Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Fern stood in the shop, pretending to rearrange a tray of vintage brooches for the tenth time, even though her head wasn’t in it. She could feel Daniel watching her while dusting an old radio that probably hadn’t worked since the seventies.
She knew he’d clocked her mood the second they’d had breakfast. ‘All right, out with it,’ he finally insisted. ‘You’ve been quiet for the last hour.’
Fern glanced over at him, forcing a half-smile. ‘I’m fine.’
Daniel raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re about as fine as that lamp with the wobbly base. When a woman says she’s fine, that’s code for not fine.’
She let out a soft laugh. She hadn’t told him about the email from Edgar Carmichael she’d received in London, or about the text from Ella that had popped up on her phone in the middle of the night while Daniel snored softly beside her.
She’d read it twice. Then a third time, hoping the words might rearrange themselves into something less disappointing.
Ella
I need to tell you something. I’ve been sleeping with Jax for a while. I didn’t mean for it to happen, and I feel awful. I know I overstepped. I shouldn’t have, I really shouldn’t, but you know what he’s like … he’s hard to resist. I’m so, so sorry. We’re together and I hope you can forgive me. x
How could Ella do that? She was meant to be Fern’s best friend.
They’d been through everything together – dodgy boyfriends, flatmate disasters, wine-fuelled meltdowns.
Now this? She didn’t even feel sad exactly, just …
gobsmacked. A bit ragey. But mostly hurt.
Properly hurt. Because Ella knew what she was doing.
The betrayal would’ve been easier to endure if it had come from a stranger.
But from Ella? Her best friend? That was the twist of the knife.
And the worst part? It wasn’t even the first time she’d pulled something like this.
As soon as she’d read the text, Fern’s mind had flicked back to London, years ago, to the night they’d sat side by side in that sticky little dive bar in Soho, both a few glasses of cheap wine deep, scribbling ideas for freelance pitches on napkins like two underpaid geniuses about to change the world.
Fern had told her about a column idea, a music feature on unsigned London artists, a spotlight series for the magazine circuit.
Ella had smiled, nodded and toasted to the future of music journalism.
A week later, Ella’s byline appeared in Echo Beat Weekly under a headline that read The Fresh Faces of London’s Music Scene. She’d stolen Fern’s idea. She’d secured a regular gig with the magazine, and the substantial salary that came with it.
Fern had forgiven her back then. Or, at least, told herself she had.
She’d chosen the friendship over the fallout.
But now, given this new betrayal, she was looking at things differently.
Maybe it had always been more about convenience than closeness with Ella?
After all, they’d worked the same gigs, lived in the same apartment block, moved in the same circles.
It had been easy. But now? Now it just felt like another nail in the coffin of Fern’s former life.
Daniel interrupted her thoughts. ‘So?’ he prompted, tilting his head and waiting for her to open up.
She swallowed, then gave him the easiest lie she could muster up, part of which was true.
‘I’ve just been thinking about Matilda and Nathaniel. Surely Dorothy is going to know something, and possibly Betty? Maybe I should have a chat with them both.’
Daniel didn’t look convinced that that was all that was on her mind, but he nodded slowly. ‘Okay, good idea.’
When he turned away, she glanced at the clock. Edgar would be in his office very soon and she really wanted to chat with him about his email and the offer from the mystery buyer.
A few minutes later, while Daniel was chatting to an elderly couple who were trying to decide between two slightly rusted oil lamps, Fern took her chance.
She grabbed her bag. ‘Back in a bit,’ she called lightly, waving over her shoulder.
The second the shop door swung shut behind her, she slipped next door and climbed the stairs to Edgar’s office. She knocked and waited.
‘Fern,’ Edgar said, holding his door open. ‘I thought you might pop in today.’
‘I was intrigued by your email,’ she said as she slid into the worn leather chair across from his desk. ‘You have a potential buyer for the shop? But how? It’s not up for sale.’
Edgar slid across the desk a single sheet of paper that outlined the details of the offer.
Fern’s eyes scanned the numbers first.’ She let out a low whistle.
‘Eight hundred grand from an anonymous buyer for the shop and its contents. It feels too good to be true.’ She had no idea how much the shop and the contents were worth, but Fern had to assume that this offer was way over the odds, given how rundown the place was.
Her heart raced. ‘Surely this is some sort of joke?’
‘No, it’s a genuine offer.’ Edgar adjusted his glasses, folding his hands neatly on the polished oak desk. ‘You couldn’t ask for more than a cash buyer with no conditions. But they want an answer by close of business on Friday, a week from now.’
