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 backseat 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 nameplate.
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.
Eighteen
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 it 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-1700's, 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....
A sharp, imperious knocking at my back door startled me out of my ponderings, and I thrust the bracelet back into the lap desk before moving to answer the summons. My mind had not yet fully abandoned its train of thought, and the distraction must have shown plainly on my features when I pulled open the door to face the man who stood on the step outside.
Iain Sumner filled the door frame, blocking out most of the sunlight, his expression accusing.
'You've been weeding,' he said flatly, 'haven't you?'
He was undoubtedly preparing to launch into one of the animated lectures that Vivien had warned me about, but I was saved at the last moment by a quite extraordinary occurrence—for the second time in as many weeks, I began to cry.
It was, I admit, not nearly as spectacular as my outburst at Tom's house in Hampshire, but nonetheless my eyes grew misty and my mouth trembled a little, and Iain abruptly stopped frowning to stare at me in concerned contrition. It was almost comical to see the self-possessed Scotsman so completely at a loss for words, and I couldn't stop my lips from curving into a small smile.
'I'm sorry,' I said, wiping my eyes, 'it's not you. It's just that ..." I hesitated, searching for an explanation, before deciding that there simply was no easy way to explain my overemotional state. 'Well, anyway,' I sniffed, 'yes, I have been weeding in your garden. Did I make an awful mess of it?'
Iain looked silently down at a limp, withered bit of greenery he held in one hand, considering, then seemed to think the better of it. Putting his hand behind his back he let the plant fall to his feet, and met my eyes levelly.