I smiled at Priscilla. “I’ll probably leave around dinnertime. Maybe I’ll get the chance to meet the new attorney tomorrow.”
I bundled up her gown, gathered up my pincushion and sewing gauge, and turned to leave the room when an insistent knocking sounded on the front door.
“Oh, dear, the door must be locked. Poor Ruth gets so upset when she can’t get in.” Priscilla gathered up the flowing folds of her skirt in her knobby hands and made her slow way toward the door. She paused with a hand to her chest as the knocking continued. “Just open the door for her, would you, my dear?”
I hastened to the door, still clutching my sewing implements. The wood shivered under the force of the knocking outside. I opened it to reveal a tall and very thin old woman on the step, gold-tipped cane poised to assault the door again. She wore a fur coat on this muggy August afternoon. Straight, blunt-cut gray hair fell just below her long earlobes, which were dragged down by heavy pearl earrings. Those oversized earlobes were the only resemblance I could see between Ruth Ellis, widow of the late philanthropist Thurman Ellis, and her older sister Priscilla. She drew herself up to a formidable height and frowned down at me.
“I could have finished one of Tolstoy’s novels standing out here.” She brushed past me into the foyer, pulling tight brown gloves from her hands. “Where is my sister?”
I felt an absurd urge to curtsy and say, “Follow me.” Instead, I indicated the living room with a wave of the hand. “She’s just in there. She’s waiting for you.”
She shot me a sharp glance. “And getting older every wasted minute.” She headed across the foyer, leaning heavily upon her elegant cane. I was dismissed.
I shrugged, and headed for the stairs. Priscilla had set me up in the sewing room on the third floor to do her historical sewing, so I could do all my work on-site. It was certainly more convenient for fittings, and I could get my cardio workout from all my trips up and down the curving staircase. I felt a sense of self-importance at being a seamstress-in-residence.
The sewing room was lovely. A small room compared to the rest of the mansion, it still eclipsed my fitting room back home. Faded floral wallpaper covered the walls, and a white-painted chair rail encircled the entire room. A small oak side table held a large bowl that was probably silver under its layer of brassy tarnish. An antique treadle sewing machine occupied the place of honor opposite the door. The head was incredibly well preserved, despite the layer of dust that had coated it when I first arrived two weeks earlier. I’d cleaned and oiled the whole machine, replaced a belt or two, and adjusted the tension until the needle rose and fell smoothly with the tap of a foot. I’d made a deal with Priscilla that I could use the treadle machine for any seams that wouldn’t show, reserving the hand stitching for hems and other details on the outside of each garment. It was a compromise between her desire for authentic details in the process of refurbishing her life to reflect an eighteenth-century way of life, and the need for speed in the transformation. The TV show’s schedule dictated the frenzied pace of the work.
I settled down to my hemming, my needle flashing through the silky fabric. The time sped by as I toyed with the idea of making myself a quick homespun gown to wear while working at Compton Hall. I was wondering what sort of sandal one would wear with an eighteenth-century gown and apron when my phone rang. Welcoming the break, I scooped up the phone. It was my renter and roommate, Aileen.
“Hey, your four o’clock appointment is here, wondering why you ran off with her wedding gown.”
Fiona! I couldn’t believe I forgot about her fitting. I could hear Fiona’s soft voice protesting in the background, seemingly ignored by Aileen.
“So, are you on your way home, or what?” Aileen said.
I gathered up the silken gown with one hand and stuffed it into my spacious shoulder bag. “Yes, yes. Tell Fiona I—”
“Tell her yourself,” she cut in. I could hear fumbling, and then Fiona came on the line.
“I never said you ran off with my wedding gown, Daria.”
I chuckled. “Of course you didn’t. That’s Aileen for you. Fiona, I’m so sorry I forgot your fitting. I can be home in twenty minutes, unless you want to reschedule.”
“No, I can wait. Don’t worry, I’ve got hours of reading to get through, so it’s no trouble.”
I was already out the door and hurrying down the stairs. “Bless you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I heard the shouting as soon as I hit the first floor. Despite my haste, I paused in front of the living room door, my heartbeats accelerating like they always did at the sound of raised voices. Could Priscilla be in the middle of an argument? I couldn’t picture it, any more than I could picture the First Lady yelling at her children in public. I could hear the querulous tones of Ruth Ellis, ridden over by a man’s deep voice.
“I won’t be silenced!”
No chance of that—he was shouting loud enough to disturb the next-door neighbors. I jumped out of the way as the door flung open and Professor Burbridge stormed out.
Burbridge’s face was mottled with anger. A tall, thin man save for his prominent paunch, full of boundless, caffeinated energy, he slammed past me without acknowledging my existence. His sparse black hair shot with gray stuck out in all directions, churned up by a frustrated hand. His ever-present tweed coat with the leather elbow patches was flung over his shoulder, and he clutched a bulging leather briefcase in one hand. I could hear him muttering, “I have every right—they can’t stop me....” He stormed up the stairs and disappeared down the second floor hallway.
Obviously not a time to ask him for historical drawings.
I hesitated in the front hall, wondering if I should check to make sure Priscilla was okay. But with Fiona waiting at home, I couldn’t risk the delay. I hurried out the door, checking the lock to make sure the door was unlocked this time.
I halted on the doorstep when I saw what was happening outside. Priscilla’s Japanese maple trees were famous in town, rising fifteen feet to frame the front of the house around the living room windows with their scarlet leaves. But not today. I watched in horror as Jamison Royce from Laurel Landscape Arts, who had been hired to renovate the gardens and landscaping, tossed an uprooted maple tree onto a growing pile. He was tearing out every one of Priscilla’s prized Japanese maples!
“What are you doing?” I gasped.
A big man in his middle fifties, Royce looked me over with a shrug. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m pulling up these plants.” He wiped his hands on his dirt-covered jeans, adjusted his odd-looking work cap with flaps that covered his ears, and turned to tackle the one remaining maple tree.
“Why?”
Royce leaned on his shovel, pushing the blade into the ground at the root of the tree. He scratched his chin, which was covered by an unfashionably long beard. “Japanese maples didn’t exist in Pennsylvania gardens in 1770. We’re going back in time here, remember? Out with the new, in with the old.” He spaded up a load of dirt. “Seems a shame, but it’s all about the money, now isn’t it? Money and fame, fame and money. Can’t get enough of either, can we?”
The Japanese maple appeared to shiver as he laid hands on it to rip it out of the ground. Fragile red leaves showered down by my feet. The soft murmur of voices drifted out the open window around the corner of the house. Ruth and Priscilla seemed to be talking earnestly. For an instant I wondered if Priscilla really knew what was happening to her beloved maples. But I didn’t have time to find out. I only had two minutes to make it to the bus. “What’s going to happen to these trees?”
“I’m hauling them off to the dump. You want one?”
“Yes! I have to run—can you save me one or two? I can collect them this evening.”
He nodded with a shrug. “Suit yourself. I’ll