Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
T hanks to a business call that kept Holt occupied after dinner, Caitlin didn’t get back up to the attic until the next morning. Farrell preceded her, wielding a broom like a sorcerer’s wand, wiping away the cobwebs that had terrorized her yesterday. Finally, when the only remnants left were high in the eaves out of reach, Caitlin thanked him, and he headed back down the stairs, carefully avoiding the heavy-duty extension cord Holt had dragged up earlier.
Holt came up then and plugged in the lamps he had brought up while Caitlin finished her breakfast, spread them out in a rough circle as far as their cords would reach and stood back, waiting for her assessment.
“Perfect,” Caitlin told him. “That gives me a bright area to work within.”
“What else do you need?”
Hands on hips, Caitlin surveyed the space. While what she’d seen the day before didn’t look terribly promising, she knew better than to make assumptions. Some of the most attractive pieces were the least valuable and vice versa. Everything came down to provenance, history, even sentimental value. Until she’d carefully examined everything up here, she’d reserve judgment.
Much less scary now that light reached all the way to its walls, the attic took on more manageable dimensions, and the light revealed pieces she’d missed. She took a step toward a tallboy secretary, then stopped when she spotted a low, dark shape. “Look! There’s a trunk. Help me move that over here first.” With an evil grin, she added, “In my experience, ye never ken what treasures a trunk might hold.”
Holt didn’t comment until they stood over it. Then he ran a finger across the top, leaving a streak in the dust coating it. “If it held treasure, someone would have emptied it by now.”
Age had darkened the center metal lock plate to the point Caitlin couldn’t be sure if it was originally brass or steel or something else. The painted wooden sides lacked carry straps, so she braced her hands on either side and tried lifting. The trunk didn’t budge. “It looks like a late 19th-century travel trunk— the kind people used for long trips on trains or ships, but I’ll know more when we open it. It’s heavy, so there’s something in it. Will any of the lights reach over here so we don’t have to move it?”
Instead of trying to lift it, Holt gave it a shove. It budged, but only a little. “I guess we’ll have to. It appears to be full of rocks.”
“Or gold?”
“Or lead,” he replied then moved as many lights as he could to create a half-circle of illumination around the front of the chest.
While he did that, Caitlin flicked on the torch and moved the beam over the entire front surface. Careful of the things stacked around the chest, she picked her way to the other side and examined the back as well. The hinges appeared to be in good shape, and she didn’t see any obvious damage.
“That’ll have to do,” Holt finally said. “Let’s open it.”
“Not so fast.” She moved back to the front, knelt by Holt and shone the torchlight on the lock plate. “We don’t have a key. I don’t suppose you’re any good at picking locks.”
“Not one of my many talents, sorry. As old as this looks, we could probably break into it pretty easily.”
Caitlin shook her head. “Nay. We don’t know how old this is. The trunk might have value of its own, more if it’s intact.” She sat back on her heels. “Before you got here from California, I found a ring of keys in your great-aunt’s chamber. Perhaps one of those…”
Holt stood. “Where?”
“In her dresser, bottom drawer, back right corner, I believe.” She’d looked at and into so many pieces of furniture since she’d arrived, she hoped she remembered the right drawer and wasn’t sending Holt on a fruitless search.
While he was gone, she took pictures of the trunk and the surfaces of a few other pieces the light reached, and then she moved further into the recesses of the attic. A wrought-iron headboard leaned against one wall, the tops of its curved posts visible above a stack of pasteboard boxes. A good home for insects, Caitlin thought, like the spiders responsible for those ghastly cobwebs. But perhaps they contained old dishes or something else of value. A set of metal shelves held bits and bobs— broken crockery, lamp parts, even a few bolts of fabric she recognized as having been used for the draperies downstairs.
“Ordered too much, did ye?” she muttered as she swept the light over the next shelf.
