‘Did you see it?’
‘Yes!’ she cried.
‘Wow!’
‘Was it—’
‘Yes!’
‘Amazing.’
‘We’ve seen one!’
‘Will there be more?’ she asked, feeling like a meteor addict who hadn’t quite had her fill yet and was now hooked.
‘Let’s wait and see.’
She felt him squeeze her hand under the blanket and she squeezed right back. It felt as if there was nothing else in the world but the two of them and this moment. There they were, safely cocooned in the walled garden, gazing up into the magical world of the sky and, for a few blissful moments, Anne Marie was able to forget the fact that she was the second-best second daughter, and a failed second wife. Sitting there with Cape, she felt nothing but the best.
They waited for what seemed like an eternity, but was, in fact, only another forty minutes.
‘I don’t think we’re going to get lucky again,’ Anne Marie said.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Cape said. ‘I feel pretty lucky sitting here with you.’
She turned to face him and felt the sweet heat of his mouth upon hers.
‘I know you don’t want to go anywhere with this,’ he whispered.
‘Did I say that?’
‘I think you did.’
‘I might have been mistaken,’ she confessed.
‘Yeah?’
‘Might have.’ She pressed her forehead against his and then they both turned to look at the sky again, just as a second meteor shot across the star-studded darkness.
‘I think that means we’ve got heaven’s blessing,’ Cape whispered.
Cape dropped Anne Marie outside the bed and breakfast just after half past ten, leaning across the car to kiss her again.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘Yes. You?’
‘Never better.’
‘Thanks for this evening.’
‘Maybe one day we’ll go out somewhere that isn’t a freezing cold garden in the middle of the night,’ he said.
‘That would be different.’
They laughed.
‘Will you be at the garden during the week?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to try to pop by and water the greenhouse.’
‘Yes, Patrick said he and the boys like to do that after school now that it’s lighter.’
They paused, neither of them seeming to want to say goodnight.
‘I’d better go,’ Anne Marie said at last.
‘I’d better let you go,’ Cape said, picking up her hand and leaning forward to kiss her again.
‘Good night,’ she managed at last, getting out of the car and finding her key to let herself in to the bed and breakfast.
‘Oh, you’re back!’ Anne Marie said when she saw Kathleen. ‘How did it go at Patrick’s?’
Kathleen nodded. ‘Yeah, good.’
‘Just good?’
‘All right then, very good. He can cook.’
‘Well, that’s always a bonus.’
‘I don’t know why I thought he’d call out for pizza or something, but he really surprised me. The boys too – they’d made chocolate mousse for dessert. It was exceptionally good!’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘When he dropped you home?’
‘We walked home. The boys came too.’
‘Oh,’ Anne Marie said and then saw a little smile spread across Kathleen’s face.
‘And Patrick made them turn their backs as we reached the gate here.’ She paused.
‘Go on! You’re killing me!’
‘And we might have had a little kiss.’
Anne Marie beamed her a smile. She could still feel Cape’s kiss on her own lips. ‘Good for you!’
Of course, Anne Marie hadn’t needed to be told that Kathleen and Patrick had shared a kiss. The minute she’d seen her friend, she’d noticed that her trademark red lipstick had disappeared.
Saying goodnight and walking upstairs to her bedroom, Anne Marie looked down at the thin gold wedding band and the tiny garnet of her engagement ring. She remembered the day Grant had presented her with it. She’d always loved garnets and it was sweet of him to remember that, but it had been hard not to be just a little disappointed with the size of the stone. Perhaps he’d subconsciously known that their union wouldn’t last and had been loath to spend any more on it than he had.
Sitting down on her bed, Anne Marie knew that it was time to take the rings off and she did so now, using a little force to pull them over her knuckles for they’d remained on her fingers since their wedding day. The skin underneath the rings was pale, deprived of sunshine for over four years. And how very bare she felt without them on. They’d become so much a part of her; she’d never even taken them off for cooking or gardening or any other chore.
