Page 90 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

There was a short, sharp pause before Ophelia’s age-speckled hand flew to her mouth. “No! Oh goodness! Are you sure? I. G.?”

Carson smiled. “I’m positive. I can locate the copy of the sales invoice. It’s somewhere in one of those files…”

“No, don’t worry,” stuttered Ophelia. She snapped her head towards me. “I. G. Isadora Graves. My great-aunt.”

It took a few seconds for my brain to catch up. My lips parted in shock. “Wow! So, Isadora bought it.” A surprised smile enveloped my face. “I wonder if Jonathan Gray ever found out his estranged wife purchased it?”

Ophelia blinked several times. “I’d like to think so. Talk about events coming full circle.” She nodded to herself. Her voice was determined and laced with purpose. “That’s what I’m going to do next. I’m going to see if I can find out what happened to Isadora.”

I jerked my head down to the tea set. “And have you given any thought as to what you might do with this?”

Ophelia stared at me. “But I gave it to you. I didn’t want it.”

I flapped my hand. “It’s yours. Isadora wanted it to do something positive. Now it’s your turn.”

Carson raised one of his bushy brows.

Ophelia eyed the strutting peacock. “I think I will enlist the help of that young man of yours – Xander.”

The mention of his name gave me an involuntary start, which I hoped I’d managed to conceal. It had been great, being so busy and occupied with all of this. It had prevented my thoughts from dragging up images of him and Nadia. I cleared my throat. “Oh? Why’s that?”

Ophelia pulled her eyes away from the tea set to Carson and me. “I’ve just had a thought. I’ve decided to auction it too and use whatever money it raises, to start The Annabel Crichton Fellowship, in honour of my late sister. It can encourage underprivileged young people who have artistic ability.”

“That sounds wonderful,” announced Carson with enthusiasm. “A set like this, with its unique design and slice of notoriety, would go for a pretty penny, I’m sure.”

I leant over and squeezed Ophelia’s arm. “Something tells me both Briar and Isadora would approve.”

Chapter Forty-Six

Ophelia and I were just giving effusive thanks to a blushing but delighted Carson when his wife arrived back from her book club.

She thrust a couple of paperbacks under her arm and locked the door of her white Corsa. “Dear me! My husband hasn’t kept you all this time, has he? I do apologise.”

Marion Gray was a small, chirpy woman with a puff of wavy blonde hair.

“Not at all,” I assured her. “He has been wonderful and such a huge help.”

Mrs Gray’s waxed brows wiggled good-naturedly. “Carson can talk for Scotland when he gets going, especially if it’s anything to do with ancestry or family trees.”

Ophelia, standing beside me on the flower lined path, laughed. “Well, thanks to your husband’s diligence and genealogical talent, he has been able to answer so many questions for us.”

At this enthusiastic praise, Carson puffed out his chest and beamed.

“He won’t be able to get his head back through that door now,” joked his wife. She bid us a good evening and vanished inside.

Carson gave us a cheery wave,before disappearing back inside his house in a flash of dark brown corduroys and checked shirt.

My head reeling with relief and surprise, I climbed back into my car and waited until Ophelia secured her seatbelt beside me. I was just about to start the ignition when she mentioned Xander again. “Do you think you could give me the contact details for your young man, please, Sophie?”

I forced my face into a smile. “Oh, he’s not my young man.”

As Ophelia stared at my odd expression, I set my shoulders and hoped I looked nonchalant. “Of course. No problem.”

I reached into the back seat where my handbag and the tea-set case were nestled side by side. I retrieved my phone and searched my contacts list. I found Xander’s mobile number and email address and pinged them to Ophelia. Then I shoved my phone back into my bag.

Ophelia continued to study my profile. “Thank you. Are you all right, dear?”

I eased away from the kerb, indicating right and out onto the main road. The sky was a mish-mash of hot mid-July shades of burnt orange and dayglo pink that were seeping over the roofs and tree tops of Briar Glen. “Yes,” I answered a little too brightly. “I’m fine, thank you. Why do you ask?”