A small wooden box caught her eye. For jewels? Or fishing lures. One never kenned until one opened it. She reached for it but heard the stairs groaning under Holt’s heavy tread as keys clinked in time with each step. So she returned to the trunk, their primary focus at the moment.
“Found them,” Holt announced as he crested the stairs. He held the keyring aloft and shook it, making the keys rattle together.
Caitlin took the ring from him and flipped keys aside as she studied each one. “Four of these look like modern house keys, but one of the smaller ones might be what we need.” She knelt and gently inserted one after the other, some fitting better than others, but none releasing the lock. “Damn.” Caitlin sank back on her heels and thought. “I haven’t found any other key rings in the pieces I’ve cataloged, but there might be more kept where other keys are used, like in the kitchen.”
“Why would anyone keep the key to something like this in the kitchen?”
Caitlin shrugged. “They wouldn’t, not usually. If the keys were for something special, they’d hide them, or at least put them out of sight, as your great-aunt did.”
“Let me try them.” Holt held out his hand, palm up. “Maybe the lock needs more encouragement.”
Caitlin handed over the keys and scooted out of the way. “Try not to break it, please.”
Holt fitted the first key and attempted to turn it in both directions, to no avail. He inserted it upside down and repeated the procedure, then moved on to the next key and the next. Finally, something clicked and the key turned. Holt caught the hinged lock plate as it fell open, then turned to Caitlin with a grin. “We’re in.”
Caitlin took a moment to appreciate Holt’s enjoyment of his success. He’d opened up to her so much in the last few days, she hoped his change of heart would continue. Then she nodded and flipped open one catch as Holt opened the other. She grasped the lid’s corners and paused again. What were they about to find?
“Well?” Holt gestured for her to open it.
“Just taking a second to appreciate the moment,” she scolded. “Whatever is in here could change your life.”
“Or be a box of rocks,” Holt replied and gestured up .
Nodding, Caitlin lifted the lid, the hinges creaking as it moved.
“Needs a bit of WD-40,” Holt remarked.
Caitlin didn’t bother to answer. She was entranced by what the chest revealed. Stacks of stereographic prints, and wrapped in muslin that she carefully unfolded, the stereoscope used to view them.
“Old postcards?” Holt asked, derision in his tone.
“Ye have never seen these? Or their like before?”
He shook his head. “What are they?”
She examined the viewer before lifting it to show Holt. It appeared to be in perfect condition. “This is called a stereoscope. Put any of these stereograph cards in here,” she said, pointing to the slot they fit into, “look through the eyepiece, and the two images become one 3-D view.”
“No kidding.” He reached into the trunk for a card.
Caitlin slapped his hand away. “Don’t! Don’t touch them. No’ yet. I dinna ken what condition they’re in. The paper might fall to bits.” She held up a hand as he looked ready to object. “Just wait.”
She set the stereoscope back on its bed of muslin, then dug her cotton gloves out of her back pocket and donned them. The corner of the top stereograph felt solid and didn’t stick to the one below it when she shifted it. She slid her hand under and picked it up, then moved it into the nearby lamp’s light. It showed a street scene, carriages and horses, mostly, with a few men in garb from another century.
Confident now that the card wouldn’t fall apart, she placed it into the stereoscope and looked through the viewfinder. Protected from dust by its wrapping and the trunk, the lenses were clear.
Smiling, she passed it to Holt. “Take a look.”
* * *
H olt had never seen a contraption like this one, but he had to hand it to its creators. It did just what Caitlin described. The card with two images became one with depth and detail. He studied the carts and the clothes the men wore, trying to place the image in time. “How old is it?”
“I’ll have to examine it, and the pictures stored with it, but I’d guess it’s Victorian or Edwardian. Nineteenth century to early twentieth to you Yanks. The viewer was invented in the early nineteenth century.”
“I wonder how long it’s been sitting in this attic,” Holt remarked, handing the viewer back to her.
Caitlin replaced the card in the stack and tucked the cloth wrapping around the viewer. “No telling. But these pictures might tell us more about your family’s background, or at least about what interested your ancestors.”
