He might not be coming back, Evie told herself. And what of it? Jamie had given her a taste of happiness, showed her that she could be content by and with herself. Now she could move on with her life. Evie tried to make herself believe that was enough.
Beth had been understanding about Evie’s request to return home, though she’d barely concealed her disappointment.
Ian had said little when Evie had bade him goodbye, but he’d looked deep into her eyes for a time, as though memorizing her. He’d not seemed disappointed at all, but confident.
The Mackenzie cousins had embraced her—at least the ladies had—and the young men had expressed sorrow at this parting. She was a brick, Mal had told her, and welcome to stay with them anytime.
Megan had teared up as she’d hugged Evie goodbye, and Evie’s eyes too had been moist. Gavina’s hug was exuberant, and she’d vowed that Evie could come and stay with them in London whenever she liked. Her eyes had also been suspiciously bright when she turned away.
Quiet Belle had held Evie hard. “Never worry about Jamie,” she’d whispered. “He loves you. I see that. He’ll come around.” She’d nodded at Evie when she’d released her, her confidence matching Ian’s. “I’ll miss you,” Belle had concluded.
“I’ll miss you too,” Evie returned, her heart aching. “I’ll miss you all.”
They’d gone en masse to the station and put her on the three-car train that would take her to Inverness, where she would change for the long ride back to Bedfordshire. Evie had waved to the mob of Mackenzies as long as she could, then said a silent farewell to the Highlands, the crisp air and misty sky already imprinted on her heart.
Coming home had been bittersweet. Evie had been happier to see her sisters and parents than she’d thought she could be, all of them weeping in gladness, even her father, when they’d met her at the station. She hadn’t taken one step from the train before she’d been smothered by hugs, tears, and kisses.
After the first few days of rejoicing, all of them babbling to each other everything that had happened since they’d parted in London, Evie had grown restless. The scull Jamie had bought her had been delivered during her time in Scotland, and she spent warm afternoons in the narrow river down the hill from the house, either on her own or with Marjorie, who wasn’t a bad rower herself.
The scull could be rowed by one, though it was a little awkward. Evie took to practicing between the river’s musty banks, her muscles hardening again as she grew used to the exercise.
But she could only remember Jamie’s strong back before her as they’d zigzagged over the Cam, laughing and getting too wet, and then the wild pleasure he’d taught her after their sumptuous picnic.
Evie told herself she needed to wrest her thoughts from their fixation on Jamie. To put other plans in motion. To that end, she’d written letters to old friends, and this telegram could be the answer to one of them.
“Marjorie, please cease dancing and hand it to me,” Evie said, returning to the present. “Telegrams are sent because someone wants to convey urgent information. That means they should be read without delay.”
“That is so.” Marjorie held out the envelope. “It isn’t from Mr. Mackenzie.”
“How do you know that?” Evie demanded, her heart beating too swiftly.
“The lad told me—he’d asked the postmistress. It’s from Miss Georgiou, although he couldn’t pronounce the name.”
“Iris?” Evie snatched the envelope from Marjorie’s fingers and tore it open.
The few lines on the paper had Evie stiffening.
Father found jar. Wants to return it. At wits’ end. Please help.
Chapter 30
Jamie had hoped to conclude his business with the agents and bank clerks in a few weeks, but the transactions took him into the first part of June to complete.
He’d thought the remote area would be idyllic, and it was, but country offices moved slowly. Money had to go through London, and a deed changing hands in the area Jamie had in mind was not of the utmost importance to those in the City. At least he hadn’t had to journey to France, his man of business able to complete everything via letter.
It was with relief that Jamie signed the last papers at the London office and pocketed a ring of heavy keys.
Now to Bedfordshire.
The morning of his departure from London a footman in his building of service flats dropped a newspaper on his doorstep. Jamie fetched it to read while he finished his last cup of coffee.
Standing at the table in his small dining room, he turned to the second page, and stopped, a dollop of coffee splashing, unheeded, to the story.
British Minister and Greek Nobleman Deliver Priceless Alabastron to Athens.
Jamie sat down, mouth agape, coffee forgotten.
The gist of the story, embellished with flowery phrases about cooperation between two nations and the grandeur of ancient Greece and Athenian democracy, was that Stefanos Georgiou, thinking to gift a British cabinet minister a small alabastron, discovered that it was indeed a rare example of red-figure pottery from ancient Athens, made by the potter Kontos. Georgiou declared he could not possibly keep such a piece from of his native land, and the British minister, Sir Geoffrey Hammond, generously offered to decline it, both men deciding that it would be best displayed in a museum in Athens.
The story included a photograph of Iris’s father, beaming proudly, and the dumpy, white-haired and pompous-looking minister, the pair of them touching the lip of the alabastron that reposed on a table between them.
The background of the photo was shadowy, as always in newspapers, but Jamie could just make out the figures of two young ladies. One of them he’d know anywhere.
Jamie set down the paper, absently brushing off the droplets of spilled coffee. Then he began to laugh.
He hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time—except when he was with Evie. Jamie wiped his eyes and thrust the coffee cup and paper aside.
“What a lady,” he proclaimed to no one. “I knew she was the love of my life.”
Evie finished writing her last letter, making final arrangements for the meeting on the Thames, when a peculiar sound made her look up and out the sitting room’s front window.
She dropped her pen, the ink on its nib splattering her clean page.
Chugging up the drive of her family home was a bright red motorcar, one she recognized. Its top was down, the driver with gloved hands competent on the wheel, sun burnishing his red-brown hair. Jamie never liked to wear a hat in a car.
Evie ought to sit sedately and wait for Jamie to reach the house, knock on the front door, and inquire to see her. And then longer while the footman took Jamie’s coat and wended his way to the sitting room to ask if Evie would receive Mr. Mackenzie. Still longer while Evie waited for her mother to come in from the garden to chaperone them.
She abandoned propriety at once and raced outside through the French doors, hurrying around the house to reach the front portico at the same time the motorcar did. She barely beat Marjorie and Clara, who both emerged excitedly from the front door.
Jamie pulled the motorcar to a halt and set the gears before gracefully unfolding himself from the driver’s seat.
“Good morning, ladies.”