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  We set out tomorrow by ferry to the mainland, and I am told that I will be able to get letters out to you over the next week. After that I expect we will be so deep into the heart of Africa that I will not be able to send many more communications.

  What an adventure I am privy to here, my lovely ladies. The source of the great River Nile has eluded man for centuries. I have a good feeling about this.

  Pray for our success,

  Papa

  Bess quietly prayed for him the first thing every morning and the last thing each night. It occurred to her that poor Agnes May Brewster could have been a slave on one of those boats and thrown her bottle over the side of the ship. But then she realized that she would not have been born with such an Americanized name, nor would the birth note have been written in English. The more she thought about it the more convinced she became that Agnes May was indeed a slave born on an American plantation. She added her to her daily prayers.

  Gertrude was nowhere to be found the next morning when Bess came down for tea and breakfast. But hearing hushed conversation coming from the kitchen, she stopped short—Elsie was talking with a man whose voice she didn’t recognize. She tiptoed up to the pantry and stood behind the door where she could see and hear every word through the crack. She caught her breath when she saw Elsie at the kitchen table with several pieces of the Kents’ sterling-silver service spread out before her and a pudgy little man with round spectacles and red suspenders carefully picking over each piece. Bess hadn’t seen this silver for a long time. Along with many family treasures, they had been carefully stored away up in the attic.

  “Hmmm,” the man muttered. “Very nice. These have been in the Kent family for many generations, I am sure.” He turned each item over and carefully examined the engraved marking on the back. Many of them, Bess knew, bore her mother’s or father’s family crest.

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” assured Elsie.

  Bess wanted to rush from her hiding place and scoop up her family’s heirlooms from their grimy little paws. What were they doing?

  “These will fetch a handsome price in London on Bond Street. Would you like me to pay you in pounds, Your Grace?” the man asked.

  “That will do nicely,” Elsie replied. “And remember, do not go back to the shop where you sold the tea set and painting! You must be more careful where you place these things. Only use the most discreet buyers. I cannot risk having items traced back to me again.”

  “Don’t concern yourself. I will be the very picture of discretion,” he assured her.

  With that, the Bond Street dealer reached into his leather satchel and counted out several bills, which Elsie tucked into the watch pocket of her skirt. He left with the sterling that had been in Bess’s family for more than a hundred years.

  As he hustled off, Bess snuck away, furious and shaking, leaving her stepmother to count her money.

  Harry, eh? Bess thought bitterly. She quickly realized it would be best to wait for Papa to come home to reveal what Elsie was up to. He would know what was missing from the attics and could follow up on the fellow from Bond Street. She knew that going against her stepmother probably wouldn’t work. It never did. But she was hopeful. Perhaps, she thought, Papa will finally see Elsie for what she is and banish her from our lives.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  There was no fanfare when the Duke’s second letter arrived. The girls found it on the table by the front door when they came home from doing errands in the village on a late October day. It had been opened, and they could smell Elsie’s perfume on its pages.

  “It’s as if she doesn’t even miss him!” Sarah said sadly.

  “I am not so sure he misses her either,” Bess answered before slowly reading every word aloud.

  September 26, 1855

  My dear Elsie, Bess, and Sarah,

  We are only beginning our expedition and already the things I have witnessed leave me breathless. First the sunrise. The sun doesn’t just rise in Africa. It bursts up from the horizon in the most brilliant crimson color you can imagine, and a rosy gold washes over the earth. It lasts a short while before the sun fully rises, and then the blistering heat sets in.

  Last night we reached a small river and camped nearby. Porters had to stand guard by the river all night, as it is infested with huge, ferocious, man-eating crocodiles that slither out of the water silently when they think an easy meal is near. Joshu, one of the porters, told me that his mother and little sister were both taken by crocs as they approached the river to bathe, gather water, and wash clothes.

