Hearts In The Highlands. Ruth Morren Axtell

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      The moment Reid entered the study, memories of his uncle surrounded him. The scent of his brand of pipe tobacco lingered in the air. It seemed nothing had been changed from when his uncle had last sat here. The glass-enclosed bookshelves were crammed with leather-bound volumes and portfolios. The gilt-edged desk blotter still had ink stains on its green surface. Reid stepped farther into the room and examined the desk’s surface. Even his uncle’s pipe rested against the edge of an ashtray—a glazed piece of pottery from Crete.

      He turned to the black-clad maid. “Thank you. I’ll just look around.”

      She gave a brief curtsy. “Very well, sir. Just ring if you need anything.”

      The door shut behind her and stillness descended once again. Reid remembered his hours sitting on the straight-backed chair facing the large walnut desk, his uncle in the swivel chair in front of it. Uncle George would light his pipe and take a few puffs, the chair squeaking as he leaned back with those first satisfied puffs. Then with a conspiratorial grin, he’d show Reid an item or two and tell him the astonishing tale of how he’d come to acquire it. Then he’d finger the side of his nose and say with mock severity, “And not a word to your Aunt Millie about it!”

      Reid would promise with all the solemnity of a boy entrusted with a secret by so great a man as Uncle George.

      His uncle’s life had seemed one adventure after the other, and Reid had longed to grow up quickly to follow in his footsteps.

      Reid smiled to himself as he picked up a brass envelope opener—a medieval knife from the early Ottoman Empire—and fingered its sharp edge. He’d had a few adventures of his own since then. It would have been nice to sit here once again and swap stories with his uncle—but sadly he’d never have the chance now.

      He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, remembering what he’d come for. Behind him, against one wall, were stacks of boxes. He peered at the topmost one: Egypt: Saqqâra Pyramids, September 1839. He took out his pocketknife and carefully cut the string holding the box shut.

      Everything inside was tissue wrapped. Reid took out a few items—vases, a female statuette, a broken piece of blue porcelain tile. The box was crammed full.

      He set the things on the desktop and entered the next room. The library was also as he remembered it, but stacked in its wide center were piles of boxes. He whistled as he looked around.

      This could mean months of work. He wasn’t sure how many notes his uncle had taken, but he’d have to uncover them if he hoped to place and date the relics stored in the boxes.

      He walked slowly around the room, reading labels where they were available, opening some of the boxes and looking at the samples inside. When he reached a smaller box, with the word Notes scrawled across it in black ink, he slit it open quickly. Inside he found leather-bound notebooks.

      He leafed through one. His uncle’s travel journals. He deciphered the neat ink scrawl. Some pages were stained, many were yellowed with age, while others were still clean and very legible. Many had to do with his uncle’s official functions, but others detailed his archaeological endeavors. “Eureka…” he breathed, his excitement mounting.

      After skimming a few pages describing a harrowing climb into a tomb, Reid closed the worn notebook. For all his adventurous side, his uncle had been a meticulous recorder. A life’s work summed up within the pages of a dozen or so notebooks. Uncle George had been a pioneer in a new branch of science. The few pages Reid had read reminded him a lot of his own work, but it also brought to the fore how primitive his uncle’s foray into this new field had been.

      He let his gaze roam around the room. Regardless of the enormity of the task, it had to be done. The record of the past needed to be cataloged and analyzed. The treasures needed to be brought to the light of day and shared with scholars.

      With a sigh he eased himself down on the floor and positioned himself cross-legged on the soft Persian carpet. Opening the journal to the first page, he began to read.

      August 12, 1840. Toured the inner chambers of pyramid. Intensely hot. Came to chamber of sarcophagi. Massive tombs. Crawled down narrow chamber, about two hundred feet lower…Air became thicker and staler the farther we went. Hoped no noxious gases lingering there. Wouldn’t have wanted to join the mummies resting there, only to be found by a future explorer a century or so from now.

      My dragoman almost left me. He didn’t like invading a tomb…Can’t be helped, I told him. Had to pretend an indifference I was far from feeling…

      Reid wasn’t aware how much time had passed when the sound of a throat clearing behind him brought him back to the present.

      He looked up to see Miss Norton in the doorway, holding a tray. He stood, then immediately bent to rub the top of his legs, which had become stiff. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

      She smiled. “Please don’t get up. I didn’t want to disturb you, but when Lady Haversham told me you had been here since this morning, I thought you might like some refreshment about now.”

      The words made him realize he was both thirsty and hungry. He walked toward her to relieve her of the tray, appreciating her thoughtfulness.

      He set the tray on a desk and flipped open his watch. It was just past noon. “I didn’t realize I’d sat there so long, although my body certainly does,” he added with a grimace as he rubbed the kinks out of his neck.

      She poured a cup of tea, adding a sugar cube and placing a slice of lemon on the saucer. The simple task captured his attention. Perhaps it was the slim shape of her hands, or her graceful motions, or simply the fact that she’d remembered how he took his tea. She handed him the cup.

      “Thank you.”

      “I brought a plate of sandwiches, in case you were hungry. Or if you’d rather, your aunt dines at one.”

      “Actually, I’d prefer just the sandwiches. That way I can work for another hour or so before leaving. I need to get back to the museum to continue with the other collection. If you could make my excuses to Aunt Millicent.”

      “Certainly. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

      She offered him the plate of sandwiches and he took one. “Just seeing them makes me realize I’m famished.”

      She smiled, and he noted again how expressive her face was. His artist mother had dragged him through every museum in whichever country they’d been living in. Now he valued the lessons. It gave him an appreciation for the human form.

      Miss Norton reminded him of paintings from the Italian Renaissance, he decided, with her pale skin and tawny hair. She had a rather thin but mobile face, her caramel-brown eyes large and her mouth generous. Botticelli. Botticelli’s Birth of Venus with its mixture of sadness and kindliness in the shapely eyes.

      He hadn’t realized he’d been staring until she moved away from the desk and gazed at the opened boxes on the floor. “My, I never realized there were so many things in storage.”

      “Nor did I.” He leaned against the desk and took a bite from a sandwich quarter.

      She peered into an open box but СКАЧАТЬ