinly connection, I suppose I ought to be content too. But I keep crying when ever I think that it may be years and years before I see him again. And then I begin writing imaginary letters in my mind, full of sentimental turns of phrase. Oh, this will never do. I am being so weak.

Never mind. I will follow your advice, given to me when I was in a coolr mood, to think on what I can do, as well as what I wish or worry over. I don’t know if you bother to keep my letters, but I hope you do not keep this one. I have no one else to confess such weakness to, you see, so I rely on you.

* * *

Mrs. Henrietta Dover to Mr. Simon Barnes

Dear Simon,

it is the very strangest thing, but I must tell you about it. Celia has lost her mind. She is throwing a party. Yes, a great elaborate party.

How are you paying for this? I demand. Oh, never worry about that, Aunt, I have a little money set aside. Then why are you using it on a party? Oh, I am just a little dreary, Aunt. I need a change. Perhaps I could go to London? She asks. No, she cannot go to London by herself, and my health certainly would not support London in the summer! It is not to be imagined.

Mr. Favre came to see her last week. He had a demure tea with us in the parlor, but when he suggested riding out with her, she refused.

Furthermore, the shepherd boy is behaving very oddly, for he has invaded the house. He has not brought the sheep in, but he has been at work in the library, building some sort of peculiarity. It’s all according to Celia’s instructions. I do not like it a bit.

* * *

Miss Celia Rutherford to Mr. Simon Barnes

Dear Simon,

I am writing to you to invite you to come to a party. It is a diamond hunter’s party. Is it not original? All our talk about Papa’s adventures gave me the idea. There are so many repairs that the old place needs, so I thought this would be a way to earn a little money to restore it. I am inviting all the friends I can think of to pay a small fee and come and search the house for diamonds. Of course there will be some odd trinkets and paste diamonds here and there to tease people along. I expect it will be great fun. Have you any wealthy friends who would like the idea? I hope you will invite them. I hope you will come yourself. The house is not the same without you.

Dearest Celia,

what an atrocious, horrible, ridiculous idea. You are inviting avaricious strangers into your home to rummage for Hugo’s jewels? Propagating this old story about treasure in the house, even though there has already been one break-in attempt? You must call it off at once.

Dear Simon,

no, no, it’s a very good idea. I’ve thought it all out. If people think it is all just a bit comical, a trifle of entertainment, of course the real thieves will know there is nothing to be found. Why hold diamond hunting parties if there are actual diamonds? Everyone will know I am poor and have nothing. It will be quite obvious. Aunt Henrietta will be a little scandalized, but I think she is secretly looking forward to the whole thing. She has ordered a new dress. We cannot disappoint Aunt Henrietta, now can we?

Dear Celia,

bother Henrietta. What are you up to, my dear? Are you quite sure that there are no diamonds? Suppose someone really did find something of value and you lost it forever, all due to this silly whim? It is your future that concerns me, you know. You have no dowry to speak of. You would have so many more choices in life with a little money behind you. Listen, my dear, I will bring you to London myself if you are in need of a change. We will find a companion for you and you can stay at my house. Don’t waste your father’s fortune on frivolity.

Dear Simon,

may I really come and stay with you? Do you want me to be there? I would dearly like to come. I should like to see your house, and dine with you every day. I am not quite sure how to call off this party however, as I have already invited a good many people and received their payment. All the arrangements are made. Aunt Henrietta has even hired a hair dresser.

As for the diamonds, well, I know all about them. At least, I’m fairly sure I know where to look for them. No one else will bother looking for them there. So there is nothing to worry about. And, you know, as for my dowry, well. What’s the use of talking about that? No one I want to marry will wish to marry me, so the dowry is of no account.

Dear Celia,

you are far sillier than I thought. Why is it that you think no one will wish to marry you? Are you blind? Ignorant? Stupid? You are pretty, my dear, though you might not think so. And graceful. And tender-hearted. And kind. You are talented, and humorous, and clever. When you know more of society you will meet dozens of fellows you would be delighted to marry, and they will be delighted to marry you. Don’t be so stupid.

If you must have this party, I will come myself. But I do not like it. If you took any account of my opinion—but why should you? You are Hugo’s daughter, after all, and I suppose you must go your own way in the world, just like he did. I’ll not hinder you from seeking your own happiness. If happiness is to be found in a diamond hunter’s party, then we shall all get a dose of it.

* * *

Miss Celia Rutherford to Mrs. Lydia Rimsby

Dear Mrs. Rimsby,

if I sleep with a man’s letter under my pillow, it surely means I’m in love, doesn’t it? Even if he calls me stupid? I have, at least, obtained my wish. He will be coming, and I will get to see him again. I only hope he still extends the invitation to me to stay with him in London. Though perhaps, if it is merely a meaningless kindness on his part, it might be more pain than pleasure. He may not like me so well in London, as he will be occupied with his business and fashionable friends, and I will subside into a mere hanger-on. I can already hear the introductions: Oh yes, that’s the cousin, who lingers about the house, passing palely between rooms while he lives a vital life elsewhere in the great, teeming city. Oh dear.

