Mariana

by Susanna Kearsley

  I was opening my mouth to respond when he caught sight of the tarnished bit of metal in my hand.

  “What on earth is that?” He arched an eyebrow.

  “It’s a key.”

  “We found it in one of the nesting holes in the wall, here,” Vivien supplied, when I failed to offer any further information. “Quite intriguing, don’t you think?”

  He held out a hand. “May I see it?”

  It looked even smaller in his hand than it had in mine. He turned it over once or twice and scraped at the metal with his fingernail, frowning. “It’s brass, I think. It could be a door key, I suppose, though it doesn’t seem big enough. How interesting.” He studied it a moment longer, then handed it back to me. “I didn’t know that pigeons collected keys.”

  “Someone could have put it there,” Vivien suggested.

  “But why would they bother?” Geoff asked.

  I pocketed the key and shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know.”

  We were all three silent for a minute or so, reflecting on the possibilities, and then Vivien swung her head back and smiled brightly.

  “So, you two are off to that estate sale near Calne, are you?”

  “Yes.” I nodded. I turned to Geoff. “I’m not late, am I?”

  He shook his head. “I think I’m early.”

  “I’ve got to change, anyway,” I told him, looking down at my gardening clothes. “Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”

  Vivien waved me off. “Take your time,” she said. “I’ll keep him amused for you. I don’t have to open up the Lion for another half hour, yet.”

  “Thanks.”

  I scurried across the yard and into the house, pausing just inside the back door to kick off my tattered shoes, my heart racing. I was more excited by the fact that I had been able to stave off an impending “experience” by the force of my own willpower, than I was by my discovery of the mysterious key.

  That the key held some connection to Mariana Farr, I had no doubt, but I knew I would have to wait for that connection to be revealed to me. In the meantime, I could revel in the knowledge that I was capable not only of triggering my own flashbacks, but of preventing them as well. For the moment, at least, I was in control, and it was an exhilarating sensation.

  No less exhilarating, I thought, than the promise of spending the rest of the day in the company of a handsome young man, basking in the sunshine of a glorious English spring afternoon. Upstairs, I placed the key carefully on the dressing table in my bedroom and smiled into the mirror.

  ***

  A short while later, having bathed and changed into clothes that were in keeping with Geoff’s casual wardrobe, I found myself standing on the neatly mown lawn of a sprawling Victorian mansion to the north of Calne, caught up in the cheerful whirl and bluster of a genuine country estate sale.

  Massive wardrobes and chests of drawers and elegant sideboards were lined up beside the gravel drive, like troops awaiting review. Countless smaller items littered the tops of trestle tables and blanket chests, and spilled out of boxes tucked beneath the tables for want of space. I accompanied Geoff through the wildly intoxicating display, pausing to examine a mantel clock here, or a musical box there, or to stroke a particularly appealing piece of satinwood furniture.

  My father had loved sales like this one. Even when I was very young, he had often taken me with him, teaching me how to spot quality in an old chair, and how to recognize an antique dealer hidden among the crowd of common country folk. Once, I remember, there had been a small statue of a hunting dog that I wanted very badly. It was nothing special, just painted celluloid over a plaster form, a cheap Victorian thing—but I wanted it. I would have been about seven years old at the time.

  I stood guard over my treasure until the auctioneer worked his way round to it, by which time everyone in the crowd could see I had staked my claim. The opening bid—of fifty pence—was mine, and I was so eager and so determined that when the auctioneer asked if anyone would give him seventy-five, my hand shot into the air again, making me the first person in our county to outbid herself at auction. Had the auctioneer been a less scrupulous man, he could probably have worked me up to two pounds, the amount I was carrying in my pocket, but instead he only laughed and gave me the garish piece for my original fifty-pence bid.

  Afterward, he leaned down and warned me never to let anyone know how badly I wanted to own something. “You’re young now, child,” he’d said, “and chances are that no one will bid against you. But when you get older, it will cost you dearly.”

