Written on the Wind

by Cate Dean

  Maggie shook her head. “It’s her freedom, not the—ˮ She cut herself off when she saw his grin. “Funny, Spence. I’m going back to the church. I don’t think this was supposed to be part of my twenty pound sale box.” Carefully, she rewrapped the book before she put it back in the box, along with the other items she knew she wouldn’t be able to sell. She slipped off her gloves, and took Spencer’s pair from him. “Can you keep an eye on the shop?”

  “Sure.” Spencer picked up the box for her, and followed her to the door. “You’re walking over, right?”

  She flashed him a smile. “No need to send out a warning. I’m not driving.”

  “I never meant to—”

  “Oh, yes you did. I forgive you anyway.” Maggie opened the door, propping it with her shoulder as she took the box from Spencer. “Can you keep Martin busy for me? He’s a little preoccupied.”

  “What happened between you two?”

  “I’ll fill you in later, promise.”

  Spencer kept the door open, and she knew he was watching her as she walked up the cobbled high street, headed for St. Mary’s Church. Ever since the incident with Drew, Spencer had been more protective of her. She hoped it wouldn’t turn into overprotective, or they’d be having a talk.

  She adjusted her grip on the heavy box as she walked up the uneven, paved sidewalk leading to the arched blue front door of St. Mary’s. The sale ended a while ago, but she was hoping that someone at the church would know who had been where at the sale, and could point her to the seller.

  The cool, dim interior was empty, so Maggie walked through, and out the side door. A more modern community building stood next to the church, and if anyone was around they’d be inside. Maggie spotted the woman she’d seen at the sale as soon as she walked in.

  “Hi,” Maggie said. She set the box on an empty table near the door, her arms sore from carrying it. The box weighed more than she remembered. “I bought this at the charity sale this morning, and there are a couple of personal items I don’t think were supposed to end up in the box. I’d like to return them to their owner.”

  “Oh.” The woman came around the table where she’d been sorting out stacks of paper. “We numbered the boxes, since they were brought in ahead of the sale.” She opened the box and tapped the corner of one of the flaps. “Here it is. Let me check this number against the list.”

  “Thanks.” Maggie followed her over to a desk at the back of the large, open space, admiring the lines of the 19th century mahogany sideboard they walked past. There was a jumble of different styles and eras in the building—probably all donations. “I think they may want this back. It’s a journal, from the early 1800s. There was also a personal letter tucked inside.”

  “Let me see—ah, here we are.” The woman tapped her finger on the list attached to a clipboard. “A representative of the family was selling items at the sale. A Mr. Black.”

  “What family?”

  The woman pursed her lips. “I’m not certain I should be giving out this information. Not because it’s confidential, mind you,” she said, holding her hand up. “But because of where I’d be sending you.”

  Maggie smiled at her. “I’ll take a chance.”

  “You are Irene’s niece, aren’t you? I recognize that spirit.” The woman smiled. “And the red hair.”

  Maggie touched her braid. “I am.”

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I am Camilla Beaumont. Your aunt and I knew each other, and often fought over the same antiques at estate sales.” She smiled. “I do miss her, but I was happy to see that family took on the shop, and her house. Are you settling in?”

  “I am, thank you. Where would you be sending me?” Maggie turned the conversation back to her current dilemma—getting the book back to its rightful owner.

  Camilla sighed, and patted Maggie’s hand. “I wish I didn’t have to direct you there, but the items you bought are from Cragmoor Manor.”

  “Cragmoor?” Maggie stared down at the box. If she’d known—

  “I’m going to assume, by your reaction, that you know the name.” Camilla took her hand, and Maggie found herself liking the older woman. She could see Aunt Irene as friends with someone like Camilla. “I can have someone involved with the sale bring the box out, if you like.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I should do it myself.” Maggie picked up the box. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Camilla.”

  “The pleasure was mine, Maggie, dear. I’ve been meaning to pop in, and see what you’ve done with the shop. Irene would be so proud of you.”

