CHAPTER FIVE
With an effort, I found my voice. ‘Thank you. I . . . well, just thank you.’
‘You should have been wearing a helmet,’ he said flatly.
‘Oh. Well, I . . .’
‘Only a very stupid and foolhardy person would get on a horse without one.’
Narrowing his eyes, he turned and directed a chilling glance at Wyatt.
Bristling at the inference, I snapped back, ‘Actually, I didn’t think we’d be moving from the spot. If I’d known, of course I’d have worn protective headgear.’
‘Really.’ It wasn’t a question. His eyes were as cold and bleak as a graveyard in winter.
‘Yes. Really.’ I glared up at him. Could this man actually be more ill-tempered and irritating?
Wyatt had been chatting amiably to the people gathered there, but I suddenly noticed he’d gone quiet and was staring at Dante. Maybe he’d picked up on my reaction to him.
‘I notice Wyatt was wearing a helmet,’ Dante pointed out, with a sneer that sent a shiver through me. ‘But he obviously wasn’t worried about his passenger.’
I looked at him, puzzled. ‘You know Wyatt?’
‘I do,’ he said shortly. His already chilly expression plunged into sub-zero terrain.
‘But . . . how do you know each other?’ I certainly couldn’t imagine they’d have the world of acting in common! This pompous, stuffed shirt of a man seemed the very opposite of ‘people-person’ Wyatt.
‘Doesn’t matter.’
His reply was brusque to the point of rudeness, and my hackles rose a little more. ‘My helmet’s in the café. I left it behind by mistake,’ I improvised coldly, feeling the need to defend Wyatt from his implied criticism.
He didn’t reply, just eyed me cynically.
He was irritatingly correct, of course. I should have been wearing the proper headgear. I glanced at Wyatt . . . at his helmet, which he’d now taken off to chat to everyone.
He must have forgotten to bring a helmet along for me as well.
‘Right, well . . . I’d better . . .’ I pointed at the café and Dante gave a curt nod.
Arabella appeared at his shoulder, directing one of her slyly mocking smiles at me. ‘Great outfit, Lizzie. Lovely dress.’
I shot her a suspicious glance. Was she laughing at me? She looked perfectly serious.
‘Thank you.’ With a tight little smile, I started to walk away. But feeling Dante’s polar stare freezing my back, I was feeling oddly self-conscious and I tripped over my own feet and went over painfully on my ankle.
‘I especially like the bright green banish-the-muffin-top pants,’ called Arabella.
Colour whooshed into my cheeks as I walked on, determined not to limp.
The shooting pain in my ankle really wasn’t helped by Arabella’s gales of laughter following me back to the café . . .
*****
Later that day, Leonard came into the café.
I was bringing out a fresh plate of scones from the kitchen as Ellie took his order at the counter.
I smiled as I went over with his tea and his scone with butter and strawberry jam. ‘I missed you this morning, Leonard. I can usually set my watch by your morning visits.’
‘Ah, well, I got a little waylaid this morning.’ He tapped the side of his nose.
‘Ooh, very mysterious.’
His hazel eyes twinkled. ‘You know I told you I was in the attic the other day, putting the Christmas decorations back?’
‘You did.’
‘Well, I found a few boxes of stuff that I hadn’t seen in years, so I brought them down so I could sort through them.’ He reached for a plastic bag that was lying on the chair beside him. ‘Along with some old photos of people I don’t even recognise, I found this inside one of them.’
He pulled out a wooden box and placed it on the table.
My eyes widened as I studied it. Definitely antique, it was made of some kind of dark wood – mahogany, perhaps? – and someone had carved a charming series of birds and insects around the lid.
‘It’s beautiful, Leonard.’
‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’ he agreed. ‘That’s some craftsmanship.’ He stroked the box lid. ‘These days it’s all whack ‘em out on a production line and sell ‘em by the thousand. But in those days, they believed in quality and taking their time.’
I smiled, thinking he had a point.
‘But it’s what’s inside it that made me wonder.’ About to lift the lid, he stopped and looked up at me. ‘Maybe you’d like to take a look at the contents for yourself?’
‘Oh.’ As I unloaded his tea and scone from the tray, I looked curiously at the box, and when I lifted the lid, I saw to my surprise that along with some yellowed pages and what looked like a notebook, it contained what looked like someone’s precious keepsakes.
There was a single pressed flower, a scrap of yellowed lace, a lock of brown hair tied with a piece of dark red ribbon, and a miniature portrait of a woman in profile.
‘The photos and this box must have been left behind in the attic when the previous owners moved out,’ Leonard explained.
‘Right. When was that?’
