"Ah...Ah...Ah...Achoo!"
"Bless you," offered Elsie kindly as she peered across the dimly lit space and patiently waited for what she knew to be coming next.
"Achoo!" came the sound again, echoing slightly against the wooden beams, and then again, "Achoo!"
The dust that had been dancing in the shafts of light that filtered through the scattered holes in the roof, now raging as if expressing its displeasure at being disturbed.
"Always in threes," she commented with an amused shake of the head, "Everytime."
"I'm sorry, Mrs Hughes," came Phyllis's stuttered apology as she searched her person for a handkerchief. "I've always been this way. I can chop a dozen onions without flinching but expose me to dust and I simply can't help it."
Elsie gave a smile of understanding as, had the point needed to be proven yet further, another set of sneezes followed in quick succession.
"It hardly matters, Miss Baxter," she soothed. "We're nearly there now, I'm sure of it. After all, we've looked everywhere else."
She gestured towards one of the larger trunks stacked up against the farthest wall, its thick leather straps secured tightly around a smart case, the brown fabric of which seemed to have suffered barely a scratch or tear to indicate it had been treated in a similar fashion to those around it. Damage was the inevitable consequence when such items were subjected to indifferent handling by railway porters or that which was worse perhaps, the careless manhandling by over-zealous hall boys keen to prove their worth.
The two ladies negotiated their way towards where it sat, squeezing past long-since forgotten portraits, their frames tarnished and beginning to crack with the damp, and stepping over piles of neatly folded curtains that had fallen out of fashion. Elsie wondered that they'd been kept at all, these mountains of fabric that had not been deemed important enough for anyone to bother wrapping them in tissue paper and therefore rendering them now entirely unuseable, their retainment beyond understanding. On reaching their goal they shifted several items to make space before staring at it hopefully, keen that after a number of failed attempts this would contain what they sought.
"Does it look familiar?" Phyllis asked. "It doesn't have her initials on it like the others, to mark it out as hers, I mean."
"I'm not sure it was ever used to be truthful," Elsie replied, giving a regretful sigh. "They didn't exactly do a moonlit flit but they may as well have done for all the things she took with her."
She reached for the buckle and began to work at it, the damp air clearly having taken effect and either rusting the metal slightly or causing the leather to swell. She tugged at it in vain and was forced to admit defeat, making light of the fact that her ageing fingers were not up to task and stepping aside for the younger woman to try. It was a few minutes more before Phyllis let out a cry of satisfaction as the strap finally gave way and they could lift the lid together.
However, the contents proved to be unremarkable. A few dog-eared books that had meant something at one time but not enough to keep downstairs, a doll and its wooden cot that even Elsie with her talent for detail struggled to recall, and half a dozen dresses of varying colours and sizes. They'd all but given up hope as they lifted the last of these from their resting place, their shared disappointment that they'd have little option but to report their failure back to her Ladyship, as the tinkle of metal against metal quietly reached their ears.
Phyllis moved to take a closer look, her body bent double as she felt along the bottom of the truck for what could have caused the sound and then suddenly she righted herself, a triumphant look on her face as she pulled a delicate gold chain up and out into the dull light.
"Oh, thank goodness for that," Elsie remarked, her eyes briefly closing in relief.
They gazed on it for a moment before, without speaking, they snapped back to the task of replacing the items to where they'd found them, the necklace safely stowed in the hidden pocket of the housekeeper's skirts. As Phyllis dealt with the childhood toys and trinkets, taking time to give each a bit of clean as best she could with the limited rags they'd thought to bring with them, Elsie focused on refolding the garments. They both agreed on how poorly they'd been stored originally, both consciously ignoring how plain and simply constructed they all were. Elsie fancied she knew what that was and how they came to be where they were but that wasn't a thought that needed to be shared. As she took the last of them in her hands, she felt a crinkle of something and frowned in curiosity. Feeling around for what turned out to be a piece of paper, folded in two and somehow tucked in amongst the material, she pulled it free. Opening it, Elsie stared at it briefly before a gentle chuckle rose up causing Phyllis to lean in slightly to see what had her so amused.
"Advice on Marriage to Young Ladies," Phyllis started to read out loud, her voice tailing off as she took in the rest of words on the small single-sheeted pamphlet. "Oh my!" she exclaimed, working to suppress her own giggle now. "But wasn't she, well, married?"
"Yes," Elsie confirmed, and after a brief pause added thoughtfully. "And happily and devotedly at that."
They worked in silence to return the attic to how they'd found it with just the two items removed, despite only one being that which they came for. Phyllis went first, slipping quietly through the small door through which they'd access the room not an hour before, Elsie casting a final glance as she pulled it tight shut behind her, one of the many keys dangling from her belt inserted into the lock, everything safe and secure once more.
"Why don't we clean up a little before we meet with her Ladyship?" Elsie suggested, her eyes bobbing down to the thick layer of grim that covered their hands and dresses, and no doubt much more.
Phyllis agreed readily, all too conscious of the state she must look. "What about the other thing?" she asked, keen to know the reason Mrs Hughes had for holding onto it.
"Oh, I have a plan for that," she let on, conspiratorially, "One that might just help us both."