  “Thank you.” Before she started crying in the middle of the church community center, Maggie smiled at Camilla and headed for the door.

  Oh, she’d heard of the Cragmoors. Aunt Irene used to mutter under her breath about the family’s patriarch, calling him that crazy old lunatic. Every time Maggie had asked, Irene would shake her head, and tell Maggie to stay away from the hulking manor—and the people who lived in it. Now she was about to walk up to the front door, and meet the infamous Cragmoors for herself.

  ***

  Cragmoor Manor sat more than five miles outside of town, perching at the edge of the chalk cliffs, looking out over the Channel. Every winter, locals waited for the cliff to crumble under the dark, stone pile, and for it to finally tumble into the sea. When Maggie drove up the long, badly kept stone driveway, she was careful to park her Rover at the end of the driveway not on the cliff side. It looked like the manor didn’t have many more winters left.

  She studied the mansion—honestly, more like a castle. It had stone turrets, and looked like there had been a fortified wall surrounding it at one point. All that was left of the wall was a crumbling foundation that lent an even more dilapidated look to the already neglected exterior.

  After taking a deep breath, she climbed out of the Rover, grabbed the box, and headed up the flagstone walkway. She tripped over tilting flagstones at least three times before she made it to the front door. There was no doorbell that she could see, so she tapped the giant, tarnished lion head knocker, waiting for it to fall off in her hand.

  The last person she expected to see opened the cracked, weather-stained oak door.

  Rich stared down at her, as obviously surprised as she was. “Maggie—what are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same.” She recovered fairly quickly, considering she hadn’t seen Rich since the night he jumped her. “Are you working for the owners?”

  He smirked, an expression she usually associated with him. “No, Arthur Cragmoor is my great uncle.”

  Maggie wanted to say she was sorry, but she wasn’t really all that sorry. “I bought a box at the church sale this morning. There were a couple of things in here that I don’t think were meant to go into the sale. I wanted to return them.”

  “Come in.” Rich opened the door wide, and waved at her. She really didn’t want to go inside, but if she didn’t return these items—or at least try—she would feel guilty keeping them. Rich closed the door behind her and led her into a huge, dark front parlor. “I never apologized for the—misunderstanding.”

  Maggie raised her eyebrows. “You consider jumping me, on a dark street, a misunderstanding?”

  Rich’s gaze had dropped while she was talking, and she realized he was staring at her chest. She hefted the box up, until the open flap brushed her chin. His smile told her that he knew exactly what she was trying to do.

  “I’ll get Uncle Arthur. Have a seat.”

  He smirked at her again, and she understood why when she got a better look at the furniture. Dust coated every surface, wood and upholstery alike. She decided to stand. But she did find the most sturdy table to set the box on; she wasn’t going to stand here holding it for who knew how long.

  Now that she was alone, she let her temper flare at how Rich had shrugged off his attack. She should have known better; his reputation as a careless employee, and a callous person in general, told her that an apology from him was hardly a sure th
ing.

  Her watch pin told her more than fifteen minutes had passed when Rich finally walked back into the parlor. “Uncle Arthur wants me to tell you that he doesn’t want the bleeding thing in that box. I’m quoting directly, by the way.”

  “Is he sure?” Maggie frowned. “There are a couple of personal items, and I don’t think they were supposed to be in the box.”

  “He didn’t care, until I mentioned your name.” Rich studied her. “Then he flew off the handle, demanding that you leave—with the box.”

  “Get them the bloody hell out of here!” The raw, furious voice spun her around. A man stood in the doorway, not much taller than Maggie’s five foot two, his wild grey hair standing on end. He looked angry—until he met Maggie’s eyes. Then that anger softened, even as he repeated his odd request. “I want that cursed book out of this house.”

  Rich’s eyes widened. “What book?” He rushed to the box and shoved both hands in, coming up with the damask draped book. “Are you mad? This book is part of the set—” He cut himself off and glanced over at Maggie. “I need to keep this, Uncle.”

