Chapter Fifteen Julia
Chapter Fifteen
Julia
Two days later, Julia hesitated at the door to her future mother-in-law’s study, then lifted her hand and knocked. “Come in!” Tara singsonged from within.
Julia drew in a breath, then ventured into a room that belonged in Buckingham Palace far more than it did in an island getaway.
A gleaming antique desk sat in one corner, its surface free of clutter or papers—but then, who needed a study at their summer house?
(Julia was coming to realize that rich people had many things they didn’t need.) A love seat faced a pair of delicate armchairs with striped silk pillows, and the walls were lined with portraits of dull-looking men and women, and their even duller-looking dogs.
Tara stood from behind her desk. “Thank you for coming, Julia.”
As she stepped inside, Julia noticed a vase on a side table, painted with the traditional reds and blacks of ancient Greek pottery.
That must be a reproduction, Julia told herself.
Surely even Tara Ellene didn’t have art in her office from the fifth century BC.
Besides, real Greek pottery always depicted moments from mythology or battle, and this vase showed an intimate domestic scene, of a mother with three children.
“I asked you here because you have a decision to make,” Tara said crisply. “Martin, darling, you can join us!”
The door swung open once more, revealing a man with a receding gray hairline, in a three-piece suit that looked like it had been plucked from some Julian Fellowes show on the BBC.
He was pushing a cart before him, almost the way a flight attendant would push drinks on an aircraft, except that this cart was a beautiful antique silver thing, probably once meant to hold crystal decanters.
Somehow, Julia knew that Martin wasn’t here to pour her a vodka tonic.
“Martin is one of the lead curators at the British Museum,” Tara explained to Julia. “He helps us out on occasion, managing our personal collection.”
“And what a joy it is!” Martin smiled deferentially at Tara. “It was my distinct pleasure to transport these pieces from London for you.”
That was when Julia noticed the sleek wooden boxes arranged on the top of the cart, each flat and roughly rectangular, each the size of a laptop.
She watched, dumbfounded, as Martin lifted the lids one by one, revealing dozens of rings: cushion-cut diamonds, solitaire diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, pink diamonds. Countless priceless carats, all glittering ostentatiously on nests of black velvet.
They were here to pick out an engagement ring.
“Should we get Harry?” Julia turned to Tara, who chuckled in amusement.
“Whatever for? You’re the one who has to wear this; you should be the one to select it. Besides,” Tara added, “I thought it would be nice for us to have some time alone, just the two of us.”
Julia had no choice but to smile in agreement.
She’d hardly spent any time with Tara since she and Harry returned from the airport two days ago. But she’d registered the look on Tara’s face when she and Harry found his parents at the pool and shared the news of their engagement.
“Mother, Father,” Harry had said, straightening his shoulders as he approached. “Julia and I have wonderful news. We’re engaged.”
For a single heartbeat, Julia saw a flash of emotion from Tara—worry, perhaps, or dismay. It was smoothed away instantaneously, replaced by a radiant smile.
“Congratulations!” Tara had cried out. Julia doubted any other woman could seem intimidating in this moment—her feet bare, wearing a swimsuit and a loose cover-up, sunglasses perched on her head—but there was such command in Tara’s presence that she might as well have been wearing a tiara and ball gown.
She moved as if she were a queen, as if she expected everyone to curtsy to her, and the power of her conviction was so great that Julia almost did curtsy, before realizing how absurd that would look.
That very afternoon, Harry had disappeared into a conference room with a small group of his relatives.
Amid all the drama of the past few days, Julia had almost forgotten that there were business meetings at the reunion.
But she didn’t mind being left alone. She’d claimed a chair by the pool, indulging in a paperback thriller she’d found in the main house.
Not that she had much time to read. Family members continued to approach her, plying her with champagne, peppering her with questions and congratulations.
If only Percy were there to help her keep track of everyone, but he’d joined the group in the conference room.
Valentine was in the business meeting, too. Not that Julia had any intention of seeking her out.
“Come on, Julia. Just try a few rings,” Tara urged, breaking into Julia’s thoughts.
Julia took a wary step toward the jewelry cases, as if the gems might grow teeth and jump up to bite her. Tentatively, she slipped a deep blue stone onto her hand.
