Shadows of Lancaster County (29 page)

Needing to stall for time, I typed my reply.

Sure, hold on a second. Don’t go away.

He responded quickly.

Don’t worry, I won’t!

As fast as I could, I went through Bobby’s emails back to the very first communication I could find from this guy, which had been sent about two weeks ago with the subject line
Your post on the ancestry message board.
In the email, the man identified himself as Remy Villefranche, a historian and scholar and the author of the “Nowhere to Be Found” series of books, which thus far included the titles
Nowhere to Be Found: Lost Paintings of the Masters
and
Nowhere to Be Found: Missing Manuscripts.

According to the email, he was currently working on his next book,
Nowhere to Be Found: Lost Jewels and Antiquities,
and he was researching a certain “parure of jewelry,” whatever that meant, that he believed had been passed down through the generations of the Jensen family line. He said he had various forms of proof tying certain pieces of the set to Bobby’s Jensen ancestors, specifically his great-great-grandfather William and his great-great-great grandfather Peter.

He concluded the email with the words
Would love to discuss this matter with you further at your earliest convenience.
That was followed by a long list of contact information, including several phone numbers, an address on Park Avenue in New York City, and a website.

I sent the guy another message.

You still there? Keep holding, I’ll be just another minute.

Yep, still here. Take your time.

Turning to the desktop computer, I went to an online bookstore and did a search for this man’s books. Sure enough, he seemed to be a legitimate author with a major publisher. Scanning further down, I could see that he had earned some good reviews, most of them praising the books’ “thorough research,”

“gorgeous photos,” and “attention to detail.” Sounded legit enough for me.

On the laptop, I held my breath as I typed my next message:

You live in Manhattan, right?

Right. Why?

Because my sister’s in town. She’d like to meet with you in person.

As I waited for his reply, I tried to calculate how long it would take me to get to New York City. If I took the train from Malvern with a switch at 30th Street Station, I could probably be at Penn Station in about three or four hours. Then again, if I drove, I could probably do it in two and a half. Though I couldn’t spare the time or the money for either method, this was too important a conversation to have via the Internet or even on the phone. I needed to not just pick this man’s brain but also observe his body language and facial expressions. I was also going to tell him about my intruder and see if he could help to shed some light on who the man might be who had broken into my home. By the end of the evening, if he was any help at all, then perhaps this part of the mystery would have been solved.

The computer beeped as his response popped up.

Super! Just name the place and the time and I’m there!

Even better, he was willing to come to me. I thought for a moment and then suggested we meet tonight at a restaurant near the train station in Paoli, which should make things convenient for him.

His reply was swift as he asked me to hold on a minute and don’t go away. Assuming he was checking the train tables, I replied for him to take his time. The messaging box sitting dormant, I clicked over to Bobby’s Sent mail and read the reply he had given to this guy’s original email.

Dear Mr. Villefranche,

I don’t know anything about rubies passed down through the family, but I’d love to talk with you if you can shed some light on my paternal lineage search. I’ll call you in just a bit. Which number should I use? Right now, it’s a little after 2:00 p.m. here in Hershey, and I’ll probably call when my computer session ends at 3:00.

Thanks,

     
Bobby Jensen

Hershey? Computer session? Bobby’s emails were providing as many questions as they were answers! I recalled seeing another message that had the word “Hershey” in the subject line, but I had thought it was spam and hadn’t bothered to read it. I found that email now, but before I could open it, another message popped up from Mr. Villefranche.

Okay, I just called some friends who live in Lititz, and they’re going to pick me up at the Amtrak station in Harrisburg and drive me to our rendezvous. Should we say dinner at 8:30? How about The Olde Greenfield Inn in Lancaster? My treat, of course.

That sounds fine. She’ll meet you there.

How will I recognize her?

I thought for a moment, grinned, and wrote:

Just watch for a mysterious blonde lady in a navy peacoat.

Very well. Tell her to watch for a not-so-mysterious gray-haired old man in a burgundy cravat. Must run now so I can pack and make that train.

