The Little Shop of Hidden Treasures Part Two

by Holly Hepburn

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  Chapter One

  ‘Okay, Hope, spill the beans.’

  It was Sunday afternoon and Hope’s sister, Charlotte, was looking at her with the kind of determined curiosity the entire Henderson family knew well.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hope asked, frowning uneasily. ‘What beans?’

  Charlotte reached for the roasting tin on the draining board and wrapped the tea-towel around it. ‘The ones that have put roses in your cheeks and a dreamy look in your eyes. Something has made you happy.’ She paused to fire another razor-sharp look Hope’s way. ‘Or is it someone?’

  Hope fixed her suddenly panicked gaze on the sink full of post-lunch washing up. Charlotte couldn’t know what she’d done the night before – she couldn’t. Casting a hurried look over one shoulder, Hope checked none of their family was within earshot. Thankfully, everyone seemed to have gravitated into the garden to soak up the June sunshine – she and Charlotte were alone in the kitchen. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, as robustly as she could.

  ‘I think you do,’ Charlotte replied. ‘You’ve gone all red.’

  Hope didn’t need a mirror to know that was true – she could feel her face glowing like a furnace. Was there any point in trying to deflect her sister’s laser-like focus when her own skin was betraying her? ‘Must be the hot water,’ she said, with an unconvincing nod at the soap suds covering her hands. ‘And it is hot in here. Aren’t you hot?’

  Charlotte nodded peaceably. ‘It is and I am. But there’s no point in trying to distract me. I’m not the only one who’s noticed.’

  Not for the first time, Hope wondered what it was like to be part of a family that didn’t regard privacy as optional. She was fairly sure their father wouldn’t have observed anything different about her demeanour, and even if he had, he was far more likely to raise it with her discreetly – working up to it through a seemingly innocuous text message or phone call. But their mother held the same view as Charlotte and their oldest brother, Harry, which was that no part of Hope’s life was off-limits. In their defence, they had only been this bad since she’d been widowed two years earlier and she knew they meant well. Now that she’d moved back to York, it was easier for them to keep an eye on her and take a more direct interest. Which was why she was blushing to the tips of her ears and desperately wondering how to deflect her sister’s attention.

  ‘I’ve been getting more exercise,’ she said. ‘I suppose walking to and from the Emporium is making me healthier. Maybe that’s it.’

  And now Charlotte laughed. ‘Nice try. I’ve heard exercise can work miracles but I can honestly say it’s never put a twinkle in my eye.’ When Hope didn’t reply, she paused and placed a hand on her arm. ‘Look, I know it’s none of my business. It’s just nice to see you happy, that’s all.’

  Hope swirled fluffy bubbles around a saucepan and sighed. The trouble was, it kind of was her sister’s business – her whole family’s business, in fact – because they’d been there for Hope when everything had fallen apart and whenever she’d needed them since. They’d held her tight in the bad times – wasn’t it only fair that they shared in her good times too? Although perhaps not in too much detail, she thought, as a memory of the night before caused a delicious rush of heat to radiate up from her core. There were some things her mother never needed to know.

  ‘If I tell you, do you promise not to get carried away?’ she said, after a few more seconds of silence.

  Charlotte gave her a wide-eyed look. ‘When have I ever done that?’

  That caused Hope to smile, because Charlotte was famous for picking up the ball and running with it. ‘It’s early days, we’ve only been on a couple of dates. Don’t go planning a hen do.’

  ‘I promise,’ Charlotte said solemnly, then leaned closer. ‘Now, who is he?’

  Hope summoned up an image of Ciaran McCormack, the tall, dark professor in whose arms she’d spent the night. With laughing grey eyes and a lyrical Irish lilt that could charm the Pharaohs from their pyramids, he’d reminded her what it was like to while away the darkness kissing and whispering and exploring. She ought to feel exhausted; instead, she felt alive.

  ‘Someone I met through work,’ she said carefully. ‘He’s helping me research the ring and the letter we found at the Emporium last month – the one inside the puzzle box.’

