Chapter 233: Chapter Two Hundred And Thirty Three
Sunlight from a large, north-facing window illuminated a long table covered in instruments: powerful magnifying glasses, brass scales, small vials of chemicals, and delicate tweezers. Prescott stood with his arms folded, watching the man work. He had been here for over an hour, an observer to a meticulous examination.
The authenticator, a small, balding man named Mr. Finch, had the intense, focused eyes of a jeweler. He pushed his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose and finally straightened up from his work, a low sigh escaping his lips. He looked at Prescott, his expression a mixture of certainty and genuine fascination.
"Look here," Mr. Finch said, gesturing for Prescott to come closer. He pointed to the swatch of shimmering fabric from Anne’s dress, which was pinned to a board. "The technique is perfect. Absolutely perfect. See this cross-weave here? That was Adair Reed’s signature. Impossible to replicate, everyone said." He then pointed to another piece of fabric, a small, authenticated scrap of a real Adair Reed masterpiece, kept under glass. "The pattern is identical. The thread count matches. The weight per square inch is correct."
Prescott felt the feeling of joy. "So it is real, then. I was telling the truth."
"No," Mr. Finch said simply. He picked up a small notepad. "That’s where it becomes interesting. The list of discrepancies is small, but it is undeniable." He began to list the points that proved it was a forgery.
"First, the silk itself. Reed exclusively used silk from the northern provinces, which has a unique, slightly irregular texture due to the diet of the silkworms. This silk," he said, tapping the dress fabric, "is too perfect. It is from the south. High quality, yes, but not Reed’s."
He continued, warming to his subject. "Second, the dye. Reed’s dyes were all natural, vegetable-based. Over twenty years, they would exhibit a slight, microscopic fading, a softening of the color. This crimson is... too vibrant. It’s a modern chemical compound, far too stable for its supposed age." He looked at Prescott over the rim of his glasses. "The technique of the weave is the same, a perfect copy. But the materials are all wrong. It’s a fake."
Prescott was shocked. Delia had been right. He ran a hand through his hair. "You’re saying this fabric is a forgery?"
Mr. Finch nodded, but he was looking back at the fabric, a keen, almost reverent light in his eyes. "But it’s so strange," he murmured, more to himself than to Prescott. "To replicate the weave so perfectly, to copy his signature flaw... it would take a genius. The color, the composition, the feel of it in the hand... it’s almost as if Mr. Adair Reed made it himself, but with materials from a different time."
Prescott left the workshop, his mind a whirl of confusion and intrigue. It was a fake, but a perfect fake. A forgery made with the skill of the master himself. What did it mean?
Meanwhile, Delia had gone to Ellington Textiles. She found Anne in the Baron’s study, sitting behind the large desk, trying to project an air of authority as she looked over a sales ledger. But the confident mask couldn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes or the nervous, restless energy in her movements.
Delia didn’t knock. She simply opened the door and walked in.
Anne stood up abruptly from her seat, her chair scraping against the floor. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice rising with an immediate, defensive anger.
"Some of our most valuable fabrics are fake." Delia stated the fact calmly, ignoring Anne’s hostile tone. "The one you were wearing at the last ball, for instance. It is being authenticated as we speak. We will have the official results soon. Another charge will be added to your mother’s list. Forgery."
"Why are you going this far?" Anne cried, her voice trembling. "Why are you trying to destroy her completely?"
Delia’s calm expression didn’t change, but her eyes grew colder. "Then why are you doing this to me, Anne?" she asked, her voice quiet.
"What?" Anne asked, confused.
"You know that I am our father’s real daughter," Delia said. "You have known for a while now. After everything that has happened, shouldn’t you at least apologize? Shouldn’t you say you are sorry?" She looked directly into Anne’s brown eyes, searching for a flicker of remorse, of guilt, of anything. "Everything I went through in that house, all the years of being treated like dirt beneath you and your mother’s feet... are you telling me you are completely faultless in that?"
Anne was quiet, her gaze dropping to the floor. She had been a willing participant, enjoying her own elevated status at Delia’s expense. She knew it, and Delia knew it.
Delia continued, her voice still quiet but relentless. "Or you... do you still believe everything your mother says? Is that it?"
The mention of Augusta made Anne’s head snap up, her eyes blazing with a renewed defiance. "Keep Mama’s name out of your mouth!" she spat. "I don’t want to hear it!"
Delia rolled her eyes, a gesture of frustration. "You should know by now, Anne, that all your mother knows how to do is lie. She has built her entire life on a foundation of lies." She took a step closer. "She told me my entire life that my real mother abandoned me. She told me that nobody wanted me. She told me that I was a fake, and that you were the real one."
"What does that mean?" Anne suddenly shouted, her reaction startlingly volatile. "Do you mean I’m fake?"
Delia was genuinely shocked by Anne’s bizarre behavior, by the raw panic in her voice. "What?"
Anne’s eyes were wide with a wild, paranoid fear. "You just said it! You said my mother only knows how to lie! So if she said you were fake and I was real, and she was lying, then that means you’re real and I’m..." She paused, her breath catching in her throat, the terrible, unspoken conclusion hanging in the air. The secret knowledge that Fredrick had hinted at, that Henry and Edgar had confirmed, was now a screaming terror in her mind.
Delia stared at her, the pieces of a new, confusing puzzle starting to form. Anne’s reaction was too strong, too personal. It wasn’t just a misunderstanding of her words. It was something more. A flicker of realization, of dawning suspicion, appeared in Delia’s eyes.
"You must know something," Delia said, her voice a soft, dangerous whisper. "Right, Anne?"
Anne saw the look on Delia’s face. She realized she had said too much, that her own panic had betrayed a secret she wasn’t even sure of herself. "It’s nothing," she said quickly, her voice high and strained. "Don’t worry about it."
She grabbed her reticule from the desk, her movements clumsy and panicked. She walked past Delia without another word, refusing to meet her eyes, and fled the study, leaving a stunned and deeply suspicious Delia alone in the quiet, imposing room.