Chapter 4 #4
‘What? Oh…’ His brow cleared and he smiled. ‘No, I’m just a glorified accountant, really. I’m here for work.’ From his tone, it was clear he had said this hundreds of times in his life and expected her to glaze over, as most people probably did when he mentioned his job involved finance.
‘How interesting,’ Jenna said. ‘Numbers are fascinating, aren’t they?
The patterns and the logic, like music, only different—’ She stopped herself, realising that she was going off on what Bree referred to as ‘one of your mad tangents’ again, but not before she had seen the same engaging smile light his expression.
‘Music and maths have a lot in common,’ Owen agreed. ‘Notes are fractions, aren’t they, and rhythm is a repeating pattern.’
Jenna nodded. ‘Yes, but music also has a transcendental quality to it, doesn’t it? An emotional appeal. It can move us, whereas maths…’
‘Is also beautiful and satisfying,’ he finished, laughing.
Their eyes met. Once again, she felt that irresistible pull and quickly looked away.
Her gaze fell on the flyer about the archaeological dig.
At the bottom of the page were the logos of the companies who were sponsoring the excavation.
There was a beautiful, stylised picture of a swan next to the words ‘Swan Power Foundation’. The penny dropped.
‘Are you Owen Power as in the Swan Power Foundation?’ she asked. ‘The people who are sponsoring the archaeological dig here?’
Owen looked surprised and, she thought, not particularly pleased to be asked, which was interesting. ‘I’m…’ He hesitated. ‘I have a family connection. My sister Rachel runs the Foundation. As I say, I’m just a financial adviser.’
Jenna had heard the Power name even before she had seen the big signs promoting the partnership between the Swan Power Foundation, White Horse Archaeology and the West Berkshire Council.
Athena Swan and Robert Power had been famous archaeologists in the eighties and nineties, old-fashioned, glamorous adventurers who had seemed to be a throwback to previous generations.
The TV programmes of their travels and excavations had been a sensation in pre-internet times, Athena standing on a windswept hillside, whether in the Empty Quarter of Saudi Arabia or Westray in the Orkney Isles, her striking blonde hair flying like a flag, her face alight with enthusiasm for her subject.
Robert had been dark, serious and intense in a compellingly handsome way.
They had done wonders for the recruitment of archaeology students.
It had probably helped that both of them had come from moneyed backgrounds, Jenna thought.
The small problem of earning a living had never got in the way of their ambitious archaeological projects.
But nothing could protect them from tragedy, for they had both been killed in a car crash about fifteen years ago, leaving behind two teenage children and an educational foundation which had, in the intervening time, done a great deal to support and promote the study of archaeology.
‘Well, you’re trying to make your role sound as boring as possible,’ she commented, ‘but I know the Foundation does amazing work with schools and heritage charities.’
‘I can’t take any credit for that.’ There was a certain tension in Owen’s voice now.
It was very clear that he didn’t want to talk about it.
Jenna wondered if that was because the loss of his parents was still painful.
It would hardly be surprising; it must have been an incredibly traumatic time for both him and his sister, and grief followed no timeline.
‘I’m proud of what Rachel has achieved with the Foundation,’ Owen acknowledged, adding: ‘It’s just a pity I don’t enjoy archaeology.’
The surprise made Jenna laugh. ‘That is a shame,’ she agreed gravely. ‘I hear that having a family “business” can sometimes do that to people, though – they either embrace it whole-heartedly or run in the opposite direction.’
‘Right,’ Owen said. ‘Well, that’s true of both me and my cousin Jack. Neither of us really want to have anything to do with Swan Power. I’m not quite sure how I got drawn in, actually.’
Jenna laughed at his slightly puzzled tone. ‘Through solidarity for your sister and because you’re a nice guy, at a guess.’
Owen smiled at that. It was warming. ‘You mentioned you grew up around here,’ he said, stirring his coffee.
