Mother's Heirloom

Chapter One

Jade Devlin figured her life was just about everything but perfect.

For one, she had been raised by her mother alone. Not that she considered having one parent a bad thing, but she couldn't deny ever missing the presence of a father. For as long as she could remember Rebecca had refused to speak much of him other than to tell Jade that he'd been a good man whom she had fallen hopelessly in love with at a very young and tender age. Her mother had liked to use to word tender. No matter how much Jade would wheedle; she had never got the full details of why they had separated or where her father was now and why her mum felt so strongly that she had committed a mistake so grave that she should spend the rest of her life correcting it in Magdalene sisterhood asylum fashion.

Despite their strong feelings of affection for one another, Jade had never felt the kind of bond with her mother that she shared with Betty, her mother's best friend. Betty, though also a devoted catholic, didn't exercise her belief as strictly as her mum did. Their friendship was such an exceptionally strong one it rivalled the bond sisters shared and it caused Jade to realise that they were lucky to know each other. But as all sisters, they fought with as much vigour as they loved each other.

One afternoon at Betty's, Jade (who had been four years at the time) was playing in the backyard with five-year-old Kalvin, the boy across the street, when suddenly her mother had barged in. Rebecca had just returned from work, still wearing her library work clothes. More often than not she would have some cake and tea, fill Betty in on the gossip in town and then take Jade home. But not this time. Jade remembered a heated argument that had ensued between Betty and her mum, with a lot of furious whispering, and then she'd been whisked off home at once as if nothing had happened. But not before she caught Betty playfully sticking out her tongue at Rebecca's back and then winking conspiratorially at Jade as she was carried away. That night after bathing, her mother had sat her down and, wearing a grave expression, had explained to her the difference between boys and girls. Boys were different from girls because they had been punished by God for being bad and good little girls, like Jade, should therefore stay away from them. When she had asked what Kalvin had done to be a bad boy, Rebecca had told her to go to sleep.

Jade had never been allowed to play with Kalvin again, except when her mum was away on another one of her conferences for the protection of whales or some other endangered species and she was sleeping over at Betty's who didn't seem to share the opinion that boys were evil. Betty had made her swear not to tell.

By the time she'd reached fifteen, Jade had broken almost every one of her mother's rules regarding boys and was proving to be such a rebelling teenager that Rebecca had no choice left but to succumb to what her daughter had become. Though baptised, Jade had never felt any inclination to join any religion, most in particular Catholicism, and her mother's last hope (no premarital sex) she dashed at seventeen. It created the necessary friction in the Devlin household, and although the relationship between mother and daughter had never been the same again, there was always Betty to lighten the mood by relating to them the goings-on in her younger years and then pointing out that she had ended up quite fine. Even Rebecca hadn't been able to find fault in that since Betty had only married once, and stayed married, attended the church every Sunday and every holiday, including most importantly Easter, and still prayed before bedtime every night.

When Jade had reached nineteen and had decided she was going to study drama in the States Rebecca had finally reached the end of her rope. She said there was no way Jade was going to go and they exchanged some serious blows and some very ugly and angry words that Jade regretted to the present day but had never felt able to take back completely. It had taken her all her savings to get to New York and complete the year after which she returned home and declared drama wasn't her passion after all and she was going to take law at Cambridge where she received room and board and didn't see her mother except on the Christmas holidays that they celebrated at Betty's.

Three years into the course, Jade ran out of money and discipline and decided to take one year off to work at a seedy bar in downtown Leeds. She was gathering courage to go back home and try to salvage the relationship with her mother.

That had been two years ago.

Rebecca had died. Jade had attended the funeral that Betty had arranged at her mother's request four days later. When she thought of her mother, it was with love, regret and a sorrow at what might have been.

So she tried not to think of it.

The rain began pouring just as Jade exited her car. With a feeling of frustration, she slammed the car door shut, holding the newspaper over her head to provide whatever meagre shelter she could, and darted across the sidewalk, toward the door whose yellow paint was peeling away in frightening quantities. The rain was coming down harder now, the icy drops spattering fast and ruthless against the ground and rattling the cottage's old windowpanes that needed desperate replacement. It might have been late august, but central England was experiencing a drizzly cold wave that disappointed her.

She struggled for a moment with the keys and the lock, which was becoming much too rusty for comfort, then hurried inside, letting out a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her. With a flip of the switch light flooded the hallway. The familiar scent of varnish and sawdust that forever hung in the air brought back memories from her childhood; her mother painting the shed an odd turquoise colour, working on another of her wooden structures – Jade had never been able to fully understand her mother's hobby.