  “Put it back in the box and take it out of here. Now, Richard.”

  “Uncle—”

  “Get it out of here before I burn the bloody cursed thing.”

  Rich’s face drained of color, and he carefully placed the book back in the box, jerking his head toward the door as he picked up the box. “I’ll show you out, Maggie.”

  She followed him out, relieved that Arthur Cragmoor had disappeared. Rich stopped in the tall, dim foyer, blocking the front door. “I want to buy the book from you, Maggie. Whatever price you want, I’ll find a way to pay.”

  “Rich, I don’t—”

  “Think about it. Please.”

  Maggie didn’t think she’d ever heard him utter the word please, but it told her there was more to the book—and the note inside it—than she suspected. She took the box from him, half afraid she’d have to engage in a tug of war. To her relief, he handed it over without a fight.

  “I’ll hold onto it,” she said. “In case your uncle changes his mind. That’s all I can promise. I’d like to go now, Rich.”

  “Right.” He stared at her for another unnerving minute, then finally opened the door. “At least think about selling it to me. A guaranteed sale is a good thing in your business.” He managed to smirk and look worried at the same time.

  “Goodbye, Rich.” She walked past him, half expecting him to grab her. When he didn’t, she moved faster, until she was all but running by the time she reached her Rover. She climbed into the driver’s seat, still holding the box, and dumped it on the passenger seat. She didn’t stop moving, until she had the key in the ignition, the car turned on, and her and the Rover halfway down the driveway. Then she pulled to one side, and gripped the steering wheel, shaking. “What the hell was that about?”

  Three

  Maggie parked the Rover behind her shop, leaving the box on the floor, and walked down the narrow side street, heading away from her shop and to Green Goddess. The vegan café on the high street, a few blocks down from her antique shop, would be the perfect place to process what had just happened. This time of the day, the café would be quiet, giving her the space she needed to think.

  She couldn’t have been more wrong.

  When she walked in, the first thing she heard were raised voices. Shouting voices, actually, belonging to Theodore and Stasia Moody, the husband and wife who owned the café.

  Stasia stood nose to nose with her husband, her voice bouncing off the walls. “What were you thinking? Do you have any idea what those books were worth? They were mine—you had no right!”

  “We needed the money, Stasia. They were just sitting on a shelf, collecting dust. You know business has been slow, since the couple down from London opened their café at the bottom of the high street.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Her voice turned into a high-pitched screech. “You wanted to change the menu, so I changed the menu! And we lost our regulars because of it!”

  Maggie decided it was time for her to leave.

  Their lunch waitress, Gina, hustled over to the small counter in front. “I’m so sorry. They’ve been at each other for a while now.”

  “I’ll just go—ˮ

  “No—please. I’m hoping that having a paying customer will calm Mrs. Moody.” Gina smiled, and raised her voice. “Right here, Maggie. I’ll just sit you at the table with the garden view.”

  Gina’s ploy worked; Stasia and Theodore turned at the same time. Maggie wasn’t sure who looked more embarrassed.

  “This isn’t finished, Theo.” Stasia sneered at her husband one final time, then she plastered on a smile and swooped down on Maggie. “Welcome to Green Goddess, Maggie. Please accept my apology, and a discount on your bill.”

  “That’s not necessary, Stasia.”

  “Thank you.” She tucked a strand of wispy blonde hair behind her ear. Her already messy bun looked like she’d been tearing at it during her tirade. “Enjoy your lunch. I’ll leave Gina to take care of you.” She glared at Theodore as she headed to the back of the café. He pushed off the wall and meekly followed her.

  “Well,” Gina said. “That worked a treat. Thank you for stepping in when you did—I was afraid that Stasia might start beating on him next.”

  “Can I ask what happened?”

  “He sold some old books belonging to her family.” Gina lowered her voice. “He’s right, you know. Business has slowed considerably. Don’t tell them, but I checked out the new café, and I understand why.”

