The Rose of Winslow Street (27 page)

Sitting directly across the street from her father's house, they were as blatant as two crows on a field of snow.

He sat, folded her slim hand inside his own, and gazed at the house across the street. For six weeks it had been his home, so vastly different from the rural estate he'd lived on in Romania, but a wonderful old house nevertheless. He surveyed the neatly trimmed boxwood hedges and the stately lines of the roof. It would have been a good solid home in which to raise a family.

And then he spotted it: the secret Uncle Constantine had hidden in plain sight. The secret Mirela was so certain had been beckoning to her all along.

Michael's jaw dropped open and his eyes grew round in disbelief. How could he have lived in that house all this time and missed something so obvious? Every instinct in his body urged him to vault across the street, barge through that silly wrought-iron fence, and burst into the house to seize what Uncle Constantine had saved for them.

The pieces of the puzzle were coming together.
“Only a man of the Dobrescu family will know what to do with this house.”
It had seemed an odd sentence for his uncle to include in his will, but now Michael knew it was not chauvinism—it was a hint! Uncle Constantine had been following the tradition set forth by generations of Dobrescu men when he chose that hiding place.

He needed to play this carefully. “Libby, how many fireplaces are in your house?” he asked in a shaking whisper.

“Three,” she said. “The one in the parlor, the one in the kitchen, and the one in the back bedroom. Why?”

Michael stared at the roof of the house, wondering if he should tell her. Doing so would be reckless, but this was the woman with whom he planned to build a life. If she was not trustworthy, it would be best for him to find out now. He closed his eyes, considering his decision one final time. His heart was racing and he knew he was about to take the biggest gamble of his life. He would trust Libby with the discovery he had just made.

“Then why are there four chimneys?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

Libby looked taken aback. “What do you mean? There are only three.”

“You only see three
chimneystacks,
but see how the one on the west side of the house widens at the base? It was built that way to accommodate two fireplaces on the ground floor. There must be a fireplace in your father's library that has been covered over with bookshelves.”

For generations, the men of the Dobrescu family had secreted their valuables in a chimney for safekeeping in times of war. The ducal palace had nine chimneystacks. Invaders never thought to match the number of chimneys with the fireplaces inside a home. A fireplace that was boarded up and sealed over made an ideal place to hide valuables. In this case, his uncle had built bookshelves across the fireplace.

Michael knew he was on the scent of something big. He was not even born when Constantine Dobrescu set sail for America, so he had no idea what his uncle might have stashed in that chimney, but the old Cossack wanted it to be found. Whatever was hidden behind those bookshelves was of immense value to his uncle.

“The bookshelves were in the house when your family moved in, correct?”

Libby nodded. “Yes. I remember being intimidated by those massive shelves, but Father loved them. Why would your uncle cover up a fireplace?”

“Because he hid something of great value inside.”

Her eyes grew wide. “What is it?” she asked eagerly.

“I have no idea.”

If Libby's father won the house in court, Michael would never discover what was hidden in that chimney. Although the professor had scored a temporary victory in shifting the burden of proof to Michael to show he had never been properly served in Romania, Michael knew this victory would not last. His lawyer had already found a mountain of case law to contradict the Colden judge, and this was a ruling that would be overturned in a higher court.

The battle for the house could drag on for years. And Michael could not wait that long to discover what his uncle intended for them to find.

He stood and began pacing circles around the garden bench, thinking how best to handle this. No one knew why Constantine Dobrescu had immigrated to America. Some speculated it was a failed love affair, but most thought it was a dispute between Constantine and Michael's father. The old duke told Michael this was not so, despite the fact that his younger brother had been bitter when he was required to become an officer in the army instead of joining the Church. Constantine had done his duty and was on good terms with his older brother. Why then, did he immigrate with no explanation? And what had he hidden up that chimney?

“I need to find my lawyer. There is something in that chimney, and I need to know what it is.”

Libby cast him a doubtful expression. “I don't think my father is going to let you waltz into that house to rip out his bookshelves.”

“No, but I think he might be willing to strike a bargain.”

There was a pause while Libby digested the information. “Tell me you aren't thinking what I think you are . . .”

Could he do it? Could he offer the professor clear title to the house in exchange for whatever was stashed inside that chimney? It was quite possible there was nothing up there. Or merely some old military medals or photographs an eccentric old man thought valuable. But it could be something of tremendous value—jewels or gold or antiques that could be used to purchase a house for his family.

When he told Libby of his proposal, she was skeptical. “Why would my father agree to the deal if these fancy new lawyers are probably going to win the case anyway?”