‘If you’ve heard a bit about my family history, you may know Rachel and I lived here for a few years as well, after our parents were killed.
’ He took a mouthful of the drink, frowning a little.
‘Do you think you and I ever met? You seem familiar somehow.’
Jenna felt a pang of shock. Was he suggesting that he too felt the same sense of recognition that she had experienced as soon as she had seen him? Before she could form any sort of reply, he misread the uncertainty on her face and flushed rather endearingly.
‘Sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘That sounds like a terrible clichéd way of hitting on you, doesn’t it? I do apologise. It’s just that—’ He hesitated. ‘My grandparents have a portrait of a woman who looks rather like you. It used to hang in Winterhill Hall. She was called Marris North.’
Jenna jumped, knocking over the pepper grinder.
‘A painting of me?’ she said, righting it carefully.
‘I mean, a painting of Marris?’ A shiver ran down her spine.
‘Wow, I didn’t know there was one.’ Her mind was spinning.
Her recollections of her past life were a vague patchwork of memories and impressions, like looking through a window clouded by the mists of time, but she was certain that no one had ever painted Marris’s portrait.
‘You’ve heard of her, then?’ Owen sounded intrigued, and Jenna realised she had given herself away with her unguarded reaction. ‘It’s a beautiful picture,’ he added. ‘The experts think it’s a sixteenth-century portrait, very early.’
‘Yes…’ Jenna’s mind was racing as she tried to decide what to say. She could hardly blurt out her complex history to Owen on the basis of such a short acquaintance. Or at all. It was out of the question.
‘Marris North was an ancestor of mine,’ she said, after a long moment. ‘I don’t know much about her, though…’ She could feel herself blushing at the blatant lie. ‘Other than that she was prioress of Winterhill in the sixteenth century and later married Sir William Sharington, who built the hall.’
There was no flash of recognition in Owen’s eyes at her mention of Will’s name, and Jenna felt deflated.
He didn’t remember. Of course not. She had imagined their connection – it had been wishful thinking, or just a complete delusion on her part to think that he was Will come back to her.
And suddenly she needed to get out of there.
The crowded café felt claustrophobic and this latest revelation about the painting was too much for her to take in all at once.
‘Well,’ she said, aiming for casual and realising that instead she sounded slightly weird, ‘at the risk of sounding equally clichéd, Owen, I am sure I would have remembered you if we had met before.’ She stood up, reaching for her bag.
‘I was from the other side of town,’ she added dryly, ‘the rough side. And I got out as quickly as I could.’
‘You and I have that last part in common, then,’ Owen said with equal dryness. He stood up too. ‘It was very nice meeting you, Jenna Bergin,’ he added. ‘And thanks for the information on the portrait. Rachel’s very interested in tracing its history.’
Damn. That was all she needed. Jenna tried to smile. ‘Great!’ she said brightly. ‘Well, good luck to her. It was very interesting to meet you, Owen. Have a good day.’
She hurried out of the café and didn’t look back.
The cold winter air hit her hard, clearing her head.
She was miserably aware that she had made a complete fool of herself in too many ways to count and the way she had blown Owen off at the end had just been plain rude.
He would think her very odd. She prickled with embarrassment.
Jenna wrapped her scarf around her neck and pulled the woolly hat down over her ears as she headed back towards the car park.
The rhythmic tapping of her footsteps on the pavement, the fresh air and the birthday messages on her phone all helped to calm her.
As she walked, she thought again about her conversation with Owen.
It had been a strange encounter, disorientating her completely.
The sensation of knowing him had been so strong, and yet, unlike her, he evidently had no experience of past lives or retrocognition.
She had to let it go, forget it, forget him.
She had other more pressing problems. There was an imminent excavation of the priory, and Owen’s sister, who was in charge of the project, had a portrait of Marris and an inconvenient interest in uncovering her history…
Jenna gave a shudder. The past was such a tangled web and none of it could be allowed to come out, because once one part of it started to unravel, everything would fall apart.