Return to Mandalay

by Rosanna Ley

Genres: Family Life; Holiday books; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

Eva Gatsby has often wondered about her grandfather Lawrence's past, and what happened to him in Burma during the Second World War. When Eva's job requires a trip to Mandalay, Lawrence finally breaks his silence and asks her to return a mysterious artefact - a chinthe - to its rightful owner. But when Eva arrives, her mission proves dangerously complicated and the treasure she is guarding becomes the centre of a scandal.

Release date: November 9, 2017

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 576

Sample

‘Could you come through to the office, Eva?’ Jacqui Dryden’s voice was, as always, cool and slightly irritated.

Eva was stooping over a Victorian dressing-table repairing the spring mechanism of a tiny drawer in the panelling. She straightened up. Ouch. Rubbed her back with the heel of her hand. It was a delicate job and she hadn’t realised quite how long she’d been stuck in that position.

‘Just coming,’ she called back. Briefly, she touched the top of the walnut dressing-table with her fingertips as if promising her swift return.

Jacqui Dryden was standing staring out of the large bay window into the street below. It was a Thursday afternoon in late October and Bristol city centre was as busy as ever. The Bristol Antiques Emporium was well placed in a side street where rents were lower but there were still enough individual-looking shops to pull in passers-by. Vintage was in, business was brisk and Eva’s boss should have been happy. She looked anything but. Her make-up was as flawless as ever, but there was something despairing in her blue eyes that Eva hadn’t seen there before. Could it be anything to do with the raised voices she’d heard coming from the office this morning?

‘Come in.’ Jacqui turned towards her, the despairing expression vanished and Eva felt her scrutiny. Her boss had this way. She was a little over five feet tall, blonde and perfectly formed, and when she was around her, Eva invariably felt awkward, clumsy, too tall. She wasn’t used to feeling like that. She brushed some sawdust from her jeans. Her hands were dusty too and she realised she had a splinter in her thumb. She kept her nails clipped short because of the nature of the job and at work wore jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of old Converse, tying her unruly dark hair back in a ponytail so that it wouldn’t get in the way. She could imagine how she looked to Jackie, could see what she was thinking. She wasn’t at her most glamorous. But this was work and Eva relished immersing herself in it.

Jacqui didn’t invite her to sit down, didn’t so much as smile. Several times over the past few months, Eva had been tempted to tap on her boss’s shell, try and make it crack a little and take a peek inside. But she hadn’t risked it – at least, not yet.

‘I need you to go away on an assignment,’ Jacqui said without preamble.

‘Away?’ Eva echoed. That was a first. ‘What kind of assignment?’

She had worked at the Emporium for six months now. The job had attracted her because the company dealt mainly in Asian antiques. Thanks to her grandfather, as a child she had fallen in love with wood and with history; they were in her blood. At nineteen, she had left home in Dorset – a home that had splintered to pieces after her father’s death when Eva was only six – and gone to university in Bristol to study antique furniture restoration with decorative arts. Specialist subject: Asian artefacts. And that was thanks to her grandfather, too. That was sixteen years ago now. But there was still so much, Eva reminded herself, to thank him for.

Jacqui didn’t answer the question. Her partner, Leon – in business and life – hadn’t answered her questions in the office this morning either. ‘Why should you care? Tell me what’s going on,’ Jacqui had demanded. ‘Or I walk out of here this minute.’ But Leon hadn’t and so Jacqui had. She had stalked out of her office in her pencil skirt and stilettos right past where Eva was busy repairing the scabbard of an old Japanese sword and pretending she hadn’t heard what was being said.

‘As you know,’ Jacqui said to Eva now, ‘our Asian stock is selling very well at the moment.’

‘Yes.’ Of course, she had noticed. The company were expanding that side of the business and soon perhaps Victorian walnut dressing-tables would be a thing of the past, so to speak. Many countries were opening up more than ever before and those in the Far East were in a position to take advantage of growing international interest in their colonial furniture, a legacy of days gone by, and in their cultural and religious artefacts too. Like their old stone Buddhas, for example – and they’d seen a few of those in the Emporium – often so badly eroded that they’d no doubt had new ones made by some local stonemason. The Bristol Antiques Emporium hadn’t wasted any time in forging lucrative partnerships with Far East traders who wanted to sell.

‘But there are problems.’ Jacqui tucked back a strand of fine blonde hair that had dared escape the fifties’ chignon she favoured. ‘Too much stock is arriving badly damaged, for a start.’

