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Chapter Fourteen
Fraser
“Adam,” I say to Sebastian’s son, shaking his hand, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Adam smiles. “I’m glad you could make it. I know my father was fond of you.” He glances at his sister, who stiffens. Her light-blue eyes are like ice.
“Isabel,” I say as warmly as I can, moving on to her, “how great to meet you at last.”
It’s a common Kiwi practice to use first names, but Isabel bristles. She shakes my hand stiffly, not smiling. “I didn’t know you’d been invited,” she says.
“I invited them,” Adam states. He gives Hallie a warm smile and shakes her hand. “Welcome, Hallie.”
“Thank you so much,” she says. “You have such a beautiful home.”
“Hallie is a conservationist,” Adam tells his sister. “I suggested she accompany Fraser because I wanted an expert to take a look at the letters and give us some advice on their care.”
Isabel lowers her hand, her eyes widening. “You should have discussed that with me.” She glares at me. “I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. The letters aren’t for public consumption.”
“Izzy,” Adam scolds, “don’t be so rude.”
“They belong to the family,” she says. “They’re not to be pawed over by all and sundry.”
To my surprise, her eyes shine with unshed tears. Ohhh… maybe I’ve read her wrongly. I assumed her resistance was monetary—that she resented the donation her father wanted to make, and that maybe she was hoping to sell the letters. I never considered she might have an emotional connection to them.
“I completely understand,” Hallie says. “Letters are such personal things, aren’t they? As if the person who wrote them is standing right in front of you, talking to you. I’ve read them in Rudolph Hemingway’s book and they’re so passionate and full of life. Richard loved Pania very much.”
“Yes, he did,” Isabel says, looking a little mollified.
“And it was amazing to see the painting in the dining room,” I add, silently thanking Hallie for her astuteness. “I hadn’t realized Richard painted portraits.”
“He didn’t, as a rule,” Isabel says. “Pania was the only person he ever painted.”
“How many paintings exist of her?” I ask.
“Just the one,” she says. “Well, I hope you enjoy the ball. You must excuse us. I’m afraid we have other guests to greet.”
“Of course. Perhaps we can catch up later and discuss this a little further?”
“Perhaps,” she says, although she obviously has no intention of doing so.
Hallie slides her hand onto my elbow, and we walk to the end of the veranda and down the steps onto the lawn.
A waiter stands there, holding a tray of champagne flutes, and we both take one before wandering along the path that leads past the flower beds. A string quartet is playing, the music drifting across the grass along with the light sound of conversation and the smell of the roses.
“I love the music,” Hallie says, “I wonder what it is.”
“It’s Beethoven’s Romance Number Two in F Major.”
She looks at me and laughs. “Why am I not surprised that you know?”
“I like classical music.”
“Again, why am I not surprised? You’re such a gentleman.”
I smile. “That’s possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
She chuckles. Then she leans closer conspiratorially and murmurs, “So… Isabel’s motivation for keeping the letters doesn’t appear to be greed?”