Page 37 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

I could feel my eyebrows twitching as I read on. If he wrote this himself, he wasn’t lacking in the self-confidence department. No doubt this would be reflected in the cost of his paintings.

Still, thanks to my grandmother, I could afford to splash out a bit.

I scribbled down Jake Caldwell’s mobile number from his website and decided to ring him the next day.

Saturday was not a typical June day, with a stiff wind bullying the trees across from my flat.

My electronic cash register and credit-card machine were due to be delivered at 10a.m., so I decided to arrive at the shop a little before that with my laptop, so I could ring Jake Caldwell and do a bit more work on the Twitter, Instagram and Facebook accounts for the business.

I’d scribbled down ideas for having promotional offers, including one where I’d choose a unique historical “Tea Set of the Week” for the website, with a picture and a brief piece about its interesting background. I could also stage the occasional competition, asking customers to post on Twitter who they would most like to have afternoon tea with and why. The winner could receive a teapot of their choice from my stock and a discounted voucher to pass on to a friend.

I wasn’t as confident about setting up the website and resolved to have another word with Ewan, in the hope one of his art-college friends might be able to help. Thank goodness Finn had recommended his teenage son to me. The young man’s expertise was proving to be invaluable.

I rang Jake Caldwell’s mobile first, but his silky accent, a mish-mash of Scots and American, turned out to be his voicemail message, so I left a brief description of my new business and asked him to call me to discuss the price of his teapot painting.

The Cup That Cheers carried an air of expectation and newness, as I took a grateful sip from my flask of tea and then set up my laptop on the shop counter. As I glanced at my wristwatch, I realised that we didn’t have a clock for the shop. An unusual wall clock would complement the old-world atmosphere I wanted to create.

I turned away from the counter and looked down towards the far wall. Something eye-catching would look good there.

I’d only just pulled up a website, boasting the most gorgeous and unusual assortment of wall clocks, when a movement outside the bottle-glass windows drew my attention. It couldn’t be the delivery of my cash register and credit-card machine, at least not yet. They weren’t due for another half an hour.

I picked up the shop keys, which were resting on the counter, and tapped over the wooden floor in my trainers. I could see through the frosted glass of the shop door that someone was hovering outside, looking in.

They moved towards the shop windows and it took a moment for my brain to catch up, before realising with a surge of excitement who it was.

It was the well-dressed silver-haired lady who had abandoned the peacock tea set.

Chapter Eighteen

My hopeful fingers fumbled and jabbed the gold key into the lock. Did she know that letter was in there? Whether she did or not, I had to talk to her about that – and the tea set.

But I was allowing my optimism to run away with me. The woman realised with a start that I’d spotted her through the window. She paled under her makeup.

Shit.

She jerked up the collar of her floaty, loose peach shirt and whirled away from the window.

“Wait!” I called in desperation, struggling to unlock the door. “Madam, please. I need to talk to you!”

I tugged open the shop door and bolted out, but she was no longer there. Not again.

I stared up and down the main thoroughfare. There were a couple of elderly gentlemen with fat weekend newspapers tucked under their arms and a little girl in a checked dress playing hopscotch on the steps of the gold and white town clock. But there was no sign of the silver-haired lady.

I closed the door behind me with a deep sense of frustration. If she wasn’t bothered by the tea set, why was she still hovering around outside the shop? Perhaps she was experiencing some kind of crisis of conscience about leaving it with me? And did she even know about that letter tucked into the pouch of the crockery case? It was likely she didn’t. Surely if you found something like that in a family move or clear-out, you would want to keep it and discover more about it.

Unless she did know about it and was now wondering whether she had done the right thing by handing it and the tea set over to me? Maybe she had had the tea set independently valued and now wanted it back. But if that was the case, why did she shoot off like that, rather than speak to me about it? Had she been peering through the window wondering if I was still in possession of it or whether I had already sold it on?

My rambling thoughts were interrupted by a cheery knock on the door

I unlocked the latch.

“Good morning, Miss,” beamed a rotund man in dark overalls. The Saturday-morning light was sifting through his wisps of sparse, greying hair. He held up a laminated card dangling around his neck. “ “Cash register and credit-card machine?”

I reached for the bunch of lilies and assorted roses I’d bought Mum and was going to take round. She had insisted on rustling up one of her delicious Sunday roasts for lunch and who was I to argue?

I removed them from the vase in the kitchen and began drying the wet stems with a square of kitchen towel, when my mobile phone let out its indignant rings in the hall.

I abandoned the flowers and hurried to answer it. A strange number glowed on the screen.