  The story of the mysterious woman who’d apparently broken both her engagement and her fiancé’s heart in 1923 had been the subject of much interest among Hope’s family, as had the way it had been discovered, by a five-year-old girl named Brodie with a talent for impenetrable Moroccan puzzle boxes. Charlotte raised both eyebrows as she added two and two. ‘Not the guy who’s adopting his niece?’

  ‘No!’ Hope’s hands flapped in consternation, sending soaps suds flying through the air as she pictured Will Silverwood, who’d brought Brodie into the antique shop to escape the rain one Thursday morning in May and discovered more than any of them had bargained for. ‘No, that’s Will – he’s a jeweller, owns the big shop beside the Shambles. Definitely not him.’

  Charlotte reached out and caught an iridescent floating bubble in the palm of her hand. ‘Okay, not Will. But does he have a name, this research assistant of yours?’

  It couldn’t do any harm to answer the question, Hope decided. It might only be two weeks since she and Ciaran had fallen tipsily into each other’s arms but they’d spent three blissful nights together since then and she had no reason to think there wouldn’t be more in the near future. Besides, there was no way Charlotte would give up until she had his name. ‘Ciaran McCormack,’ Hope replied, trying not to grin. ‘And I think I’m his research assistant, to be honest. He’s a Professor of Egyptology at the university.’

  ‘An archaeologist,’ Charlotte said slowly, as though testing the idea out. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen one, other than on TV. How old is he? Does he have a terrible beard?’

  ‘No! He’s in his forties, dark-haired, and has that stubble that looks really sexy on some men.’ Hope paused to consider the best way to describe Ciaran’s roguish appeal. ‘He definitely doesn’t look like a professor. At least, not any of the ones at my uni.’

  ‘A sexy archaeologist,’ Charlotte repeated, then bit her lip. ‘Oh my god, Hope, you’re shagging Indiana Jones!’

  ‘Charlotte!’ Hope spluttered. ‘I am not!’

  ‘Sounds like it to me,’ her sister said, eyes dancing. ‘Has he got a big whip?’

  Hope felt her face start to flame again. ‘Stop it!’

  But it seemed Charlotte was having way too much fun to spare her blushes. ‘Did he offer to show you his ancient artefacts? Is that how he got you into bed?’

  ‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,’ Hope said, as her sister tried to stop giggling. ‘Are you sure you’re older than me?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Charlotte said, regaining her composure after a moment had passed. ‘He sounds great and he’s obviously good for you. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Hope said, unable to prevent a small smile from curving her lips. ‘He is pretty great, actually.’

  ‘So, when do we get to meet him?’ Charlotte’s eyes widened as a thought obviously occurred to her. ‘Hey, you could bring him to Mum
and Dad’s party!’

  Hope rinsed the last pan clean and pulled the plug from the sink. ‘Of course. A surprise ruby wedding anniversary bash is the perfect en masse introduction to the family.’

  Charlotte shrugged. ‘At least he’d meet us all in one go.’

  ‘No,’ Hope said firmly. ‘The party is just over a month away and, like I said, it’s still early days with Ciaran. It’s way too soon to be thinking about meeting each other’s families.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘Realist,’ Hope responded and attempted to change the subject. ‘How’s the planning coming along, anyway? Need me to do anything more?’

  Thankfully, Charlotte seemed prepared to let the subject of her sister’s love life rest. For now, at least. ‘Everything is in hand, I think. Most of Mum and Dad’s friends have confirmed now and they’re all sworn to secrecy. Did you check with the caterer that they can supply the vegan options?’

  Hope nodded. ‘Yes, they’ve said there’s no problem. They’re increasing the champagne order too – another ten bottles.’

  ‘That’s Uncle Phil sorted, then,’ Charlotte said wryly. ‘Okay, so all we need to work out now is—’

  A rustling noise outside the kitchen door caused her to stop talking abruptly. Both she and Hope looked up just in time to see their mother appear in the doorframe.

  ‘You two look guilty,’ she said, glancing back and forth between them. ‘What were you whispering about?’