  I had long since forgotten what happened to that plaster hunting dog, but I never forgot the auctioneer’s advice. I remembered it now as I passed a box of books, and what appeared to be a first edition of JRR Tolkien’s The Hobbit peeked out at me from amid a jumble of cheap hardcover mysteries. Casually—oh, so casually—without letting my expression change, I opened the covers of a few of the books in that box, leafing idly through the yellowed pages.

  “All this belonged to just one man, you said?” I asked Geoff, striving for a normal tone of voice.

  “That’s right. Lord Ashburn. He died last month, I believe. Old fellow was in his nineties, at any rate. I hadn’t seen him in years, but he used to play golf with my dad when I was a kid.”

  I opened the Tolkien book, flipped a page to check the date, then turned to the back flap of the dust cover to read the jacket copy, my excitement mounting as I spotted a misspelled word that had been corrected by hand, another detail that marked the book as a first edition. Closing the book, I looked at Geoff and smiled.

  “Lord Ashburn certainly had eclectic tastes,” I commented.

  He nodded. “And heaps of money. He was a bit of an eccentric, actually, almost a hermit. Didn’t even live in the main house. He lived in that cottage over there.” He pointed out the roof among the trees at the back of the property. “Made the house into a sort of museum, for his own private use.”

  “I guess we should be thankful for that,” I said, letting my eyes roam the cluttered lawn and milling crowd of browsers and buyers. “Do you see anything that interests you?”

  “A few things. Those globes, for instance.” He nodded towards a pair of standing library globes, terrestrial and celestial, a few yards to the left of us. “They’re dated 1828, and in rather good condition. Rosewood stands, I think, which makes them fairly high quality. I’m always on the lookout for something that will add more character to the house.”

  I was smiling at the thought of anyone referring to Crofton Hall as a mere “house,” as though it were nothing grander than a three-bedroom bungalow, when the auctioneer tentatively cleared his throat over the microphone and called the crowd to order. Geoff slung his arm around my shoulder, quite naturally, and guided me to a good vantage point at the outward edge of the tightly massed group. Bending his head, he spoke low into my ear.

  “Are you going to bid on it?”

  “Bid on what?”

  “The Tolkien,” he said, smiling. I could feel that smile against my hair, and tried stoically to ignore the sensation. “It is a first edition, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” I smiled back, in spite of myself. “And yes, I do intend to bid on it.”

  As it happened, when the box of books finally came up, I didn’t bid very high. I took one look at the man who was bidding against me, pulled my hand down, and refused to go any further. Geoff nudged my shoulder.

  “Why aren’t you bidding?” he asked.

  “Because that man is a dealer,” I told him. “He knows full well what the book is worth, and I can’t afford to pay that much.”

  Geoff followed my gaze to the deceptively languid fellow standing in the middle of the crowd, his hands in his pockets, a well-used briar pipe clenched between his teeth, looking every inch the common farmer.

  “You’re sur
e?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He thought a moment. “Do you want me to buy it for you?”

  “No.” It came out too hastily, and a bit too harshly, but I did not want Geoffrey de Mornay to think I was at all interested in his money. “No,” I said again, more softly this time. “Thanks very much, but it isn’t that important to me.”

  I bit my lip and looked on as the bidding escalated into the hundreds, until it seemed certain that the dealer would win it, then watched with delight as the smug expression was wiped from his face by a last-minute entrant who stole the box of books with an unheard-of bid of five hundred pounds. A ripple of excitement swelled through the crowd as the elderly gray-bearded man came forward to collect his purchase. The dealer, anxious but not that anxious, rocked back on his heels, folded his arms, and puffed furiously at his pipe, sending a succession of small blue-tinged clouds floating upward into the bright, clear air.

  For my part, I consoled myself by entering in the bidding on the next item, a plain little oak lap desk that I eventually bought for rather more than it was worth. I hugged it close, triumphantly, while the auctioneer moved on.