Fern raised her eyebrows. ‘Is this the normal practice?’
Edgar hesitated, the pause stretching just long enough to confirm her suspicion.
‘No, not really,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a little …
unorthodox, I’ll grant you that. But given the figure on the table, it’s also remarkably generous.
If your heart’s set on walking away from the shop, Fern, this is the solution. Simple and clean.’
‘What about Daniel?’
‘Talk to him. With this amount of money, maybe you could pay him a lump sum.’
She leaned back slightly, letting her gaze settle back on the proposal.
The offer was solid, and it was more than enough to pay Daniel a lump sum, to make sure he’d be comfortable and able to find a new flat, maybe even more than that …
but he wasn’t the kind of person to be bought; he wasn’t motivated by money.
As for the rest? She could take it and run.
Go back to London, back to the life she’d pressed pause on the day she’d stepped into No.
17 Curiosity Lane. She could avoid the headache of clearing the place out or trying to sell it on the open market.
It was the smart choice. The practical one.
But then an uninvited image slid into her mind: Daniel behind the counter that morning, coffee in hand, flashing her that soft, familiar smile he always saved for the moments he thought she wasn’t paying attention.
Could she really do that to him? Cut the thread so abruptly, hand him his share and walk away like it hadn’t mattered – like he hadn’t mattered?
She knew it would mean she’d probably never see him again, and did she really want that?
She cleared her throat and looked at Edgar. ‘I’ll have a think about it.’
Edgar nodded solemnly. ‘As I said, the offer expires on Friday,’ he reminded her, his tone gentle but firm.
‘Can I ask you something else? About Matilda and Nathaniel Loring.’
If Edgar was surprised, he didn’t show it. His expression remained composed, his eyes steady.
‘I’ve discovered that the wedding dress belonged to Matilda,’ Fern explained. ‘And yesterday I met the designer, Eliza Valentine.’
Edgar smiled; a genuine, wistful smile, touched with fondness. ‘Eliza Valentine. Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. A remarkable woman. Charismatic, sharp as a tack and wickedly funny. Once upon a time, we ran in the same circles. I haven’t seen her in many years.’
‘What happened between Matilda and Nathaniel?’
Edgar’s smile faded, replaced by something closer to professional distance.
‘There were … whispers,’ he said carefully.
‘But my line of work teaches you to value facts, not gossip. The truth is, no one really knew. They were meant to have a Christmas Eve wedding and everything was set, right down to the last detail. But the ceremony was called off that morning.’
Fern let the information settle. ‘Why do you think someone wanted me to “find the groom”?’ she asked quietly. ‘I now know it was Nathaniel Loring, but is that it? Am I supposed to just leave it there?’
Edgar tilted his head, thoughtful. ‘It feels like someone doesn’t want the past to stay in the past. What are you thinking of doing about it?’
‘I’m not actually sure.’ Standing, she reached across the desk to shake his hand.
‘I’ll be back in touch once I’ve had a think.
’ As she left his office, Fern found she didn’t want to go back to the shop.
Not yet. She needed to calm her thoughts, especially around Daniel, who could read her moods so easily.
As she walked she thought about Nathaniel.
She’d spent enough time chasing interviews to know how hard it was to get face time with a musician of his status.
She wondered if it was worth picking up the phone and calling his management to ask for one last interview about his career.
Would her connection with the magazine be enough?
Fern knew it was the only way to get close enough to him to ask about Matilda, but if he didn’t want to talk about it, he would probably have her removed.
Five minutes later, she found herself outside The Café on the Coast. Amelia was sitting outside enjoying breakfast and she looked up and smiled when she saw Fern walking through the gate.
‘You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders,’ Amelia said. ‘Want to join me?’
Fern managed a faint smile. ‘I have got a bit of a dilemma … thank you, that would be good.’ She pulled out the chair opposite Amelia, her gaze drifting to the chalkboard menu. Her stomach gave a loud, undeniable grumble.
‘I think I need a second breakfast. A big one.’
Clemmie appeared at the side of the table, pad and pen already in hand. ‘How are you? Any news on the wedding dress? We all love a good mystery!’ she chirped.
‘Actually, yes. I do have news.’
That caught both Clemmie’s and Amelia’s attention. Clemmie immediately pulled up a chair. ‘What have you found out?’ she asked.
‘Dorothy knew who the designer was,’ Fern began, ‘and Daniel and I went to London to meet her. She invited us to her home, which, honestly, was something out of a magazine.’