  I’m told they snap their giant jaws around a person’s middle and drag them under water to drown them in what the natives call a “death roll.” The beast thrashes wildly until its victim succumbs, and after it’s eaten its meal, it stores what’s left of the body in underwater tree roots so it may return when it’s hungry again. Gruesome business! I must confess, I do not sleep well near water here.

  We also came across the rotting carcasses of five large elephants, all missing their ivory tusks. We assumed the traders we saw when we first arrived or others like them had slaughtered them. It was very sad, as there were two little baby elephants trying to get their mothers to stand up. They would not leave and made the most sorrowful moans. I asked one of our guides what would happen to the little ones without their parents to protect them, and he told me lions and hyenas would take them within days. I question the value of those combs, canes, knives, and jewelry made of ivory.

  I cannot help but wonder why our Lord bothers to make so much beauty and then allows it to be so violently destroyed.

  I am growing quite fond of Joshu. He is approximately thirty years of age and as black as a starless night sky. He is quite bright and knows a bit of English. It turns out he has led several expeditions before. He is, as I explained, motherless. His father was stolen by slave traders years before his mother was eaten, and he presumes the poor man is picking cotton on some Southern plantation in the United States.

  As for our progress, we hope that by mapping out a fair piece of land around Lake Victoria, even if we are not successful in finding the river’s source, we will have made it a great deal easier for the next explorers who come here.

  I will end now as it has begun to rain and the porter who is to return to the coast must leave immediately. We few Brits send him off with our letters home.

  I hope this reaches you all safe and well. I look forward to returning to England by the first of March. I shall bring lovely gifts from Africa for all my girls. Until then, take care of one another.

  Pray for our success,

  Papa

  As she did each night before sleep, Bess prayed that the next day might be a good one for her father and that he would be safe, the Lord watching over him. She included her now-nightly prayer for Agnes May, and tonight, for the first time, she asked her Heavenly Father to please watch over the elephants, too.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “If I prepare toast with strawberry jam, will you eat that?” Gertrude asked. “At least a mouthful? You need to have something for your breakfast.” Bess knew she was troubling Gertrude and that she needed some nourishment. For the last week, she hadn’t had an appetite, and more often than not, the cook caught her staring off into space, fighting back tears. Bess wondered again if anyone would believe her over the duchess if she told about Elsie selling things off. Papa would, she knew. With each passing day, she was even more certain her best hope was to wait for his return to expose Elsie.

  “You know, my lady, if I may be so bold, I lost my own mother when I was about your age,” Gertrude confided. “Got farmed out to be a servant when my own father couldn’t take care of my brothers and me.”

  Bess patted Gertrude’s hand. “That’s kind of you to share, Gertrude.”

  “Just made these this morning,” the cook said, nudging a plate of still-warm scones in front of Bess.

  “I’m really not hungry,” Bess said softly, rolling her carved heart between her th
umb and index finger. “But thank you.”

  “Well, if you change your mind.” Gertrude placed a tea cloth over the plate and left it on the table.

  “What is that you’re fiddling with?” she asked as Bess rolled the trinket absentmindedly between her fingers.

  “My worry stone,” Bess answered.

  “Looks like an old fruit pit to me,” Gertrude said.

  “Hmm. I guess many things look like one thing to some people and quite another to someone else,” Bess mused, staring off.

  Gertrude shook her head and chuckled. “Well, now you’ve lost me. But if it makes you happy, it’s not causing any harm.”

  Bess pushed around the plate of scones until something in the corner of the kitchen caught her eye.

  “What’s this?” she asked, eyeing a box next to the back door near the pantry. Crumpled pieces of old newspaper stuck out of the top.

  “Her Grace placed it there,” Gertrude answered. “Same as she did with a box last week. Since His Grace left, she’s put one out every two weeks or so for some fellow who arrives on a Tuesday.”

  Bess tucked the carved heart in her watch pocket, bent down next to the box, and unwrapped the newspaper. She recognized pieces of Kent family crystal that had been stored in the attic.