‘Which could certainly be avoided,’ Eva agreed. She was the person who generally had to repair it. She had joined the Emporium hoping to make use of the expertise she’d gained doing her degree. At last, she’d thought. It had been thirteen years since she’d graduated, but none of her jobs had quite fulfilled her expectations. She’d worked in a secondhand furniture shop for a man who specialised in cold-calling with the express purpose of parting old ladies from family heirlooms with as little money changing hands as possible, until Eva could almost feel his smug smile destroying her soul. She’d worked in a museum shop, where she’d met her friend Leanne. And she’d spent over a year as a seamstress in vintage wedding hire. This was the time – she’d hoped – for her career to take off in the direction she wanted it to.

But the reality of the Emporium had proved another disappointment. Most of her time was spent doing run-of-the-mill repairs, cleaning, unpacking and often dealing with customers too. They might have formed a lucrative partnership, but the Bristol Antiques Emporium was under-staffed. Apart from Jacqui and Leon, there was only Lydia, who worked part-time in the antiques showroom above. And Eva who did just about everything else.

‘If we can find a way of avoiding it, yes.’ Jacqui frowned.

‘Can’t our contacts check the packaging before shipping?’ Eva asked mildly. Many of the countries they dealt with packaged the goods poorly – often only with shredded newspaper. They didn’t seem to appreciate the vulnerability of some of the more fragile pieces.

‘And …’ Jacqui dismissed this suggestion with a wave of her manicured hand. ‘Our contact has come across some unusual items we may be interested in.’

‘Unusual items?’ Eva’s interest flared.

‘Statuettes, wooden furniture, eighteenth and nineteenth century – even earlier, some of it. Unique, primitive, just the sort of thing we’re looking for.’ For a second her eyes brightened with enthusiasm. ‘But …’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t fully trust our contact there.’ She glanced at Eva as if to gauge her reaction.

Eva shrugged. She didn’t need to ask why not. Firstly, six months working for Jacqui Dryden had shown her that her boss rarely trusted anyone, probably not even Leon, come to think of it. And secondly, she was aware that many of their contacts in the Far East had their own agenda. Why should they feel loyalty to their overseas dealers? Why shouldn’t they look out first for their own families, their own countries, when so many of them had lived in poverty for so long?

‘The provenance sounds more than plausible,’ Jacqui told her. ‘But they need to be authenticated.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Eva felt the fizz of anticipation. This was why she’d joined the company. Authentication, restoration, re-living history almost. And travelling too. That was an unexpected bonus. After the month she’d had, it sounded exactly what she needed.

‘You could do that, couldn’t you?’

‘Of course.’ It was what she’d been trained for. And this trip would give her the chance to prove her skills.

Once again, Jacqui frowned. ‘You wouldn’t object to going on your own?’

‘Not at all.’ Eva preferred to work independently. And it would be an adventure. ‘I presume that you also want me to talk to our contact?’

‘Yes.’ Jacqui shot her an unfathomable glance. ‘You’ll need to reinforce our relationship with him.’ She seemed to be choosing her words carefully. ‘But it will need sensitive handling.’

‘I understand.’

‘And while you’re there, you might also get the chance to look around.’ Jacqui was still speaking cautiously, as if she wasn’t sure how much to say.

‘Look around?’ Eva wanted to be clear. She twisted the ring she wore on her little finger. It was a cluster of diamonds shaped like a daisy and set in gold, a present from her grandfather on her twenty-first birthday and she wore it every day, work or no work.

‘Explore other avenues. Go to some antique markets, chat to the dealers, make new contacts perhaps. Find some more items we may be interested in.’

Goodness. The thrill returned. Eva tried to hide her surprise. With so much at stake, why wasn’t Jacqui going herself? She couldn’t be trying to get rid of her, surely? She’d only overheard an argument – although the embarrassment of that might be enough for someone like her boss. She was rather touchy, perhaps more so than usual.

‘I’ll be busy here.’ Jacqui moved from the window to the large leather-topped mahogany desk that dominated the room, and pushed a pile of papers to one side as if to demonstrate just how busy she would be. ‘There are some important shipments due to arrive.’ Once again, she seemed to almost lose her drift. And then snapped out of it. ‘I couldn’t possibly get away at the moment.’

Leon, Eva thought. That was the real reason.

‘These people won’t wait forever. There’ll be others interested, you can be sure. So there’s nothing for it.’ Jacqui sighed. ‘You’ll have to go. You’re the only one there is.’