She picked up the pile of mail that filled a considerable part of the narrow hallway, moving straight through the living area that was furnished sparsely, and dumped her purse on the kitchen counter, then pulled a large bottle of lukewarm spring water from the bottom cabinet. She glanced at the answering machine, realised that it was still unplugged since she'd left several weeks ago.

She scooped back her hair, thought vaguely about a haircut and began to work her way through the usual complement of bills and junk mail while she unwrapped the red, Indian shawl she'd brought back from a short trip to Alanya from her neck, stripped off her coat and the orange hoodie that was soaked through in patches and turned on the portable heater on full blast. There were electricity bills, adverts, her mother's monthly issue of Resurgence – she would have to remember to cancel the subscription – and a postcard from a friend vacationing in Majorca.

Then she picked up a manila envelope with her name and address carefully handwritten on it.

Ms. J. Devlin

35 Hollesty Road

Holmfirth

Yorkshire

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green. There was no stamp. She turned the envelope over to find a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms. A lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake surrounded a large letter H. She ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter. When she had skimmed the first lines, her heart gave a quick jerk that was both offence and fascination.

Dear Ms. Devlin,

I am Albus Dumbledore. I do not expect you will recognise my name. We are, in a way, connected as your mother was a dear friend of mine. You may or may not be aware that she and I were acquaintances and that we have kept corresponding over the years. I wish you my deepest condolences for your recent loss. To live in the hearts of others is never to die; my sincere sympathy to you and your family.

However, and I now come to the reason for this letter, regarding recent events, I've come to believe that it is imperative we meet. There is information concerning your mother that is vital we discuss. If I could propose a meeting on September 7, 16:30 hours, in the Meander's Tearoom, Forescrew Hall, London, it would be an honour to receive you. Should the time be inconvenient, please contact Ms. M. Kissley at 019 0474 2705 to reschedule.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Jade stopped dead. A mixture of fear and resentment flooded her. She looked back at the letter in her hands as if it would offer an explanation or burst into laughter and tell her it was a joke, but of course it did not. Feeling her knees beginning to weaken, she sank down onto a chair, and mulled over the information.

It couldn't be a joke, she reasoned, whoever found such a thing funny wasn't an acquaintance of hers and, considering Jade had moved out over six years ago and didn't know anyone except the close neighbours and the old high school friends that still lived in town, there wasn't much of a chance anyone else who knew of her mother's death would know she was here.

Who was this person and what could he possible have to say to her? Out of habit, she reached for the phone to call Betty and had almost finished dialling the number when she realised the phone wasn't plugged in and it was the middle of the night.

She pushed away from the counter, turned on the coffee machine, grabbed a freesia pink mug in the form of an elephant and filled it with two spoons of sugar as the machine started to splutter. Then she picked the letter up and moved to throw it in the bin, dismissing it from her mind, when her hand froze mid-air. She peered closely at the green scribbling that had caught her eye. Dumbledore's bold signature stared back at her. A bell rang vaguely in the back of her mind.

Then she remembered.

She dashed across the room, almost tripping over the duffle bag that she had unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the room, yanked open the drawer of a lime green dresser in groovy sixties style that Rebecca had made her for her sixteenth birthday, and began to rummage through its contents. She nearly upturned the whole drawer in frustration as she dug through the paper clips, old pens and markers, post-its, address books, tissues, spare coins, until she found the envelope. She stared at the small, plain square of paper in her hands. When the machine buzzed announcing that her coffee was ready, she ignored it. When a car drove by, its tire splashing in a puddle and its headlights shining brightly into the kitchen, she barely noticed. With steady hands, she unfolded the creased letter her mother had left in her will to scan its contents.

'…Albus Dumbledore, a very dear friend of mine whom you can trust. I am terribly sorry you have never had the opportunity to meet him for he is truly a splendid and brilliant man. Should he come to contact you after my death, I know with absolute certainty that it must be important. Listen to what he has to say, and take his words into caution. Now, about Harold's gardenia's…'

Jade was rooted to the spot. She was rattled. The few lines had been inserted inconspicuously in a paragraph devoted to her mum's most personal thoughts about friends and family that she'd always wanted to say out loud but couldn't because they were family and you couldn't say bad things about them, even if it was the truth. Gossiping had been the second hobby she and Jade hadn't shared, which explained why she hadn't picked up on it before.

So he was a dear friend. Jade's brows creased. Or something more? She couldn't remember ever hearing her mother call any man brilliant, except for the pope, and even that one time she had been very reserved with her opinion.

But why hadn't her mother ever mentioned him to her?

With growing frustration, she realised that the only way she was going to get any answers was to go to that meeting. Though it wasn't something she was looking forward to, she felt that it was her only option.

Jade liked very much to be in control, and right now she felt anything but.

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