feel, what he'd go through to make sure his kids were safe. I'd like to have more. I know you'd need to think about it, and I don't want you to feel that I would care less about Alex and Jenny.”
“I don't have to think about it.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I've always wanted a big family.”
He drew her close so her head rested on his shoulder. “Suzanna, do you know where the nursery was when Bianca lived here?”
“On the third floor of the east wing. It's been used as a storeroom as long as I can remember.” She straightened. “You think she hid the necklace there?”
“I think she hid them somewhere Fergus wouldn't look, and I can't see him spending a lot of time in the nursery.”
“No, but you'd think someone would have come across them. I don't know why I say that,” she corrected. “The place is filled with boxes and old furniture. The Tower's version of a garage sale.”
“Show me.”
It was worse than he'd imagined. Even overlooking the cobwebs and dust, it was a mess. Boxes, crates, rolled – up rugs, broken tables, shadeless lamps stood, sat or reclined over every inch of space. Speechless, he turned to Suzanna who offered a sheepish grin.
“A lot of stuff collects in eighty – odd years,” she told him. “Most of what's valuable's been culled out, and a lot of that was sold when we were – well, when things were difficult. This floor's been closed off for a long time, since we couldn't afford to heat it. We had to concentrate on keeping up the living space. Once we got everything under some kind of control, we were going to kind of attack the other sections a room at a time.”
“You need a bulldozer.”
“No, just time and elbow grease. We had plenty of the latter, but not nearly enough of the former. Over the last couple of months, we've gone through a lot of the old rooms, inch by inch, but it's a slow process.”
“Then we might as well get started.”
They worked for two grueling and dirty hours. They found a tattered parasol, an amazing collection of nineteenth – century erotica, a trunk full of musty clothes from the twenties and a box of warped phonograph records. There was also a crate filled with toys, a miniature locomotive, a sad, faded rag doll, assorted yo-yos and tops. Among them were a set of lovely old fairy – tale prints that Suzanna set aside.
“For our nursery,” she told him. “Look.” She held up a yellow christening gown. “It might have been my grandfather's.”
“You'd have thought this stuff would have been packed up with more care.”
“I don't think Fergus ran a very tidy household after Bianca died. If any of this stuff belonged to his children, I'd wager the nanny bundled it away. He wouldn't have cared enough.”
“No.” He pulled a cobweb out of her hair. “Listen, why don't you take a break?”
“I'm fine.”
It was useless to remind her that she'd been working all day, so he used another tactic. “I could use a drink. You think Coco's got anything cold in the refrigerator – maybe a sandwich to go with it?”
“Sure. I'll go check.”
He knew that her aunt would insist on putting the quick meal together, and Suzanna would get that much time to sit and do nothing. “Two sandwiches,” he added, and kissed her.
“Right.” She rose, stretching her back. “It's sad to think about those three children, lying in here at night knowing their mother wasn't going to come and tuck them in again. Speaking of which, I'd better tuck in my own before I come back.”
“Take your time.” He was already headfirst in another crate.
She started out, thinking wistfully of Bianca's babies. Little Sean, who'd barely have been toddling, Ethan, who would grow up to father her father, Colleen, who was even now downstairs surely rinding fault with something Coco had done. How the woman had ever been a sweet little girl...
A little girl, Suzanna thought, stopping on the second – floor landing. The oldest girl who would have been five or six when her mother died. Suzanna detoured and knocked on her great – aunt's door.
“Come in, damn it. I'm not getting up.”
“Aunt Colleen.” She stepped, amused to see the old woman was engrossed in a romance novel. “I'm sorry to disturb you.”
“Why? No one else is.”
Suzanna bit the tip of her tongue. “I was just wondering, the summer...that last summer, were you still in the nursery with your brothers?”
“I wasn't a baby, no need for a nursery.”
“So you had your own room,” Suzanna prompted, struggling to contain the excitement. “Near the nursery?”
“At the other end of the east wing. There was the nursery, then Nanny's room, the children's bath, and the three rooms kept for children of guests. I had the corner room at the top of the stairs.” She frowned down at her book. “The next summer, I moved into one of the guest rooms. I didn't want to sleep in the room my mother had decorated for me, knowing she wouldn't come back to it.”
“I'm sorry. When Bianca told you that you were going away, did she come to your room?”
“Yes. She let me pick out a few of my favorite dresses, then she packed them herself.”
“Then after – I suppose they were unpacked again.”
“I never wore those dresses again. I never wanted to. Shoved the trunk under my bed.”
“I see.” So there was hope. “Thank you.”
“Moth – eaten by now,” Colleen grumbled as Suzanna went out again. She thought of her favorite white muslin with its blue satin sash and with a sigh got up to walk to the terrace.
Dusk was coming early, she thought. Storm brewing. She could smell it in the wind, see it in the bad – tempered clouds already blocking the sun.
Suzanna raced up the stairs again. The sandwiches would have to wait. She pushed open the door of Colleen's old room. It too had been consigned to storage, but being smaller than the nursery wasn't as cramped. The wallpaper, perhaps the same that Bianca had picked for her daughter, was faded and spotted, but Suzanna could still see the delicate pattern of rosebuds and violets.
She didn't bother with the cases or boxes, but dragged or pushed them aside. She was looking for a traveling trunk, suitable for a young girl. What better place? she thought as she pushed aside a crate marked Winter Draperies. Fergus hadn't cared for his daughter. He would hardly have bothered to look through a trunk of dresses, particularly when that trunk had been shoved out of sight by a traumatized young girl.
It had no doubt been opened in later years. Perhaps someone – Suzanna's own mother? – had shaken out a dress or two, then finding them quaint but useless, had designated them to storage.
It could be anywhere, of course, she mused. But what better place to start than the source?
Her heart pounded dully as she stumbled across an old leather – strapped truck. Pulling it open, she found bolts of material carefully folded in tissue. But no little girl's dresses. And no emeralds.
Because the light was growing dim, she rose and started toward the door. She would get Holt, and a flashlight, before continuing. In the gloom, she rapped her shin sharply. Swearing, she looked down and saw the small trunk.
It had once been a glistening white, but now it was dull with age and dust. It had been shoved to the side, piled with other boxes and nearly hidden by them and a faded tapestry. Kneeling in the half – light, Suzanna uncovered it. She flexed her unsteady fingers then opened the lid.
There was a smell of lavender, sealed inside perhaps for decades. She lifted the first dress, a frilly white muslin, going ivory with time and banded by a faded blue satin sash. Suzanna set it carefully aside and drew out another. There were leggings and ribbons, pretty bows and a lacy nightie. And there, at the bottom, beside a small stuffed bear, a box and a book.
Suzanna put a trembling hand to her lips, then slowly reached down to lift the book.
Her journal, she thought as tears misted her eyes. Bianca's journal. Hardly daring to breathe, she turned the first page.
Bar Harbor June 12, 1912
I saw him on the cliffs, overlooking Frenchman Bay