Praise indeed. Eva raised an eyebrow. ‘And where exactly am I going?’

‘Oh.’ Jacqui plucked a piece of paper from her desk. ‘Didn’t I say? You’re to leave next week if we can get you a visa sorted out by then. I’ll book your flight and let you know the exact times. You’ll have to bring your passport in tomorrow morning. I’ll arrange for an agent to meet you at the airport and make the hotel reservations. Um …’ With the tip of her forefinger – nail varnished deep plum – she traced a path along the paper. ‘Yangon, Bagan and Mandalay,’ she said. ‘That’s where you’ll be going. Ten days should be long enough. You’ll have to take internal flights. I’ll give you all the details in advance, of course.’

Eva stared at her. She hadn’t even dared hope … ‘Burma?’ she whispered. Her heart was hammering out an old tune, a familiar tune, the rhythm one that she had grown up with, that had become a part of her. She was going to Burma. She had heard so much about it. And now she was going to taste and experience it for herself. She wanted to fling open the window and shout it to the people down in the street below. There was a grin of pure delight bubbling inside and she wanted to let it out.

‘Yes. But it’s called Myanmar now, you know.’

‘I know.’ The grin emerged and Eva sent it Jacqui’s way. What did it matter that Jacqui sometimes didn’t seem to like her or felt threatened by her or whatever else it might be? What did it matter, when her boss clearly trusted her enough to give her this opportunity? What did it matter when Eva was going to Burma? She closed her eyes and felt the colours of the country flicker behind her eyelids. Blue and gold …

There wasn’t much, she thought, that she didn’t know about Burma. Her grandfather had spent some of his most formative years there. He had worked in the timber industry and he had fought against the Japanese. His life in Burma had touched them all in different ways. And the stories he had told Eva when she was a child had wound their way into her heart.

‘You’ll go, then?’ Jacqui asked her. Though she didn’t look as if she’d take no for an answer. ‘I’ve printed out images of some of the things you’ll be looking at because it’s easier to have hard copy to hand. It’s all here.’

‘Oh, yes, I’ll go,’ Eva replied. She’d always known she’d visit Burma one day. How could she not? In her twenties and early thirties, holidays had been short, usually city breaks in Europe, since they gave her the best opportunity to explore antique markets and historic buildings. And during her now rather distant gap year she’d made it to Thailand, along with Jess, her friend from college. Burma was an expensive trip to fund herself but more than that, for a long time, the country had been a no-go area politically. Eva had read about the unrest among the hill tribes, the repressive government, and the house arrest of Aung San Suu Kyi, the woman they all adored, who had sacrificed her personal life in order to fight for democracy for her people. Eva knew about the sanctions and that although tourists had become welcome in Myanmar, money from tourism tended to go straight into the pockets of the military government. And she understood that to visit the country was to support them.

But things were different now. Aung San Suu Kyi had been freed, the political climate was changing and … Eva’s childhood dream was about to come true.

Should she pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming again? She moved closer to the desk. The image of a seated and clear-eyed Buddha, probably gilded teak, gazed serenely back at her. Nineteenth century, she’d estimate from the picture, which wasn’t terribly clear. She peered closer, looking for tell-tale patches of wear on the gilding but she’d have to assess the condition more thoroughly when she was actually there. There were other figures she recognised from her studies too, some carved and painted, some gilded and inlaid, some possibly as old as seventeenth century. A delicately carved angel, a monk sitting on a lotus flower, spiritual guardians and nats. There was what looked like a carved teak scripture chest, an ancient wooden crib and a pair of highly decorative doors – most likely ancient temple doors, she realised with a jolt of excitement.

Eva glanced across at Jacqui and met her gaze head on. Jacqui would no doubt have more information about these artefacts and she’d be giving it all to Eva to study before she left. But her boss was right. From the pictures alone, she could see that there were some remarkable pieces here. And she was being given the chance to see them, examine them at close hand, authenticate them and bring them back to the UK.

‘Thanks, Jacqui,’ she said.

Her boss gave her a quizzical look.

‘For having faith in me. I won’t let you down.’

And she left the office and drifted back to the Victorian dressing-table, her mind already halfway to Burma. She could still hardly believe it. Would it live up to her expectations? Would it fill the gaps in her grandfather’s story? And what on earth would he say when she told him? Going to Burma had changed his life. Eva couldn’t help wondering if it would do the same to hers.

