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The cataloguing continued the next day despite the lack of news from the lawyers or Smythe’s.
“Might as well keep going,” Marcus said. “If the records show they were married, then the auction will go ahead as planned.”
Dessie agreed, and they got stuck into the dining room with its imposing mahogany sideboard full of china and silver. The pale green damask-covered walls were adorned with watercolours and big oil paintings of English landscapes.
“Too big for that dweeb Richard to steal,” Marcus muttered as he studied one of them. He glanced at Dessie. “You two knew each other from before, is that right?”
Dessie dropped the silver salver she had been studying. “Yes, sort of. He was here that last summer, before...”
“Before what?”
“Before I went to college.” Dessie picked up the salver. “This one’s early Georgian. Must be from the O’Connor period. William IV.”
Marcus shifted his gaze from Dessie’s hot face to the silver dish. “Put a value of five hundred and fifty on it. I’m sure it’ll go for more, but it’s a good starting price.” He pointed at the oil. “That’s a John Faulkner.” He lifted the camera hanging from his neck and took a shot. “I’d say around two thousand. It’s signed too, at the lower left-hand side. Will you remember that if I add it to the computer file?”
“Okay.”
Marcus looked at her again. “I have a feeling you’re a little distracted today. Why don’t you take a break from the cataloguing for a bit and go down and get those dresses? If the legal dispute is settled, I’d like to do that photo shoot. I’m sure those gowns need some airing and freshening up.”
Dessie nodded. “Thanks. You’re right, I feel a bit tired today. I’ll go and see what can be done with those dresses. I’m sure Miranda can help make them look bright and fresh. And I haven’t even asked her if she wants to take part in this weird fashion thing you seem so hot on.”
“It’ll be a terrific way of attracting attention to the auction. Make it come alive, somehow. Go on, don’t just stand there staring into space. Chop, chop, old fruit. Get going.”
Dessie laughed. She put the silver dish back on the sideboard, pushed her notes into her bag, and ran out of the room and down the corridor. Marcus was a good sport. Caring and generous, despite his posh mannerisms and accent. She went down the stairs to the basement and the little room beside the kitchen that had been the butler’s office. She opened the trunk and took out the dresses one by one, draping the soft silk over her arm. They were wrinkled and smelled a little musty but would probably freshen up if hung outside and then carefully pressed with a warm iron. Dessie delved further into the trunk, looking for belts and scarves. She found two leather belts with gold clasps and a Hermès scarf with an exquisite pattern of peacocks and exotic flowers. Then her fingers met something hard and square at the bottom of the trunk. She picked it up. It was a scuffed leather box with “Memories” written in faint gold lettering she could just about make out. “Memories,” she mumbled. “I wonder what they are?” She shook it and heard something rattle. What was in it? She tucked it carefully into her tote bag, deciding to look at it when she got back to the gatehouse.
A glum Marcus met her on the way out. “I’m taking a break too. I think we might even have to call a halt to the cataloguing.”
“Why? Bad news?”
He nodded. “Yes. An e-mail from my father. There are no records of Tom and Conchita having been married in Gretna Green or anywhere else in Scotland.”
Dessie stared at him. “What? But that’s not possible. I was sure... I mean Rory was sure that woman had said—”
“Must have been barking up the wrong bloody tree. I never thought the ramblings of an old woman who was a telephonist eighty years ago were a reliable source of information anyway. We’re back to square one now.”
“Shit.” Dessie lifted the dresses. “What will I do with these?”
Marcus shrugged. “Don’t know. You might as well put them back.”
“Okay.” Dessie ran back down the stairs and carefully folded the dresses and put them back into the trunk. What a pity. She had started to look forward to the vintage fashion shoot and to wearing those wonderful silk gowns.
“What do we do now?” she asked Marcus over coffee in the gatehouse. “Pack it in and go back to London?”
“No, not yet. My dad said to stay for a bit to see what might happen. It appears that Richard is planning to do some kind of deal with this distant cousin. They might still go ahead with the auction jointly or something.”
“Okay.”
Marcus got up from the kitchen table. “Anyway, I’m going out for lunch. Do you need a lift anywhere?”
“Not right now, but maybe this evening? I’m going to my sister’s for dinner. I could walk, but it’s quite far and it’ll be too dark.”
“Is that the big house called Knocknagow?”
“That’s it.” Dessie finished her coffee and put the cup on the draining board.
“Funny names you have around here.”
“The name comes from an old novel that was published in 1870 or so. By a writer called Charles Kickham. It was set right here, in this part of Tipperary. The house was built shortly afterwards, and one of Harry’s ancestors decided to call the house after the novel as a tribute. Harry was my brother-in-law. He died eight years ago in a riding accident.”
“I’m sorry. That’s very sad.”
“Yes. We all missed him terribly. Still do.”
Marcus put his arm around Dessie. “I’m sure you do. I hear he was very popular in hunting circles too. A real gent, I was told.”
Dessie smiled, touched by the comforting gesture. “Yes, he was. And to me, the big brother I never had.”
“I’m so sorry, Des.”
Dessie looked up at him. The sympathy in his eyes made a long-forgotten sorrow well up. She pulled away, afraid she’d burst into tears if he continued to be kind. “Thank you. No need to dwell on it. That only makes it worse.”
“True.” Marcus walked to the door. “Must go. But I’m taking Miss Smarty-pants out tonight, so we’ll drop you off at your sister’s on the way.”
Dessie grinned. “Aw, you two. I knew you’d be perfect for each other. Sure you can cope with her? She’s pretty sassy.”
Marcus laughed. “I like a challenge. Don’t worry about me.”
“I won’t.”
When the door had banged shut behind Marcus, Dessie tidied away the coffee cups and decided to look at her notes at the kitchen table. Might as well catch up right there in the warm kitchen. Cat was purring on her cushion in front of the stove, and the small radio played a Mozart sonata. All was well with the world. Jules would listen this time, and they would be as close as before. Dessie picked up her tote and searched inside for her notebook and her iPad among all the bits and bobs she had put inside during the morning. Her fingers found their way to the bottom, where she came across the leather box she had found earlier. She pulled it out. It should be returned to the trunk, but what harm could it do to look inside? Dessie put the box on the table. It was scuffed and stained by mould, but it had obviously been beautiful once, covered in soft green leather with swirls of gold around the word “Memories” on the top. There was a little lock on the side, which Dessie picked easily with the help of a pin she found in a kitchen drawer. She opened the box, her hands shaking, afraid to break the delicate lid. She peered inside and breathed in sharply at the sight of the contents. A gold horseshoe and two small china figures—a bride and groom. Underneath, a piece of paper with something scribbled on it in Spanish. De la torta de la boda. A quick search on Google translate said what she had already guessed. “From the wedding cake.” But whose? And where? Her heart beating, she delved further into the box, past a small bunch of pressed violets and some letters, to the very bottom, where she found it: a certificate, yellow with age and nearly falling apart. She whooped with joy as she read the faded text with the signatures underneath and scrabbled for her phone.