‘The thing we have spent all day searching for has no value,’ Gregory repeated to her as Hope pushed past him again, reaching for a taper and going back to the stove to light it.
She walked past him yet again, light held aloft, trying to see to the backs of the dusty shelves. ‘There it is,’ she said at last, pointing towards the corner, at the pile of broken china.
‘It was in one piece when it arrived,’ Tibbett said a little defensively. ‘But when I tried to move it...’
She waved his protestations away. ‘Do not concern yourself, sir. It was broken long before it ever came to you. It was in the hall that we used for footraces when we were little girls. Someone bumped into it at least once a year.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘But I was the one who finally knocked it off the base. I glued it back together and crossed my fingers. Grandfather caught me at it, of course. But his punishment could not change what had happened.’
‘I was told no such thing when I took it,’ Tibbett said, his eyes narrowing. ‘I’ll still be wanting the original price for it,’ he said.
‘And I have no intention of wasting my client’s money on something you were too lazy to chuck in the bin,’ Drake replied with an equally steely gaze.
‘Pay the gentleman, Mr Drake,’ Hope said, stooping down to gather up the pieces of the last Comstock heirloom. ‘I will put it back together again when we get back to the town house.’
‘Forgive me for asking, Hope. But are you mad?’
Apparently, the answer was yes. At the sight of her precious vase, she could not even be bothered to lecture him about his rudeness. She was on her knees, ready to scoop the broken pottery into her spread skirts.
He seized her wrist to stop her and pulled her to her feet. ‘If you are intent on having it, let me do that. You will cut your hands.’
She gave him a militant look as if ready to remind him that it was not his place to dictate to her like a lover or husband. He glared back to tell her that she could just as easily have ordered him to do what he’d offered to do, since, apparently he was nothing more than a dustman for the peerage.
Then he turned back to Tibbett. ‘I’ll pay the original price if you throw in a trunk to carry the pieces.’
‘The pot, a crate and a sack,’ Tibbett countered.
‘Done,’ Gregory said with a sigh. ‘And the use of your coal scuttle and a brush, to sweep up the pieces. He opened his purse and counted out the bills the man requested and recorded the amount spent in the little notebook. Once that was finished, Gregory turned back to the pile of broken pottery, stooped down and began piling the bits into a sack. Then, he carried it to the carriage.
Hope was already waiting for him inside it.
As they set off for the town house, he spoke. ‘You are not seriously planning to leave that mess for the new Comstock.’
‘I will try to put it together again,’ she said and appeared puzzled that he would even ask. ‘It belongs to his estate. My great-great-great-grandfather...’ She paused, counting on her fingers and trying to remember generations. ‘At least, I think it was that many greats. The Fifth Earl. He was involved in the silk trade with the Orient. This was a gift from a Chinese princess. It is almost priceless.’
‘If by that you mean without value, I wholeheartedly agree,’ he said. If they had seen another vase just like it, the stories she had been told were likely rubbish, just like the vase.
‘You think an antique porcelain vase from China has no value?’
‘That used to be a Chinese vase,’ he said, pointing at the pile of shards in the box at their feet. ‘Now it is nothing.’
‘It is simply damaged,’ she said, gathering her skirts to be clear of the grime on the box at her feet. ‘When I was a child, I was not as careful as I might have been. Accidents happen.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ he said. ‘But then we clean up after them and move on with our lives. Rational people do not turn London upside down to find the contents of the dustbin after the junk has been carted away.’
‘A little paste, a little patience and it will be good as new,’ she said, with a smile that was almost as fragile as the porcelain had been. ‘At least, it will be as good as expected. It is centuries old.’
Centuries old. Just like her family was. And there was the problem. She could not seem to separate the things from the people. ‘Can you put flowers into it?’ he asked, folding his arms.
‘Why would I do such a thing?’
‘Because that was its intended purpose.’
‘I seriously doubt that,’ she said. ‘It is far too large for a bouquet.’
‘What is it for then?’ he urged.
She stared at it for some time, trying to figure out what its purpose might have been. ‘I think it might have been a cistern. Or a very large chamber pot. Or perhaps it was meant to hold an ornamental fish.’
‘Well, it is useless for any of those things now. It will never hold water again. But I can find you any number of new pots just as good,’ he said. ‘The one we looked at several shops ago was nearly the same.’