If they weren’t worth much, Holt wasn’t sure he cared. “So, not rocks,” he prompted.
“Nay. But perhaps something quite valuable, I think, at least to the right collector.”
Good. Someone might buy the lot. “Or a museum?”
“Doubtful. These were quite common until the mid-twentieth century when they couldn’t compete with modern photography or later, entertainment such as television. Their value will be in the uniqueness of the images, I’d say.”
Holt surprised himself by spending the rest of the morning, once Caitlin forced him to don a pair of cotton gloves, going through stacks of stereographs, helping her photograph and sort them. He’d found a small rectangular table at the other end of the attic and moved it into the circle of lights, giving her an adequate, she said, workspace. Her detailed notes impressed him, both with the seriousness with which she approached the investigation, and her apparent competence. Any lingering uncertainty about why the estate’s executor had hired her vanished over the course of the morning.
Eventually, a loud growl from the region of his stomach reminded him they’d been at this for hours, so Holt called a halt. “Let’s get some lunch. You need a break.”
“Speak for yourself.” Caitlin’s stomach chose that moment to answer the growl his had made. She blushed and quirked an eyebrow, then set aside her notebook and the stereograph she’d been studying, stretched her arms over her head, and stood, looking anywhere but at him. “Yeah, okay. You’re right. I guess I am hungry.”
The color flooding her cheeks captured Holt’s attention. Did she blush like that all over? Pink. No, dusky rose, at least in this light. She’d blushed redder at lunch, but that might have been the malt vinegar she used on her fish and the difference in lighting. He tore his gaze away and gestured toward the stairs. “After you.”
Over lunch, Caitlin filled him in on the history of the stereograph, convincing him that in and of itself, it was nothing unusual.
“But I hope to find some interesting and unique images, or images of clear historical value, among the stereographs. I’ve already found a few possibilities, but going through that trunk is going to take time.”
“What can I do to help?”
“I found some old tools and broken bits on a set of metal shelves on the opposite side of the attic. Maybe you could take a look at those and see if there’s anything interesting. Tools are not my area of expertise.”
Holt couldn’t resist the chance to pounce. Payback for all the times she’d lectured him about this house. “Because I’m a guy, you think I’m a tool expert, is that it?” She seemed to enjoy the challenges of her profession. She wouldn’t be able to resist if he challenged her in other ways.
Caitlin paused with her sandwich halfway from her plate to her mouth. “I never said?—”
“No, you assumed. Don’t they call that gender bias now?” He was tempted to grin, to soften the implied criticism, but he wanted to get a rise out of her. She was too professional, too set on doing her job. He wanted her to have the same sense of enjoyment he’d felt yesterday reconnecting with old friends, then rescuing her from spider webs. Enjoyment she seemed to have, and he lacked, their first few days here. Funny how their moods had reversed. A little teasing seemed in order.
Grimly, Caitlin set down her sandwich and met his gaze. “I am one of the foremost experts on late medieval to Jacobean furnishings. That doesn’t make me an expert on everything likely to be found in a dusty, cobwebby old attic on the other side of the Atlantic. Since you asked what you could do to help, I’d have asked you to take a look at those shelves, whether you were male or female or from another planet.”
Her voice had increased in volume as she spoke, but then she pulled her napkin from her lap and tossed it on the table, muttering something under her breath that sounded like Does he think me head zips up in the back? That couldn’t be right. But she did look furious. No, insulted. Holt decided a tactical retreat was in order. “Okay, okay. I was kidding.” He held up both hands, palms out. “I’m not questioning your competence. I was making a joke. A poor one. Not funny. I get it. Finish your lunch. Please.” Getting a rise out of her was one thing. Pissing her off to the point that she stormed out again, or worse, decided she’d had enough of him and quit, was just damn stupid.