  “Here we have,” he said enticingly, “a pair of Cary’s library globes, dated 1828, of rosewood and painted beech with boxwood stringing all round. Who’ll give me five thousand pounds to start?”

  The dealers leapt at that one, and beside me Geoff nodded at the auctioneer, with whom he was obviously well acquainted. When the bidding stopped at twenty-one thousand, the entire crowd—myself included—seemed to exhale its collective breath, and not a few heads turned to stare at the handsome, unassuming young man who had made the final bid.

  Geoff drew out his checkbook and went to pay, and I stood frowning for a moment, watching him and thinking of the yawning social gulf that separated us. He was lord of the manor, for heaven’s sake, I reminded myself. And medieval as that might sound, there was nothing medieval about the fact that his bank balance would make my own earnings look like mere pocket change. I had to be out of my mind.

  But when he returned, I had only to look at his face and my middle-class misgivings were forgotten. At that moment, Geoffrey de Mornay looked nothing like a lord. He looked, I thought, exactly like a small boy—happy and carefree and terribly pleased with himself.

  “Anything happen while I was gone?” he asked.

  “Nothing much. A few of the older ladies fainted when they saw you writing that check, but other than that it’s been pretty dull.”

  He laughed, throwing back his dark head and regarding me warmly. He had told me once not to apologize for being clever, and he didn’t apologize to me now for being rich. I liked him for that. Instead, he put his arm around my shoulder again and directed my attention to a nearby sideboard. “The sideboard itself is nothing,” he said, “but I’ll wager that pair of urns sitting on it will go for at least six thousand pounds.”

  I looked. “You’re on,” I accepted the wager. “I’ll bet you fifty pence.”

  We stayed for another hour or so—long enough for me to lose my fifty pence and spend another twenty-five pounds on a totally unnecessary painting for my hallway—then, reluctantly, we made our way to the end of the drive, somewhat hampered by our cumbersome purchases.

  The gray-bearded gentleman who had nabbed my box of books was leaning on the bonnet of Geoff’s car, smoking a cigarette and gazing vaguely back at the continuing sale with a peaceful expression. He shifted as we approached.

  “Sorry,” he apologized to Geoff. “I’m just waiting for my son to come and collect me. Didn’t fancy lugging those,” he nodded to the box, “any farther than I had to.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Geoff said, trying to wrestle his coveted library globes into the trunk without damaging them.

  I smiled at the old man. “That’s quite a good buy you made back there.”

  “I know.” He nodded sagely. “My father wrote most of those mysteries. Can’t put a price on that, can you?”

  Geoff stopped struggling and sent me an apprehensive sideways look, but I had already spotted my opening.

  “Oh, look!” I bent down and dislodged the Tolkien from the toppled books, pretending surprise. “The Hobbit! Look, darling, isn’t that little Jimmy’s favorite book?”

  Geoff just grinned at me, refusing to play, and I turned a hopeful, enquiring face up to the gentle old man, hoping that I had retained at least some of the childish appeal I’d had as a seven-year-old.

  “I don’t suppose,” I said, faltering a little, “I don’t suppose that you’d…”

  “You can have it,” he said generously. “It’s the mysteries I want. You take that book, for your little boy.”

  To my credit, I felt a tiny twinge of guilt.

  “Let me pay you for it,” I offered, handing him a ten-pound note, which, to my great relief, he accepted. “After all,” I said, smiling broadly, “it must be worth something.”

  Geoff slammed the trunk shut with a curious cough and opened the passenger door for me. “Come along, darling,” he said. “We have to get going.”

  In the car, he gave me another long look before we both burst out laughing at my good fortune.

  “You are shameless,” he accused me. “Shockingly good, but shameless.”

  “I had a wonderful teacher,” I explained, and for the next few miles I regaled him with stories of my father’s auction-house exploits and the conniving duplicity that ran strong in my family’s blood.

  “I’d enjoy meeting your father, from the sounds of it,” said Geoff.

