collector.”
Again, that soft glow of remembered affection warmed her features. “I sometimes think Father would have been happiest as a wizened old eccentric charging the public a shilling to gawk at his cabinet of curiosities. He loved nothing more than showing off his collection. Mama always insisted he keep all but the most decorative items out of her drawing room, and he’s honored her memory by continuing to respect her wishes in that. But I’m afraid the rest of the house is overflowing with his various collections.”
“You say he was interested in relics of the Stuarts?”
“The Stuarts and the Tudors. They were his particular obsession. In fact, he has an entire gallery devoted to them.”
“May I see it?”
If she was surprised by the request, she was too well-bred to show it. “Yes, of course.”
She led the way to a long paneled room lined with glass cases filled with everything from daggers and maces to snuffboxes and opera glasses. Peering into the nearest case, he could see a dagger said to have belonged to James I, a carved and gilded angel from the reredos of a vanished monastery, and a faded silk pincushion with a neatly printed label that read GIVEN BY MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, TO H ER LADY-IN-WAITING T HE MORNING OF HER EX ECUTION .
She said, “When Father was a boy, an aged cousin gave him a stirrup said to have been used by Richard III at Bosworth Field. He was so taken with the idea of possessing something that had once belonged to such an illustrious historical figure that it became his lifelong passion.”
Sebastian let his gaze drift along rows of cases, to where a blue velvet curtain hung at the far end of the room. He didn’t see any heads.
He said, “I’m told your father had certain relics of Oliver Cromwell.”
“Only this.” She moved to the end of the gallery to draw back the long fall of velvet. “He had the curtain installed after a dinner guest wandered in here by mistake, saw them, and fainted.”
The curtain opened to reveal three small glass and mahogany display cases mounted on pedestals. Each contained a severed human head resting in artfully arranged folds of the same blue velvet.
“That’s Cromwell,” she said, indicating the case on the right.
The head was unexpectedly small, as if it had shrunk as it dried, the flesh so darkened as to look almost black, the cheeks sunken, the eyes reduced to mere slits. Yet there was something about the slope of the forehead, the curve of the skull, that eerily echoed the paintings Sebastian had seen of the Lord Protector.
She said, “Most of the traitors’ heads that were displayed on pikes eventually rotted. But Cromwell died a natural death and was embalmed—it wasn’t until after the Restoration that his body was dragged from Westminster Abbey and hung in chains at Tyburn. Then the head was impaled along with those of two other regicides on spikes and mounted above Westminster.”
“Not London Bridge?”
“No. I suppose Westminster was chosen since it was the scene of their crime. The three heads were up there for decades, as a warning to anyone who might be tempted to imitate their deeds.”
Sebastian shifted his gaze to the young woman beside him. She was utterly unperturbed by a ghoulish sight the likes of which would cause many gentlewomen to fall into strong hysterics. But then, he realized, she had grown up surrounded by her father’s bizarre collection. It was a side of Miss Anne Preston that was both unexpected and more than a little thought provoking.
He brought his attention back to the remnants of the man who had once butchered men, women, and children the length of England, Scotland, and Ireland. Traces of hair and the mustache remained, but the ears and part of the nose were gone. He said, “All those years on a spike above Westminster Hall appear to have taken quite a toll.”
“Actually, much of the damage is fairly recent. The head was owned for a time by the actor Samuel Russell, and he
Again, that soft glow of remembered affection warmed her features. “I sometimes think Father would have been happiest as a wizened old eccentric charging the public a shilling to gawk at his cabinet of curiosities. He loved nothing more than showing off his collection. Mama always insisted he keep all but the most decorative items out of her drawing room, and he’s honored her memory by continuing to respect her wishes in that. But I’m afraid the rest of the house is overflowing with his various collections.”
“You say he was interested in relics of the Stuarts?”
“The Stuarts and the Tudors. They were his particular obsession. In fact, he has an entire gallery devoted to them.”
“May I see it?”
If she was surprised by the request, she was too well-bred to show it. “Yes, of course.”
She led the way to a long paneled room lined with glass cases filled with everything from daggers and maces to snuffboxes and opera glasses. Peering into the nearest case, he could see a dagger said to have belonged to James I, a carved and gilded angel from the reredos of a vanished monastery, and a faded silk pincushion with a neatly printed label that read GIVEN BY MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, TO H ER LADY-IN-WAITING T HE MORNING OF HER EX ECUTION .
She said, “When Father was a boy, an aged cousin gave him a stirrup said to have been used by Richard III at Bosworth Field. He was so taken with the idea of possessing something that had once belonged to such an illustrious historical figure that it became his lifelong passion.”
Sebastian let his gaze drift along rows of cases, to where a blue velvet curtain hung at the far end of the room. He didn’t see any heads.
He said, “I’m told your father had certain relics of Oliver Cromwell.”
“Only this.” She moved to the end of the gallery to draw back the long fall of velvet. “He had the curtain installed after a dinner guest wandered in here by mistake, saw them, and fainted.”
The curtain opened to reveal three small glass and mahogany display cases mounted on pedestals. Each contained a severed human head resting in artfully arranged folds of the same blue velvet.
“That’s Cromwell,” she said, indicating the case on the right.
The head was unexpectedly small, as if it had shrunk as it dried, the flesh so darkened as to look almost black, the cheeks sunken, the eyes reduced to mere slits. Yet there was something about the slope of the forehead, the curve of the skull, that eerily echoed the paintings Sebastian had seen of the Lord Protector.
She said, “Most of the traitors’ heads that were displayed on pikes eventually rotted. But Cromwell died a natural death and was embalmed—it wasn’t until after the Restoration that his body was dragged from Westminster Abbey and hung in chains at Tyburn. Then the head was impaled along with those of two other regicides on spikes and mounted above Westminster.”
“Not London Bridge?”
“No. I suppose Westminster was chosen since it was the scene of their crime. The three heads were up there for decades, as a warning to anyone who might be tempted to imitate their deeds.”
Sebastian shifted his gaze to the young woman beside him. She was utterly unperturbed by a ghoulish sight the likes of which would cause many gentlewomen to fall into strong hysterics. But then, he realized, she had grown up surrounded by her father’s bizarre collection. It was a side of Miss Anne Preston that was both unexpected and more than a little thought provoking.
He brought his attention back to the remnants of the man who had once butchered men, women, and children the length of England, Scotland, and Ireland. Traces of hair and the mustache remained, but the ears and part of the nose were gone. He said, “All those years on a spike above Westminster Hall appear to have taken quite a toll.”
“Actually, much of the damage is fairly recent. The head was owned for a time by the actor Samuel Russell, and he
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