Chapter 23

George Hatton was right on time. Lizzie met him in the lobby and escorted him back to her suite. As they went up in the elevator, she couldn’t help but notice the leather-bound box under his arm. She wondered if what he had to show her could possibly be as exciting as what she had to tell him.

“I hope you’ve had an enjoyable stay in London,” he said nervously. His eyes were on the numbers of the floors as each lit up in succession. Lizzie could see that he was still uncomfortable about her experience at Hengemont.

“Yes I have,” Lizzie said. “It’s been very productive.”

“Seen any shows?”

Lizzie turned to give him a withering look but he was still avoiding her eye, as if they were strangers in the lift together. She was surprised at how awkward it seemed.

“I’ve been working,” she said, somewhat curtly.

Now he turned to look at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The elevator doors opened and Lizzie took out her key to lead him into her suite. She had arrived back from Salisbury just in time to order some wine, cheese, crackers, fruit, and patè from Room Service, and they had been delivered while she was down meeting George.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” she offered, gesturing to a seat for him. There was a good-sized table near the window where she thought he could show her whatever was in the box he carried. Beyond it, London twinkled in the dark winter sky.

“Thank you,” he said, placing the box on the table and sitting. “A glass of wine would be very nice.”

Lizzie made up a small plate for each of them from the food on the sideboard, poured two glasses of wine, and sat down opposite him. She was wondering how to tell him that she had found the heart. In fact, she was hoping that Martin would get back soon, because she wanted him to be here when she related the story for the first time.

George took a sip of the wine and pushed the box toward Lizzie.

“You’ll probably be able to figure out what’s in here as well as I did,” he said. “This box was given to me when my father died and I inherited the title and property.” He turned his chair to look at the lights beyond the window and took another sip of the wine. “I’ve never shown it to anyone else,” he said softly, “not my sister, not my solicitor, not even my sons, though Richard will see it soon enough when I’m gone.”

The box was old but very solid and obviously well cared for. The leatherwork reminded Lizzie of a seventeenth-century book, and she guessed that it had been made at that time. It had a sort of belt around it with a locking clasp that clicked open easily. The papers inside represented the history of the Hatton family, organized carefully from the oldest on the bottom to the most recent on the top. Lizzie turned the pile over so that she could begin with the oldest, but she couldn’t help noticing that the most recent document, dated 1966, was a court-ordered committal of Elizabeth Hatton to a mental institution. She thought with a guilty conscience of Bette’s diary, which was still in her possession.

The oldest documents in the pile were written on vellum and marked with ribbons and wax seals. Though they had all been rolled when new, the passage of seven hundred years, with most of them in a box like this one, had straightened them out flat. For a moment Lizzie regretted that she would not be able to read the ones in Latin or French, but she soon found that interleaved between each of the old documents was a newer one with a translation written in a neat nineteenth-century hand on a stiff piece of Hatton stationery. One after another, she turned over a dozen or so papers related to early titles and landholding, all bearing the seals of Kings Henry II, Richard I, John, and Henry III. A special writ called Richard, Margaret’s husband, to Parliament in the reign of Henry III. It had a big wax disk, impressed with the Great Seal of England.

There were the Templar documents she had seen transcribed at the Public Record Office, and she thought of the copies that lay now in her book bag. The translations were very consistent with the information she had gotten from Anthony Parker and Father Folan.

The next paper she turned over was a letter from Elizabeth Pintard d’Hautain to her son. Lizzie touched her fingertips very gently to the signature mark. It was her first physical encounter with the woman who had started the Hatton obsession with dying for love. She sat silently for a moment until she heard George turn from the window to look at her.

“I see you’ve found it,” he said.

Lizzie nodded. She took the translation and laid it beside the letter, moving her eyes back and forth between the two, one in old French, the other in a stylized English.

“My God,” she said after a moment, looking up at George, “it’s her suicide note.”

Now it was George’s turn to nod silently. He turned back to the window, his empty wineglass on the table beside him.

