Treasure of the Romarins
R.J. Williams
Copyright © 2012 Ronda Williams
Treasure of the Romarins is a work of fiction. All persons or entities which resemble actual persons or entities is strictly coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
The Publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.
2012-06-05
Dedication
Dedicated to Natalie and Calvin Williams.
Acknowledgments
I thank my two children, for allowing me to use their names. I promise I won’t do that again, and a special thanks to Natalie for the beautiful angel’s trumpets she painted for me. I thank Matt O’Leary for his design expertise and technical support, and for keeping me from getting distracted from the story while researching it. To my sister, Janet Lee, for her enthusiastic support, and to Jamie Miser and Jody Lust, for all of their input and positive feedback. Thanks to Thomas O’Leary for his valuable critiques and ideas. Finally, many many thanks to my editor, Melody Culver, who kept me on track and offered much needed guidance.
Uncle Richard
Natalie Romarin stood in the middle of her uncle’s library and sighed heavily. She gazed with tender recollection at the familiar books that filled the shelves surrounding her, and was flooded with memories of the pleasant times she and her brother had spent with her uncle in this very room. This was the only real home she had ever known; a grand, sprawling structure, built in the seventeenth century by an unknown architect who possessed a curious penchant for narrow passageways, hidden nooks, and multitudes of tiny closets. It sat a good distance back from the road and was surrounded by witch elms, poplars, rose gardens, graveled walks, and all the other charms an English countryside could offer.
She could still imagine her uncle sitting in his big comfortable armchair in front of the fireplace. He was playing a low, soft tune on his harmonica while she and her brother Calvin sprawled across the floor at his feet, puzzling through their schoolwork.
Those days were long past, and her cares were never to be so simple again. She glanced at her brother, who sat brooding at the same antique mahogany desk that had stood in the corner of the room for as long as she could remember.
He suddenly sneezed, giving Natalie a start and breaking her reverie.
“I just can’t believe he’s gone,” she said for the third time that morning. “He was so vital!”
“I know. He was always there for us whenever we needed him, and I don’t think we’ll have that kind of support ever again.”
Natalie took a chair across from her brother and wiped the stray tears from her face. “Well, don’t forget about Uncle Julien. We still have him, thank goodness! But we can’t fall into dejection now. We’ve a lot of work ahead of us. Uncle Richard’s will was very specific.” She glanced at the document Calvin was perusing.
“Some of his wishes seem rather odd,” he remarked, polishing his glasses. “It says we’re to clear out his office at the Bodleian as soon as possible–that seems reasonable enough, but not until after we take care of the library here.”
“We’ll make it our business to carry out every minute detail of this document,” Natalie said with finality.
“I just remembered what Uncle Richard said to me a while back,” Calvin said, frowning. “I guess it was about a week before he died. It was an unusual comment, or at least, it struck me that way at the time. He said, ‘Always remember that you’re a Romarin, my boy. And remember, Romarin means rosemary, and rosemary is for remembrance.’ I just laughed and told him I didn’t think I’d have any trouble remembering my last name. Then he said, ‘I’m being serious. Remember who you are!’ I feel like he knew he wasn’t going to be with us much longer, but that’s impossible. He was so healthy. He would’ve told us if he was ill.”
“He said something similar to me,” Natalie added, “about our name, I mean.” She attempted an imitation of her uncle’s gruff and booming voice. ’The name is the thing, Natalie. Now mind you don’t forget it!’ I thought he was being terribly snobby at the time, like he was trying to instill pride in our lineage or something. I teased him about it and even called him pompous, but he became almost cross with me and said that some day I would understand.” She shook her head, thinking back to one of her last conversations with her uncle. “It just struck me as out of character for him, you know? He never used to show much concern about our family history before.”
“Why do you think he wants us to clean this place so thoroughly?”Calvin asked, changing the subject. “It’s not like we’re going to sell the house. It says here, ‘Please take every single book off the library shelves and dust. Replace the books as you see fit, but you must remove every single book and dust everything.’” Calvin looked around the room and shuddered. “I say! That’s rather hard of him, don’t you think? There’s probably close to 5,000 books in here. It will take us forever to get to them all!”
“Well, he was the head librarian at Oxford. What do you expect? Books were his lifeblood.” She laughed. “Well, that and wine! But if we work together, it shouldn’t take more than a week or two. And don’t forget, Mrs. Murphy said we needn’t worry. She will stay on and help us with whatever we need. Uncle Richard’s will provided handsomely for her, so she won’t have to leave us anytime soon.”
“Thank God. I can’t live without her rumbledethumps!” Calvin gave her a pained look and clutched his stomach. “Now I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry, dear brother,” Natalie said with affection. ”But your belly will have to wait. We must get started on these books!”
She looked around the library, considering where to start. Warm autumn light rested on the burnished oak furniture like honey. The books themselves were waiting like old friends to be visited once more. Silver filigreed lamps with glass, amber-colored shades were scattered about the room. Three squashy brown velvet chairs were arranged in front of an enormous stone fireplace, which was adorned by a carved mantle. This was Natalie’s favorite room in the house. Uncle Richard had raised them since they were young, barely out of diapers, in fact. Calvin was only two when they first came, but Natalie was five and remembered the day perfectly. It was one of her first real memories, besides one or two hazy, half-formed recollections of her mother and father.
It had been raining fiercely, that long-ago night. Natalie remembered feeling tired and very frightened. She was holding the hand of a well-dressed man in his early forties, her Uncle Julien, as it turned out, Richard’s younger brother. He had fetched them from some far-away country that Natalie had long forgotten. She only knew that it was a great distance from England. Julien carried her baby brother
