Caitlin nodded. “I found evidence in a piece of furniture in the attic that may have something to do with why Holt’s family has such a sad history.”
Mrs. Smith’s eyebrows lifted to her hairline. “What kind of evidence?”
“If I’m right, a curse made by a Scottish healer, a wise woman, who lost her love to the English, either during Culloden, a battle that led to the destruction of the Highland way of life in the mid-1700s, or soon after. That sort of curse can be powerful.”
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Smith leaned back against the sink apron and crossed her arms. Her tone didn’t convey incredulity or sympathy. Just…resignation?
Caitlin leaned forward and rested her chin on her fist. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“I’ve taken care of this family for many years. I knew Holt’s great-aunt’s father, though I was just a young girl. No mother, I’m sorry to say. She died young. The lack soured Amelia as a child, and she grew even more sour the older she got. As did the loss of her husband a few years after they married, before they could be blessed with children. I think she knew something wasn’t right.”
So the curse had followed the great-aunt’s line, not Holt’s great-uncle’s? Then jumped to his brother, Holt’s grandfather, when the great-aunt had no children? And no other direct relations? How many times down through the years had that happened? And how distant from Holt and his mother was the relative who had originally owned— and cursed— the apothecary cabinet? Holt might never agree, but Caitlin would love to hire a genealogist to trace the family connections back to 1746. “You knew Holt’s mother. She lived here for a while.”
“Of course. She and my son were friends.” She glanced around at the picture she kept on the windowsill and studied it for a moment, then turned back to Caitlin. “And I met that boy she was seeing one time before…well, he went off. Joined the military, I heard. Probably killed somewhere far away.”
Caitlin’s heart sank. For Mrs. Smith’s loss, and for Holt’s. She’d been so set on helping Holt reunite with the father he’d never known, she hadn’t considered that he might really be dead. “Do you remember his name?”
“Hmmm. I haven’t thought about him in decades. Johnny? Jimmy. Maybe Gene? Something with a ‘J’ sound.”
“What about his last name?”
Mrs. Smith shook her head. “If I ever knew it, it’s long gone. And what does it matter? Holt has his mother’s name. Her aunt’s inheritance, though that’s small compensation for the way she treated that girl. End of story.”
Caitlin sipped her hot chocolate quietly for several minutes while Mrs. Smith bustled around the kitchen, then excused herself. Caitlin remained, inhaling the comforting scent of the dregs of her cocoa. She needed to talk to Holt. He’d never actually told her his mother’s first name, or whether she’d ever gone by a last name other than the one she’d given to him. Doc Coates’s story ran too closely parallel to the little Holt knew about his origins for her to be wrong in questioning his past. If they weren’t father and son, they were part of the biggest coincidence she’d ever seen.
After Mrs. Smith left, Caitlin considered what the housekeeper thought she knew about Holt’s father and her supposition that he had died in the military. Calling up her picture of Doc Coates on her phone, she held it up so she could see the photo on the windowsill at the same time. She studied both to fix their features in her mind and muttered, “Maybe. Maybe not.” Unable to come up with an answer, she headed for the attic to see what other mysteries she might unearth. She’d talk to Holt later.
* * *
Looking at antique cars got Holt thinking about what else his family had held onto down through the ages. He’d had been doing some reading about the 18th Century Jacobite rising, not that he’d tell Caitlin her theories had intrigued him. He was appalled by the violence against the Scottish people following Culloden in 1745. What he read lent credence to Caitlin’s assertion that because of a love lost in that epic battle or its aftermath, someone might carve a curse into an apothecary cabinet they expected to be stolen. Whether a curse could be real or have any real effect was debatable. But the more he read and the more he recalled those sad, empty eyes in the photos in the trunk, the more he entertained the possibility his mother had been telling the literal truth.
He decided he wanted another look at Caitlin’s photos of the carving and her notes. She’d gone into town earlier, but he knew she had printed out the composite she’d created. If he could find that, he wouldn’t have to invade her privacy by searching for it on her laptop, something, after working side-by-side with her, he knew he could do with no technical impediment. He grimaced. Who didn’t password-protect their computers? Caitlin must either be very trusting or from an area where crime, especially cybercrime, was non-existent. He went up to the attic first, thinking she’d left all her research with the cabinet where she’d been working. He didn’t find anything there, so he came downstairs to the office.
The table Caitlin used looked a mess. She’d piled papers and print-outs of pictures of items in the house haphazardly at the corners then filled the middle with random lists, scraps of notes, and who knew what.
Holt went around to her chair, surveyed the mess, and realized she had a system. He’d find what he wanted in one of the piles since, based on what he saw on top of each of them, they seemed to be stacks that contained more detailed information about specific items of furniture. He thumbed through the first, careful not to disturb the order in which she’d placed things. He hated when his assistant tried to find something on his desk, or worse, took it into her head to organize the papers on it. He didn’t want to be guilty of doing the same to Caitlin.