The letter described the sequence of events that Lizzie had learned from her other disparate sources, though in terribly sad and poignant detail. Elizabeth d’Hautain knew that by pledging her son to marry the daughter of her sister she was insuring that he would inherit the d’Hautain family titles and property. She asked his forgiveness for abandoning him, but said that she could not live without her husband. There were instructions to place his father’s heart in the tomb in the family church if it should ever come into his possession.

“Though you will not remember your parents,” the translation read, “think on them with kindness. Always remember their story.” The letter concluded with a message that it would be left with Elizabeth’s priest and was to be delivered to her son only on the death of his uncle and his inheritance of Hengemont. Her signature was scrawled on the bottom. Lizzie touched it again.

The next page included two shield-shaped drawings. The first showed the crest of John d’Hautain, which Lizzie had seen so recently at Salisbury Cathedral; the other drawing showed the sword-pierced heart, with instructions from Jean-Alun d’Hautain that he was adopting the new crest in honor of his parents. The motto was from his mother’s letter: “Semper Memoriam.”

“This is powerful stuff,” Lizzie said, looking up at George’s impassive back. He had not stirred in several minutes, but now he turned and nodded again.

“Can I pour you another glass of wine?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you,” he said, turning his chair back to the table again.

Lizzie rose to pour the wine and George began to nibble a cracker. The time had come to tell George about the heart; it couldn’t be delayed any longer. Lizzie looked at the door, wishing that Martin would return and, as if on cue, it opened and her husband entered the room.

“Hello,” he said, looking from Lizzie to George and back to Lizzie. “Sorry I’m later than I expected.” He crossed the room and held out his hand. “You must be George Hatton,” he said. “I’m glad to meet you.” He turned and kissed Lizzie and then excused himself into the bedroom to get rid of his coat.

The silent spell that the room had been under for the last half hour was broken. Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief and prepared to break her big news to both men. It didn’t take long for Martin to return to the sitting room, fill a plate of snacks and join them at the table. Lizzie passed a wine glass to each man and held her own up.

“Cheers,” she said, taking a gulp. She sat down again, opposite George, but she caught Martin’s eye before she began speaking.

“I have news,” she said. “I found the heart.”

The reaction of the two men could not have been more different. George Hatton sat perfectly still, his face growing ever more pale as the blood drained from it. Martin rose from his chair with a cheer and gave her a kiss of congratulations. “I knew you could do it,” he said.

“How? Where?” George was almost inaudible beneath Martin’s excitement.

“It’s in Salisbury Cathedral,” Lizzie said gently, looking directly at George.

“And you’re sure?” George stammered. “You’ve only been looking for it for two days! My family’s been looking for it for seven centuries!”

“I know this is a very peculiar situation George, but in a way it was hiding in plain sight. A number of people had seen the casket over the years. They just didn’t recognize the crest.”

“You’re really sure?”

“There can be no question,” Lizzie answered, pulling out the various documents she had collected and showing him the references.

“The real proof is right here, though,” she said, tapping her finger on the picture of John d’Hautain’s shield. “The heart casket bears this coat-of-arms.”

George rose from his chair and paced the room. Martin reached under the table and squeezed Lizzie’s knee. She smiled at him, then rose and stood with George.

“What should I do now?” he asked.

“My recommendation is to contact the people in charge at Salisbury and claim it,” Lizzie answered.

“It will seem a bit strange after seven hundred years,” he mused

“These things sometimes take a long time,” Lizzie said with a smile.

George nodded. He was not in a state to appreciate Lizzie’s humor.

Martin called softly to Lizzie from the table. She stepped over to him and found that he had turned the stack of papers over and searched through them from the more recent end.

“Ask him about this,” he whispered, showing her a receipt for the £300 paid to her great grandmother, with a notation about her pregnancy and departure.

Lizzie shook her head at him. He gave her a meaningful glare and held up the receipt again, mouthing the words, “Ask him!”

“Let me do this in my own way,” she whispered sharply, turning back to face George.

Martin folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

George seemed to be recovering somewhat from his shock. “I have a friend in Salisbury who should be able to help me present the case to the Dean and Chapter at the cathedral there,” he said. “Let’s just get this over with. Could you clear your schedule and go there with me tomorrow?”

Lizzie nodded.

