Page 34 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

Sincerely,

Briar Forsyth

Xander North offered his watch a pained look. “Apologies, but I really must go, otherwise I’m going to be late for my business lunch.”

I was too preoccupied thinking about the flimsy, yellowing letter now under the counter that I had just read to take any notice of what he was saying.

“Ms Harkness,” began Xander North again with irritation.

I snapped my head up. “Yes? Sorry.”

He gave a discernible tut under his breath. “If you will allow me to take the tea set with me, I’ll make contact with a celebrated pottery friend of mine. I can run it past them.”

I shook my French roll. “If you don’t have any objections, Mr North, I’d rather hang onto it for now.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I thought you wanted to have the set valued.”

“I do,” I insisted, nodding at Ally and Finn as they strolled past us into the shop, clutching their brewed coffee and a bacon roll each, which emanated a delicious smell from greasy brown bags. “But now that this letter has turned up, well, I don’t mind doing a bit of digging myself.”

Xander North’s hawkish silhouette remained impassive. “I thought you were trying to launch your new business.”

“I am,” I replied.

“Multi-tasking,” he murmured with a tinge of amusement.

My indignation prickled. “If you like.”

He straightened the cuffs of his snow-white shirt. “So, you’re not prepared to let me take the tea set?”

I could feel my cheeks ping with awkward colour under his gaze. “I would prefer to hold onto it for now.”

Xander North didn’t try to conceal a frustrated eye-roll. “It seems I don’t have much say in the matter. Well, if you have no objections, I’ll do some research into my antique crockery archives, see if there is anything of a similar design documented there.”

“Thank you.”

I watched him reach into his suit jacket pocket, revealing a flash of blueberry satin lining. He plucked out a black business card, embossed with gold lettering. Xander North, Art Critic & Fine Arts Auctioneer, followed by his email and mobile number. “I’ll be in touch.”

And then he strode out of the shop.

I bristled at his tone and as soon as he had disappeared, I reached under the counter for the letter and began to read its contents again.

My eyes widened at the sense of pain and anger flowing from Briar Forsyth’s pen as she wrote it. Who was she? And had she been named after this town? It seemed so. It was an unusual first name to give someone, and if she was named after the town, there was a good chance she must have been local. And who was this Jonathan the letter was addressed to?

I pulled my attention away from the intriguing letter and glanced over at the tea set, its bold, marine colours and peacock motif now carrying a deeper significance. Was there some sort of connection between this Briar Forsyth, the tea set and this Jonathan? And if so, what could it be?

It was the oddest sensation. Having just read this impassioned and frustrated-sounding letter from this woman, I felt as though part of her had reached out to me; as though there were many things left unsaid in this letter, and many others that should be answered.

Chapter Seventeen

20th June 1970, Briar Glen

Helena had only worked for Mrs Auld for a couple of mornings, but she was enjoying herself.

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays from 9.30a.m. until 2.30p.m. had been designated her regular shift pattern at Sparkling Gifts.

The gift shop occupied the old haberdashery on the corner of the village square. Mrs Auld had worked her magic on the place, turning it from a staid little effort with basic wood and glass counters, tailored, headless dummies and dark panelled walls, into a colourful haven, laden with everything from Briar Glen embossed pens, coasters and tumblers, to notebooks, greetings cards and even tea towels that boasted of the town’s immaculate gardens.

Mrs Auld had been keen to expand on her stock and had ordered in some flower-themed crockery to fill the middle, shelved section of the shop. That would be Helena’s domain.