peering at me from the corner of her eyes. “You seemed to have some knowledge of Chêne Mow before seeing it. Something about the garden.”
“No, I’m not psychic. It was just a lucky guess.”
“You didn’t feel anything in the blue room? Mollie mentioned a presence there."
“The room was cold. A tree at the window blocks the sun. I ended up sleeping in the blue room after all.”
“Then why is it you’ve decided to write something about Arabella?” she asked bluntly.
“Proximity, I suppose. I’m a writer. I’m living at Chêne Mow. I thought it might be an interesting story. That’s all.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, but that was all so long ago. I do have a little locket of Arabella’s,” she said, brightening. “My great-grandmother gave it to me. Would you like to see it?”
“I’d love to!”
“It’s not the sort of thing that suits me. It’s a young girl’s piece. I’ve put it away in a desk in the study. The desk comes from Chêne Bay as well. Gordie gave it to me when he sold up the place. It’s rather charming. Would you like to see it?”
"Yes, please,” I said, and hopped up to follow her. The study was a miniature of an English gentlemen’s club, with oak paneling, big dark leather armchairs, and an oak desk the size of a refectory table. This was not the desk that came from Chêne Bay, however: That was a lady’s desk, painted apple green, with pink flowers painted on the front. It had porcelain knobs with a brass plate behind them, matching the toilet table in the blue room at Chêne Mow. I mentioned this to Mollie.
“I noticed the toilet table was missing from Arabella’s room. So that’s where it’s gotten to.”
“Isn’t it beautiful!” I exclaimed. “I want to sit down at it and write billets-doux and make romantic entries in my common book,” I said, laughing at my own enthusiasm.
Emily smiled knowingly. "You sound like a Regency lady, Belle. Billets-doux and common book.”
Whatever had possessed me to say that? I had never written a billet-doux in my life, and didn’t have a common book.
“May I?” I asked, putting my fingers on the white knobs to pull out the drawer. I knew what it would look like inside, although I had never opened the toilet table at Chêne Mow. I could see it in my mind’s eye; I could catch an echo of the woody smell. A segmented drawer, the wood a pinkish-brown color, not varnished but sanded and oiled and rubbed to a dull sheen. I was almost afraid to pull it open. I did it slowly, and found myself gazing at the drawer that had been in my head. It was an exact replica. From it came the scent of old wood. I stifled a gasp of surprise and wonder.
“The locket should be right there in that little heart-shaped box,” Emily said.
I lifted the lid of a small papier-mâché box painted blue, with lovebirds and hearts entwined in a flowery vine on the lid. A small golden locket on a delicate chain nestled inside. I lifted it with trembling fingers. This, too, was familiar to me at some deep, subconscious level. I knew what was in it. I eased it open with my fingernail and looked at the two locks of hair; jet black on one side, a blond curl on the other. His and hers, Arabella’s. But who was he? Throckley or Vanejul?
A sudden hush invaded the room. It seemed that even breath was suspended. My heart was throbbing in my throat with excitement. My fingers closed possessively over the locket, holding on to it for dear life. I felt again that all-embracing warmth enfold me. I was afraid to open my fingers, afraid the locket would be gone. I forced myself to loosen my grip. Of course, it was still there. In a trancelike state I fastened the trinket around my neck, lifting my hair first.
A laughing, loving voice spoke inside my head. “Demme, you'll have to do it up yourself Belle. My fingers are too clumsy. Here, I’ll hold your hair out of the way.” Warm fingers brushed the nape of my neck. "There, now you have a
“No, I’m not psychic. It was just a lucky guess.”
“You didn’t feel anything in the blue room? Mollie mentioned a presence there."
“The room was cold. A tree at the window blocks the sun. I ended up sleeping in the blue room after all.”
“Then why is it you’ve decided to write something about Arabella?” she asked bluntly.
“Proximity, I suppose. I’m a writer. I’m living at Chêne Mow. I thought it might be an interesting story. That’s all.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, but that was all so long ago. I do have a little locket of Arabella’s,” she said, brightening. “My great-grandmother gave it to me. Would you like to see it?”
“I’d love to!”
“It’s not the sort of thing that suits me. It’s a young girl’s piece. I’ve put it away in a desk in the study. The desk comes from Chêne Bay as well. Gordie gave it to me when he sold up the place. It’s rather charming. Would you like to see it?”
"Yes, please,” I said, and hopped up to follow her. The study was a miniature of an English gentlemen’s club, with oak paneling, big dark leather armchairs, and an oak desk the size of a refectory table. This was not the desk that came from Chêne Bay, however: That was a lady’s desk, painted apple green, with pink flowers painted on the front. It had porcelain knobs with a brass plate behind them, matching the toilet table in the blue room at Chêne Mow. I mentioned this to Mollie.
“I noticed the toilet table was missing from Arabella’s room. So that’s where it’s gotten to.”
“Isn’t it beautiful!” I exclaimed. “I want to sit down at it and write billets-doux and make romantic entries in my common book,” I said, laughing at my own enthusiasm.
Emily smiled knowingly. "You sound like a Regency lady, Belle. Billets-doux and common book.”
Whatever had possessed me to say that? I had never written a billet-doux in my life, and didn’t have a common book.
“May I?” I asked, putting my fingers on the white knobs to pull out the drawer. I knew what it would look like inside, although I had never opened the toilet table at Chêne Mow. I could see it in my mind’s eye; I could catch an echo of the woody smell. A segmented drawer, the wood a pinkish-brown color, not varnished but sanded and oiled and rubbed to a dull sheen. I was almost afraid to pull it open. I did it slowly, and found myself gazing at the drawer that had been in my head. It was an exact replica. From it came the scent of old wood. I stifled a gasp of surprise and wonder.
“The locket should be right there in that little heart-shaped box,” Emily said.
I lifted the lid of a small papier-mâché box painted blue, with lovebirds and hearts entwined in a flowery vine on the lid. A small golden locket on a delicate chain nestled inside. I lifted it with trembling fingers. This, too, was familiar to me at some deep, subconscious level. I knew what was in it. I eased it open with my fingernail and looked at the two locks of hair; jet black on one side, a blond curl on the other. His and hers, Arabella’s. But who was he? Throckley or Vanejul?
A sudden hush invaded the room. It seemed that even breath was suspended. My heart was throbbing in my throat with excitement. My fingers closed possessively over the locket, holding on to it for dear life. I felt again that all-embracing warmth enfold me. I was afraid to open my fingers, afraid the locket would be gone. I forced myself to loosen my grip. Of course, it was still there. In a trancelike state I fastened the trinket around my neck, lifting my hair first.
A laughing, loving voice spoke inside my head. “Demme, you'll have to do it up yourself Belle. My fingers are too clumsy. Here, I’ll hold your hair out of the way.” Warm fingers brushed the nape of my neck. "There, now you have a
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