‘Me?’ Hope said, startled. ‘Frances usually does the windows, doesn’t she?’
‘She does,’ he said. ‘But this is your idea and I’m sure the two of you can work together. You’re both here on Thursday, aren’t you?’
Hope nodded.
‘Why don’t you see if you can carve out a bit of time and make some plans?’ Mr Young suggested. ‘Let me know which pieces you’d like to use and which window you think will work best.’
‘The middle one, perhaps,’ Hope said. ‘Although the rocking horse might not be too happy.’
‘He’ll be gracious about it, I’m sure,’ Mr Young said. ‘In fact, he might even enjoy being out of the spotlight for a while – his coat could use a little TLC and this is the perfect opportunity to freshen him up.’
Hope couldn’t deny that the project was appealing, despite the fact that she had no real idea where to begin. But that was the beauty of a team effort; her colleague could show her the ropes. ‘Okay,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘I’ll talk to Frances on Thursday.’
He beamed at her. ‘Excellent. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.’
Although she was as careful as ever, only half of Hope’s attention was focussed on unwrapping the rest of the glassware – she was mentally working through the Emporium’s stock, deciding what to put in the window. Even the turquoise trinket box that Mr Young identified as Victorian couldn’t distract her. And then she peeled back the wrapping on the most beautifully etched decanter; semi-circles of red overlapped around the rounded bottom half like rose petals, before giving way to more delicate fronds that curled towards the slender neck. It was topped by a ruby red stopper. Six fragile cocktail glasses lay hidden by its side – Hope took them out one by one and the breath caught in her throat.
‘Ah, the celebrated Edwardian overlay technique,’ Mr Young said, peering over her shoulder and pointing to the red semi-circles. ‘The colour is known as Cranberry – very fashionable in the early part of the twentieth century. This set is by Webb, dated around 1905. A superb example, don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely,’ Hope said, admiring the intricate pattern. ‘Do I dare ask how expensive it is?’
Mr Young pursed his lips. ‘Not as much as you might think – somewhere around the two hundred mark, I reckon.’ He studied her. ‘Without your staff discount, that is.’
She reached out a hand to touch the red stopper. ‘It’s my parents’ ruby wedding anniversary,’ she said. ‘I’ve been looking out for something special, something completely impractical but equally irresistible. Is it okay for me to buy it?’
‘Of course. It’s certainly the right colour,’ he said. ‘You must pass on my congratulations – forty years of marriage is quite an achievement.’
Hope smiled. ‘I will, thank you. And you’re right, it is an achievement but the truth is they’d be lost without each other. In fact, I think they’re more in love now than they’ve ever been – he still brings her a cup of tea in bed every morning and she still looks at him as though he’s the most handsome man she’s ever seen.’
‘That’s when you know it’s true love,’ he said, and she saw his fingers move to touch the chain of the fob watch that was folded away in the pocket of his neat grey waistcoat. ‘When the years together feel like mere months.’
There was a gently wistful tone to his voice and, for the first time, Hope found herself wondering about her employer’s personal life. She knew he lived alone, in a flat tucked away in the eaves of the building, but she’d never stopped to consider whether he’d always been alone. There had probably been a Mrs Young, she thought now, who’d given him the watch as a gift. And however long they’d had together, he wished it had been longer. As she did when she thought about the life she might have had with Rob.
‘They’re lucky,’ Hope said. ‘But I think they appreciate that.’
His pale blue eyes rested on hers and a flash of understanding passed between them. A brief silence grew, then Mr Young smiled. ‘Lucky indeed to have a daughter to give them such a magnificent memento. Make sure you wrap it up well, and mark it with a sold sticker if you’re not taking it home today.’
Hope reached for the bubble wrap and tried to sound casual. ‘Do you believe in true love? The idea of a soulmate for each of us?’
‘I certainly believe in true love,’ Mr Young answered, after a pause. ‘But perhaps not that we should spend all our time searching for that one perfect soulmate. Life isn’t neat like that – sometimes we meet the right person at the wrong time, or even the wrong person at the right time.’ He sighed. ‘Love isn’t neat, either – it might burn with the kind of slow flame that lasts a lifetime but more often it fades or something happens to smother the fire entirely.’
