Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
H olt couldn’t believe he’d shared that story. It had to be the place, if not the time or season, and the woman beside him. Caitlin’s sympathy and understanding had loosened the knots holding back his memories— his feelings— and they’d spilled out. He regretted spoiling her enjoyment of the gazebo, but perhaps it was just as well. Maybe now she’d stop trying to convince him of the appeal the estate. He didn’t understand why she seemed so determined that he keep it. Live in it, for God’s sake, as if he’d ever do that. Staying here for a few weeks was bad enough, though his temporary residence kept him out of county court. Still, he couldn’t wait to get back to California. The only downside to that plan walked quietly at his side.
He helped her up the stairs onto the front portico then held the front door open. Her scent teased him, wafting past him on the warm air spilling out of the house and stirring his blood. She touched his glove as she brushed by, and he remembered that all too soon, like her brief touch, she’d be gone. She was here to do a job, he told himself as he helped her remove her coat, then stripped out of his. Farrell appeared in time to take charge of them, along with their hats, gloves, and scarves. He announced that hot cocoa awaited their pleasure in the kitchen. Holt followed Caitlin down the richly paneled hallway where the scent of chocolate and something else grew stronger with each step. He reminded himself as he went that the estate was a job site, nothing more, its contents merely items to be assessed, cataloged, and disposed of. As soon as she finished, and as soon as he dealt with the lawyers, the county tax office, and a wealth of other details, he’d sell the place and never set foot in it again.
Then she would go back to Scotland, and he’d likely never see her again, despite his teasing threat to show up at her door. He’d had this thought before. The kick to his gut got stronger each time. He wanted to grab her shoulders and stop her, lean down and whisper in her ear that he didn’t want to lose her, but he didn’t know what to do about it. Then turn her to face him and kiss her. He didn’t. Nor could he say anything like that. Neither of them were ready to deal with what it might mean, or how it would change the fragile friendship they now shared, and that surprised the hell out of him. The friendship that Caitlin had coaxed him into, truth be told, by doing her best to help him. And by just being herself. He never thought such a thing would be possible ever again. Did he really want to risk losing it? Losing her even before their lives forced them apart? He knew the answer, even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself— or to her.
Holt squinted as they entered the brightly lit kitchen.
Caitlin took a deep breath and sighed. “Ah, chocolate,” she said with a smile for Mrs. Smith. “Ye’re an angel to think of this,” she added as Mrs. Smith handed her a steaming mug.
“I saw the two of you outside at sunset and knew you’d be chilled by the time you came back in.”
“You were right,” Holt assured her as he took charge of his own steaming mug, then took a cautious sip. Hot, creamy, almost smoky, the cocoa satisfied a need for comfort he hadn’t known he could feel so deeply. Today was a day for revelations, he mused, and most of them hurt. But not all.
“This is amazing,” Caitlin exclaimed after a few sips. “You must tell me your secret. What’s in it?”
Mrs. Smith waved a hand. “It’s my special recipe I only make during the holidays. I use Mexican chocolate, which has cinnamon and a touch of cayenne to warm it.”
Of course, Holt thought. “I’ve had something like this in California. I should have recognized it…”
“I want the recipe,” Caitlin interrupted with enthusiasm. “I’ve never tasted the like. I’m sure my friends at home would adore this.”
Mrs. Smith beamed. “I’ll write it out for you and make sure we have a good supply of the chocolate to send home with you.”
Holt’s gut clenched at Mrs. Smith’s innocent offer, an echo of his recent thoughts that made Caitlin’s departure seem that much more imminent and inevitable.
“Would you care for more?”
With a smile, Caitlin held out her mug. “Aye, of course!”
Mrs. Smith ladled out more fragrant chocolate and topped off Caitlin’s mug, then Holt’s. “Have a seat at the kitchen table. I’ve been cooking all day, so this is the warmest room in the house. I’ll just leave you to it and come back later to clean up and get dinner on the table.”
“Thank you,” Holt replied and waited until she left the room. He took a seat next to Caitlin and thawed his hands around his mug.
