1851: Lavinia deMallard to her sister, Isabella Mallard
Willowmere Cottage, near Clapham
Oh, what a whirl of conscience and coincidence has beset me these past weeks! You will recall my giddy confession last summer, penned in the afterglow of that mad Mallard Centenary, about the “gorgeous necklace” I filched from the Saloon amid all the overturned chests and pilfering pandemonium—a circlet of crimson stones (garnet or ruby, I supposed, though likely glass) set in filigree gold, glowing like forbidden embers in my chatelaine pouch. A cheap souvenir is one thing, my love—a harmless memento of the tents and truffles, the wine-fountains and whispering scandals—but a valuable necklace? The guilt gnawed at me like a mouse in the wainscot, turning every glimpse of the thing in my workbox into a pang of pilferer’s remorse. What if it were no paste trinket, but a true treasure? Sleepless nights ensued, with dreams of Bow Street Runners at my door and the Duke’s myrmidons dragging me to the magistrates in my India mull!
At last, driven half-mad by the glittering culprit, I resolved to show it to a jeweller—discreetly, of course, under the strictest vows of secrecy. Mr. Elihu Mossop of Hatton Garden, a dear old fox with eyes like a magpie’s and a reputation for royal reticence, received me in his back parlour behind locked doors and drawn blinds. “Hypothetically, Mr. Mossop,” I trilled, unveiling the parcel with trembling fingers, “a family heirloom, valued for insurance—pray, what say the stones?” His glass magnified, his brow furrowed, and then—gracious heavens!—a low whistle escaped his lips. “Madam,” quoth he, “this is no garnet, no ruby paste, but a red diamond of the rarest fire—12 carats near enough, worth a minor fortune, and whispering of Oriental vaults or Hyderabadi hoards. One of the Mallard Flames, if rumours hold!” My knees buckled; I near swooned into his lapels. He was the soul of discretion—packed it away with gloved hands, promised utmost silence, and confided he would “return it whence it came, via channels untraceable.” Return it to the Duke, he meant; I nodded, numb with relief and regret, and fled home to my vinaigrette.
Scarce a fortnight later—yesterday, in fact!—a plain packet arrived by secure courier, bearing the Mallard crest in black wax and enclosing a polite yet curt letter from that impeccable functionary, Mr. Blandy, the Duke’s private secretary. A thousand pounds in crisp Bank of England notes accompanied it—“compensation,” he termed it, with language so exquisitely measured you must admire it yourself. I copy it verbatim below, that you may savour its silken steel; no more need be said, he assures, yet now I feel I owe him—a personal favour, perhaps, though what a secretary to a duke might desire from a Clapham widow sets my fan fluttering anew!
Mallard House, St. James’
The Duke of Mallard desires me to acknowledge the discreet return, via intermediaries of the highest probity, of a certain necklace of family significance—erroneously displaced during the recent Centenary festivities at Mallard Park. Its restoration has precluded any necessity for further inquiry or correspondence on the matter, which may now be regarded as concluded to the satisfaction of all parties.
As a mark of His Grace’s appreciation for this expeditious resolution—and in full recognition that such items, amid the exuberance of the occasion, may find their way into unintended hands—His Grace encloses the sum of one thousand pounds sterling, without prejudice or implication of any kind. No more need be said.
Is it not perfection itself? Curt as a cane-rap, polite as a levee bow—thanking me for returning what was never mine, compensating me as if I’d found a lost shilling on the path, and slamming the door with that imperial “No more need be said.” A thousand pounds! Enough to gild Willowmere anew, refurbish the carriage, and pension off poor Hargreaves for life. Yet the guilt lingers, mingled with giddy triumph: I held a Mallard Flame, another mythical red diamond now whispered in The Times as sold in Paris to some royal shadow (or so the jewellers tattle). Did it grace the Pavilion that day, spilled from Alice’s parure amid her flight to pagodas? Or was it ducal bait for deeper scandals? No matter—I am richer, wiser, and wondrously warned.
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