To his great relief, Caitlin replaced her napkin across her lap and picked up her sandwich, though her eyes still sparked when she glanced his way. What he needed was a change of subject. Like now. While she was chewing.
“So, the people in those images, do you think they’re related? To me?”
Caitlin shrugged and swallowed. “Maybe. I dinna ken how we’d ever prove it, though, unless someone wrote names and dates on the backs of some of the card framing the pictures. Like as not they’d no’ write directly opposite the image for fear of ink bleeding through.”
Holt had noticed that the more emotional Caitlin got, the thicker her Scottish brogue became. She was still angry. He wasn’t out of the hole he’d dug for himself yet.
“We haven’t looked at all of them,” Caitlin continued, frowning, “but I noticed a lot of single people. Or one adult with only one or two children. Not many couples, none of the big families that would have been more common during that time. I do wonder why that is.”
A frisson of awareness ran along Holt’s spine, tightening his muscles and making him draw his brows together. He dropped his gaze to the table, unable to look at Caitlin while uneasiness chilled his blood. In the novelty of his experiences since he’d arrived here— and his growing attraction to the woman sitting across from him— he’d nearly forgotten about this aspect of his family history. Could they have been looking at proof of the family curse all morning? Proof he had failed to notice? As much as he wanted to laugh it off, his mother had sworn the curse was real. The only way to be sure was to find some names or find another way to identify some of the people in those stereographs.
“Holt?”
Caitlin’s voice jerked him back to the real world, and he looked up. “I don’t know. Or maybe I do.”
“What do you mean?”
He crossed his arms. “My mother used to insist the family was cursed.”
“You’re joking again, and again, not funny.” Caitlin regarded him under lowered brows.
“No, I’m not.” He heaved a sigh, resolved to give her the whole crazy story. “She swore that earlier generations of the family had only one or two children and that no heir found a love that lasted their lifetime. In every generation, the heir or their spouse left. Or died. Or somehow disappeared, never to be heard from again. None grew old together.”
“Did your great-aunt have children?”
“No, none. My grandfather, her younger brother, was her heir. Had he outlived her, all this would have been his, then my mother’s, then wound up as mine.” Which might also explain his great-aunt’s bequest, to repair the line of succession. “But he didn’t outlive her. Unfortunately, since she named me heir, there must not have been any other family on her husband’s side to inherit, or to carry the curse, so my grandfather’s line acquired it. My mother’s parents died. She was left alone…with me, an only child.”
Caitlin leaned back and regarded him, disbelief plain in her furrowed brow. “And your father disappeared…”
“Exactly. Before my mother told him about me. Before she even knew about me. She told me once my father was dead, too.”
“I’m so sorry. What happened to your grandmother? Did she leave your grandfather?”
“In a way. She died long before him, after giving birth to my mother.”
“ Ach , Holt. What a sad tale.”
“If you believe in the curse, it could explain a lot. And if it’s true, any woman foolish enough to marry me will die after giving me an heir, or divorce me, or disappear into the Bermuda Triangle.” She needed to know that. It should send her running back to Scotland all the faster. He wanted to laugh it off, but those pictures… He fought a shudder. “Those sad faces, adults’ and children’s, have begun to haunt me. Ghosts of Christmases past, I suppose.”
Caitlin reached over and grasped his hand. “Ye canna think that way. It may just be an old tale. Like fairies and ghosts and goblins.”
Then she paused, and Holt swore the color fled her face for just a moment, then came back even stronger, painting her neck and cheeks in that lovely dusky rose. “What’s wrong?”
“Would ye believe me if I told ye I have seen a ghost? Many times? We have them in Scotland, aye.” She smiled wistfully at that, then became serious again. “And curses, too, or so the grannies say.”
Holt pressed his lips together. “No, I wouldn’t believe you— or I don’t want to. I’m sure of that.”
Caitlin squeezed his hand, then removed hers and crossed her arms, frowning at her empty plate. “Well, if we’re going to get to the bottom of this, we’ll no’ do it sitting at table. Are ye done?”