  A small oil painting was tucked underneath the crystal. On the bottom were two tiny velvet cases. The first one contained a pair of her late mother’s ruby earrings. She froze when she opened the second one. It contained the pearl-encrusted gold cross that Elsie had taken from her doll’s neck. She turned it over and looked at her mother’s initials, DSS J. K., engraved on the back. It was one of the last things that bound her to her mother. Shaking with rage, she carefully rewrapped everything except the small case that held the cross, which she tucked into her pocket. She took the box and disappeared to hide it in one of the unused rooms in the back of the house.

  As she left, she looked at Gertrude and put her finger to her lips.

  The cook stared down into the stewpot she was stirring and nodded, murmuring, “I didn’t see a thing.”

  “When she finds out you took the box she’ll be so angry.” Sarah ran alongside her sister later that morning as they pushed down the path toward Singing Beach. Rain had fallen all through the night, muddying the fields.

  “And what is she going to say to Papa when he returns? ‘I was selling off your family’s heirlooms and Bess caught me?’ She won’t say anything, Sarah. But I won’t let her sell anything else, and she cannot sell Mummy’s cross. She can’t have it! Wait till Papa returns and I tell him what she has been up to.”

  “Oh, Bess, what if she tries again to get Harry in trouble?” Sarah cried. “I couldn’t stand that.”

  “I know, Sarah.” Bess’s voice was full of resolve. “We’ve both grown very fond of our Harry Fletcher.”

  “She’ll go through your things and find it,” Sarah said. “She always does. She snoops through everything.”

  “Let her snoop,” Bess said defiantly.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You’ll see soon enough,” Bess said, rushing along the paths so quickly that Sarah was having difficulty keeping up.

  “Where did you put the box?” Sarah asked. “She’ll demand you tell her where you hid it.”

  “In one of the guest-bedroom closets. Maybe I’ll tell her about the box, but never Mother’s cross,” Bess said. “Keep the matches and the candle dry, Sarah. That’s your duty.” Bess had tucked an old white candle and several matches inside a bag and stuffed them inside Sarah’s dress before sneaking out the back of Attwood.

  They ran through the orchards where the apple trees, shrouded in November fog, loomed like gray ghosts. They reached Singing Beach just as dark clouds began to appear over the ocean and whitecaps raced across the surface. They would have to complete their task quickly. If it started to storm in earnest they would be expected to return to the house immediately, or someone would be sent to fetch them. Bess removed the rocks from the little cave and pulled out the bottle with Agnes May Brewster’s name on the torn paper still rolled up inside. After pulling out the stopper, she closed her eyes, kissed the engraved gold cross on its chain, and dropped it inside the bottle, tightly re-corking it.

  “What about the carved heart, Bess?” Sarah’s eyes were wide.

  “Elsie wouldn’t care about that, but I do. It must have meant something to Agnes May. I won’t keep her name hostage much longer, but I’m saving her heart so I always remember her. She must be very courageous. I’ll carry her heart close to mine to remind myself that I, too, must be just as courageous.”

  “You think she really is a colored slave, then?” Sarah asked.

  “I think it’s a reasonable possibility. Now hand me the bag, Sarah, and hold the bottle sideways. Hold it steady.”

  Sarah did as she was told and watched as Bess struck the first match, held it to the candle’s wick, and let the melted wax drip over the bottle’s cork.

  “Don’t drop hot wax on my hand, Bess.”

  “Then stop shaking, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

  “What will you do with it now?” Sarah asked.

  “I don’t know—I need time to think. I’ll put it back in the nook for the time being. But I’ve been worrying about the damp and the rain. Chap says one reason it made it intact from wherever it came from is because it was sealed well with cork and wax. I won’t let anything happen to it.”

  Bess tucked the sealed bottle far back in the little cave, then pulled Sarah along by the hand as they raced back to Attwood.