“He might win before a Colden judge, but I am confident a higher court will be more impartial, and I
will
appeal a ruling that favors your father. If your father lets me remove my uncle's belongings, of which he was never aware in the first place, it is a no-lose situation for him.”

“I expect my father will go on a treasure hunt the moment he hears of your proposal.”

Michael rubbed his jaw as he considered the risk. “Possibly. I'll have my lawyer include a clause that my offer will expire within one hour of delivery. He won't have time to find anything. Whatever my uncle hid in that chimney belongs to the Dobrescu family. You know that, Libby.”

“Yes, of course.” She bit her lip while she mulled over the situation. “My father has always preferred safety over a gamble. If you make him this offer, I think he will probably accept.”

Michael looked back at the house, cursing his blindness once again. If only he had noticed the missing fireplace when he still had possession of the house, he would already know what his uncle thought so important he needed to hide it from the world. Now there was only one way to be certain he would have access to that chimney.

And that was to strike a bargain with the professor.

Mirela was adamant. “I must know what is in that chimney,” she said. “I have long sensed our uncle wanted us to come here, and the answer to what I have been searching for is in that chimney.”

They had been discussing Michael's unconventional bargain for the contents of the boarded-up chimney for over an hour. He, his men, Mirela, and Libby were sitting on a blanket beneath the shade of a hundred-year-old oak tree in Jeremiah Auckland's backyard. How naturally Libby fit into their group. Not many women would be comfortable sitting on the ground like this, but with a cascade of pink skirts spread around her and the sun casting amber glints from her chestnut hair, she looked as lovely as a bloom from one of her paintings.

“I think it is insanity,” Turk said. “You have a fighting chance for winning the house outright, and I've never known you to run away from a fight. There is
no proof
your family was ever served notice that the house was about to be sold.”

Everything Turk said was true, but it would take a brave judge to make such an unpopular ruling, and lately it seemed Judge Frey had been favoring Libby's father. Michael was almost certain he would need to appeal the case to a higher court, which would cost more time and money.

“After all the appeals are said and done I will probably win, but how many years will it take to discover what Uncle Constantine thought so important?” Michael said. “I think we should strike a deal with the professor. The contents of the chimney in exchange for clear title to the house.”

Turk was still skeptical. “Whatever is in that chimney has been there for at least twenty-seven years,” he said. “It could be ruined by water. Eaten by rats.”

“Or there could be nothing at all,” Michael said grimly. But not knowing would torment him until the end of his days. He turned his troubled eyes to Mirela, the only one of their group who looked serene as she sat in the dappled sunlight, carelessly stroking the fur of that lazy cat resting in her lap. Could she truly be as calm as she appeared? He scrutinized her face, looking for the faintest sign of trepidation or anxiety, but her confidence was unshakable.

“Uncle Constantine wanted us to find the contents of that chimney,” Mirela said. “The rest of that house is just bricks and tile and boards. I would trade it all for whatever is in that chimney.”

Her words fueled his resolve. This gamble could be the biggest mistake of his life, but he had to take it. “Then it is decided. I will speak to my lawyer first thing on Monday morning.”

I
t amazed Libby how quickly the legal process moved when all parties were in agreement. On Sunday evening, Libby stopped by the house to tell her father to expect an offer from Michael on Monday morning regarding a compromise. She advised him to have his lawyers present and to be prepared to make a decision quickly. As anticipated, her father needled her incessantly to tell him what would be on the table.

“It's some sort of trick, isn't it?” he asked. “Why would he demand my answer with only an hour to make my decision? He has something up his sleeve.”

Libby did her best to reassure him. “Father, you have the best lawyers in the entire country on your side. The offer will be so clear-cut even Tillie could understand it. I pray you will accept it, for I truly believe it is in your best interest.”

Not
our
best interest. In all likelihood, Libby would never spend another night beneath the roof of the house. Her loyalty was with Michael, and her future would be with the Dobrescus. A smile tipped the corner of her mouth. If ever she doubted that she was wanted for herself rather than her house, Michael had killed those doubts with his willingness to embark on this deal.

But on Monday morning, the confidence that had been flowing through her veins evaporated. The study of the Winslow Street house was packed with lawyers, the Dobrescus, and friends her father had summoned to help him make his decision. The terms of the deal were stark in their simplicity. Professor Sawyer would allow the Dobrescus to dismantle a single wall in the house and remove the contents. If he did not agree, the professor would need to take his chances in court. Libby's gaze tracked to the bookshelf. She had lived here her entire life and never suspected that behind those shelves lay a decades-old mystery.