‘But not any longer,’ she told herself, opening the small jewellery box she’d placed on the bedside table and putting the rings inside it.
Chapter 21
‘I think we should protest,’ Erin told Anne Marie one Saturday in May.
‘What about?’
‘About being locked away in this dungeon all day!’
‘It’s hardly a dungeon,’ Anne Marie pointed out, looking around the glorious study with its panelled walls and mullioned window.
‘Well, it feels like one to me.’
‘Maybe you should rethink wanting to work in a museum, then,’ Anne Marie warned her. ‘You’re very likely to end up in some dusty office somewhere.’
‘But at least I’d be doing something wonderful,’ Erin said. ‘We’re just filing here.’
She had a point, Anne Marie conceded. It didn’t bother her so much, but Erin was obviously raring to get stuck in to some really exciting work.
‘I guess I’d rather be outside today too,’ she went on. ‘It’s such a gorgeous day.’
Anne Marie looked out of the window. Suddenly, everything had taken on that wonderful green of spring. Mac had assured them that the last frost was over and that it would be safe to start planting out. The team were starting work on a new area of land adjacent to the walled garden. It was an exciting time of year.
Still, there was work to be done in the study as well as the garden. They’d cleared so much space already, utilising three brand-new filing cabinets which had been brought especially for them to use, and Mrs Beatty had made noises that their job there would soon be done. Perhaps it was Anne Marie’s imagination, but she thought that Mrs Beatty was beginning to soften towards them all. There’d even been a hint of a smile on her face when Anne Marie had asked about a beautiful old fountain pen she’d found in the study.
‘That was Miss Morton’s,’ Mrs Beatty told her, opening her palm to take the pen and handling it as if it was the most precious thing in the world. ‘Emilia used to write me letters when she went away to university. She had the most beautiful flowing handwriting.’
Anne Marie had listened as Mrs Beatty’s eyes took on a faraway look. She then cleared her throat and looked at Anne Marie.
‘Here,’ she said, holding the pen out to her.
‘Where shall I put it?’ Anne Marie asked. ‘In one of the desk drawers?’
‘No, no. It’s for you. Keep it.’
Anne Marie was so baffled by this that she didn’t know what to say. ‘But I can’t,’ she managed at last.
‘It’s of no use to anyone in here. Take it,’ Mrs Beatty insisted, that hint of a smile warming her face again.
‘Thank you,’ Anne Marie said, holding the silver pen with reverence. ‘I’ll take good care of it.’
‘I know you will,’ Mrs Beatty said before leaving the room.
Now Anne Marie returned to the pile of papers and receipts she’d assigned herself that morning. They were simple enough to process, but one of them caught her eye. She held it up to the light to look at it properly, scanning the writing three, four times to make sure she’d read it properly.
‘Oh,
my god,’ she said at last.
Erin looked up from a pile of letters she was sorting through. ‘Have you found something?’
‘I – er – I don’t know.’
Erin got up from her chair and looked over Anne Marie’s shoulder. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a cheque written by my father.’
‘Really?’
‘There’s his name. Andrew Lattimore.’
‘Are you sure it’s him?’
‘I recognise the handwriting.’
Erin gasped. ‘Have you seen the amount it’s written for?’
Anne Marie nodded. She’d seen and she’d done a double-take. Her father had always been on good money as a director at a bank, but this amount was at least a year’s salary even by his standards.
‘Why’s that in there?’
‘I have no idea,’ Anne Marie said honestly.
‘It’s written to Tobias Morton. Perhaps he sold your father a painting or something,’ Erin suggested.
‘Perhaps. But the Mortons never parted with anything, did they?’
‘And they didn’t here – the cheque’s not been cashed. Why do you think that is?’
Anne Marie studied it again. ‘Where did we file that newspaper clipping?’
‘Which one?’
