What now, wondered Izzy as she looked up from where she was blacking the big iron grate and ornate fire back, covering up tiny spots of rust. The fireplace was enormous but it needed to be to heat the hallway and huge stairwell. The poor thing didn’t look as if it had had any attention for centuries and she wanted it to be an immediate welcoming feature when the Carter-Joneses arrived. She’d already planned to have Jim dressed in a kilt (he didn’t know that yet) to welcome them with a tray of malt whiskies in front of a roaring log fire.
‘Izzy!’ Her mother’s scream grew louder as she came closer. ‘I’ve found something! I’ve found proof. The sapphires, they’re real.’ Xanthe suddenly came into view at the top of the first flight of stairs on the return, carrying a painting nearly the size of herself.
‘Careful,’ yelled Izzy, jumping to her feet, realising that a catastrophe was about to unfold at any moment. ‘Slow down.’ Any moment her crazy mother could fall and break her blasted neck. Xanthe tottered on the top step and Izzy’s heart nearly stopped. She raced up the stairs and in the nick of time managed to catch her mother before she over-balanced.
Xanthe, of course, was oblivious to the danger as she danced from foot to foot, vibrating with excitement. ‘Look! Look what I found.’
‘Mum!’ Izzy snapped, her heart now pounding with adrenaline-based fear. ‘For God’s sake calm down.’
‘But don’t you see!’ Xanthe’s eyes were wide and bright, almost manic with delighted anticipation.
Izzy wanted to shake her, but instead she took the weight of the large gilt frame from her mother and set it down on the landing of the stairs. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘Don’t be silly, darling. I was perfectly safe. But look what I’ve found.’ She pointed at the front of the painting. Izzy shuffled the painting forward, astounded that her mother had managed to carry it this far, and pushed it up against the wall, turning it so that she could now see the picture.
‘It’s Isabella. And she’s wearing them. The sapphires.’ Xanthe jabbed a finger at the painting. A young woman was pictured seated at a dressing table, a Mona Lisa smile on her face, her neck adorned with a fabulous gold necklace with three rows of cabochon sapphires. The artist had managed to capture the depth of the blue and the glimmer of light bouncing off them.
Izzy had seen the painting before but hadn’t registered the necklace or the smooth shapes of the sapphires.
‘They’re cabochons! You know, the lovely smooth oval shape,’ said Xanthe. ‘Of course they are. I was expecting them to be cut like modern stones but they’re polished. Aren’t they beautiful? And now we know they’re real.’
‘Yes, but this painting is pretty old. They could have been sold or passed on at any time.’
‘They’re here somewhere. I feel it in my bones.’
Izzy refrained from rolling her eyes. Xanthe’s mystical, fortune-telling bones were contrary things that seemed to give out vibes only when it suited them.
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Jeanette, drying her hands on a tea towel. Izzy had abandoned the fire grate to get cracking on the mince pies and despite her misgivings had commandeered the younger woman for kitchen duty today.
‘Could you roll out the pastry – it’s chilling in the fridge – and then start cutting out the rounds for the mince pies?’ Izzy suggested as she zested the skin of an orange, inhaling the lovely citrus fragrance. The sprinkling of orange zest on top of the mincemeat in each pie along with a few drops of whisky was going to liven them up and give them an essential Scottish twist. She couldn’t claim the credit for the idea though as it had been a tip from Fliss in the WhatsApp group.
When she glanced up a few minutes later, she found Jeanette making heavy weather of rolling the pastry on an unfloured surface. As a result, the pastry was in a sorry state, sticking both to the rolling pin and the surface.
‘Sorry, I’m no very good in the kitchen,’ Jeanette said, heavy-handedly peeling the pastry away from the counter and promptly leaving half of it stuck to the surface. As she did so, a large tear formed and the rest of the remaining intact pastry dropped onto the floor.
‘Oops. Sorry.’
Izzy laughed, knowing everyone had to start somewhere. ‘You should have seen me on the cookery course. Me and my friend, Hannah, were useless to start with. It’s just practice.’
‘I’ve never done this before. My mam always buys the pies down the supermarket.’
‘Then you’re in for a treat because these are going to be so much better. Come on, let me show you.’
An hour later the kitchen was filled with the scent of mixed spices and buttery pastry as two batches of mince pies cooled on the side.
‘Mmm, looks like I’m just in time,’ said Ross, zeroing in on them as he came into the kitchen. With a final glare at his phone he tucked it into his pocket. Izzy couldn’t help noticing that he seemed to be getting a lot of phone calls lately.
‘You only get one if you make us a cup of tea,’ said Izzy, waving the rolling pin at him as she washed up.
‘I can do that. I love a mince pie.’
‘You’re going to like these,’ said Jeanette. ‘They’re dead fancy. Can I take one up to Jim? Or maybe two. I can’t wait to tell him that I made mince pies!’ She giggled. ‘On the second attempt, at least.’
A second later, Xanthe popped in, her favourite feather boa trailing behind her like a plume of white smoke.
‘Ooh, mince pies. I don’t mind if I do. Your nan always used to make them, brings back so many memories.’ She took one and disappeared again, leaving a trail of crumbs behind her.
As Jeanette left to find Jim, who was upstairs painting one of the bedrooms, Ross handed Izzy her mug.