For the past hour Michael had looked tense and grim. His usual self-confidence was gone as he ceaselessly clenched and unclenched his fists, a nervous habit she had never witnessed in him before. His anxiety was contagious, and Libby found it difficult to even draw a full breath of air.

With one minute left in his allotted hour, her father consented to the deal. She was jostled to the side as men started dragging chairs around the desk, spreading the legal documents in tidy stacks. Michael's face darkened even further, and Libby feared she was about to witness the man she loved lose the only thing of value left to his name, all in exchange for a pipe dream.

A gentle hand rested on the small of her back. Of the fifteen people crowded into the room, Mirela was the only one who appeared calm. “It is going to be all right, Libby,” she said in a low voice, as comforting as a warm ray of sunlight.

The papers were signed.

Michael rose to his feet and every eye in the room swiveled to him. “The wall we need to open is directly behind you,” he said, gesturing to the bookshelves. A murmur of surprise ran through the crowd, and the professor grumbled about the burden of clearing the shelves, but the document he had just signed was unequivocal. Any wall Michael wished to dismantle could be done so immediately with witnesses from both parties.

For the next ten minutes, the squeak of nails being pulled from the shelves and the pounding of sledgehammers filled the room. After the shelves were down, Turk and Joseph wielded a pair of sledgehammers against the thick wall of plaster. Chalky dust swirled in the air, but all of the observers stayed close, watching as each chunk of plaster collapsed to the floor.

Michael shucked his jacket and joined his men, eager to release the tension pulling his muscles as tightly as the strings on a violin. Signing those papers had been the right thing to do, but it would not make his fate any easier should there be nothing but a pile of ashes inside that chimney. The boys would be fine. Children could adapt to anything, but what of Mirela and Libby? How could he ask a woman to marry him if he had nothing but the contents of a wagon to offer her? He swung the sledgehammer in a wide arc so hard a three-foot section of plaster shattered to the ground, revealing a row of dusty red bricks behind. A gasp from the crowd indicated surprise, but it was exactly what Michael had expected to see.

“It is an old fireplace,” he said brusquely, picking up a crowbar to pry off the boards covering the opening of the fireplace. The acrid odor of old smoke tinged the air, and a murmur of anticipation hummed through the onlookers. He could see Libby's worried face from the corner of his eye, but he could not bear to look at her. He nodded to Andrei. “Fetch the lantern. It won't be long now.”

Michael knocked away the flimsy boards covering the fireplace opening. In less than sixty seconds, the gaping black hole was wide open. Andrei pushed the lantern forward, and the assembled crowd gasped at what was revealed.

An assortment of small wooden chests filled the open space. Most were no larger than breadboxes stacked on top of each other. Michael's heart thudded, his breath coming fast and hard. Using the cuff of his shirt, he swiped the perspiration from his face and swallowed hard. Whatever was encased within those boxes would direct the course of his future. He knelt down, and with the care of a surgeon, removed the top box from where it had been hidden from the light of day for three decades.

The box was so light he feared it might be empty. A thick coating of dust covered the top, and he brushed it aside lest it contaminate whatever was inside. Kneeling in the clumps of dust and old plaster, he opened the lid.

It was filled with papers. Letters, mostly. With shaking fingers, Michael lifted the top envelope, noting the delicate, spindly handwriting that was certainly a woman's. The letter was addressed to his uncle Constantine there at the house on Winslow Street. A quick look at the rest of the cask revealed more of the same, all written by the same woman's hand. He opened the letter, noting the Romanian script, but too anxious to make sense of the tightly written lines.

Mirela knelt beside him, picking up one of the letters as her curious eyes scanned the text.

His heart thudded as he turned back to the fireplace. What if the boxes contained nothing more than old letters? He lifted the next box, this one almost as light as the first. He tried not to let disappointment show on his face when all that was revealed was scrolls of papers, tied with ribbons. There were a few old leather books at the bottom of the box. He slid the ribbon from one of the scrolls and spread out the fragile paper.

He stared at the writing, trying to make sense of it. It was written in no language he knew. Turk was kneeling in the rubble beside him, and Michael showed him the letter.

“Do you know this language?”

Turk spoke a smattering of southern European languages, and he stared hard at the text, but finally shook his head. “I can make no sense of this writing.”

A crowd had gathered behind Turk to look at the document. One of Professor Sawyer's identical twin lawyers peered through a monocle at the scroll. “It is in Latin,” he said.

