shook his head. “I know who’s in the old photographs my father got framed and hung in the hallway, they have brass plaques, but I had no idea we’d have original documents in old Sam’s handwriting. It’s an odd feeling.” He studied the bold writing in faded ink. “Intimations of mortality.”
“There are letters, too.” Rachel pointed out a plastic envelope holding a paper browning at the edges and along deep, disintegrating creases where it had been folded. “This one is to his wife, before they were married.”
“‘Dearest one,’” Bryn read aloud, then looked up, slanting a grin at her. “A love letter?”
“It’s mostly about his plans to build her a house before their wedding. But he obviously loved her.”
His eyes skimmed the page, then he read aloud the last paragraph. “‘I am impatient for the day we settle in our own dear home. I hope it will meet with your sweet approval, my dearest. Most sincerely yours, with all my heart, Samuel.’”
Lifting his head, Bryn said, “Quite the sentimentalist, wasn’t he? You’d never have thought it from that rather dour portrait we have.”
“That was painted when he was middle-aged and successful and a pillar of the community.” The man in the portrait had curling mutton-chop whiskers and a forbidding expression. “When this was written—” she touched a finger to the letter “—he was a young man in love, looking forward to bringing home his bride.”
“Looks like he’s won your heart, too.” Bryn was amused.
“I think it’s rather touching,” Rachel admitted. Bryn would never write something like that, even if he were headlong in love. “There’s some wonderful stuff here for a historian. I can’t wait to read it all.”
He was studying her face, and said, “I remember you had much the same light in your eyes after your dad bought you a pony and you’d had your first-ever ride. You came bursting in at breakfast to tell us all about it.”
“And got told off for that,” she recalled. Her father had hauled her out of the big house with profuse apologies to his employers. It was then she became conscious of the social gap between the Donovans and her own family, although the Donovans had never emphasised it.
“Do you still ride?” Bryn asked.
“Not for years.”
“There’s a place not far from here where I keep a hack that I ride when I can. I’m sure they’d find a mount for you if you’re interested.”
“I’ll think about it. But I have a lot to do here.”
“Hey,” he said, raising a hand and brushing the back of it across her cheek, “you can’t work all the time. We hired a historian, not a slave.”
She tri ed not to show her reaction to his casual touch, the absurd little skip of her heart. Her smile was restrained. “I’m certainly not on slave wages. The pay is very generous.”
“My mother’s convinced you’re worth it.”
“I am,” she said calmly, lifting her chin. She would show him she was worth every cent before she finished this job.
His eyes laughed at her. “You haven’t lost your spark. I don’t doubt that, Rachel. I trust my mother’s judgement.”
“I had a feeling that you have definite reservations.”
“Nothing to do with your ability.”
“Then what…” she began, but was interrupted by his mother coming into the room, offering afternoon tea on the terrace.
“Or actually coffee. Unless you prefer tea, Rachel?”
Rachel said coffee was fine.
A few minutes later over their cups she said, “You really should have the records properly archived and safely stored, in acid-proof envelopes and containers. If you had those I could start doing that as I work.”
“Buy whatever you need,” Bryn said.
“You won’t find anything like that in the village,” Pearl warned. “You’d have to go into the city. I told you, didn’t I, there’s a car you can use?”
“Yes.” It had been one more incentive for Rachel to take this job, not needing to think yet about investing in a car.
Bryn asked her, “You do have a licence?”
“Yes. I need to get used to driving on the left again.”
“You’d better go with her,” Bryn told his mother, and shortly afterwards said he had to leave. The house seemed colder and emptier when his vital presence was gone.
When Pearl hadn’t broached the subject by the end of the week, on Friday Rachel asked if it would be convenient to drive into the city.
“I suppose you don’t want to go alone?” Pearl asked.
About to say she’d be quite okay, Rachel recalled Bryn’s concern about his mother’s reluctance to leave Rivermeadows.
Misconstruing her hesitation, Pearl said in a breathless little rush, “But if you’re nervous, of course I’ll come.”
The garage held a station wagon as well, but the red car that Pearl used to drive had gone, its place taken by a compact sedan.
In the city Pearl directed Rachel to a car park belonging to the Donovan office building, and used a pass card for Rachel to drive the sedan into one of the parking bays.
As they shopped for the things on their list, the older woman seemed ill at ease, sticking close by Rachel’s side. After they’d made their major purchases and Rachel suggested they have a coffee and a snack in one of the cafés, Pearl barely paused before agreeing. Waiting for their order to be brought, she looked about with an air of bemusement, as if unused to seeing so many people in one place.
Coffee and the cake seemed to make her a little less tense. Later, as they stowed their purchases in the car, she paused and looked up at the looming Donovan’s Timber building. “Why don’t we call in on Bryn while we’re here?”
“Won’t he be busy?” Rachel wasn’t sure how Bryn would feel about being interrupted in business hours.
“We needn’t stay long,” Pearl said. “Just to say hello.”
“I’ll wait for you here.”
“No!” Pearl insisted. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you.” Less sure, and wondering if Pearl didn’t want to enter the big building alone, Rachel followed her into the marble-floored, wood-panelled lobby.
A silent elevator delivered them to the top floor, where Bryn’s secretary, a comfortably rounded middle-aged woman wearing huge, equally round glasses, greeted Pearl with surprised pleasure and ushered them both into his office. Rachel was warmed by the approving glance he sent her after greeting them both and suggesting they sit down in two deep chairs before his rather palatial desk.
“Just