Eva let herself into her flat and closed the door behind her. It had been quite a day. What she needed, she decided, was a large glass of wine and a hot bath – and then she’d phone him. He was the person she most wanted to tell. But first things first. She opened her laptop, located her music file and selected an album. Japancakes. The soft lilting melody of the first track ‘Double Jointed’ began to float through the room, rippling like water lilies on a lake.

The flat – the first floor of an Edwardian building on the outskirts of the city, hence the high ceilings, decorative coving and large bay windows – was relatively tidy, although she’d left in a rush that morning. As always, it had a rather transitory look about it, as if Eva might be about to gather up all her belongings and move out. Which was probably, she decided, down to her state of mind. She had stayed in Bristol because this was where the jobs were, as far as the West Country was concerned. But it was more than that. Since she was six years old, she’d lived in a world where something you loved could be snatched away from you and nothing in your life would be the same again. She didn’t exactly love her flat, but it was practical, reasonable to rent and it suited her, for the moment.

There was only one bedroom, which housed her Chinese ‘opium’ bed, bought on a whim from eBay and a purchase she’d never regretted; every time she laid her head on the pillow, she imagined its possibly lurid history. It never gave her nightmares though, instead it seemed to be seeped in relaxation. But the living-room-cum-kitchen was a space easily large enough for one. Or even two, Eva thought ruefully, as she hung her autumn tweedy jacket on a peg and chucked her bag on the sofa. The music was building, the melody becoming more layered. Max’s minimalist flat had been smarter but had less floor space and character. A bit, she thought, like Max himself. Or so it had turned out.

Eva owned only a few pieces of special furniture, acquired over the past thirteen years. Apart from the bed and a sprawling sofa, there was a hand-carved and sturdy Chinese camphor-wood trunk in the bay window, with cushions it made a perfect window seat; a hand-painted mango-wood cabinet from Rajasthan on the far side of the room, bought at auction a few years ago to house her novels and reference books from uni and beside that, her favourite piece, a Meijiperiod Japanese red lacquered priest’s chair that had turned up out of the blue in the Emporium only a month ago. She owned nothing from Burma yet. It was still early days for the country, which made it all the more exciting from Eva’s point of view. What might she come back with for her own collection?

There was a Japanese print on the wall, and the kitchen cupboards held a motley selection of china, some Oriental, some English bone, so thin that when you held it up to the light you could almost see right through. Max would never have moved in here, Eva reminded herself. Their styles didn’t match. They didn’t match. She’d been fooling herself for two years, that was all.

Max. She poured that glass of wine, took a sip and went to run her bath. The sounds of Japancakes followed her through the flat, rising and falling, the perfect chill out music. She’d met him in a cinema queue. Someone in front of her had trodden on her toe, she’d taken a little jump back and managed to throw toffee popcorn all over Max, who was standing right behind her. It had proved to be quite an ice breaker. He had suggested they sit together, it had seemed natural to go for a drink afterwards to discuss the film, and the rest, she thought grimly, was history.

And now they were history too. Eva turned the hot tap and swirled in a generous dollop of her favourite bath oil. She wanted to lie back, relax, sip her wine and think about going to Burma. What did it matter that she hadn’t yet met a man she wanted to spend her life with? What did it matter that she had spent two years with Max before she discovered his other agenda? If she were honest … Max had turned her head from the start. He was older, charming, sophisticated. He had not only taken her out to shows, events and to all the latest restaurants for dinner, but he’d often surprised her with gifts of jewellery and even weekends in Paris and Rome. Which was all very nice. Eva fetched her wine and began to peel off her dusty work clothes, piece by piece. The steam from the bath was already filling the room. She turned the tap and added some cold. But it wasn’t really love, was it? Part of her had always known that.

And in two years their relationship had barely moved on. She began to hum as the track changed to ‘Heaven or Las Vegas’ – a good question, if it was one. Max had met her grandfather and she had met his formidable mother on one of the rare occasions when she’d swept through Bristol. But other than that … It was as if, she realised, they were still dating. They had often woken up together, but never discussed the future. They had given each other keys to their flats, but more as a matter of convenience, she suspected, than a wish to share their lives. Because they hadn’t become close, at least not in the way that Eva imagined you became close with someone who was special. Apart from Lucas at uni – and that, she knew, had been more of a friendship than a love affair – Max was the nearest she had ever got to a full-time relationship with a man.