Not finding what he wanted, he moved to another corner, but something in the middle of the table caught his eye— the glossy edge of a photo. Mostly covered by another sheet that contained a to-do list, a bit of rough wood and two letters of the carved inscription were visible.
Holt picked up the list, intending to study the photo beneath it, but couldn’t resist the chance to see what Caitlin had left to do before she returned to Scotland. He chuckled at some of the things she listed, including gift ideas for her family in Scotland, then noticed his name on her shopping list.
He sank into the chair behind him. She was going to give him a Christmas present? She didn’t need to do that. Worse, it meant he needed to shop for something for her but had no idea what she’d like. And what about Farrell and Mrs. Smith? He’d been so focused on finishing the work here and returning to California, he had forgotten all about the holiday. As the new owner, he would be expected to provide some sort of holiday bonus or gifts, wouldn’t he?
He should talk to Mrs. Smith and find out what she’d told Caitlin about his family history. That might give him a chance to find out what she and Farrell had received from his great-aunt in the past for the holidays. If not, he’d bet Caitlin already knew. Not that he wanted her to think taking care of the help was an afterthought. But she would understand his focus being on the estate, its contents, and the mystery she’d uncovered rather than on Santa, peppermint sticks, and gaily wrapped packages. Somehow, the two did not go well together.
He made a mental note to call the lawyer and see if his great-aunt had left any instructions about holiday gifts and bonuses for the staff or, more importantly, if she had provided for their retirement in the event he sold the estate. He should have questioned that much earlier and suspected some of Caitlin’s glowing comments about them had been intended to make him recall his responsibilities to them. For a change, she’d been too subtle. For the immediate issue of the holiday, if all else failed, he could just ask them what their employer used to do for them, but he disliked putting them on the spot and worse, making them feel they had been overlooked. He was usually better with people than that.
While he castigated himself, he set aside the to-do list and noticed a paperclip on the picture of the carved inscription. He picked up the packet to see what Caitlin had clipped with it. Several scraps of random-looking notes about the family curse, a rough genealogy chart going back to his great-aunt’s parents that listed Mrs. Smith’s name to the side, her son’s underlined below it, and one other name she’d underlined several times along the margin. Both were connected to a notation saying “Holt’s mother” with a plus sign. What the hell? Did the veterinarian have something to do with his family history? His mother? Had Mrs. Smith told her things about his family that Holt was not privy to? About her son and his mother? Caitlin had asked him if he wanted to find his father. Then, he hadn’t been sure if he did, but Caitlin clearly hadn’t dropped the idea.
He slapped the packet down on the desk, shifting the top items in the corner piles with the breeze he created. He stood and straightened them, then checked the floor around the desk to make sure nothing had flown off. While he did that, he thought about why he’d come east. He’d wanted to cut all ties as quickly as possible, so he hadn’t inquired about his mother, her friends, or anything else that would have created more connections to this place. Was he ignoring an opportunity? Though he’d asked her to stay out of his personal life, perhaps Caitlin had been asking the questions he should have been. Not just focusing on his mother’s past but trying harder to find out about his father.
He picked up the packet again and flipped through it. The last page floored him. A list of local labs doing DNA testing. What was she up to? In order to have something to test, she had to have someone in mind to test. Mrs. Smith? Doc Coates? The way Caitlin underlined his name, she must think him important. Holt pictured the veterinarian. Could they be related? Holt didn’t see a strong resemblance, and certainly not one that would imply a father/son relationship. So why had Caitlin connected the vet’s name with a note about Holt’s mother? And underlined his name several times?
At a loss, Holt set the to-do list aside and studied the composite photo. Weren’t curses usually pronounced in Latin? Or had he been watching too many movies? He didn’t speak more than enough French to order a bottle of Beaujolais and ask for directions to the men’s room, so he couldn’t say whether the language in the carving was consistent with what was spoken in the 18th century or a more modern attempt at a hoax. Clearly, he wasn’t going to glean any insights from the photo other than those he and Caitlin had already discussed.
Frustrated, he replaced the photo packet under the to-do list and sat back. He’d come in here to look into one mystery and found another. What did a genealogy chart, a list of DNA testing labs and several notations of names have in common with a photo of a presumed ancient French curse in a piece of 18th century Scottish furniture? Besides being evidence that Caitlin was delving into his family history? He clenched his jaw, uncomfortable despite knowing he’d set her on this path. Still, she was taking it much further than he’d expected. He didn’t know what to do about any of it. There were no hard-and-fast answers to be found in ancient family history. They didn’t have enough information, and historical records from the time period of the carved curse were, as far as Holt’s brief foray into research let him suppose, sketchy at best.
That left his meddling appraiser. The simplest way to an explanation of what Caitlin was up to with her underlined names and list of labs would be to ask her. And then she’d know he’d been snooping on her desk. She’d probably be pissed. Or maybe not. Maybe she’d be pleased that he was taking enough of an interest in his background and family history to look through her research and question what she was doing. He snorted out a laugh. Sure, she would.