Again, Hope thought of Rob; people tended to assume they’d had the perfect marriage but she’d sometimes wondered, in the two years since he’d died, whether they would have lasted the distance. Now she’d never know.
Mr Young went on. ‘And sometimes it burns hot and fast and consumes you both.’ He gave a wry shake of his head. ‘That’s the kind of passion that gets all the songs and poems written about it, even though it’s often the most destructive. Unfortunately, it’s tricky to predict which love you’re going to get. But they all feel true at the time.’
His hand touched his waistcoat again and Hope almost asked which love had given him the watch. But her nerve failed; he was her boss, after all. ‘Thank you,’ she said instead. ‘My parents are going to be thrilled.’
A smiled creased his face. ‘Then my work here is done.’
Chapter Two
The balcony of Hope’s riverside apartment glowed in the last of the evening sunlight. She gazed across the rounded bistro table at Ciaran and tried to sound casual. ‘How is it?’
He finished his mouthful of sea bass and sat back in his chair, dark hair glistening and looking for all the world like a rock star who’d escaped his entourage. ‘Like the food of the gods. Delicious.’
More relieved than she cared to admit, Hope scooped up a forkful from her own plate. She and Rob had loved to entertain but it had been a long time now since she’d cooked for someone else – kind friends had made meals for her in the weeks and months following Rob’s death, or else they’d gone out to eat. As time went by, if she had invited anyone round to her apartment, they’d ordered a takeaway. She cooked for herself, of course, but that wasn’t the same as making something for another person to eat. Cooking for others was more stressful than she remembered, especially when it was someone she wanted to impress.
‘It’s hard to go wrong with a Gabe Santiago recipe,’ she said modestly, waving a hand at the lemon-drizzled fish with roasted cherry tomatoes and Jersey Royal potatoes. ‘My mum got me his book for Christmas and this was so easy to make even I couldn’t mess it up.’
Ciaran reached for his wine glass and raised it towards her. ‘It’s not the recipe, Hope. It’s what you do with it that counts.’
The accompanying smile was so full of charm that it felt churlish of her to argue. Instead, Hope chinked her glass against his. ‘Cheers,’ she said, taking a long sip of crisp, cool Pinot Grigio. ‘And thank you.’
‘It should be me thanking you,’ Ciaran went on. ‘Between the end of year meetings, final assignments and stressed-out students, I’ve been living on Big Macs and Pot Noodles for weeks. It’s grand to eat something home-cooked.’
‘You have not,’ Hope replied, eyeing the flat stomach beneath his shirt.
‘It’s true,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘I’m just a sad, lonely academic who needs the love of a good woman to save him from malnutrition.’
She laughed. ‘I guess you won’t be returning the invitation, then.’
He gave a mock shudder. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to visit my university digs. They don’t have views like this, for a start,’ he said, nodding at the pink-tinged sunset and the light dancing across the water of the wharf. ‘And I’m no one’s idea of a chef – it’s
better all-round if I take you out for dinner when it’s my turn.’
She didn’t believe Ciaran McCormack was inadequate at anything but his mention of final assignments did remind Hope of something she’d been meaning to ask. ‘What happens when you get to the end of the year? Do you spend much time in York over the summer break?’
‘Not much, no,’ he said, taking another sip of wine. ‘I’ve nothing against the city’s tourists but you can hardly move for them most days. Although Scarborough’s not much better.’
Hope’s mouth twisted in wry agreement; the seaside town was a famously popular British holiday resort and tourists flocked to enjoy the golden beaches. ‘I haven’t been there for years,’ she said. ‘But I don’t suppose it’s changed much.’
‘Not much,’ he conceded. ‘But I live just outside the town so the visitors don’t really trouble me. And I like being near the sea – it reminds me there’s plenty of world I’ve yet to explore.’
