Page 64 of Possession Under the Southern Stars

We follow him into the dining room, and he takes us over to the display cabinet. Under the watchful eye of Pania on the wall, he unlocks the cabinet and lifts the glass lid.

Fraser looks at the letters, then gestures to me. He wants me to be the first to touch them. I open my clutch and take out the pair of thin cotton gloves I brought for this purpose. Quickly, I pull them on and look at Adam for permission. He nods, looking impressed. Carefully, I pick up the pile of envelopes.

“This is original?” I ask, gesturing at the ribbon that holds them together. It’s delicate and faded, and when he nods, I pull it undone very gently, afraid it might come apart in my hands. I place it to one side, then look through the envelopes.

“Someone—not my father, it was before his time—wrote the date of each letter on the back,” Adam explains.

I turn them over, and sure enough, the date has been handwritten on the flap of each envelope. They range from April to November 1861. It was a period of upheaval across the world—it saw the beginning of the American Civil War, as well as major conflicts in Europe, South Asia, and parts of theCaribbean and the Pacific world. But these letters show the most important struggle of all—that of the heart, which can cause just as much devastation to those involved.

Turning the envelopes back over, I examine the fronts. “The ink has faded a little,” I observe out loud. “It’s a warm brown color now, and that’s typical of iron gall ink as it oxidizes over time. Despite its age, though, the paper’s held up well.”

“Rag-based rather than wood pulp?” Fraser asks.

“Yes. It explains its durability.” I open the top envelope and slide out the letter. It’s three pages long and folded into three. I unfold it carefully and inspect the paper first. “The edges are brittle where it’s been exposed to air and light. But there are no signs of water damage or insect activity. That’s good, given the climate here.”

I take out a small loupe or magnifying device and hold it to my right eye as I inspect the delicate fibers of the paper. “The ink has settled deep into the weave. It’s been absorbed rather than merely sitting on the surface. That shows the paper’s quality, and the fact that the person writing was pressing on the quill. It shows that they were deeply invested in their words.”

“How amazing,” Adam says in awe. “I didn’t know any of that.”

“Have you read them?” Fraser asks.

“No,” he admits. “Isabel’s the one who’s into genealogy and history. I’m more of a practical man, I’m afraid—cars and rugby are my forte.”

“You can see the creases where the letters have been folded and unfolded countless times,” I tell him. “And look at these faint smudges where fingers have lingered over the words. It’s evidence that it was cherished. Read and reread.”

“As all love letters should be,” Fraser says.

I smile, refolding it and sliding it back into the envelope. I turn the envelopes over again and fan them out, looking at the dates.

Adam has wandered to the door, and he frowns and says, “Isabel’s finished her call. I’ll see if I can stall her.” He walks off, and we hear his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

“Wait,” I say to Fraser. I stop, go back to the beginning, and count the envelopes. “There are eleven in Hemingway’s book,” I comment, my heart racing. “But there are twelve here.”

“Really? I wonder which is the extra one?”

“I memorized the dates,” I say, going through them. I stop as I reach the second-to-last, marked October 1861. “It’s this one.” As quickly as I can without damaging it, I take the letter out and unfold it. “Have you got your phone on you?” He nods and takes it out. “Take a photo of each of the pages,” I instruct, carefully holding the first page upright. He takes a photo of it, then of each of the three others as I hold them up. Finally, as he pockets his phone, I refold the letters and slot them back into the envelope. I’m just replacing it into the pile as I hear raised voices outside, and then Isabel appears in the doorway.

She’s clearly furious. “Put them down,” she demands. “You have no right to touch my private property.”

“Izzy,” Adam snaps, “I was the one who unlocked the cabinet. Don’t yell at them.”

“Leave them alone,” she says to us, and she’s clearly distressed.

“Of course,” I say, placing them back in the cabinet and backing away. I take off my gloves and replace them in the clutch.

“We didn’t mean to upset you,” Fraser states. “I know what they mean to you.”

“They’re much more than artifacts to me,” she says. Her eyes gleam with tears.

“I understand.” Fraser gives her a gentle smile. We’re archaeologists, Isabel. We have nothing but respect fortaongalike this.” It’s the Maori word for treasure.

She hesitates, and for a second I think he might have got through to her.

Then she lets out a shaky sigh. “I’d like you to return to the garden.” She lifts her chin.

Fraser opens his mouth to argue with her, but I take his hand. “Of course,” I say, and I lead him out, past Adam, who’s frowning, onto the veranda, and down the stairs.

“This is so frustrating.” Fraser stops by a waiter with a tray of champagne. He takes two flutes from the tray, and we wander over to the hydrangea bushes. “I can’t see her ever agreeing to give us the letters. She obviously has an emotional connection to them.”

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