Unforgettable (Gloria Cook) - By Gloria Cook Page 0,58

most outstanding feature had been her large guarded eyes.

Verity brought herself back to the present, chiding herself for once again using her employer’s time to mull over his private life. After all, contemplating his wife’s life and death and making mysteries out of them was snooping and it was sort of a betrayal to Jack, who had not really needed to give her a job here. She had even searched for Lucinda’s grave, hoping to discover more about her character from its design and inscription. It was ghoulish and downright nosy and Jack did not deserve it. He was a good man and he had been kind to Verity.

Picking up the ledger and pencil in her gloved hands, she added the details of the final book she had taken out of the fifth box she had unpacked, which by its labels had been freighted across the seas from Cyprus. The book was ancient and well worn, as was about a third of the stuff, and Verity assumed Randall Newton had procured these curios out of fascination, perhaps finding interest only in the buying or bartering process. Many of the items had covers she thought of as having come from various animal hides and smelled pungent and she was glad of the gloves – a clean pair were provided for her every day – so she did not have to touch them. The thick tome she was holding was badly scuffed and had practically fallen apart, as was its predecessors, and she wondered if they were a job lot. The book cover was bare of inscription but Verity recognized the content as Arabic fables, and this was how she logged it in, then she laid it down carefully on the appropriate pile and wrote out a ticket for it.

Verity had meant to ask Jack what he intended to do with the stuff. While taking her first morning break, which she had in the kitchen, welcomed by the small staff, Mrs Kelland was able to tell her. ‘Mr Jack is going to sell them. He’s talked about it now and then, meant to get some auction house round to value it all and take it away, but he never did. We’re all glad he’s brought you here instead, Miss Verity. It’s lovely having someone in the house. The three of us work just as hard when Mr Jack is away but it’s not the same. We feel more valuable when we have someone to serve.’

Verity, who before had thrived only on lots of company, enjoyed it here in the quietness of Meadows House and strolling through the gardens and talking to the servants. Away from her old life she had put Julius Urquart and the hurt he had caused her firmly in the past. She wished she could work here forever.

The day wore on and Jack did not come. She finished for the day and said goodbye to Cathy when the maid brought her hat. Directly across from them in the spacious hall was the staircase. Of dark oak and uncarpeted, the stairs went straight up, and the landing divided to right and left and above the closed banisters were the tops of various doors, a very tantalizing sight to Verity. But she must forget the pull of those forbidden doors and break off wondering what might – just might – be secreted behind them.

Seventeen

Finn was cycling to The Orchards on a special mission, one of his own making. He was on a rattling old heap of metal and rust put together from at least four different machines and which he had assembled himself from scraps procured dirt-cheap from Denny Vercoe’s yard. Guy had, inevitably, offered to buy him a new or a second-hand bicycle, but Finn had immediately refused.

‘There’s no need for you to keep up your grand gestures,’ Finn had replied moodily. Guy jumped in too quickly and too often with his generous offers and to Finn it smacked of interfering. ‘I keep giving you our gratitude for all you’ve done, but Mum and I can manage now, can’t you get that into your thick head?’

Having collared Finn outside on the patio where he was building the bicycle, Guy had coloured up as if drenched in crimson paint. ‘Sorry, old boy, sorry again, I know you hate me calling you that. I’m taking away the enjoyment of you doing things for yourself. I can see you’re very happy doing that.’

Wiping an oily hand across his already greasy brow, Finn had