Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (19 page)

“Would
you mind trying it on?” He held it up, his eyes on hers, and she swallowed.

Her
mouth opened with a slight tremble. “I couldn’t…”

“Yes,
you can,” he assured her. “Turn around.”

Lydia
presented her back to him and he lifted the necklace over her head, his fingers
brushing the fine hairs on the back of her neck as he fastened the clasp. The
weight of it shocked her, and she couldn’t help fingering the sapphire dangling
low between her breasts over the black cotton uniform.

“Here.”
He guided her by the elbow toward the table where a mirror was mounted on the
wall. “What do you think?”

“I
think it’s magnificent,” she whispered, her fingers moving over the cool
surface of the necklace.

“It
matches your eyes,” he murmured, meeting them in the mirror. “The sapphire is
perfect.”

Lydia
reached back and unclasped it, laying it gently on the surface of the table.
“Thank you for letting me try it on.”

“Your
opinion is worth more than the necklace,” he told her with a nod.

Smiling,
she smoothed her apron, shaking her head. “You just wanted an excuse to keep me
here until the rain stopped.”

He
laughed, the sound loud in the basement room, echoing off the walls. “You are
magnificent, Lydia.”

“No,”
she said, shaking her head again. “So this is what you do down here all day,
then?”

“Puttering
now, really.” He swept the gems back into the bag as she watched. “Finding ways
to spend the time.”

“An
expensive hobby?”

“Perhaps,”
he agreed. “I am too old for skiing and too pompous for stamp collecting.”

She
laughed. “Skiing here in America? There are no
berge
! Only
hügel
,
all so
klein
! The skiing in Austria—”

“Yes.”
He waved her out of the room and locked it behind them. The key went into his
trouser pocket. “I skied the Alps when I was young.”

“I
miss it,” she admitted with a sigh.

“Why
did you come here to America?”

She
smiled, her eyes sad. “Why does anyone come to America? Land of the free, home
of the brave…”

“Are
you alone here?”

“My
mother insisted we come, after my father died,” she explained. “But then she
got sick…”

“I’m
sorry…”

Lydia’s
eyes fell to the floor. “Now she is gone…”

“Ah…so
you
are
alone.”

“Yes.”

“Still…”
he went on, climbing the steep stairs. “A pretty young girl like you must have
a suitor or two?”

She
flushed, glad for the darkness of the stairwell. “No. I have been too busy with
work and school, and now studying for my citizenship exam.”

“Tut!”
He turned at the top of the stairs, holding out a hand as she came up the last
few. “A young girl like yourself should be thinking of little else but love…”

“So
do you sell this jewelry of yours?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Rarely,”
he admitted, shrugging. “I like to keep things. I like to look at them.”

“It
would be nice to have…nice things,” she said softly, looking at the fine gold
chain around his neck. “You always wear that…?”

He
nodded. “A keepsake.”

“Mr.
Kauffman?” They both looked up as Ana Bauer bustled by. “A package came for
you. I put it in your office.”

“Thank
you, Ana,” he said with a nod.

Lydia
moved past Mrs. Bauer toward the hall closet to retrieve her coat and umbrella,
ignoring the dark look on the woman’s face.

“Oh,
Lydia,” he said, as if he were speaking an afterthought. “The jewelry box in
the boudoir needs to be polished.”

Mrs.
Bauer turned up her nose and sniffed, giving Lydia a smug smile as Mr. Kauffman
made his way down the hall toward his office, leaning heavily on his cane.

“I’ll
do it in on Monday,” Lydia promised, but she was sure that neither of them
heard her.

She
passed his office on the way out, the door open just a crack, and his voice
drifted out. “You won’t need your umbrella. It’s stopped raining.”

“Yes.”
She smiled at the door. “Thank you.”

“Don’t
forget the jewelry box,” he reminded as she slipped her coat on.

“I
won’t,” she promised, pulling open the heavy front door, already thinking about
the studying she had to do at home and what she was going to throw together for
dinner.

* *
* *

After
months of cleaning the boudoir, Lydia had established a routine. She had been
cleaning homes since her mother’s death, and it had always been a kind of
meditation for her. There was nothing exciting or new about dusting or
vacuuming, just a mindless precision, letting her mind float free.