Martin gave a little sigh of contentment. “The diamond was mined in Myanmar. There is a local legend that blue diamonds are the frozen tears of a goddess, forever weeping for her deceased mortal lover.”
Julia didn’t like the sound of that. She slipped it off her finger.
Martin pulled an enormous diamond ring, at least eight carats, onto a folded square of black velvet. “This one belonged to the dowager empress of Russia. It was among her belongings when she fled to Paris after the Russian Revolution.”
“And it was acquired at auction?” Julia had heard that in her final years, the empress began quietly selling off her jewels.
“Oh, no.” Tara sounded slightly offended. “It was a personal gift to the family.”
Of course, Julia thought wryly. She was starting to realize that Harry’s family was the oldest of old money, given how long they had owned this estate—given that they had jewels that were personal gifts from the Romanovs, back when there still were Romanovs.
Apparently, families like Harry’s didn’t buy engagement rings at Harry Winston like other rich people. They flew their personal curator down from London with the equivalent of the crown jewels inventory. How had the Ellenes even insured all these pieces for Martin’s trip?
Each of these pieces felt so lavish, so heavy with significance, so…big. Julia couldn’t walk around wearing any of these rings.
That was when her eyes drifted to a gold band in a corner. It was slender, far less ostentatious than the others, its surface covered in a vintage scrollwork pattern. It was studded with tiny flecks of stone that glittered in the light.
Following her gaze, Martin reddened. “Oh! I’m sorry, that shouldn’t even be here.
It’s an ancient Mycenaean ring. Those aren’t even diamonds; they’re rock crystals, though of course, since they date from the fourth century BC, they are still priceless.
” Martin reverently lifted the ring. “This was only included because I gave instructions that all rings in the family collection be packaged for shipment, without specifying engagement rings. I thought that was implied, but…”
He trailed off as Julia held out her palm hopefully. “May I?” she asked.
With a questioning glance at Tara, who nodded, Martin handed over the ring.
Julia slid it on thoughtfully. An unassuming gold band, studded with rock crystals instead of diamond pavé.
It complemented her mother’s ring, which she was still wearing on her right ring finger—unlike every other jewel in this display case, which would have clashed with Claire’s simple band.
In fact, Julia thought, there was something poetic about it: wearing her mother’s ring on her right hand as a symbol of her past, and Harry’s ring—her future—on her left.
The rock crystals were subtle, more like a scattering of glitter than a big showy stone. Really, this ring was very Julia, if you ignored that it was a two-thousand-year-old priceless relic.
“We could add a central stone,” Tara suggested. “It would be easy, really, to work this into a setting and feature a diamond from the family mines. Right, Martin?”
He nodded assiduously, but Julia let out a little cry of protest. “You couldn’t possibly alter this ring. It belongs in a museum!”
“But it’s not in a museum,” Tara said easily. “It’s ours, and we can rework it as we please. That’s the whole point of owning things, isn’t it? No one can tell you what to do with them.”
Julia wasn’t sure that was at all the point of owning things but knew better than to say so aloud.
Tara looked to the curator for confirmation. “What do you think, Martin, six carats? Eight? A princess cut would look lovely on Julia—”
“I don’t want a large diamond,” Julia said again, more firmly this time. “I could hardly wear something that grand on my tours in New Zealand.”
The room fell silent. Tara shot Martin a look. He gestured that Julia should give him the ring, so she twisted it off and handed it to him.
“I’m so glad you found a ring that speaks to you,” Tara said gently. “Martin, would you be so good as to clean it for us?”
Martin nodded and retreated from the room, pushing the cart of priceless family heirlooms before him.
“Shall we have some tea?” Tara moved over to the sitting area.
Reluctantly, Julia perched on one of the armchairs opposite.
She started to cross her legs at the thigh, then realized that Tara had tucked one ankle behind the other.
Perhaps that was considered more appropriate when wearing a dress?
Julia adjusted her position to match her future mother-in-law’s.
See? she wanted to say. I may not have been born to this, but I’m a quick study.
Tara reached for a teapot—when had a staff member brought that in? It felt almost like it had been conjured from midair—and filled two porcelain mugs. “Milk? Sugar?” she offered politely.
“No, thanks.”
Tara raised an eyebrow but handed Julia her mug, an airy thing with a curled handle. “Julia, I hope you know how happy I am for you and my son.”