With his food, yes. With her touch and the heat that simple connection created, no. But the same unwelcome thought coiled in his belly like a snake, fangs dripping poison. He couldn’t get involved with her. If the curse was real, she could die.
* * *
H ours later, Caitlin stood, stretched her arms above her head, and then rubbed her eyes. With Holt’s help, she’d emptied the chest of its hoard of images and examined them, one by one. Holt had given up about halfway through, convinced there were no answers to be found, and tired of wasting his time when he had real work to do.
Stung, she knew her frustration could not match his— he had a greater reason for it— but she had been sure they would find something in the hundreds of stereographs his great-aunt, or someone before her, had saved. As much as she loved solving a mystery— which she did with every piece of furniture she appraised— this one worried her, if only because Holt, despite his denials, seemed to take the idea of a curse seriously. Well, she hoped some answers would turn up soon.
In the meantime, she needed to get out of this dark attic and take a walk. She checked the time on her phone. Another half hour until sunset. A short walk then, and a chance to give her eyes something distant to focus on. She turned off the desk and other lights and made her way down the stairs to her room to grab a coat, hat, and gloves, then went outside.
Her first breath of cold air nearly sent her back indoors, but the lowering sun had painted the broken clouds to the west in shades of gold and crimson, pink and purple, that lit the remains of earlier snows in watercolor streaks. She stepped off the porch onto the circular drive, her gaze on the sky.
“Where are you going?”
The sound of Holt’s voice made her whip around. She’d been so focused on the sunset, she hadn’t heard the door open and close. “Having a walk,” she replied, more breathless than she expected, surely from the cold and not from Holt’s sudden arrival. “And a chance to rest my eyes.”
He was pulling on a jacket as he approached her. A knitted scarf hung loosely around his neck. He tucked the scarf inside the jacket as he buttoned it.
She was happy to rest her eyes on him.
“Want some company?”
“Sure.” She realized she was staring and turned back to the west. “Look at that sky!”
Holt came up beside her, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod.
“Sunsets like that are rare in winter. Let’s enjoy it while we walk.” He took her hand and led her toward the setting sun, old snow and frozen grass crunching under their boots. They crossed the lawn for a better view as the sun sank between some trees. Caitlin felt her muscles loosening as she moved, welcomed relief from the tension caused by hours of sitting and concentrating.
“Still didn’t find anything?”
She knew her answer would disappoint him. “Nay. Lots of interesting images, but no names or dates penciled on the back.”
“Interesting? How?”
“How much do ye ken about the Victorian era?”
Holt stared at the sky, then took a breath. “I’ve got nothing.”
“Well, Queen Victoria loved spending time in Scotland. She’s the reason the royal family has the Balmoral estate in Scotland today. Her husband, Prince Albert, bought it for her, a private sale, so rather than belonging to the Crown, it belongs to the family. Anyway, all things tartan became popular during her reign. Many of the images in those stereographs toward the bottom of the trunk are of men in plaid clothing, even in kilts. I’d wager they’re not Scots, but it’s possible.”
“What time period are you talking about?”
“Nineteenth century. Her reign lasted 60 years, until 1901. Those images may indicate the age of many of those stereographs.”
“I don’t see how that helps us.”
“I’m not certain it does.” She sighed and forced her focus back to the sunset, now dimming, colors fading into the gloaming. “I wish I had answers for you.”
Holt shrugged. “Finding that trunk was a fluke. I don’t think it had been touched in decades, maybe not since the beginning of the last century. There’s no reason it would provide answers to anything.”
As the sky darkened, fairy lights popped on in the white-painted gazebo set in the middle of the side lawn.
“How lovely,” Caitlin exclaimed. “Let’s go over there.”