All of which tied in to Hope’s growing suspicion that it was going to be hard for them to see much of each other over the summer. Unless they made a major breakthrough with their research into the tragedy of Elenor Lovelace and Hope could tempt him back to York. It wasn’t the end of the world – she had plenty to keep her busy – but she had to admit she was enjoying his company more and more. She was going to miss their dates.
‘So, what’s the big news you mentioned?’ she asked, deciding to change the subject.
His grey eyes brightened as he leaned forward. ‘You know we’d hit that brick wall when it came to uncovering what had happened to Elenor’s fiancé in Egypt?’
They had, Hope recalled, after a visit to Elenor’s last surviving relative hadn’t gone quite as well as they’d anticipated. Isobel Lovelace had revealed that her great-great aunt had fallen in love with an Egyptian archaeologist named Khalid Al Nazari, and that the relationship had scandalized her family back in England, but she’d been reluctant to give away much in the way of details. Hope knew Ciaran had spoken to a number of colleagues at other universities to see if they could shed any light on Khalid’s professional accomplishments, or what had become of him after Elenor had ended their relationship. So far, information had been sketchy and Hope had begun to wonder whether there was anything more to uncover. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Have you found something new?’
‘Well, Isobel was right when she said he worked at the University of Cairo,’ Ciaran said. ‘I found him referenced in a number of archaeological reports between the late nineteen tens to early nineteen twenties – fairly standard stuff for the most part but he had some interesting theories about the Valley of the Kings.’
Hope thought back to their meeting with Isobel a few weeks earlier. ‘She did say he’d worked on the excavations – that was how he met Elenor.’
‘Exactly,’ Ciaran said. ‘So, I’d expected him to be named on some of the papers and reports that came out after Tutankhamun’s tomb was discovered by Howard Carter. Plenty of other local archaeologists and academics were – Carter gets all the glory but it was a collaborative effort. I couldn’t find anything naming a Dr Al Nazari, though.’
She winced as she recalled another part of the tale they’d heard from Elenor’s great-great niece. ‘Not a massive surprise, given that the Lovelace family had him beaten almost to death.’
Ciaran gave her a significant look. ‘That’s according to Isobel and she’s telling the story second-hand – she didn’t witness things personally. I wanted to see if there was anything that proves Khalid was involved with the excavations.’
For a moment, Hope felt like one of his students but his observation made sense; hadn’t her school teachers always gone on about the reliability of historical sources? ‘Let me guess – you drew a blank.’
But she could tell from the triumphant sparkle in his eyes that she was wrong. ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t say it’s an embarrassment of riches but it was in the most obvious place possible.’
He was really enjoying himself, Hope realized, and she supposed she couldn’t blame him – this was his specialist subject, after all. ‘Which was?’
‘Howard Carter’s excavation diaries!’ Ciaran crowed. ‘They’re not what you’d call a riveting read – there’s a lot of really dull detail about the comings and goings of various officials and visitors to the site, and he has a weird obsession with donkeys. But in amongst all of that, there was one reference to a Dr Al Nazari – a few mentions of Dr A-N and occasionally the name Khalid, which could be someone else with the same name, of course.’ He paused and raised an eyebrow. ‘And once or twice, I saw the initials EL. On the same dates as Dr A-N.’
Hope clapped her hands in delight. ‘It must be them! What did it say?’
Ciaran sighed. ‘Nothing much of any use, unfortunately. Carter was a brilliant archaeologist but his diary entries are eminently practical. I’ve only looked at the early journals so far but I’m going to keep reading to see if Khalid features after nineteen twenty three.’
‘That’s so exciting,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Well done for finding them.’
He tipped his head, acknowledging her praise. ‘We may not be able to unravel what really happened,’ he warned. ‘But at least what we’ve learned so far ties in with Isobel’s story and we’ve got a better idea where to start digging for more. And you don’t have to leave it all to me – Carter’s diaries are available online. You can have a look for yourself.’
The conversation she’d had with Charlotte about being Ciaran’s research assistant popped into Hope’s mind; that was exactly where this was heading. But his enthusiasm was contagious and, if she was honest, Elenor Lovelace had hooked her with the letter.