  Chapter Thirty

  Elsie appeared in the kitchen that afternoon as Gertrude was putting a lid on the evening’s stew. Bess was sitting at the table sipping a cup of tea and working on her knitting. Her heart wasn’t in it, but Mrs. Dow insisted the girls keep to their regular schedule while their father was away.

  “Bess, what are you doing down here again? You seem to enjoy the kitchen more than any other room,” Elsie asked, annoyed.

  “I came to get myself a cup of tea and keep Gertrude company,” she answered, counting stitches on her needle.

  “We have servants to bring you your tea, Bess. And don’t ruin your appetite. Perhaps you should take your knitting upstairs.”

  Bess raised her index finger to indicate she was counting stitches.

  “Gertrude,” Elsie said, turning to the cook, “I have a gentleman coming to discuss some small farming matters with me. When he arrives, I’d like to be alone with him in the kitchen so—” She stopped short.

  “Where is the box I placed here?” she asked, her words coming out slowly.

  “I, I don’t know, Your Grace,” Gertrude lied.

  Elsie bent down, her long pointy nose almost touching the cook’s, her unblinking eyes inches away from Gertrude’s. “Where is it? Tell me. Now.”

  Wringing a dishcloth between her hands, Gertrude blurted out, “Bess took it this morning, ma’am. I had nothing to do with it at all!”

  The color drained from the duchess’s face as she turned slowly to face Bess.

  “And what did you do with it?” Elsie asked, her lips pursed and twitching.

  Bess put down her knitting and stood up to face her stepmother. “The question seems to be, Mother, what exactly were you planning on doing with it?”

  Ignoring the question, Elsie asked, “Does this mean you aren’t going to tell me where it is?”

  “Well,” Bess said, “I shall tell you this much. Harry Fletcher hasn’t taken it.”

  They stood glaring at each other. Though unspoken, they both knew that the girl would tell her father everything when he returned.

  A short time later, Elsie appeared in the kitchen again. “Have Eldridge bring the carriage around to the front,” she ordered Gertrude, wrapping a lavender shawl over her bony shoulders.

  “Where are you going?” Bess asked, trying to keep the alarm from her voice.

  “None. Of. Your. Business,” Elsie hissed
.

  “What about the fellow coming for the meeting, Your Grace?” the cook asked.

  “When he comes, tell him I’m sorry, but something unexpected came up,” Elsie said. “I’ll be in touch with him later.”

  When the carriage pulled around to the front of the house, Bess watched with growing distress as Elsie briskly walked out and settled herself in the back.

  “Take me to town. To the Constable’s Office,” Bess heard her order Eldridge.

  When Constable Alfie Fletcher showed up at his brother’s house an hour after Elsie’s visit, Bess was already there. Alfie’s whole body seemed to have sagged into itself, and he cried along with Harry’s mother when he put handcuffs on Harry.

  “I told her,” Alfie said. “I says to Her Grace—‘my nephew has never been in trouble in his life. My brother and his family, they are good folks, ma’am.’

  “‘Not so good that he minds stealing from the very house where my stepdaughters have made him feel welcome,’ she says back to me,” Alfie said.

  “This is all a lie, Uncle!” Harry yelled, enraged.

  “Sir,” Bess spoke up. “My stepmother is lying. It is she that is taking things from Attwood. Harry would never do such a thing.”

  “Do you have evidence of that, my lady?” Alfie asked.

  “You have my word, sir!” Bess cried indignantly. “I could identify the man she is selling them to!”

  “Please, miss,” he said wearily. “Don’t take offense. But your say-so against the duchess’s? How old are you? She’ll just say that you’re trying to protect your friend. She even claims to have seen him. And why would the buyer admit to anything?

  “Says she suspected him all along. Says last week when he was at the manor she looked out the window after he said good-bye to you. Says she watched as he snuck back in and up to the attic. Claims she saw him slip back down with a silver set under his arm and a small oil painting in his hand.”