“Do you know what it says?” Michael asked.

The delicate page was passed to the lawyer, who studied it closely. “My years studying Latin are ones I have tried to forget, but perhaps I can decipher a few words.”

Michael was too impatient to wait and lifted out one of the dilapidated books at the bottom of the box. The fragile leather was like desiccated autumn leaves. His fingers were trembling as he opened the cover. This time the words were not entirely alien to him. He stared at the bold handwriting, some Romanian words catching his eye, but the spelling and syntax were strange. Mirela leaned over his shoulder, scrutinizing the text.

“It looks like some very old form of our language,” she said, her trembling hands reaching out to take the fragile book from him.

The next box contained more of the ancient bound volumes, written in the same bold hand as the book he'd just examined. He pushed the box toward Mirela, who was engrossed in the volume. Mirela might find them fascinating, but Michael was growing increasingly anxious. Only two more boxes remained. He pulled one forward, noting the substantial weight of the box and praying it had something of value besides old books and letters. This box was by far the largest of the group, big and deep enough to hold a horse's saddle and still have room to spare.

Inside the chest was a stack of rough-hewn candlesticks that were almost three feet tall. Joseph picked one up and used the corner of his shirt to buff some of the tarnish away. After a bit of spit and polish, a trace of color emerged through the blackened surface.

“It looks like brass,” Joseph said, and Michael tried not to let the disappointment show. He saw six candlesticks stacked inside, along with some plates and cups, all of them made of brass. In a cloth bag resting at the bottom of the chest was a crucifix. Like the candlesticks, it was made from cheap brass and stained with decades of tarnish. The roughly hewn brass crucifix had a simple beauty to it, arousing an instinctive sense of reverence in him. Michael set the crucifix down gently beside the candlesticks, ashamed of the crushing sense of disappointment that was making it hard to breathe. There was only one box remaining.

The final box was smaller and lighter than the previous one, though still as long as his arm. It was the only ornate box in the group, made of lacquered mahogany and inlaid with ivory. Michael sensed he was holding something of great value in his hands. If the sudden hush that fell over the onlookers was any judge, they sensed it as well. A little gold clasp held the box closed, but it easily gave way and Michael opened the lid.

The fabric inside was a splendid green satin embroidered with gold threads in an exquisite display of flowers and vines. His hands shook as he lifted it from the box. It weighed no more than a cloud. Suspecting the fabric protected something of great value, Michael rose and carried the parcel to the desk, where the light from the window could illuminate the treasure. The crowd parted before him as he carried the green satin bundle, then gathered in a circle around the desk as he prepared to unwrap the mystery inside.

He unfolded the layers of priceless satin to reveal another layer of fabric, but it was yards of stained, cheap linen that was disintegrating in places. He lifted the fragile linen aside, but there was nothing underneath.

His eyes widened. He turned the linen over, but still there was nothing. It was fashioned like a woman's dress, but its coarse texture and rudimentary cut indicated it was the dress of a peasant. He scanned the green satin and the linen, looking for something small and valuable that must have been wrapped in the old dress.

Had he just traded a magnificent house for some moldy old letters and cheap candlesticks? Waves of disappointment began crashing down on him when a ragged breath broke the silence, and he fixed his eyes on Mirela, who was staring at the cheap linen dress as though she were looking at a miracle.

“I understand,” she said on a shaky breath. “I understand
everything
.”

Tears began spilling down her cheeks, but her face was lit with a blinding smile. One of the professor's twin lawyers handed her a handkerchief and she took it gratefully. As she wiped her cheeks, her skin seemed to glow from within and she began to laugh. When she finally caught her breath, she turned to Professor Sawyer.

“Sir, did you ever receive any communication from an old Romanian woman?” she asked. “I believe her name was Alma Codreanue, but she would have called herself Mother Alma.”

All eyes turned on Professor Sawyer, who rubbed his jaw as he thought. “I've never received any letter from Romania, that is for sure. But come to think of it . . .” He closed his eyes in thought. “There was an old woman who came here once, looking for your uncle. That must have been about twenty years ago and he was long dead. Jasper had scarlet fever, so I didn't have any time for strange visitors. She barely spoke English and I couldn't make sense of what she was trying to say, but she seemed to think the old Cossack had left something for her. This place was a moldy, moth-eaten mess by the time I bought the house, so I took everything out and had it burned. I told her there was nothing here for her. That was the first and last time I ever set sight on anyone from Romania until you people showed up.”