‘Sounds like a plan,’ she said, piling the empty dinner plates of top of each other and getting to her feet. ‘I’ll just get rid of these and then maybe you can show me where to find the diaries.’
‘Did I thank you properly for cooking?’ he asked, once they’d cleared the table and Hope was rinsing the plates to load into the dishwasher.
‘I’m sure you did,’ she said over one shoulder as she ran the hot tap. ‘But I wouldn’t mind if you thanked me again. I’m a praise junkie.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, and she realized he was right behind her. His lips brushed the nape of her neck with feathery touches. ‘Whoever said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach knew what they were talking about.’
Hope closed her eyes and swallowed a gasp as her skin tingled. ‘You’re welcome,’ she managed.
‘And at the risk of getting distracted from our very important research, I’ve realized there’s another advantage to having a night in,’ he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.
Hope gripped the sink, thoughts of Carter’s dusty diaries melting away. ‘Oh? What’s that?’
Ciaran’s hands rested on her waist as he turned her round to face him. ‘It’s no distance at all to the bedroom,’ he said, and kissed her.
* * *
The glorious June heatwave stretched through to Thursday. The city’s streets seemed busier than ever as visitors and residents alike took refuge in the shady snickelways or seized the opportunity to bask in the sun with some al fresco dining. The Emporium was busy, too; Hope wasn’t sure whether it was the appeal of the cool interior or the glittering treasures inside but it felt as though she hadn’t stopped all morning, much less found the time to start making plans for the new window display with Frances. By the time her lunch break rolled around, Hope was sorely in need of some peace and quiet. She cut through Minster Gates to Dean’s Park and found her favourite bench, tucked away in a secluded corner beneath the shadow of the Minster. It was blessedly cool and she soon felt the stresses of the morning fade as she scanned through Howard Carter’s diaries on her phone. Ciaran had been right: while the brief daily entries gave a fascinating insight into one of the most momentous archaeological discoveries of the twentieth century, they weren’t big on detail. Names were often abbreviated into s
hortened forms or sometimes just the initials of the people who’d visited the tombs, which made it difficult to keep track of the key players. Mentions of Elenor and Khalid were sparse and neither appeared at all after April 1923, which was the date of the letter breaking off their engagement. That Elenor vanished wasn’t a surprise; she’d been back in England and had tragically taken her own life just a few months later. But the fact that a noted local expert like Khalid Al Nazari was absent too made Hope uneasily wonder just how badly he’d been injured in the beating he’d endured. Isobel had been convinced he’d survived but, as Ciaran pointed out, she only knew what she’d been told. What if Elenor’s death hadn’t been the only tragedy?
Hope was so engrossed in her thoughts that she almost thought she was dreaming when she saw Isobel Lovelace walking purposefully along the path that led past the Minster. She was dressed in much the same way as she’d been when Hope and Ciaran had visited her at home, in wide-legged trousers and a classic linen shirt, although her white hair was hidden beneath a sun hat. Even so, Hope was sure it was her; there was something unmistakable about the way she carried herself. Should she wave, Hope wondered, or say hello? And then she remembered the elderly woman’s lack of patience towards the end of their last conversation, and the definite suggestion that she didn’t suffer fools. No, Hope decided, she wouldn’t disturb her. Isobel Lovelace didn’t seem the type to wave.
She was therefore surprised when the other woman slowed down as she passed. Isobel didn’t immediately stop; as Hope watched, she took several more steps and glanced over her shoulder, as though trying to place Hope’s face. Then she stopped and backtracked, frowning imperiously. ‘It is you, isn’t it? You’re the one who found Elenor’s ring.’
Hope nodded. ‘Hello, Miss Lovelace. Yes, I’m Hope Henderson. How are you?’
The older woman didn’t smile. ‘I’m on my way to a meeting with the Archbishop. I just wanted to make sure it was really you.’ There was a fractional hesitation. ‘That I wasn’t misremembering.’
The Little Shop of Hidden Treasures Part Two Page 2