She
entered the same semi-trance every day as she made her way methodically around
the room, shining the vases and the face of the antique clock on the fireplace,
beating and fluffing the pillows on the settee and Edwardian chairs. The
chandelier was due to be hand-cleaned soon, but she wouldn’t do that today.

She
arranged fresh flowers in two vases on the cherry wood tables at the beginning
of every week, and while she had to clean the writing desk, the blotter with
the stationary laid out on the top were not to be moved—they sat as if
someone were coming soon to write a letter with the old-fashioned quill.

Mrs.
Bauer and the rest of the staff still refused to go near it and Lydia didn’t
understand. It was a beautiful room, and although she wouldn’t have admitted
it, she often liked to pretend it was hers. She had never felt that way about
any other place before, including the little room she let. Nothing had ever
felt like home here, not like this. She had even once dared to climb into the
four poster bed, drawing the sheer curtains around her like a dream.

She
didn’t ask questions anymore. No one would tell her who the woman in the portrait
was, or why the staff refused to enter the room, but Mr. Kauffman paid well,
and she’d never experienced anything strange or untoward. Not until she started
losing time.

The
first time it happened, she was polishing the jewelry box. Lydia had a habit of
humming while she worked, songs her mother had sung to her as a child, mostly,
and she was admiring her reflection in the dark shine of the wood when she
heard the echo.

Frowning,
she stopped her humming to listen, but it was gone. She went on, her voice
soft, her mouth forming German words, and then she heard it again. It was the
same tune, sung as if it were on a slight time-delay, just a little behind her
own.

Glancing
around the room, she was certain there was no one there, and anyway, the sound
seemed to be coming from in front of her—from the jewelry box. She rubbed
the dark surface with her cloth, round and round, seeing her own frown
reflected back at her. Then she heard it again, only this time, Lydia wasn’t
singing at all. The soft, gentle hum mirrored her own, and she stood entranced.

It
was Mrs. Bauer who found her. She would only knock and call for her, and Lydia
liked that the older woman wouldn’t enter the room, no matter how long it took
her to answer. When Lydia glanced at her watch, she saw it had been an hour
since she began cleaning the jewelry box, and she ran for the door, flushed and
panting and making excuses to the housekeeper.

She
thought she must have dozed off, or just zoned out in her cleaning semi-trance
state. She reasoned with herself, reassured herself it was nothing. Until the
next time it happened. And the next. She was losing time every day now, it
seemed, spending longer and longer standing in front of the jewelry box.

In
all the time she had spent polishing it, she had never seen how it might
open—no seam appeared on the smooth surface—until one day, it did.
Lydia rubbed the cloth around the sharp corners, sliding over the slick front
from edge to edge, and for the first time, she saw a line in the wood where a
seam was meant to be.

Peering
closer, she realized the craftsmanship must be superb, to hide such a seam.
Glancing behind her, she grasped the edges of the box, unmindful of her
fingerprints on the shiny surface, and gently lifted. She was sure it would
stick shut, that it was locked in some hidden way, but the lid swung open
unhinged toward the back wall and seemed to float there, revealing a large
mirror on the inside surface.

Close
it
, her mind screamed.
Close it now!

Remembering
the weight of the exquisite necklace at her throat, the one Mr. Kauffman had
made her try on, she peered inside, wondering what amazing piece of jewelry
must rest there. The box was lined with black velvet, and at first, she saw
nothing, no sparkle, no shine. She couldn’t believe it was empty!

Frowning,
she reached for the lid to close it back up, when she heard that soft hum
again. Her breath caught and she looked back in, seeing nothing. She reached
inside, then, her fingers trailing along the velvet edges until they touched
something metal at the bottom. She grasped it, but it felt like nothing, like
air in her hands, and it wasn’t until she had it in the light that she realized
why.

It
was a velvet choker, a cameo nestled in its center with two crescents on either
side. The woman’s profile was beautiful, distinct, and even in this rough
fashion, seemed familiar. Lydia turned and brought it further into the light,
her eyes lifting to the painting hanging over the mantle. She was sure, almost
sure—was it? The very same woman?

