Chosen As The Sheikh's Wife. Liz Fielding

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CHAPTER TWO

      ‘HONESTLY, Violet,’ Sarah said, shaking her head, ‘that’s the first place a burglar is going to look for valuables.’

      ‘Then good luck to them.’

      She’d wrapped the jewelled knife, still in its silk bundle, first in bubble wrap, then several layers of kitchen foil, and now, having carefully labelled it “chicken thighs”, was busy chipping out enough space in the thickly frosted freezer compartment of her ancient fridge so that she could jam it in behind the defrosted bag of peas that she’d used as a compress on her ankle to bring down the swelling.

      ‘As I know to my cost, an hour from now any burglar is going to need a blow torch to get past the peas.’

      ‘What if someone decides to steal the fridge?’

      ‘Oh, please! You’ve only to listen to it to know that it’s on its last legs,’ she said, looking around at a kitchen that hadn’t seen more than a change of wallpaper since the Formica revolution in the fifties. ‘Like just about everything else in here.’ She was going to miss it all so much… Then, because nothing, after all, had changed—she’d always known she’d have to leave, she grinned and said, ‘I mean, who would be that desperate? But don’t worry. I’ll hack it out and take it to the bank tomorrow.’

      ‘If I were you I’d cut out the middle man and take it straight to a dealer. Give that expert a call—he’ll know someone reputable. He gave you his card, didn’t he?’

      She nodded.

      ‘Well, there you are. Sorted. It’ll make a decent deposit on a two-bedroom flat, and if you let a room you’ll have the mortgage covered. You could finish that design course you were taking…’

      ‘Get real, Sarah. Who in their right mind would give me a mortgage on the chance of me letting a room? Besides…’ She shrugged, shook her head.

      ‘What?’

      ‘She stole it, didn’t she? Okay, the jewels may have been technically hers, but the knife…’

      ‘Violet, sweet heart. It was nearly a hundred years ago. Who are you going to give it back to?’ She shook her head and Sarah frowned. ‘Are you going to be all right?’

      ‘Yes. Yes, of course I am,’ she said, making an effort to pull herself together. ‘I guess I’m still in a state of shock.’

      ‘I’m not surprised. I thought the knife would be worth a bit, but that was an amazing result.’

      ‘Yes.’ That kind of amazing just made her feel uneasy. ‘Thanks for insisting on dragging me along to the T or T roadshow today.’

      ‘Oh, I just wanted to get on the telly. Trust me to miss the big moment. Never mind. I’ll get a thrill out of watching you when the programme is broad cast next week.’

      Violet pulled a face, hating the thought. ‘I must have been mad to sign the release form.’

      ‘It would have made no difference. You’ll be front page news in the local paper tomorrow.’

      This time she just groaned. ‘What on earth made me say all that stuff about Great-Great Grandma Fatima? I must have been mad.’

      ‘Was it true? Really?’

      ‘You think I could make up some thing like that?’ She nodded at the pictorial family gallery that her grandma had always kept on the dresser. ‘That’s her, at the top in the middle.’

      ‘Goodness.’ Sarah took the picture down to take a closer look. ‘You’ve got a look of her, Violet. Something about the eyes. Hers are light, too. That’s strange, isn’t it?’

      ‘I suppose…’

      Sarah put the picture back. ‘I’d better get home and feed the brute before he chews through the table-leg.’ She stopped in the doorway, pausing to look back. ‘You will be careful, won’t you, Violet? Once this gets out… Well, a woman with a nice little windfall is likely to find herself the target of all kinds of smooth-talking men looking for a soft touch.’

      More likely find herself the target for every local villain, she thought.

      Then, realising that Sarah was waiting for an answer, she laughed. ‘You mean I might get a life?’

      ‘And not before time. You’ve spent the last three years as a full-time carer. No holidays, scarcely a break. Nothing in your pocket but your carer’s allowance and the little bit of money you make on your stall. Believe me, I know how hard it’s been.’

      ‘You’re wrong, Sarah. It hasn’t been hard. My grand mother was the one person in the entire world who was always there for me, who never let me down, and I loved her. I’m trying to tell myself that she isn’t suffering anymore, but what’s really hard is not having her here.’

      Sarah gave her a hug, then, leaning back, said, ‘You’re so vulnerable just now. I’m afraid you’re going to lose that tender heart to the first man you meet with a killer smile.’

      ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ she said. ‘Getting a life is going to have to wait a while. There’s a ton of stuff to do here first. I’ve got to sort out Grandma’s things. Find some where to live…’—the finance people had given her until the end of the month—‘…and get a job.’

      ‘Well, at least now you’ll have some money behind you.’

      ‘Yes…’ Then, ‘Thanks again for rushing to the rescue this morning.’

      ‘Any time. Just scream.’ Sarah grinned, hugged her again, and finally left.

      Violet closed the door and leaned back on it for a moment. Much as she loved Sarah, it was a relief to be on her own for a moment, to be able to think.

      Could it possibly be true? About the exotic Fatima being a princess? She’d dismissed the idea as nonsense when Sarah had asked her, but was it? Really?

      The TV expert had said the knife could have belonged to a sheikh or sultan, and it was worth a great deal of money. So why had she kept it? Hidden it beneath the floorboards when, presumably, her jewellery—according to family legend—had been sold to fund the purchase of this house?

      As if it were too important, too precious, to part with? Hidden it and never told a living soul. Because if she had someone would have sold it long ago. If her grandma had known about it she wouldn’t have sacrificed the house to raise money when she’d needed it. Would have passed on the secret when she knew she was dying…

      She sighed. She didn’t need more questions. It was answers she wanted. And upstairs, in the bottom of her gran’s wardrobe, was an old Gladstone bag, stuffed with the kind of stuff that women couldn’t part with. Dried flowers. Letters. Embroidered handkerchiefs. Bits of lace and ribbon. Wedding invitations, school reports—whoever would want to keep those!—theatre programmes. Greetings cards for every possible occasion. Great-Great-Grandad’s Military Medal.

      Generations СКАЧАТЬ