  My reply was little more than a noncommittal mumble. It was just as well for Geoff, I thought, that my father was still out of the country. My previous boyfriends had run for cover at the sight of him, as a rule. Daddy could be rather difficult, at times, and he hadn’t yet found any young man who measured up to his exacting standards. The best thing, I’d found, was simply not to introduce them to him. It saved a lot of bother, all around.

  The drive back to Exbury was far too short, and all too soon we were pulling up to the side of my house. Geoff reached into the back seat and handed me my lap desk and the small framed painting I had foolishly bought. For the first time that day, our speech became stilted.

  “That was a lot of fun,” I said. “I really enjoyed myself.”

  “So did I.” He looked at his hands on the steering wheel. “Listen,” he said, “I have to go up north again for a few days, maybe even a week, but when I get back I want to see you again.” He turned his head to face me. “I want to take you to dinner.”

  “I’d like that,” I said, and he smiled, the full force of his charm making me momentarily dizzy.

  It was a better kiss than the first. For one thing, I reasoned, we had known each other nearly two weeks longer, and we had just shared an absolutely perfect day in each other’s company. When the kiss ended, I sent him a happy smile and reached for the door handle.

  “’Bye.”

  He leaned across the seat, helping me with the door. “You’re sure you’ll be all right with that?”

  “Yes, thanks.” I nodded, clutching my purchases more tightly.

  “Right, then.” Again the smile. “I’ll give you a ring when I get back.”

  I watched him drive away, feeling ridiculously happy, and all but danced around the house to the back door. In stubborn contrast to my own mood, the key refused to turn in my new lock, and in the process of wrestling with it, the oak lap desk slipped from my grasp and fell with a thud and a clatter to the ground, missing the stone step by inches.

  “Blast!” I cursed my brother and the lock, and knelt in the grass to recover the lap desk. It had sprung open when it fell, and the loose velvet-covered writing surface lay skewed on its hinges. I closed the box, and with my finger wiped a smear of mud from the elaborate letter H on the lid’s brass namep
late.

  When I picked up the desk, something rattled inside, and I groaned mentally, attacking the back door with renewed vigor. This time, the lock cooperated, stiffly. I pushed the door open with my shoulder, kicking it shut behind me for good measure.

  Setting my purchases down on the kitchen table, I opened the lap desk once more and examined the hollow cavity beneath the writing surface. Nothing appeared to have broken, but a narrow secret drawer had been sprung by the fall. With curious fingers I pried it fully open.

  Inside the drawer lay a daintily worked bracelet of chipped and tarnished gilt, a linked procession of fanciful birds of paradise with eyes of blue glass that glittered like royal jewels.

  Chapter 18

  With fingers that trembled slightly, I lifted the bracelet from the shallow drawer where it had lain concealed for… how long? Centuries? It was the same bracelet, I knew it with a certainty that surpassed logic. The sight of it, the feel of it, the weight of against my palm were so familiar to me, there was no question that the bracelet had once been mine.

  But how had it found its way into a wooden lap desk that—if the maker’s label was to be believed—had not even been crafted until the mid-1700s, seventy years or more after Mariana Farr had come to Exbury? Still clutching the bracelet, I closed the lid of the lap desk and looked again at the swirled letter H on the nameplate, frowning. Was it possible, I wondered, that the H stood for “Howard”? Had this plain little box once belonged to one of the Howards of Greywethers?

  I shook my head, bewildered. It all seemed so incredibly fantastic to me, beyond the realm of probability. Too much of a coincidence to be true, I thought. Or… was it? I ran the bracelet through my fingers like the beads of a rosary, and the birds of paradise seemed to wink at me as their glass eyes caught the light. Maybe, I speculated, just maybe, if everything was truly happening for a reason, and if there really was a mystical force that drove us on to fate or destiny, then my finding the bracelet was not much of a coincidence, after all. Maybe, in fact, it was necessary…