“This warms me all the way through,” Caitlin told him. “It’s going to be very popular back home.”
“A worthwhile souvenir of your trip,” he quipped but left unspoken his sudden recognition of how unhappy the idea of her leaving made him, or the other, more pleasurable ways he’d like to warm her in the meantime.
“Mrs. Smith and Farrell are treasures,” she said. “I’m going to miss them.”
He pictured her sitting with friends in front of a peat fire, sipping Mrs. Smith’s chocolate and realized if that actually happened, if he weren’t there, too, he’d never be able to drink spiced chocolate again without missing her. With every sip, her cheeks pinked, and her eyes closed in obvious bliss. How he’d enjoy being the one to put that expression on her face, to watch a flush of color rise from her chest to her eyes. Damn it, he had to stop thinking this way. But her sweater hugged enticing curves, and her hair fell across her forehead, making him long to brush it back, then run his fingers down the graceful length of her throat while he kissed her.
They sipped in silence for a few minutes, then Caitlin set her mug aside and frowned. “I’m really sorry, about…before. I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for you and your mother to be chased away from here. No room at the inn….” She trailed off with a frown, then shrugged and continued, “Even though it was summer and not Yuletide.”
Holt struggled for words. He’d been too young to go to his mother’s defense, but old enough to understand most of the invectives her aunt hurled at her. To see the anger and hurt and shame in her eyes as she tried to shield him from the scene.
“I have never forgotten my mother insisting I was not a mistake. At the time, I didn’t know what she meant, not really. Certainly my mother never treated me in any way that suggested she didn’t want me. Though her life would have been much simpler, much better, and perhaps much longer without me.”
“Holt! Nay.”
“I don’t know for certain, but I expect my great-aunt forbade my mother from seeing my father. He wasn’t from a good— in her estimation— family. Wrong social strata altogether.”
“How awful for her. And then to find out she was pregnant…”
“Years later, long after we were chased away from here, Mother told me her aunt kicked her out as soon as she started showing.”
“I see why you never wanted to come back here.”
“And why I’m eager to get rid of this place. Family curse aside, for my mother and me it was and is full of unhappy memories.” So why did the gazebo now appear in his thoughts with Caitlin glowing in the fairly lights rather than the painful daytime image of his great-aunt snarling threats at his mother?
Caitlin drummed her fingers on the tabletop, a nervous gesture he’d never seen her indulge in before. Holt wanted to reach over and take her hand, to soothe away her disquiet. But touching her would do nothing to soothe him. So he stayed still and let her think.
“I want to pull the drawers out of that apothecary cabinet,” she finally said, a change of topic so abrupt, he didn’t understand her for a moment.
“Apothecary cabinet?”
“That’s what I’m calling it. The one with rows and rows of small, square drawers. Tomorrow morning, let’s drag it into the circle of light and see what there is to see.”
“Why that piece?”
“I could say because it’s the next nearest and we don’t have to move anything else out of the way to get to it, but I have this feeling…”
“Feeling?”
“We Scots women put a lot of stock in our feelings.” She straightened and grinned. “We come from a long line of seers, Druids, that sort of thing.”
Holt laughed, and Caitlin quickly joined in. She’d been teasing. Well, she’d succeeded in lightening the mood, if that had been her intention in changing the subject from his painful past. He was glad she cared enough to try.
“Then we’ll do as you say,” Holt promised, wondering if, behind her teasing, there was a bit of truth. The glint in her eyes said yes.
* * *
T he next morning, Caitlin grabbed a small notepad and black marker pen before she went upstairs. Careful to avoid the heavy-duty extension cord running up the stairs, she made the climb to the attic. Holt was already there and had wrestled the apothecary cabinet into the open space closest to where it had been and arranged their lights around it.