  Maggie had been there as well, several times. Not only did The Anchor offer a wide variety of fresh, locally sourced food, they stayed open for supper as well—something Green Goddess didn’t do.

  “Well,” Maggie picked up the menu that was tucked between the funky, vegetable-shaped salt and pepper shakers. “I’ll have a pot of Earl Grey, and whatever soup you have.”

  “You picked a good day—our carrot and fennel soup is on today. Can I get you a salad with it? We have a special.”

  “Sounds perfect.” Maggie watched her write down the order on a small pad, and saw the gorgeous green pen. “That’s a beautiful pen. Where did you get it?” She tried not to covet it—she had a weakness for pens.

  “Stasia found a box of them at a boot sale in London. She said the owner didn’t know what they had, and was selling the lot for five pounds. This was a gift, for keeping the home fires burning while she was gone.” Gina smiled. “I love how smooth it writes, so I’ve been using it here. Otherwise it would collect dust on the desk in my flat.”

  “I love a good pen. Enjoy it.”

  “Thanks.” Gina finished writing her order.

  Maggie smiled, holding it until Gina walked away, headed for the door leading to the kitchen. Her smile faded as she looked out the window next to her table, admiring the view. She’d always been uncomfortable around explosive scenes like the one she just witnessed. Her parents had always “discussed” things, in calm, cold voices. Somehow, that had been worse than if they had shouted at each other, though she didn’t know it at the time.

  Then she’d come to Aunt Irene’s for her first summer, and watched, wide-eyed, as Aunt Irene thoroughly dressed down a vendor who had tried to cheat her. After that, Maggie started to understand just how dysfunctional her parents were.

  She had heard about the Moody’s temper flares, but seeing one told her that they were just as dysfunctional, but at the other end of the emotional scale. And obviously unhappy.

  Gina returned with her tea, plus a huge bowl of soup that smelled heavenly, and a small rocket salad. Rocket had been a surprising and wonderful discovery—more subtle than arugula, it was kind of an addiction for Maggie. She barely ate a meal without a side salad of some kind, and always had bags of rocket at home.

  She dug in, her stomach reminding her that all she’d had today was half a scone, grabbed on the way out the door to the church sale. By the time she finished,
she was ready to go back to her shop and figure out what to do next.

  First off, she wanted to discuss what happened at Cragmoor with both Martin and Spencer, get their takes on it. Her take was weird, and creepier than she wanted to admit. Arthur Cragmoor reminded her of a Charles Dickens character—larger than life, and a little left of normal.

  She paid for her lunch, thanked Gina, and headed back to The Ash Leaf. She had some decisions to make.

  ***

  Martin stared out the front window of the antique shop, mentally going over his conversation with Maggie.

  He had expected to be packing up about now, after confessing his past to her. There was more, but after she accepted what he had done, and convinced him that she meant every word, he hardly wanted to pile on her with the mystery of his mother’s death.

  His heart lifted when he saw Maggie walking up the high street. The sun caught her red hair, worn in a thick braid today, and draped over one shoulder. He was in deep with her, and he would be the first to admit it. At least, to himself. He had never expected to find a woman who shared his passion for history—never mind one who would gladly muck through a dig site, if he asked.

  He just might.

  Maggie walked in, smelling like sunshine and sea air, smiling at Spencer. It had taken some time for Martin to accept that they were simply friends, and close, longtime friends, at that. Spencer had been her light, as she grew up in a household empty of emotion.

  “Martin.” Her low voice pulled him back to the moment. “I need your advice.”

  Maggie told him and Spencer what had happened—and when she mentioned Cragmoor, Martin wanted to strangle the woman who had sent her there. Alone.

  “Did he harm you?”

  “No—he just acted odd. He spent more time threatening Rich. Did you know he was Arthur Cragmoor’s nephew?” she asked Spencer. “I almost ran when Rich opened the door.”

  Martin couldn’t stop himself from wrapping his arm around Maggie’s waist. She smiled up at him, and leaned against his side. Heaven help him, she felt right.