There
were silk ties at each end, and she considered putting in on, like she had with
the heavy diamond necklace in Kauffman’s workroom. But she had been invited
then. Now she was trespassing, and she knew from the fast hammering of her
heart that just holding it in her hands could get her fired. Would it be worth
it?

The
choker was nothing compared to the impressive weight of the diamonds she had
modeled for the master of the house. It was easy, no clasps even, just a simple
tie. Turning to glance into the mirror, she held the necklace up to her bare
throat, a black, linear sash cutting a sudden, shocking path across her neck.
She hadn’t noticed the rope-like designs that radiated out and around from the
centerpiece, black beads separating them, and one sole bead dangling from the
center. She delighted in the way it sparkled and moved as she turned her head
from side to side. It was truly lovely.

“Try
it on.”

Lydia
screamed and the necklace fell to her feet in a soft, wispy flutter, both of
her hands going to her neck, as if she were protecting it. Kauffman stood in
the doorway leaning heavily on his cane, his gaze sweeping upward from the
dropped trinket to meet her eyes.

“I’m
sorry!” she apologized, her cheeks flushed with shame and embarrassment. “I
know I wasn’t supposed to…I didn’t mean…I just…”

“Hush.”
He came to her so quickly it shocked her, not using his cane at all, swooping
the choker up and balling it in his palm. The black ends dangled out of his
closed fist like dark tentacles and she backed away when he took a step in her
direction, opening his hand to show her.

“It’s
lovely work, isn’t it?”

Lydia
nodded, wide-eyed, her breathing harsh in her own ears. “Sir, please, I’m
sorry—”

“Try
it on.”

She
shook her head, feeling her knees trembling as they touched the back of the
bed—he had backed her up that far. “No.” Her whisper was hoarse, thick.
“No, I don’t want to.”

“But
you
did
want to.” He waggled a finger at her, his rheumy eyes gleaming.
“Just a moment ago, it was right here at your delicate throat. You were moments
away from tying up these loose ends, weren’t you, my dear?”

“No,”
she lied, swallowing and shaking her head as if that could cement her denial.
“I was putting it back. I shouldn’t have—”

“No.”
His voice turned angry as he held the choker up, pulling it taut in front of
her eyes. “You shouldn’t have. But you did. You
did
.”

Lydia
fought tears, blinking hard, trying to keep her composure. She was ashamed at
being caught, embarrassed that he’d seen her modeling the necklace in the
mirror, showing off, and she had a real dread of being fired for her
transgression—but the fear beating in her chest had nothing to do with
any of that. The feeling clawing its way up from her stomach to her throat,
choking her words, was of Kauffman himself, the way his eyes moved from her to
the necklace. He looked hungry for something she didn’t understand.

“Mr.
Kauffman,” she started, trying to keep her voice from shaking, and almost
succeeding. “I know what I did was wrong. Please forgive me. It won’t happen
again.”

“No?”
He rubbed the velvet between his fingers, his eyes narrowing. “Somehow I doubt
that.”

She
blinked in surprise, offended by his accusation, although moments before she’d
had the forbidden object at her throat. “I won’t do it again—I promise
you, I won’t! It’s obviously something very special to you…something that
belonged…to her?”

Lydia
glanced at the painting and the nude woman’s eyes pleaded. They seemed to say,
“
Save me. Save them.”
Save who?
Lydia wondered.
There’s no one to
save, except myself and there are no secrets I want to know.
As curious as
she had been about what was inside the box, who the woman in the portrait was,
she decided then and there that she wasn’t going to put her job in jeopardy
because of it. No matter how tempting it seemed.

“It
is my best work.” Kauffman sighed, and there was both a pride and a longing in
it. “And yes,
she
was the last to wear it.”

Both
of their eyes moved to the painting, the woman there still, lifeless, and yet
shining in the bright sunshine all the same, her eyes telling tales Lydia could
only imagine of nights in this boudoir with a lover—perhaps a young
Kauffman himself? Shaking her head to clear it, Lydia grounded herself by
squeezing her hands into fists, making her nails dig hard,
hard
into her
palms. The pain was good. It brought her to her senses—and she was
nothing if not a sensible girl.