Okay, bye.

The sound effect of a closing door indicated that Remy Villefranche was no longer online. I sat there for a minute, grateful for this monumental break
in the case. Maybe the tide was finally turning, all of my questions would be answered soon, and somewhere Bobby would turn up safe and sound.

Then again, the way things had been going, maybe the whole situation was just about to become even more complicated.

August 30, 1812

My walks have become shorter and much slower of late, as the babe inside has made me quite cumbersome. Sadly, Priscilla was not to be seen in the fields today, though I hovered at the back fence for quite a while, waiting for her. Finally, Samuel emerged from the barn, little Francis tagging behind. He came out and told me with a heavy heart that Priscilla was not well and had taken to her bed. I asked if she had gone into labor, but he said it was quite the opposite, that her womb felt still, as if the child inside had no desire to move at all.

Concerned, I offered to have the palace doctor visit their home and do an examination, but Samuel politely refused. It was not until we had concluded our conversation and he walked away that I realized how ludicrous my offer must have sounded. Women like Priscilla do not receive visits from palace doctors, not even at the behest of a Duchess. Why must our world be so divided by class when all that really matters is what is inside the heart?

I already love the child I am carrying so deeply that I shudder to think of what it would be like to be in Priscilla’s shoes, to know that my son was bound to die before he had even had a chance at life.

September 2, 1812

Today I received shocking news, shared with me in confidence by one of the palace guards. According to a conversation he overheard between Luise and Leopold, they are preparing to take action if the child I bear is a male. When I asked what sort of action, the guard would only shake his head and indicate by gesture that my child would then be killed.

Killed!

My precious son killed!

I asked why, and the guard said it is because Luise covets the throne for her own son. I wanted more of an explanation, but the guard bid me good day and took his leave, obviously in fear for his life.

Now I am supposed to be resting in my room, but I cannot rest. I cannot breathe! Here is what I do not understand. The marriage of Luise and the Grand Duke was left-handed! Everyone knows the descendant of a morganatic union carries no right to title or property or privilege. How then could Luise’s son inherit the throne, even if my own child were not in the way? Tonight, I must speak to Karl in private and ask him how this could be possible.

Could my own in-laws really be plotting the murder of my son?

“You type fast.”

I looked up from the keyboard to see the little girl who had come there with the sports team.

“That’s because I use a computer everyday. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“My dad uses computers everyday too.”

Glancing over the girl’s shoulder, I could see that the team members who had finished eating were starting to get restless.

“My favorite color is purple,” the girl announced, pointing at my purple sweater, one of the ones I had borrowed from Lydia.

“Well, my favorite color is blue. I think we’re backwards,” I replied. Pointing at her royal blue jersey with white letters across the front, I asked, “What does the ‘CCS’ stand for?”

“That’s my school. I help my mom with the spirit squad. We got to use the pom-poms today.”

Before I could reply, the girl’s mother noticed our conversation and called out to her daughter.

“Melana! Don’t bother the nice lady!”

“It’s not a problem,” I assured her, but the girl quickly told me goodbye and trotted off to join some of the teens who had gathered near the gumball machines behind me.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said after the child was out of earshot. “She’s our little spitfire.”

“She’s adorable,” I replied. “No need to apologize.”

The boy asked his father for a quarter, and then he got up and also headed for the machines. As he walked past, he gave me a shy smile, his handsome eyes a deep brown.

Gathering my thoughts, I tried to decide what to do next. Bobby had mentioned Hershey in his email to Remy Villefranche, so I looked for emails with “Hershey” in the subject line. The first one had come in two weeks ago from an email address I didn’t recognize and contained just two sentences:
I saw your note on the bulletin board at school. I never use my locker. You’re welcome to it.

Bobby had written back the very next day.

Thanks, it’ll be a lot easier if I can leave my papers and stuff there and not have to lug them back and forth. I need the locker # and combination. Once I get that, I’ll send you the $20 for the month. I shouldn’t even need it that long, but you can keep the change.