The Light Over London
Julia Kelly
For Anne, Judy, Sheila, and both my grandmothers
1
CARA
Barlow, Gloucestershire, England, September 2017
It was the discovery Cara loved most: digging through the forgotten, the memorialized, the tossed-aside, and the cherished. Uncovering the treasures and trinkets left behind and making sure they had the chance to tell their stories.
At Wilson’s Antiques & Curiosities, it was her job to find out the where and when of every object that came through the shop’s doors. But it was the why and the what that intrigued her most. When she answered those questions, she could give once-treasured possessions a new life with new owners.
When Cara couldn’t unearth the history of a piece, she spun stories for herself. It was easier than thinking about her own mistakes and the regrets she carried. While she worked, she could escape into the comfort of someone else’s life for a few hours.
Gravel crunched under her well-worn flats as she stopped to study the formidable house rising up before her. The Old Vicarage was a grand mansion of yellow Cotswold limestone, standing arrogantly against the dual ravages of weather and time, and punctuated by a pair of columns on either side of the white front door. A light wind rustled through the ivy that crept lazily between the first and second floors. Someone had pushed one of the third-story windows open, probably hoping to air out the house that had lain unoccupied since its owner had died almost six weeks ago.
The front door opened with a creak, and Cara’s boss, Jock Wilson, stepped out with a blond woman in her early forties. Dressed in pale blue and white, all elegance and softness, the woman was a stark contrast to Jock’s stiff tweed and polished leather brogues.
“Miss Hargraves, you’re finally here,” said Jock.
Cara glanced at the antique gold watch that Gran had given her upon her graduation from Barlow University years ago. It was nine o’clock on the dot, the exact time Jock had instructed her to arrive—unless she’d misread his email.
A flush of panic heated her cheeks. She couldn’t have gotten the time wrong. She’d been so careful since her first day two months ago. She’d had to be. This job was her chance to start again.
“Mrs. Leithbridge, this is my assistant, Cara Hargraves.” Jock’s hand swept out as though Cara were an early-nineteenth-century Limoges teapot he was presenting at auction.
She swallowed around her worry and crossed her hands behind her, hoping the gesture conveyed both deference and regret. “My condolences for your loss, Mrs. Leithbridge.”
The client gave her a minute, dismissive smile. “Thank you. Let’s get on with it then. I have a tennis lesson this afternoon.”
As the lady retreated through the front door, her high-heeled sandals clicking on the mosaic tile floor, Jock raised his brows to Cara as though to say, She’s one of the types I warned you about.
“I can’t imagine how I got the time wrong,” Cara whispered in a rush as they followed their client.
“You weren’t late, but you weren’t early either,” said Jock.
Her step hitched. “What?”
“Better to be early and sit in the car than to leave a client waiting. Now come on.”
Cara forced her shoulders down and breathed deep to soothe the sting of her boss’s prickliness.
Focus on the job. Show him what you know.
The air in the entryway was cool and stale. It might’ve been unsettling except she could almost hear the echoes of children long since grown scuffing the floors as they tore through the place in their eagerness to play outdoors. It wasn’t hard to imagine past proud owners standing at the huge white door greeting friends with two kisses and a warm smile each.
This was someone’s home, not just a job site, she reminded herself, taking in the pale green paneling that climbed up a third of the wall before giving way to a familiar wallpaper of bold acanthus leaves on a deep-blue background. Immediately, her mind zipped through the categorization Jock had taught her.
William Morris. British. Mid-1870s.
When she’d first started working at Wilson’s as an eighteen-year-old student, she’d thought she would have a natural advantage having grown up surrounded by antiques in both her parents’ and grandparents’ homes. But Jock had been quick to show her just how little she’d known. Now that she was back more than a decade later, he’d made it clear that he expected her to become as knowledgeable as him in short order. That meant any time not spent visiting Gran in her nearby retirement village was taken up reading about the styles of furniture Cara would most likely encounter on the job. But, standing next to him on her first trip into a client’s home, she’d known the Morris wallpaper without the crutch of her books, notes, and Google searches. She could do this.
“Your brother mentioned on the phone that your great-aunt was a collector,” Jock said.
Mrs. Leithbridge lifted a shoulder. “Great-Aunt Lenora was a pack rat. The whole house is jammed with clutter.”
“Miss Hargraves, do you see anything of interest in this room?” Jock offered Mrs. Leithbridge a strained smile. “Miss Hargraves is currently training after some time away from the antiques trade.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Leithbridge as though she couldn’t have cared less.
Determined not to be intimidated by her boss or by their apathetic client, Cara’s gaze settled on a small bench pushed against the wall next to the front door. Its finish was worn where countless people had paused to pull on wellies and clip on dog leashes over the years. It would’ve been unextraordinary except for its back and legs, which were carved in an intricate geometric pattern.