This party is fairly launched, you know. I expect it will be ridiculous. I hope you will be back in time to come. Some of the girls from the village are helping me decorate, and your housekeeper helped me with the pastries. I think it is likely to be a spectacular failure, I keep telling myself. For then I can’t be too, too disappointed.

* * *

Mr. Favre to Mr. Simon Barnes

Well, Barnes, you will be delighted to learn that Celia has invited me to stay at the house once more. She herself is not here, however, but is staying with this old lady, Mrs. Rimsby, who is back from her Northern tour. I am pressed into business for Celia on the most absurd task. I am to host her party.

She is dressing me up in an outrageous get-up, complete with turban and turkish rug. I tell her I look nothing like an Amazonian. She says of course not. The Amazonians wear almost no clothes at all and I could hardly appear that way. I do not think she even blushed. As a matter of fact, I have only seen her blush once, and that was when she stood up to dance with you. What did you say to her at that dance, by the way?

Furthermore, she has concocted these odd wooden boxes, or at least her shepherd has. Not boxes, really, frames, covered in cloth, and full of holes. You can reach your hands in, but they only sink into little pockets full of beans or buttons and tease you into thinking you will find something in them. There are one or two treasures in each.

She is grown quite strange now. Subdued, in a controlled sort of way. Her eyes glitter. She is up to something. I have had some thoughts of proposing to her. Yes, I. Proposing marriage to an Englishwoman. There are great possibilities in her.

She does not appear to see great possibilities in me, however. I’m afraid that were I to offer my hand and heart, she would laugh. Not because she is cruel—there is not cruelty in her, but because she finds me just a little amusing.

I think you should return so that you may be a foil to me. I need a little contrast to bolster my own case.

I have been having a look round, you can be sure, but no diamonds yet.

* * *

Mr. Simon Barnes to his father

My dear father,

I promised to tell you a little of this party. The Diamond Hunter’s Party, Celia calls it. It was full of, shall we say, surprises? Quite full. The first was the house. She somehow contrived to decorate it with green paper leaves and red paper lianas, so that the whole place had the effect of a hot house or jungle. A great stain-glassed lantern tinted the room in swaths of color, which made the whole thing thoroughly exotic. I have never seen anything quite like it. Of course her father had brought back a good many artifacts from his travels and these were on display also, giving the place the most foreign effect.

I was prepared for the appearance of Favre in his outlandish get-up, but not for Celia. Little Celia, I used to call her. She was dressed in black of course, for she is still in mourning, but her hair was up with artificial diamonds in it, and the dress was a slim black velvet one. The colored lantern made her appear blue at the top of the steps. But after she descended she passed into a warm yellow light and she appeared to positively radiate warmth. I am not exaggerating when I say that the crowd absolutely parted for her as she came down the stairs. She had such presence. I was astonished. So much so that when she came directly up to me and greeted me, I simply stared at her, as if I did not know her. I felt I did not. Where was the little waif that I had pushed on the rope swing? Where the pale girl who chattered with me about the shepherd and his loves?

A little uncertainty came into her eyes, but she mastered it at once, turned away, and in a strong and lovely voice, invited her guests to commence seeking diamonds. The party was, I think, a success. Numerous little fake treasures were unearthed among the paper leaves and odd artifacts on the walls, and turned up in the wooden machines she had devised. There was a great deal of merriment. The Hays, the rector, and many of her other friends came and seemed pleased to be there. She is a general favorite in the neighborhood, I think. Of course I had invited a good many friends from London, who found the whole thing piquant.

Henrietta was the most remarkable of all, for she appeared in an elaborate pink dress. She had put off her mob cap for the first time in twenty years, and had her gray hair styled into a great column, adorned with little bird feathers. She appeared to me positively delighted with the effect she had achieved. She was convinced, I think, that she was hostess of the entire event, a peacock in borrowed plumes, but an indulged one.

At length, the guests began to depart. Henrietta fell asleep in a dining room chair and Favre discarded his turban and rug. She came up to me at last. I’m afraid I spent most of the evening watching her, wondering if I had been mistaken. The way she had come directly to greet me, cleaving through all that press of people—the way she had smiled! Well! It is always so easy to hope where one wishes. I did not want to be led astray.

It had taken a great deal of effort to haul myself away to London and make myself stay there. I was so sure it would only make us both miserable and destroy a genuine friendship, one of the few either of us has, if I were to make my feelings known.