Her granny might have had a good Gaelic word for the feeling that filled Caitlin when Holt talked about his family. All Caitlin knew was that Holt’s story felt like a portent. For him, and perhaps, given the ice that had skittered down her spine, for her, too. She knew her decision to tackle the apothecary cabinet had thrown Holt, but though she wasn’t sure why it had seemed so important, in that moment, she had acquired a quest. Even though he’d once told her he didn’t want her meddling in his personal life, they were well beyond that now. She needed to discover what she could about Holt’s family, the curse he’d mentioned and tried to scoff at, and his missing father. She’d told Holt the truth. She had a feeling about the apothecary cabinet. A Scottish feeling . She wouldn’t wait any longer to examine it.
“Good morning,” she greeted him, glad to see him taking an active interest in the attic’s contents. She waved a hand at the cabinet and lights around it. “You were up early.”
“I had to be to get here before you. Eager to reveal its secrets?” He hooked a thumb toward the chest.
After setting her burdens down on a nearby tabletop, Caitlin quirked an eyebrow. “Apparently, I’m not the only one. Did you move that by yourself?”
“I could say yes, but I’d be lying. I didn’t want to risk damaging it, so I recruited Farrell’s help.” Holt shrugged. “You did say you had a feeling about this piece.”
“I did. I still do. Thank you for being careful with it. But you’ll have to be patient a few minutes longer.” She bent over the table and tore off single sheets from her notepad, then numbered each one until she had enough for each drawer. “That cabinet is so old, the drawers may fit only in their current slot, so I want to make sure each goes back where it belongs.”
“Without damaging them,” Holt said, clearly understanding her concern.
She opened the top left drawer far enough to slip the number one inside. “Exactly. You can help by putting the numbers in order in the rest of the drawers while I take a look at the back. Don’t open them any farther than you need to, to slip the number inside.”
“Like you did. But why focus on the back?” Holt took the stack she handed him and turned to the second drawer in the top row. He tugged it gently open and slipped in the number two sheet.
His attention to her concerns impressed her. “I’m going to do this methodically and carefully,” Caitlin told him as he closed that drawer, nodded, and reached for the next. “Because of my feeling, ye ken.” Satisfied he understood, she grabbed the torch and stepped around the cabinet, moving the light over its sides and back, looking for cracks, gouges, and any other damage. Given its apparent age, it appeared to be in remarkably good shape. A squeak and soft oath alerted her. “Problem?”
Holt was pushing on the rightmost drawer in the row above the base row. “I think I jammed this one. Sorry.”
Caitlin joined Holt at the front. “Leave it for now. It’s probably warped. Do the last row, and we’ll get started.”
When Holt finished, Caitlin pulled a few drawers from the top row and set them on the table she’d been using as a workbench. Before she could finish with that row, he asked, “What are you doing? I could have taken them out if I knew that’s what you wanted.”
She glanced at him, then resumed her task. “I didn’t want them out…then. I needed to see how sturdy the outer box was, and to look for problems. Now, I want the drawers out to inspect them, but also to be able to get to the interior.” Holt frowned and muttered something about wasted effort that Caitlin chose to ignore. “If you have something else to do, go ahead. I don’t need help with the rest of this.”
“Okay.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a videoconference with the city in an hour to get ready for.” He turned toward the head of the stairs, then turned back. “Call if you need anything.”
She didn’t bother to look up. “I will.”
“Or scream if you see any spiders.”
Caitlin planted her hands on her hips and answered his grin with the glare she used on her cousin Ian’s adopted twins when they were trying to pull something over on her. “Again, not funny.”
With a smirk, he went down the steps.
Caitlin watched him go, enjoying the way his shoulders moved as he descended, and the wave in his hair, picked out by the light coming up the stairs from the room below. His grin, so rarely displayed, had captivated her, but as Holt disappeared from view, she knew she’d better get back to work. By the time he finished his call, he’d want to know what progress she’d made. Sitting up here thinking about his smile, his shoulders, his— nay, she had to stop. Determined, she turned back to the cabinet and put Holt out of her mind. She finished pulling all the drawers, stacking them on the worktable to study later for variations in construction, materials, size, weight, wear, and so forth. But first, she wanted to know what shining her torch into the interior of the cabinet could tell her.