‘About seventy years ago now, I suppose. It was the house my parents bought when they got married, and I inherited it when they died. My wife and I sold the house we owned at the time and moved in.’
‘Wow. So it would be hard to reunite the owners with their box, then?’
‘Impossible, I’d have thought. After all that time has passed.’ He leaned forward and poked around in the box. ‘There’s a small notebook in there that quite surprised me when I saw the date written on the first page: 1814, I think it is. So it dates back to the nineteenth century.’
‘Wow,’ I breathed. ‘So can I . . ?’
Leonard nodded. ‘Of course. Go ahead and have a look. I’ve no idea what to do with it myself.’
So I picked up the portrait and gazed at it in wonder.
The subject of the watercolour was a woman of around forty.
She was wearing a blue bonnet, and the artist had managed – with just a few brushstrokes – to convey a certain intelligence about the eyes and a fierce determination in the upturned chin.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I whispered. ‘I’d love to know who this woman is. Do you have any idea?’
‘No idea at all. She looks quite formidable, though.’
‘She does.’ I picked up the delicate dried flower but the petals crumbled away in my fingers.
Under the keepsakes were several scraps of paper filled with curly handwriting and the small notebook, which I assumed must be the diary Leonard had mentioned.
The loose papers had yellowed over the years and the ink – maybe blue or black originally – had faded to a pale reddish-brown colour.
‘What an amazing find. Have you tried to read any of these pages? Or the diary?’
‘With my eyes?’ Leonard chuckled. ‘Not likely. The handwriting is so small. I’d have to hunt out my magnifying glass. But you could probably manage it. Why don’t you take it home with you and see if you can read it?’
I nodded, feeling a surge of excitement at the thought of reading someone’s thoughts that they’d set down on paper more than two hundred years ago. How lucky I was that Leonard was trusting me with this amazing discovery of his . . .
‘I can make out the name Charlotte on the front of the notebook but that’s all. I thought perhaps she could be the woman in the painting?’
I nodded excitedly. ‘And you really don’t mind me taking it away and looking through it?’
‘Not at all. To be honest, it feels like far too much of a responsibility for me.’ He smiled. ‘You can keep it if you like.’
‘Oh, no. I couldn’t do that, Leonard. It’s yours.’
‘But does it really belong to me? I found it in my attic, that’s all.’
‘Well, I guess it might be a case of finders keepers after all these years.’
He nodded. ‘Maybe. I just thought after our conversation the other day about your fascination with the Regency period of history, that you might be interested in going through it all.’
‘Oh, I really would.’
‘There you are, then.’ He closed the lid, put the box back in the plastic bag and handed it over to me. ‘Have a look through and you can report back to me. It’s a relief to hand it over, to be honest. I’m no historian and I’d appreciate your input, Lizzie.’
I nodded, folding the bag handles over and clutching the precious box to my chest. ‘I’ll look after it.’ I smiled down at him. ‘I’ll read through it tonight and bring it back for you tomorrow.’
‘No need. As I said, it’s yours if you’d like to keep it. Think of it as a gift for helping me get that doctor’s appointment the other day.’
I chuckled. ‘It was my pleasure. And you already bought me lunch, remember? So I really will just borrow it. Will you be in tomorrow morning as usual?’
‘Of course.’ Leonard’s eyes twinkled. ‘I wouldn’t miss cherry and coconut day.’
I was smiling to myself as I went into the kitchen and tucked the bag carefully into my backpack.
Ellie had decided to cheer up January by offering a different flavour of scone each day. I hadn’t even realised there were seven different varieties!
Today it was the turn of date scones, and tomorrow was Leonard’s favourite, cherry and coconut.
The most popular seemed to be white chocolate and raspberry, with the Bakewell tart scones – flavoured with almonds and served with raspberry jam – coming a close second.
Personally, I had a soft spot for Monday, which was savoury chorizo and manchego cheese.
They were mouth-wateringly delicious, especially eaten warm and slathered with butter when I hadn’t had time for breakfast.
I couldn’t wait to start sifting through the contents of the box later. There might be nothing of note in there, but then again, it could be a real treasure trove. Just the fact that Leonard seemed to think it dated from the early 1800s was surely enough to pique any historian’s interest . . .
*****
When my shift ended, I decided to pop over to the village store before I drove home.
Maddy, who’d finished work at the same time, walked over there with me – and that’s when she saw something in the village store window that made her stop and stare.
‘What is it?’ I asked curiously, walking over.
She was studying a poster advertising the Regency Romp Festival, which Wyatt must have had printed after our dramatic photo shoot on horseback earlier. He certainly didn’t hang about when it came to promoting himself!
Maddy was frowning. ‘It’s not exactly a great photo of you, is it, Lizzie?’