  ‘Hope’s new man,’ Charlotte said, without missing a beat.

  Their mother gave Hope an inquisitive look. ‘So, there is someone – I look forward to hearing more. But don’t skulk in here all afternoon – it’s a lovely day and Harry has suggested a stroll around the village.’

  ‘We’re just coming,’ Hope said, making a mental note to thank Charlotte for throwing her under the maternal bus. ‘A walk sounds like a lovely idea.’

  Charlotte appeared unrepentant as they followed their mother out into the garden. ‘I’ll call you later to discuss the party,’ she murmured, ‘But there’s something I need to know as a matter of urgency before then.’

  ‘Okay,’ Hope replied. ‘What is it?’

  Her sister winked. ‘Your professor. Did he keep his hat on?’

  * * *

  Monday was usually Hope’s day off but she’d agreed to go into work to help Mr Young undertake a stock inventory. As the Minster bells struck nine o’clock, she found herself hurrying along High Petergate to the yellow-painted door of the Ever After Emporium, dodging the early bird tourists already filling the narrow, sun-dappled city streets.

  ‘Morning!’ a cheery voice called and Hope looked up from balancing cardboard coffee cups and a bag of almond croissants to see Iris, the owner of Blooming Dales, straightening up from the gloriously flower-filled buckets in front of the shop. ‘What are you doing here today?’

  ‘Stocktaking,’ Hope replied. ‘How are you? Good weekend?’

  ‘Busy,’ Iris said, pulling a face. ‘All work and no play makes Iris wonder if running her own business is all it’s cracked up to be.’

  Hope grinned, knowing perfectly well that her friend loved being her own boss, although she didn’t love the crack of dawn trips to the flower markets.

  ‘But we can have a proper catch up later,’ Iris went on, her expression brightening. ‘Before class.’

  ‘Of course,’ Hope said warmly. Upon learning she was new to York, the florist had insisted Hope joined her weekly dance class. It was only when they’d arrived that Hope had discovered it was a belly dance class and by then it was far too late to turn tail and run. And now she wouldn’t be without her weekly fix of shimmies and snake arms.

  ‘Great,’ Iris said. ‘Meet you outside the studio just before eight?’

  ‘Definitely.’ Hope squinted up at the cloudless blue sky. ‘Let’s hope the air conditioning is working this week.’

  Once inside the Emporium, she found Mr Young chatting with the other assistant, Frances. He broke off to beam at her from behind the dark wooden counter. ‘Hello, Hope. Ready to do battle with the Spreadsheet of Doom?’

  She laughed as she approached. ‘As ready as I ever am. Are you expecting problems?’

  Her employer shook his head. ‘With the Emporium, anything is possible. But it’s not a full moon so we should be fine.’

  His matter-of-fact delivery gave Hope a moment’s pause; she had worked at the Emporium for three months now and she still couldn’t always tell when he was joking. But this time, she decided he was. ‘I brought coffee and croissants. If the caffeine fix doesn’t help us, the sugar rush will.’

  ‘Impeccable logic, as usual,’ Mr Young replied. ‘We’ll be done in no time. Wish us luck, Frances.’

  ‘Good luck,’ she said, grinning as she took the cardboard cup Hope was offering. ‘Rather you than me.’