‘And? Who’s the designer?’ Amelia leaned in.
‘Eliza Valentine.’
Clemmie’s eyes widened. ‘Not the Eliza Valentine? The designer who dressed celebrities and royalty back in the sixties and seventies?’
‘The very same,’ Fern confirmed. ‘She’s logged every dress she’s ever made, and according to her records, the wedding dress belonged to my great-aunt Matilda.’
Amelia and Clemmie exchanged looks, their expressions now brimming with excitement.
‘Who was the groom?’ Clemmie asked, practically bouncing in her seat.
‘Nathaniel Loring.’
‘The composer?’ Amelia questioned.
Fern nodded. ‘That’s him.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Clemmie breathed. ‘But I thought Matilda was single?’
‘She was.’ Fern shook her head slowly. ‘The wedding was planned for Christmas Eve, right here on Puffin Island, but it was called off that very morning.’
‘Why was it cancelled?’ Amelia asked.
‘That’s what I don’t know. I was hoping someone on the island might.’
Amelia and Clemmie answered in unison. ‘Betty!’
They laughed, but there was a gleam in their eyes.
‘My granny knows everything,’ Clemmie said with a grin, glancing over her shoulder at the counter where Betty was chatting with a customer. The moment Betty finished ringing up the bill, Clemmie waved her over. ‘Granny!’
Betty bustled over, her face lighting up as she saw Fern. ‘How are you?’
‘All good, thank you. That lemon drizzle cake you dropped off? Incredible.’
Betty nodded her head proudly, then looked between the three women. ‘I take it there’s more to this chat than cake?’
‘Fern needs a little island intel,’ Clemmie said. ‘We thought you might be able to help.’
Betty arched a brow. ‘Intel on what?’
‘The wedding dress,’ Fern said. ‘It belonged to my great-aunt Matilda.’
Betty’s expression shifted. ‘Ah … did it? No one ever got to see the dress as it was the wedding that never was,’ she said almost wistfully.
‘You remember it?’ asked Clemmie.
‘I was a guest,’ Betty said with a nod. ‘It was Christmas Eve and the snow was falling… The island looked like something on a postcard. It was all so romantic … until it wasn’t.’
‘Aunt Matilda was really set to marry Nathaniel Loring?’ Fern asked.
‘She was.’
‘What happened?’ asked Clemmie. ‘Why didn’t they go through with it? Surely you must know.’
Betty shook her head slowly. ‘No one knew for sure, though there were rumours, of course.’
‘What kind of rumours?’ Fern pressed, remembering what Eliza had hinted at.
‘That Matilda might’ve had a fling,’ Betty said reluctantly. ‘But she was so head over heels for Nathaniel, I never quite believed it.’
‘Did they ever see each other again?’ Fern asked.
‘Not as far as I know,’ Betty replied. ‘I was actually thinking of them only this morning. There’s another article about Nathaniel in today’s newspaper.’
Betty reached over to a nearby table and grabbed the folded newspaper. She smoothed it out and tapped the front page. The headline read: Famed Composer Nathaniel Loring Admitted To Private Clinic Amid Health Concerns – Estate to Be Left to Agent Alistair Montgomery.
Below was a photograph of Loring in a wheelchair, looking frail and shielded from the camera flashes by sunglasses and a scarf. The article went on to detail his wealth, all of it to be left to his lifelong agent and friend, Alistair Montgomery.
‘I’ve never heard of Alistair Montgomery, which is surprising given the line of work I’m in.’
‘From what I know, he wasn’t an agent to the stars, only to Nathaniel Loring. He dedicated his life to him,’ Betty offered.
Fern was already on her phone, googling Alistair Montgomery. She began reading aloud. ‘They met at the London School of Music, became best friends and graduated together. That means he would have known my great-aunt Matilda, too.’
‘Yes, he knew Matilda. The three of them were thick as thieves and inseparable until the wedding day, when the friendship collapsed. Alistair took Nathaniel’s side and never spoke to Matilda again,’ shared Betty.
Fern googled his picture and scrolled through the images. Wide-eyed, she looked up. ‘I know him. I saw him twice last week – once in the shop and then again leaving Dorothy’s.’
‘Yes, Nathaniel Loring’s agent is Dorothy’s brother,’ Betty confirmed.
Fern was amazed. ‘I’m not sure what to think.’
‘There’s only two men alive who know the truth of why that wedding didn’t take place,’ declared Betty, ‘Alistair and Nathaniel. And according to the news, soon there may only be one.’