“My schedule is clear too,” Martin added dryly. Lizzie gave him an arch look. She could tell he was itching to confront George about his knowledge of her relationship to the Hatton family.

George began to put the papers back in the box.

“Bring this one to Salisbury,” Lizzie said, reaching for the page with the sketch of the crest and setting it aside.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all the work you’ve done on this,” George stammered. He seemed to sense Martin’s hostility and added with a nod to him, “and your support, too.” The box closed and the sound of the old lock snapping into place was the only sound in the room.

George’s departure was as uncomfortable as his arrival. He shook hands with Martin and gave Lizzie an awkward kiss on the cheek as she walked him to the door of the suite. When it had closed and latched behind him, Martin put his hands on Lizzie’s shoulders and looked at her.

“He knows,” he said. “He feels guilty that his family shafted your great-grandma, and he knows that you are actually his niece or cousin or something.”

“I know,” she admitted, “and I concede that he knew it all along.”

“Aren’t you angry that he put your life in danger?”

“Oh come on, Mart,” she said, pulling away. “How was my life in danger?”

“Are you forgetting that you managed to climb up onto the roof of his house?”

She could see that he was very serious.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t confront him when we had the evidence right in front of us,” he said, following her toward the bedroom.

As she turned the spread back, Lizzie explained again that she didn’t think George Hatton had ever even considered that she might be susceptible to the madness that led to suicide.

“Then why did he ask you here?”

“Because I’m a good historian,” she said bluntly. “Maybe he did want to repay some debt, or maybe he secretly thought I might do exactly what I did—find the heart—but to suspect him of more than that is to make him more sinister than he is.” She was angry with Martin for pushing the subject. “You shouldn’t have gone through those papers,” she said. “This is my problem and I’ll handle it.”

Martin came around the bed and touched her softly on the hair. “You’re right,” he said, “I shouldn’t have gone through those papers.”

Lizzie resisted for a moment his attempts to pull her into his arms.

“But you have no problems that I don’t share,” he continued, “and I still don’t think you are taking the dangers here seriously enough. Don’t think because I worry about you, or am suspicious of him, that I am not still your greatest admirer.” He kissed her on the forehead.

“I know,” Lizzie said softly. “But you shouldn’t worry so much about George. He’s not so wily that he could manipulate me.”

Martin laughed. “You know you shouldn’t be so flip about the English aristocracy now that you are one.”

She sat on the bed and leaned against the headboard, reaching out for his hand. “You know, Martin,” she said, locking her fingers through his, “I have to admit that there was a moment there when I found that whole way of life at Hengemont quite seductive.”

“Planning to claim your rightful place in the Hatton family?” he asked gently.

She placed her free hand against his face. His eyes, deep and warm, made a small movement as they met hers. Lizzie laughed.

“Hardly!” she said. “Can’t you just picture it? My whole family traipsing over here to move in with the Hattons?”

Martin was smiling, but trying to be serious.

“You admit it’s seductive, though,” he said.

Lizzie still smiled. “Of course it’s seductive. The idea that you don’t have to work, that there are no worries about money, no credit card bills, no anxiety over tenure. God, who wouldn’t love to have someone clean their house, do their laundry, keep the yard beautiful, drive them around.”

“Not to mention the feeling of importance,” Martin added.

“You know, Martin,” Lizzie said emphatically, “I’d rather be known for something I did, some accomplishment.”

“I’m sorry that I am not able to keep you in the style to which you have become accustomed,” he said, half seriously.

“Don’t worry sweetheart,” she said, “I did not become accustomed to it. In truth there is a point at which you realize that even though you’re not doing it the laundry is still getting done, the house is still getting cleaned, the garden is blooming beautifully, and that if it’s not the Lord of the Manor doing it, then it is some serf.” Lizzie grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “I may be descended from the Hattons, but I’m also descended from their servant. I’m prouder of her and what she did than I am of them and what they did.”

“Then you’re still my Lizzie Manning, and not her high and mighty Lady Elizabeth Hatton?”

“Heck, Mart,” she continued, “if I wouldn’t change my name to Sanchez when I married you, why would I change it now for a much stupider reason?”

“Are you going to tell old George that you know?”

“Yes,” she answered, “when the time is right.”