‘The one about Tobias Morton’s death?’
Erin looked towards the filing cabinets. ‘Top right one, I think. Do you want me to find it?’
Anne Marie nodded and watched as Erin retrieved the clipping.
‘Here.’ She handed it to her and Anne Marie nodded.
‘I thought so. Look – Tobias Morton died just a week after the cheque was written. He never got a chance to cash it. Look at the date.’
‘But what about his sister? She could have cashed it,’ Erin pointed out.
‘Not unless she didn’t know about it.’
‘How could you not know about such a huge sum? Surely if your only relative was selling something so valuable, you’d know about it.’
‘Everything all right in here?’ Mrs Beatty’s voice startled them as she stepped into the room eyeing them both warily.
‘Yes!’ Anne Marie said quickly. ‘Fine.’ She surreptitiously slid the cheque underneath another paper.
‘Actually,’ Erin said, clearing her throat, ‘it’s not fine.’
‘Not fine?’ Mrs Beatty repeated.
‘That’s right. We’re not happy.’
Mrs Beatty glowered at them. ‘And why would that be?’
Erin looked at Anne Marie as if for backup. ‘I think we’ve done all we can here. I think we’d be more use to you—’
‘Back in the garden?’ Mrs Beatty suggested, a wry light shining in her eyes.
‘No!’ Erin said quickly.
Anne Marie could feel the young woman’s pain. She’d made it into the house and didn’t want to be ejected now.
‘I agree with Erin,’ Anne Marie piped up in support of her friend. ‘Perhaps there’s something else we can do to help you. We’ve made good headway with the study here and you did say that we could—’
‘Tomorrow,’ Mrs Beatty said.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow you will begin work upstairs. On the collection.’
Erin’s bright eyes widened at this news. ‘Do you promise?’ she asked like an excited child.
‘I’ll meet you in the hall. Don’t go upstairs unsupervised,’ Mrs Beatty said before leaving the room.
Erin turned to Anne Marie.
‘Can you believe it?’
‘Well, it’s what you’ve been waiting for.’
‘We’re going to see the collection!’ Erin cried.
Anne Marie smiled and watched as Erin got her phone out and began texting someone. Anne Marie took the opportunity to retrieve the cheque written by her father, then folded it in half and placed it in the pocket of her jeans.
When Mrs Beatty opened the door to them on the Sunday morning, she looked slightly less stony-faced than normal.
‘This way,’ she said, leading them both upstairs.
Erin was fit to burst, her eyes darting around her as she took in the treasures.
‘Look at that stained glass,’ she said as they passed a window, ‘and that tapestry.’
They reached a landing lined with portraits. Anne Marie instantly recognised where they were because she’d been there before. She glanced around, hoping for another glimpse of the portrait of the beautiful woman in the midnight-blue dress that she’d seen when she’d sneaked into the house with Cape. She was quite sure it had been hanging just where they were standing now, but it was no longer there. She looked around to see if it had simply been moved, but could see no sign of it.
She was about to ask Mrs Beatty about it, but realised – just in time – that she shouldn’t have any knowledge of the painting because she hadn’t officially been in this part of the house, had she? Strange that it would have been moved, though, wasn’t it? It was a large portrait too and would have been tricky for Mrs Beatty to take off the wall on her own. But perhaps it was out for cleaning, she thought. There was probably some simple explanation for it.
Mrs Beatty gave them a brief history of the collection, pointing out the most important paintings and textiles.
‘Our records of the collection are incomplete and need bringing into the twenty-first century. You’ll find record cards for most of the pieces in this room here. What I need you to do is to make sure we have as much information as possible about each item in the collection. There are sales catalogues and all the original receipts which you’ve already filed away downstairs, but we have an extensive library too so you should be able to find anything else you need in there, such as information about the artists. Enter as much as you can on each index card and then copy that information onto the computer database.’
‘We can handle the pieces ourselves?’ Erin asked.
