Page 6 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)
Chapter six
Mira
A fter coffee the next morning, I sat down to check my email. After clearing out a handful of marketing junk, my eyes caught on the one I’d been hoping for—a reply from a Scottish art historian in Edinburgh who specialized in portraiture.
To: [email protected]
Date: October 21, 2024
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Portrait Miniature of Agnes Garvie
Mira – I think I can attribute this to a specific painter who lived in Edinburgh around this time, as I’ve seen a handful of similar pieces from this timeframe, but I hesitate to say for certain without putting eyes on it myself.
I’ve only seen one other in the original leather box with the subject’s name, so yours is quite a find to be so complete.
But there is a bit of a mystery I’d like to tell you about, if my hunch is correct.
As to the subject, I found some information for a couple of women who lived in Scotland at that time, one the daughter of a family with a woolen mill here in Edinburgh, and an Agnes Garvie Campbell, buried in a small cemetery on the northwest side of the Isle of Arran, in our gravesite database.
She died in 1785. I don’t know if they are the same woman, or if either of them could be the subject of the portrait, but the dates line up.
Not sure you’d be able to learn much more to definitively rule her in or out, but the island is a lovely place to explore.
My wife and I honeymooned there almost 40 years ago.
It’s a bit of a trek from Edinburgh, and then a ride on the Ardrossan ferry to the island.
But it’s doable if you fancy a trip here.
John Blackwell
International Society of Appraisers
National Galleries of Scotland
I’d been referred to Mr. Blackwell by a jewelry appraiser I knew who freelanced for the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.
I had sent him several photos—the front and back of the portrait, the handwritten name and date on the slip, and the detailing of the leather box—hoping he might be able to tell me something about the woman in the painting or identify the unknown artist behind it.
I quickly sent off a reply, asking him if he was available to meet next week.
“Yes, I am worried about you,” Anne said, concern evident in her face as she watched me pack for my trip, her long legs crossed in half-lotus as she sat on my bed. “How long do you plan to be there?”
“Maybe two weeks? Longer, possibly, if I find any good treasures at the flea markets or auction houses. I’ve waitlisted for a jewelry fabrication workshop at the Goldsmiths’ Guild in Edinburgh.
Say a prayer for me that someone drops out.
If I get in, I can write off most of this trip as a business expense.
I have an appointment with that appraiser I told you about too, Mr. Blackwell, next Tuesday afternoon. ”
“Are you sure this isn’t just a distraction, something to avoid dealing with what’s really going on in your life right now?” Anne asked, voicing the same nagging thought that the curmudgeon on my shoulder had been whispering in my ear ever since I decided to go to Scotland.
“So what if it is?” I snapped, throwing my hands up in frustration.
“My therapist keeps telling me to trust my gut…and my gut says I need to do this. I know it’s not logical or rational, but my life has been ruled by logic and reason for twenty-nine years.
And where has that gotten me? I’m sad and lonely—but I was lonely before my parents died.
I’ll probably still be sad and lonely when I come back.
Maybe it’s time to try something different. ”
I think Anne was surprised at how strongly I felt about this decision.
“Tell me about your dad’s relatives there—you’re meeting up with them?” Anne questioned, trying to steer this conversation back to positive territory.
“Yes, Dad’s people live north of Dundee, in Kirriemuir.
They raise sheep,” I said, as if that explained everything.
“Maybe they can shed some light on why I’m the kind of weirdo who feels other people’s emotions when I touch things.
” I shrugged, though the question had haunted me for years.
“Dad was never much help when I brought it up. He didn’t feel things in the same way I do. His clairvoyance was…different.”
I took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m also planning to drive down to the Isle of Arran while I’m there.
Mr. Blackwell found a grave for an Agnes Garvie Campbell on the island.
She died the year the portrait was completed.
Not sure if it’s the same Agnes Garvie, but I figure I should check it out. ”
The skeptical look on Anne’s face told me she was still not quite on board with my plan.
As I laid out panties and bras to pack, Anne perked up .
“Oh… sexy! La Perla and Eres? Planning to bang some hot Scottish hunk while you’re there?” She punctuated it with loud, exaggerated smooching noises—just to get under my skin.
It worked. Her teasing cut through the tension like sunlight through fog.
“You know I’m a snob about lingerie,” I said, mock serious. “But it’s been a while, so if the opportunity arises…” I gave a shrug and a grin. “I’ll be ready.”
I held up a lacy bra for emphasis. “Besides, I’ve probably got ten, maybe fifteen good years before gravity drags these tits into early retirement. Might as well let them see some daylight while I can.”
I set aside T-shirts, sweaters, jeans, sensible low-heeled boots and tennis shoes, and a pair of black crepe pants with pumps, just in case I needed to dress up.
I’d throw in a raincoat, and that should cover it.
As I packed, I felt a flicker of excitement, an odd but welcome change from the grief and numbness that had consumed me since Mom and Dad died. Anne sensed it too.
With this shared acknowledgment between us, Anne said at last, “I may have been wrong—maybe this trip is exactly what you need.”