But here she was, taking my arm like an intimate friend, asking if I had enjoyed myself, hoping sincerely that it had met my approval. I don’t know what I said, but I certainly drew her closer to me and held her fixed at my side. She did not object. That was something.

We went to the garden, softened by a haze-wrapped moon, and for a moment I felt my fears, rather than my hopes, were realized. Favre was already there, seated on a bench. He rose at once and came up to us, as if by appointment, and with that in his face that suggested a great secret about to be revealed.

“Well, Favre,” said I, and I released Celia’s arm, in case she wanted it for someone else. “You have something to tell me I think.”

“I do. Yes, I do. I hope you will not take it amiss.” Then, contrary to my expectation, he turned to Celia. “It may be, perhaps, that you do not know precisely why I was invited to your home at the first. I was presented to you as a friend, and indeed,” he took her hand for a moment, “I hope you will count me as a friend.”

He turned and strolled away, took a cigar from his pocket and lit it, then returned.

“Perhaps you are not aware,” he continued, “That I have worked for Simon before, to learn a little about a potential business partner. I had the good fortune of uncovering that gentleman’s unscrupulous business practices and saved your cousin from a bad investment. Therefore, he invited me to visit you, in hopes of finding these fabled diamonds.”

Celia frowned.

He continued, though without ever glancing at me. “That is not why I came to the dance at the Hays, nor why I came to your home when you invited me. That was sincere liking, Little One. Most sincere. But, however, I did not forget what Simon had asked me to do. While you were staying out of the house, with Mrs. Rimsby, I made some, shall we say, rather thorough investigations. And I found something.”

“Not the diamonds?” I demanded, my impatience becoming intolerable.

“No, not diamonds. Something else.”

From his pocket he drew a necklace. The necklace of flawed pearls stolen from Hugo’s safe.

“Where ever did you find it?” Celia asked.

“In your aunt’s room. Stuck to the underside of her bed with sticking plaster.”

“Do you mean to say that my Aunt Henrietta robbed my father’s safe?”

“It was Henrietta who told me about the break in,” I said. “She reported it to me in her letter. Why would she tell me a thief broke in when she had been doing the thievery herself? What thief reports her own crime?”

“A rather clever one. Mrs. Henrietta Dover possesses more brains than one would think. What was the result of her little report to you?”

“I grew worried and came to the house myself. And I brought you.”

”Just so. As she had failed to find the jewels herself, she called in help. I was not so sure about her myself, until she offered me a share of the diamonds if I found them for her.”

“She did what?”

”Oh, a day or two ago, when no one else was in the house. Your family seems to have quite a turn for business,” he said slyly, glancing at Celia.

“Good Heavens,” I said, still in awe. “She must have wanted the diamonds for herself. Well, of course she did. She has lived on a small fixed income for many years and has always disliked it. Of course the ghastly old hen wouldn’t care if she were robbing Celia for her own ends.”

“Oh dear. How dreadful. Poor Aunt Henrietta,” said Celia.

“You will take the pearls?”

“Yes,” Celia said, putting them into her pocket. “The less said about this the better I think. I’d rather no one said anything to her about it.”

“If she were to find anything else—this would be leverage of a sort.”

“She will not find anything else,” Celia said, smiling.

“You know where the diamonds are, don’t you?” I said.

“I think they are quite safe.”

“But—where?” Favre asked.

“Come into the house and I will show you.”

Once in the great hall, all bathed in colored light, she opened a panel in the wall—one so carefully concealed that I never knew it was there. There was a crank within and she began to turn it vigorously. At first, nothing seemed to be happening. Then the strange colored lights began to change. I looked up and saw that the stained-glass lantern was sinking, its chain extending from the ceiling. It lowered until it was at my shoulder.

“I did not know for sure until today, when I lit this lantern.” She removed the cover and offered it to us—upside down. On the underside, in the corners of the lantern, where no one could see from the outside, were affixed the diamonds. Four of them. They must have been worth over a thousand pounds a piece.

“A gift, Papa said, from a native chief. Papa helped them repair their rope bridge.”

She blew out the lantern—There were already additional candles burning in the room, for the light of the colored lantern had been sinking for some time—and returned the cover, and the diamonds, to their place. Favre turned the crank for her, restoring her treasure to its place above our heads.

“I am glad to know your fortune is safe,” said Favre. “I recommend, however, that you keep it in the bank, instead of in the ceiling.”

I asked her then, if she suspected the diamonds were there, why hadn’t she used them for herself? Why scrape along here in so threadbare a way when a fortune lay hidden away?

“I don’t think Papa every cared about being rich, or meant for me to be so. He wished me to be independent, as he was. That is what they are for.”

“And what do you wish for yourself, Little One?” Favre asked.