‘Gloves will be provided for the more delicate pieces,’ Mrs Beatty said, ‘but don’t attempt to move any of the larger pieces on your own. They’re very valuable.’
‘Of course.’
Mrs Beatty led them into a room off the landing. It looked suspiciously like a smaller version of the study downstairs with heaps of papers on two small tables in the centre of the room.
‘Don’t worry yourself with the papers. You’ll be working with the index cards in those boxes there.’ She pointed to a bench at the side of the room on which sat at least a dozen small wooden boxes. They were works of art in themselves and Anne Marie couldn’t help but marvel at the fact that even items as mundane as index cards were housed in something so beautiful.
‘I’ll let you get acclimatised. The library is housed in the long gallery opposite. The art books are to the right of the door. You’ll find the computer in the library too. I’ve left all the passwords for you to get in and I’ve set up a basic spreadsheet for you to enter the index cards on.’ She paused and eyed them. ‘Do you have any questions?’
Anne Marie was sorely tempted to ask the whereabouts of the painting of the lady in the blue dress, but thought better of it. Maybe she and Erin would find it together as they catalogued the collection.
‘Where should we start?’ Erin asked. ‘I mean, is there somewhere you’d like us to begin – a room, perhaps, or a particular artist?’
‘If I were you, I’d start on the landing and work your way around the rooms clockwise so that you don’t get lost or in a muddle.’
‘Would it be okay to photograph the items to help us?’ Erin said.
‘As long as it’s only for your own records. We can’t have photographs uploaded to those dreadful social sites that the whole world has access to.’
‘Of course not,’ Erin added, suitably warned.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Mrs Beatty said, pausing for a moment as if she wanted to say something else. ‘You’ll be using the same kitchen and facilities as before on the ground floor. Let me know if you need anything.’
Anne Marie b
linked at the offer of assistance and smiled as Mrs Beatty nodded towards her. They watched as she left and then Anne Marie turned to Erin whose face broke into the largest smile imaginable.
‘Oh, my god! I’m so excited. Where’s my phone?’
‘Who are you going to call?’
‘Nobody! I’m going to start taking photos and uploading them to my Instagram.’
‘Don’t even joke about that!’ Anne Marie said.
Erin winked at her. ‘Come on, let’s go on a treasure hunt!’
The next few hours passed in a blur of excitement as they viewed the paintings, ceramics and tapestries along the landing. They familiarised themselves with the index cards, doing their best to decipher the crabby handwriting of whoever had made them, and cranked the old computer up. All the time, Anne Marie kept her eyes open for the portrait of the woman in the blue dress, without any luck. She felt pretty sure the subject was the same as the little watercolour of the lady in the maze that she’d noticed on the night when the group had first met, though she didn’t get a chance to look at that again either.
When they joined the others for lunch, Cape approached her.
‘You’re beaming!’ he said.
‘You should see the collection in there, Cape, it’s incredible,’ she told him. ‘I’ve never seen so many wonderful paintings in my life. Not outside an art gallery anyway. Erin’s beside herself with excitement.’
‘She’s been waiting for this a long time.’
‘She’s a natural too. You can tell she’s going to make a career in curating. She’s totally in her element.’
‘And you?’ he asked. ‘How do you feel?’
Anne Marie thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean?’
She wasn’t quite sure how to explain it to him. ‘I’ve got a funny feeling in the house. I love it, but there’s an atmosphere that isn’t quite comfortable somehow. It’s oppressive.’
‘Yes, I felt that the day we went upstairs.’
‘Did you?’
He nodded. ‘Maybe it’s just all that dark wood and those big old paintings.’
‘I’m not sure. It feels like more than that to me.’
‘You think the place is haunted?’
‘No!’ She laughed off his suggestion. ‘But there’s a mood about it.’ She ran a hand through her red hair. ‘I’m not explaining it very well.’
The Heart of the Garden Page 29