  They began in the upstairs stockrooms, leaving Frances to handle customers on the shop floor. It wasn’t the first time Hope had worked on the spreadsheet that helped to manage the Emporium’s eclectic stock and she knew her way around it pretty well by now. Even so, it took them the best part of two hours to check off everything stored in the first-floor rooms and, as always, Hope was amazed by the wealth of treasure Mr Young deemed unworthy of display downstairs. Some items were too large for the current space available – a beautifully inlaid walnut tallboy with a matching chest of drawers that would take up far too much room on the shop floor. Others were variations of stock that was already out on display – there were seven delicate china tea services, any number of gilt-framed paintings, attributed by Mr Young to local artists, and a few old-fashioned typewriters. Hope eyed a smart Tiffany Blue machine, complete with elegant, rounded keys, and imagined how it would look in one of the Emporium’s wide window displays, perhaps in front of the exquisite Japanese silk room-divider dotted with cherry blossom, and accompanied by one or two of the life size flamingos that passers-by seemed to love. Window dressing wasn’t part of Hope’s job but she’d whiled away several quiet afternoons in the shop mentally deciding what she’d put on display if it was up to her. Half the trouble was remembering everything the Emporium had to offer so she was enjoying the opportunity to remind herself of its hidden treasures. And it was especially nice to do so in the company of Mr Young, who had a story for almost every piece. He didn’t share them all – the stocktake would have taken days if he had – but he broke up the monotony of data entry with a snippet of history here and there. And Hope found it wasn’t always the obvious things that had the best tales; the ornate pewter bowl she’d initially mistaken for a soup tureen turned out to be a chamber pot that was rumoured to have belonged to Henry VIII.

  ‘It’s described in the diaries of Sir Anthony Denny, who was the King’s Groom of the Stool,’ Mr Young said, while Hope searched the spreadsheet for the correct record. ‘If you look underneath, it’s stamped with the royal symbol.’

  Hope frowned. ‘Groom of the Stool? Wasn’t that something to do with the stables?’

  Mr Young’s gaze sparkled with amusement. ‘Not at all. It was actually a highly prestigious job – those who held the role were among the King’s most trusted advisors and could enjoy his undivided attention.’ He paused for a moment. ‘His almost undivided attention, at least.’

  ‘But why would that include a chamber pot?’ Hope wondered. And then she realized exactly why and wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Oh! That kind of stool.’

  ‘Not quite,’ he corrected with a laugh. ‘Although there’s a pleasing double meaning to it, I’ll grant you. No, the title refers to the close stool, which was a padded, velvet-covered seat above a boxed-in chamber pot where the King sat to follow Nature’s call. The Groom’s job was to keep him company while he did what needed to be done.’

  Urgh. King or not, Hope couldn’t imagine anything she’d like to do less. ‘And that was considered a privilege, was it?’

  ‘One of the highest,’ Mr Young replied solemnly. ‘The Groom could talk to
the King about anything – could seek his advice or ask for favours. And listen too – I imagine he had plenty to say. But the role eventually fell out of use and evolved into general dressing duties.’

  Hope shook her head. ‘Thank goodness for that. Royalty or not, some experiences definitely shouldn’t be shared.’

  The entire stocktake was completed by mid-afternoon but Mr Young had a surprise for her. ‘A consignment of Edwardian glassware came in on Saturday. I wondered whether you might like to help unbox and catalogue it.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, without a moment’s hesitation. There was a steady demand for glass of all kinds among the Emporium’s customers, everything from Georgian vases to Victorian trinket boxes, and Hope was used to admiring them as she wrapped them up for their delighted new owners. To get a sneak preview of the latest stock before it went onto the shop floor was an unexpected treat.

  Her employer nodded. ‘There are some nice pieces, if memory serves. I think you’ll enjoy them.’

  His comments had been quite an understatement, Hope reflected an hour or so later as she sat among the glistening Aladdin’s cave of treasure they’d created in the storeroom. There had been four large boxes from an auction Mr Young had attended in Harrogate and each box was filled with bubble-wrapped delights. She’d thought the set of etched, hollow-stemmed champagne glasses would be her favourites, until the silver-topped, blue scent bottle had caused her to gasp with delight. And then she’d discovered the amber and gilt sugar bowl and creamer, complete with matching tongs; all three items were in perfect condition, as though they had been made the week before instead of more than a century earlier.

  ‘Imagine combining these with that yellow Wedgwood tea set we have downstairs,’ she said breathlessly, holding the little jug carefully so that it caught the light. ‘You could create an afternoon tea window display – no, a champagne afternoon tea – and showcase everything.’

  Mr Young looked thoughtful. ‘We could use that silver bucket and stand we catalogued earlier.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a wonderful idea. How soon can you start it?’