She looked down at her hands. She had taken off her gloves to handle the lantern, and I watched her twist her fingers and felt that here again was my little Celia, the cheerful loving girl, and yet imbued with the graces of a woman, sincere, brave, full of heart. I looked earnestly at her, waiting for her answer, for I felt at once that in Celia’s wishes lay all the chance of my future happiness.

But she did not look at me. She turned her eyes to Favre. She held out her hand and said sadly, “It does not matter very much what I wish for, does it? For I am afraid I shall never have it. Perhaps we all simply wish for what we cannot have.”

He took her hand, bowed over it and kissed it. “Sometimes, Little One, and perhaps so, in my case. But not always. I hope not, for you.”

He turned from her, and turned his back to me also. He slipped out the back doors, still open to the garden, and then out the garden gate. Celia watched him go, with a silent sigh that nonetheless raised her shoulders a little.

“Celia,” I said, a little astonished at the sound of my own voice.

“Yes?” She turned, looking up at me.

“He has gone away disappointed. You have just dismissed him.”

“I suppose I have.”

“Would you like to call him back? He will come I’m sure, if you want him.”

“No, I don’t want him to come back.”

I stepped forward and got hold of her hand. “What do you want?”

She didn’t say anything. She just stood there looking up at me. I could not tell what was in her mind. I let go of her hand. She must think me a fool, I thought. She will dismiss me now, too. This slender young woman has become so potent in her lovely sweetness that she could smote my heart at a word. What an utter fool I felt, trying to make love to her.

“You would like to come to London, I imagine,” I said in an empty voice.

“I—don’t know. Perhaps.”

“Whatever you would like. You need only name it. Or if you wish to repair the house, I’ll do so. There is no need for these diamond hunting parties. I can pay for the repairs myself.”

“Oh! That isn’t why I had the diamond hunting party. Not really.”

“No? What was all this for then?”

“Oh—well.”

“You know I’ve never liked these sorts of games. There is some end you wish to achieve. Will you tell me at once what it is?”

She took out her handkerchief and wiped an eye. “You’ll think me a silly little girl—You were back in your London world where I couldn’t follow, and I thought, if I could contrive a way to bring you back, just so I could see you a little—” Her voice quivered as she spoke.

I could neither move nor speak, for I could not be sure I had heard her right.

She sniffed and wiped another eye, and stared solemnly at the floor. In a sorrowful voice, she said, “ It’s only that I missed you so—”

She might have said more but I didn’t hear the words, or didn’t need them, for I got her in my arms then and felt her warm cheek on my shoulder.

Well, I need hardly tell the rest. We have had a good friendship, and will have an even better marriage. The company may go to the devil. I will have an estate to manage now. And a wife.

* * *

Miss Celia Rutherford to Mrs. Rimsby

Dear Mrs. Rimsby,

can you believe it? Simon has sold his share in his shipping company!

“I have managed foreign trade enough,” he said. “It’s time someone took this estate in hand. You have done admirably, Celia, but the sheep do not make very good gardeners.”

To own the truth, I believe his income will be considerably less than it was in London. But as we will have all that we want and need, I do not think either of us can really regret the change.

Aunt Henrietta means to retire to a house by the sea. It is for the sake of her health, he says, but I suspect other motives! I have sold one of the diamonds, you see, and have given her the proceeds. She will have wealth enough to live less penuriously, and Simon encourages her to settle somewhere else. But for my part, I shall always be grateful to her for trying to steal Papa’s diamonds, for what else could have brought Simon and I together?

The End

About the Author

Born and raised in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, LeAnne McKinley barely finished her English degree on time, achieving the last pesky credit hour with a 50 page paper on the cultural significance of the sea monster in Lake Champlain. She packed up and headed west to the dusty feet of the Sandia Mountains in New Mexico, where she met her beloved husband and embarked on motherhood. She now spends her free time reading Charlotte Bronte, Jane Austen, C.S. Lewis and Dorothy Sayers, among others. She currently lives on an island in the Gulf of Mexico (okay, its connected to Texas by a bridge), with her husband and playful children who have yet to learn that when Mommy is writing, she is not available to answer the question why.

You can connect with me on:

https://leannemckinley.com

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Also by Leann McKinley

The Hour of Fatality: A Jane Rochester Mystery

https://www.amazon.com/Hour-Fatality-Jane-Rochester-Mystery-ebook/dp/B07VT5J4KV?ref_=ast_author_mpb

Jane Eyre’s story continues…with a mysterious rumor and a dangerous secret.

Charlotte Bronte’s famous heroine is married at last to Mr. Rochester. But now that Thornfield has burned to the ground, Jane and her husband must accept an invitation to Ingram Park, home of the contemptuous Blanche Ingram. When Jane finds a stranger in an empty grove - a bullet wound in his chest and a peculiar confession on his lips - she must find out which one of Ingram Park’s residents is willing to risk a man’s life.

If she fails, it may prove to be her most fatal hour.