Holt frowned, then gestured for her to lead the way. The untrodden snow was deeper on this side of the house, up to Caitlin’s ankles. She walked carefully, on the lookout for icy patches that might have formed as the day’s melting refroze. Holt lagged a step behind her, ready, she suspected, to catch her if she slipped. But she reached the gazebo without incident and mounted the two steps to the interior. Inside, the fairy lights cast a warm glow that bled onto the surrounding snow. A row of benches circled the outside edge, and the roof rose to a pointed peak. Carved columns and fancy gingerbread, all painted white, supported the roof and provided a sense of cozy enclosure.
Holt crossed to the side that the roof had protected from the last snowfall. “The bench is dry over here if you want to sit down.”
Caitlin joined him. “This is such a magical spot on a lovely estate. You’re lucky to have inherited it.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Holt replied, his expression grim as he looked around. “My mother loved this spot. She told me after she got pregnant with me and her aunt kicked her out, she thought she’d never be able to set foot here again.”
“I’m sorry she was treated so unfairly.” Caitlin couldn’t imagine treating someone that way.
“There’s more. When I was very young, Mother drove me past here, pointing out where she’d come from and that we were not welcome. I’d always thought the house was haunted…but not this…” He indicated the gazebo. “It was pretty, and she loved it. I begged her to sneak over here when we knew my great-aunt was out of town, so I could find out. I thought it would be a grand adventure. Mother finally brought me when I was about nine.”
“That was kind of ye to give her a reason to return.”
He shook his head. “You know what they say about good intentions. It was a sunny summer day with a cooling breeze off the water, puffy clouds scudding across the sky, and every plant on the estate in full flower.”
“Magical.”
“Then, the wicked witch showed up.”
“ Ach , nay.” Suddenly, the twinkly lights held no warmth.
“Returned early from wherever she’d ridden her broom,” Holt continued. “Mother heard her voice and tried to hustle us away before her aunt found out we were there, but she spotted us.”
He took a breath as if gathering strength to keep the story going. Caitlin was tempted to stop him, but she suspected this was a tale he’d carried within himself for years. Curiosity got the best of her, and she stayed silent, waiting for him to add the rest of what he needed to say.
“The scene that followed cemented my…distaste…for that woman and this place.” Holt paused and looked around, his gaze tracking to the peak of the roof. “I’ll never forget my mother’s tears when her aunt appeared. She reinforced my childish notion that only evil spirits could make someone treat my mother so badly.”
He needed a minute. She could see it in the sudden glint in his eyes, as if looking up would stop any tears that threatened. She’d been right that this was something he’d never shared, never exposed to the light of day, and to do it here, in the place where it happened, had to be excruciating. Brave. Perhaps even heartrending. The Holt she’d first met would never have exposed such vulnerability. She felt honored that he shared this much with her. “Why did your mother make you aware of her background? Had you asked?”
“Probably.” Holt leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his gaze on his feet. “I was a precocious child. My intellect and curiosity constantly got me in trouble. That day, it backfired big time.” Then he straightened. “The way my great-aunt reacted to our presence, I’m surprised she didn’t have this structure burned down.”
Caitlin stood. “I’m so sorry. We should go. I never should have insisted we come out here.”
Holt grasped her gloved hand, making her wish she could feel the warmth of his skin. “You had no way of knowing about my past. Sit down and enjoy the present,” he said, tugging. “It all happened a long time ago.”
Caitlin sat. It was that or be pulled off her feet onto his lap. “But it still hurts. I hear it in your voice.” And she regretted being the reason for it.
“I’m a big boy now. I can handle it.” But his gaze was still turned inward.
Caitlin pulled her hand free and stood. “Ye shouldn’t have to.” When he didn’t budge, she added, “Besides, I’m getting cold. Let’s go in.”
Holt leaned against the column at his back, then blew out a breath, met her gaze, and stood. “You’re right, the wind is picking up. Let’s go in.”
Caitlin headed for the mansion. The warm yellow light spilling from its windows beckoned her. But she now had a better idea why Holt saw this place very differently than she did. Appearances could be deceiving.