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A short while later, having bathed and changed into clothes that were in keeping with Geoff’s casual wardrobe, I found myself standing on the neatly mowed lawn of a sprawling Victorian mansion to the north of Calne, caught up in the cheerful whirl and bluster of a genuine country estate sale.
Massive cupboards and chests of drawers and elegant sideboards were lined up beside the gravel drive, like troops awaiting review. Countless smaller items littered the tops of trestle tables and blanket chests, and spilled out of boxes tucked beneath the tables for want of space. I accompanied Geoff through the wildly intoxicating display, pausing to examine a mantel clock here, or a musical box there, or to stroke a particularly appealing piece of satinwood furniture.
My father had loved sales like this one. Even when I was very young, he had often taken me with him, teaching me how to spot quality in an old chair, and how to recognize an antique dealer hidden among the crowd of common country folk. Once, I remember, there had been a small statue of a hunting dog that I wanted very badly. It was nothing special, just painted celluloid over a plaster form, a cheap Victorian thing—but I wanted it. I would have been about seven years old at the time.
I stood guard over my treasure until the auctioneer worked his way round to it, by which time everyone in the crowd could see I had staked my claim. The opening bid—-of fifty pence—was mine, and I was so eager and so determined that when the auctioneer asked if anyone would give him seventy-five, my hand shot into the air again, making me the first person in our county to outbid herself at auction. Had the auctioneer been a less scrupulous man, he could probably have worked me up to two pounds, the amount I was carrying in my pocket, but instead he only laughed and gave me the garish piece for my original fifty-pence bid.
Afterward, he leaned down and warned me never to let anyone know how badly I wanted to own something. 'You're young now, child,' he'd said, 'and chances are that no one will bid against you. But when you get older, it will cost you dearly.'
I had long since forgotten what happened to that plaster hunting dog, but I never forgot the auctioneer's advice. I remembered it now as I passed a box of books, and what appeared to be a first edition of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit peeked out at me from amid a jumble of cheap hardcover mysteries. Casually—oh, so casually—without letting my expression change, I opened the covers of a few of the books in that box, leafing idly through the yellowed pages.
'All this belonged to just one man, you said?' I asked Geoff, striving for a normal tone of voice.
'That's right. Lord Ashburn. He died last month, I believe. Old fellow was in his nineties, at any rate. I hadn't seen him in years, but he used to play golf with my dad when I was a kid.'
I opened the Tolkien book, flipped a page to check the date, then turned to the back flap of the dust cover to read the jacket copy, my excitement mounting as I spotted a misspelled word that had been corrected by hand, another detail that marked the book as a first edition. Closing the book, I looked at Geoff and smiled.
'Lord Ashburn certainly had eclectic tastes,' I commented.
He nodded. 'And heaps of money. He was a bit of an eccentric, actually, almost a hermit. Didn't even live in the main house. He lived in that cottage over there.' He pointed out the roof among the trees at the back of the property. 'Made the house into a sort of museum, for his own private use.'
'I guess we should be thankful for that,' I said, letting my eyes roam the cluttered lawn and milling crowd of browsers and buyers. 'Do you see anything that interests you?'
'A few things. Those globes, for instance.' He nodded toward a pair of standing library globes, terrestrial and celestial, a few yards to the left of us. 'They're dated 1828, and in rather good condition. Rosewood stands, I think, which makes them fairly high quality. I'm always on the lookout for something that will add more character to the house.'
I was smiling at the thought of anyone referring to Crofton Hall as a mere 'house,' as though it were nothing grander than a three-bedroom bungalow, when the auctioneer tentatively cleared his throat over the microphone and called the crowd to order. Geoff slung his arm around my shoulder, quite naturally, and guided me to a good vantage point at the outward edge of the tightly massed group. Bending his head, he spoke low into my ear.
'Are you going to bid on it?'
'Bid on what?'
'The Tolkien,' he said, smiling. I could feel that smile against my hair, and tried stoically to ignore the sensation. 'It is a first edition, isn't it?'
'Yes.' I smiled back, in spite of myself. 'And yes, I do intend to bid on it.'
As it happened, when the box of books finally came up, I didn't bid very high. I took one look at the man who was bidding against me, pulled my hand down, and refused to go any further. Geoff nudged my shoulder,
'Why aren't you bidding?' he asked.
'Because that man is a dealer,' I told him. 'He knows full well what the book is worth, and I can't afford to pay that much.'
Geoff followed my gaze to the deceptively languid fellow standing in the middle of the crowd, his hands in his pockets, a well-used briar pipe clenched between his teeth, looking every inch the common farmer.
'You're sure?'
'I'm sure.' He thought a moment. 'Do you want me to buy it for you?'
'No.' It came out too hastily, and a bit too harshly, but I did not want Geoffrey de Mornay to think I was at all interested in his money. 'No,' I said again, more softly this time, 'thanks very much, but it isn't that important to me.'