She didn’t notice anything unusual in its construction. And fortunately, no critters had taken up residence. She smelled old wood and dust, nothing more. Scents of previously stored herbs or spices had long since faded. Each cubbyhole was large enough for her hand, so starting with the top row, she reached in and felt for loose framing, rotting wood, or insect damage. Often, she would find things that way, things that were not easily seen by the naked eye. She risked splinters, but some discoveries were worth a little discomfort. Still, everything seemed remarkably uniform for hand-made furniture, until she reached the space where the drawer stuck when Holt tried to close it.
She might have missed it, but in withdrawing her hand, she scraped the top of the center cubby and felt rough wood, not the smooth plank she’d expected. Crouching down, she shone the bright torch beam at the top of the cubby. She couldn’t quite make out the damage there, but the color of the wood seemed off, and she suspected something kept in this drawer had repeatedly scraped the bottom of the shelf above it.
She reached in and traced the gouges with her fingertips. Not parallel. Some ran perpendicular, some at angles. A thrill ran through her, raising goose flesh as she realized what she might be feeling. Writing! Something had been scratched or carved in what felt like a block set into the wood. But what? And how to see it?
She needed a hand mirror. And she’d seen one, but where? She sat back on her heels and thought for a moment. Aye, the great-aunt’s chamber. One graced her dressing table. It might be too big, but if so, perhaps Mrs. Smith would know where to find another.
As she headed for the steps, she told herself it might only be a maker’s mark in an unusual location, or something on the board from before the cabinet was made. But it might also be more.
Then she smacked her forehead. Eedjit! She didn’t need a mirror. She turned back to the cabinet and opened the camera on her phone, checked that the flash was on, then slid it into the cubby, held her breath, and took the picture.
Yes! It was writing, but she didn’t have all of it. She tried again, taking several pictures while sliding the phone all the way in and then inching it out. When she finished, she had a set of photos that she could overlay and stitch together. Once they finished uploading to her laptop, she sat at the table and tried to puzzle out the carvings.
French, not Gaelic, which told her either the piece was brought over from France, or the person doing the carving was educated and upper class, though given the type of cabinet and the rough finish, probably not nobility. Truly an apothecary? Or a clan’s healer? The carving would give her a clue. She went to work with her photo editing software, and before long, had a clear image of the entire inlaid carving. Its block of wood wasn’t a perfectly mortised fit, which was why the drawer stuck. But perhaps by the time the space had been chiseled out of the upper frame, and the carved block set in, the owner no longer cared, knowing the end was near. The lines defining the block’s edges were clearly visible, as were the words that someone felt were important enough to hide within this chest hundreds of years ago.
Though she could puzzle out some of it, she opened a translation program and sat back in shock when she read the result.
Steal this safe from Scottish soil and cursed be your poor generations with love, like mine, lost too soon. 1746
Dear God. Holt’s mother was right. The family was cursed, and this cabinet was the reason. Caitlin’s heart beat a wild staccato in her chest. It made sense that it belonged to a Jacobite family, a Jacobite healer, since she thought it most likely for a woman to pronounce a curse for a love lost too soon— one who’d been lost at Culloden, perhaps?
The cabinet must have been stolen by an English soldier or noble, sent back to England and from there to America generations later— poor generations later. In this context, that had to mean poor of children, of descendants. Of a future, with only enough to carry on the family name and the curse. An heir, few more. And love lost too soon. Holt knew his family’s tragic history two or three generations back, but she strongly suspected if she could trace it into the late 1700s, the same pattern would appear. The 19th century Christmas stereographic pictures of one adult with one or two children certainly fit.
There was only one way she could think of to end this curse. Holt had to get this cabinet back to Scotland.
* * *
H olt pushed his chair back from the desk in the office. He was fortunate his videoconference had just ended. Caitlin stood on the desk’s other side, fairly vibrating with what she was trying to tell him. He could see her lips moving and hear her voice, but the sounds she made were nonsense. Babbling. A curse carved into a cabinet. Passed down in his family. The source of all the deaths and disappearances…all the heartache…for the last couple of centuries?
