Lavender Morning (Edilean 1)

As the sounds of intimacy grew louder, she put a pillow over her head. She couldn’t afford an apartment of her own. The money she earned from tutoring what sometimes seemed to be most of the members of the athletic teams at the university went to her studies. That she’d made it so far on so little was a marvel even to her.

Now she was facing some serious study as she began to work on her dissertation—and she was worried about money. Deep research cost a lot. If she chose a subject that dealt with some aspect of history that happened far from school—and of course it would if she wanted fresh material—expenses would include travel, which meant food and lodging. Then there were books, supplies, even photocopies. For the last year she’d worried how she was going to pull it off. But finishing her Ph.D. would make the difference between obtaining a job teaching in a community college or at a top university. If she could get her dissertation from the Frazier documents, most, if not all, of these problems would be solved.

The noise across the hallway increased and Gemma held the pillow closer over her ears to drown out the sounds. “I’m going to try,” she whispered. “I’ll probably lose out to the butterflies, but I am going to give it my best shot.”

And that’s how she came to be standing in the guesthouse with the autocratic Mrs. Frazier. It was 11 A.M. on a beautiful spring morning, she’d driven in from the airport just a few minutes ago, and Mrs. Frazier had told her that Isla and Kirk were already there. Gemma realized that she should have anticipated that they’d arrive a day before the scheduled interview, as they were very competitive people. And by now Mrs. Frazier was probably in love with both of them, Gemma thought. After all, Kirk and Isla were known for being charming. “Those two are the lights of the history department,” she’d heard a professor say at a faculty-student party. “Intelligent and well read. You couldn’t ask for more,” had been the reply. Gemma had heard all this because she’d been carrying a tray of drinks—yet another of her side jobs.

“My ride is here,” Mrs. Frazier said as she looked out the living room window. Outside was one of those little utility vehicles with a truck bed in back. Driving it was a large, handsome young man. “Would you like to meet my son?” Mrs. Frazier asked.

Gemma knew that by all rules of courtesy she should go outside and meet the son, but she hated leaving the guesthouse and its treasure trove.

“Or would you like to stay here by yourself for a while?” Mrs. Frazier asked in a soft voice, as though talking to a child.

“Here,” Gemma managed to say.

“All right, then,” Mrs. Frazier said as she went to the door. “Lunch is at one and it takes about ten minutes to walk to the house—or would you like for me to send someone to pick you up?”

“I’ll walk,” Gemma said, then watched as the older woman got into the little truck and left. Gemma let out a sigh of relief and nearly tripped over her own feet as she ran to the big office. From the smell of fresh paint, the room seemed to have been newly redone. Three walls were lined with beautiful cherry bookshelves, with cabinets along the bottom. In front of the French doors was a big old desk with brass fittings along the edges. Gemma wasn’t an expert on furniture, but it was her guess that the desk was purchased at the same auction as the papers. The floor was carpeted in some modern, off-white fabric that was supposed to look like it was handwoven. On top of it was a huge, nearly worn-out old Oriental rug that looked as though people had been walking across it for centuries. The two pictures on the walls by the door were of men on horses, their hunting dogs looking eager for the chase to begin.

To Gemma’s eyes, the room was heavenly. With the garden clearly visible through the glass doors and the shelves full of untouched documents, she wanted to stay there forever.

She turned about the room, looking at everything. On the shelves were wooden and cardboard boxes, baskets that were about to fall apart, a couple of metal tubs, and bundles of papers that were tied together with old ribbon. On the floor were two leather-bound trunks, a wooden bench with a hinged lid, and several small chests, one with nail studs all over it.

Gemma had no idea where to begin. Tentatively, with hands that were close to shaking, she pulled down what looked to be a hatbox, probably from the 1920s—and she dearly hoped it didn’t contain a hat. Costume history was not her first love.

When she saw that letters were inside, Gemma drew in her breath. Letters and diaries had to be two of her favorite things in life. There was a pretty, comfortable-looking chair by the doors, but Gemma ignored it as she sat down on the rug and pulled out the first batch of letters. They were tied with dark grosgrain ribbon, and she slipped out the first letter and unfolded it.

Part of the letter was missing, but what was there was written in an angular, spidery hand that was difficult to read. It seemed that someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to save the last part of the letter.

Even though I’m an old woman now and have seen more than anyone should, especially that odious war that nearly divided our country, what I remember most vividly, and with the most heartache, is what happened to dear Julian and Winnie. I never believed that woman’s tears when she said that Julian’s death was an accident. Worse, I don’t think Ewan believed her either. I will tell you a secret that I thought I’d carry to my grave. Remember the hysteria when the Harewhistle disappeared? I searched as much as anyone, but I knew it wouldn’t be found because I took it with me when I went to England that long ago summer. I wanted its magic for selfish reasons but I ended up wishing on Winnie’s behalf. I’ve never before told anyone, but I believe that the Stone gave them that extraordinarily beautiful child. Last week I wrote the story and put it where it will be safe. I hope that all the Fraziers read it and find out what their relative by marriage did to the Aldredge family. I hope that someday that woman’s descendants lose that estate. They do not deserve it! I must go now. My old, aching joints don’t let me write for long.

With love, Tamsen.

“Wow,” Gemma said aloud. She’d already stumbled on a mystery and a romance. She glanced at her watch, told herself she had plenty of time before lunch, then stretched out on her stomach and began to read in earnest.