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Aye it does!” Caitlin objected, her accent noticeably thickened. “Ye are no’ Scottish, so ye didna grow up with this sort of thing. But I did. I’ve seen it.”
“A nearly three-hundred-year-old curse?”
“Aye, and the ghost left behind in my cousin Ian’s estate to guard family treasures just like those,” she argued, pointing up toward the attic.
“Treasures?” Holt scoffed. “They don’t look like treasures to me.”
She started to pace from one side of the desk to the other. “No’ to ye, no’ nowadays, but in the eighteenth century, in a family where men were either killed at Culloden or hunted down and killed afterward for being Jacobite or having Jacobite sympathies…hell, for being Scottish? Aye. When the victors raped the women, killed their bairns, stole the clan’s wealth and possessions, and carried the lot back to their estates in England? A curse would make a great deal of sense.”
“That’s the long, sad tale you refused to tell me at our first dinner the day I arrived? Good God, that is awful.” He paused for a moment, staring aside, unable to think if he looked at her. She was incandescent in her excitement— and indignation over the history she related. But what, really, did it have to do with him? “I know I told you what my mother thought, but I don’t know if I can believe this cabinet is the source— or if the curse is real.”
She stopped and put her hands flat on the desk, leaning toward him. “Ye did see most of those photos. Do ye recall the ones with the sad, wee bairn or two and a single adult? Believe them .”
He gestured for her to sit down, surprised when she straightened, then dropped into a chair without argument. “You can’t be certain when or where they were taken, or who the people are in them.”
“Maybe not, but why else would they be here?” She slapped the arm of the chair, then leaned forward, elbows on knees, waving her hands as she talked. “The person who carved a curse into the very thing that likely provided income for her family did so because she knew it would be stolen. The English might have burned everything else her people owned, but they would save that cabinet. At the time, it was probably full of valuable herbs and compounds used by a healer. Things that could have helped wounded clansmen recover. Things the English would have wanted to deny the Scots. And to use for their own wounded.”
“That seems reasonable.” Holt hated to admit it, but what she found in the cabinet was the first tangible connection to the curse his mother had believed to be real. Maybe not proof, but it made him think.
“In Scotland, healers were often wise women— women with special sight or intuition, and training in herbs, potions, portents— passed from mother to daughter. So that curse she carved into what was likely the healer’s most prized possession had teeth. And still does, as recently as your parents’ generation. If I were ye, I’d take it very seriously, and I’d fly that cabinet back to the Highlands as fast as I could get it loaded on a plane.”
That seemed extreme, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud. “It’s really got you spooked.” He couldn’t doubt she believed every word she was saying. What if she was right?
Caitlin sat back and crossed her arms. “If he’s still alive, would you ever want to meet your father?”
The whiplash change of subject floored Holt. “Why? He hasn’t bothered to be part of my life.”
“How could he if he doesn’t know you exist?”
That stopped Holt cold for a long minute. Then he shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had no idea who his father was. His mother said he’d died, and with his mother and great-aunt dead, the family who might have known his father’s name were out of reach. “If he was alive, why would I disturb the life he’s lived without me. He might have another family?—”
“Aye, ye might have brothers and sisters and cousins and more. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
“Would it? How would I know?” Christ, she’d pressed her lips into a thin, taut line. An uncomfortable feeling flooded Holt’s belly. Guilt for upsetting Caitlin? “Look, this is all too new— and weird. Can we leave it be for a while? You have other pieces and the catalog to finish. You said you wanted to get home before Hogmanay. Let’s not get tied into knots over one cabinet.”
She sighed, then stiffened. “Fine. But in the meantime, you should make arrangements to send it back.”
“Send it back where?”
“To the Highlands.”
“Where in the Highlands?” Holt snorted. “Put it on a truck, find a likely spot, and dump it beside the road? Advertise it and find a buyer? What?”
“I…I’ll look into it. Jacobite furnishings are collectible even if they don’t belong in a museum. And this one might.”
“Where?”
“If we’re to break this curse, Inverness, perhaps. Or an estate like my cousin’s.”
“Fine, see if your cousin wants it. Problem solved.”