The water reached a perfect temperature and was as deep as Eva liked it. She lowered herself in, felt the liquid heat against her skin and smelled the neroli orange blossom rising from the essential oil. What would have happened, she wondered, if she hadn’t gone round to his flat that afternoon one month ago? Would they still be together? Would she be thinking, even now, about where he would be taking her tonight, rather than contemplating a relaxing evening in alone?

It had been an unusual situation. Eva had stayed the night at Max’s and the following day at work realised she didn’t have her mobile and that she’d left it at his flat. She’d remembered a text that had come through; she must have left the phone on the coffee table after she’d answered it. She tried to call him, but his mobile was switched off; Max was a criminal lawyer so he was probably with a client. She’d nip round and get it at lunch-time, she decided. It wasn’t far, he wouldn’t mind …

Eva dipped her head back to soak her hair; she’d wash it under the shower later. She sank into the restful curve of the bath and had another sip of wine. From the moment she’d walked into the hall, she knew something was wrong. And she didn’t have far to look. They were in the living room on the sofa, still adjusting their clothing, Max and some girl she’d never seen before, her make-up smudged over his pink shirt, her skirt still half way up her thighs. What a cliché. Eva hadn’t hung around to witness their embarrassment or hear any pathetic excuses. She’d picked up her phone – still on the coffee table as she’d suspected, interesting that they hadn’t even noticed it – and walked out, leaving his key on the hook by the door. Only afterwards did she remember the odd phone call which Max had left the room to take, once or twice when he’d cancelled their dates. The signs had been there, she supposed. She just hadn’t let herself see.

More fool her. Eva began to soap her body, starting with her arms, generous with the lather. She’d been upset about Max, of course. But now … She was over him. She dipped under again. She’d reclaimed her life. And she was going to Burma.

When the water began to cool, she washed her hair and rinsed off under the shower and then climbed out, wrapping herself in a big white fluffy towel. He’d have finished his dinner by now. She paused the music. It was time to tell her grandfather.

He listened to the news without saying very much at first. Then, ‘Well, Eva,’ he said. ‘My goodness. I can scarcely believe it. Burma. That’s wonderful.’ He drew in a shaky breath, perhaps remembering his own life there, she thought. ‘Really wonderful.’ He paused. ‘Are you looking forward to it, my dear?’

Was she looking forward to it? ‘I can’t wait.’

‘And when are you going?’

‘Next week.’ As soon as it could be arranged, she guessed. Jacqui didn’t want any of those enticing antiques going anywhere other than to the Emporium. But there was a good deal of money at stake. Burmese traders, like any others, understood international markets: those artefacts wouldn’t be going cheap.

‘Next week!’ He seemed quite shocked at this. ‘So soon?’

‘I think so.’

There was another long pause. What was he thinking? She imagined she could hear the cogs whirring. ‘I wonder,’ he said. ‘I wonder.’

Eva smiled to herself. ‘What do you wonder, Grandpa?’

She heard him take another breath. ‘If you could possibly come here first, Eva?’ he asked, his voice quavering just a little, the words coming out in a rush. ‘Can you come to see me before you go?’

‘Well …’ She hadn’t planned to. She adored her grandfather, of course, but this weekend would be quite a rush. Although it was tempting. Eva loved West Dorset and she still thought of it as home. Her mother no longer lived there … And Eva pushed that thought swiftly away. But her grandfather was her home – hadn’t he always been?

‘It’s important, my dear,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t ask otherwise. I wouldn’t expect it of you. Only …’ His voice tailed off.

‘Important?’ Not just that he wanted to see her before she made the trip then? Eva hesitated.

‘There’s something that should have been done a long, long time ago,’ he murmured. ‘It’s too late for me to do it now, of course. Perhaps I made a terrible mistake. I just don’t know for sure. But if you …’

What was he talking about? Eva waited. She could hear his breath, thin and wheezy on the other end of the line. She didn’t like the way he sounded. What should have been done a long time ago? What terrible mistake?

‘It’s such an opportunity, my darling,’ he said, a sense of wonder in his old voice. ‘For you and for me. Almost heavensent. But I’m wondering if it’s too much to ask. And after all these years …’

‘If what’s too much to ask, Grandpa?’ Eva was intrigued. ‘What is it? Can you tell me?’

‘Yes. I should tell you, Eva.’ And just for a moment he didn’t sound like her frail grandfather. Instead, Eva had a mental picture of him as a young man, before he went to Burma perhaps, when he was only seventeen.

‘I’ll come over tomorrow evening,’ she said, making an instant decision. ‘I’ll stay the night.’

‘Thank you, my darling.’ He let out a breath as if he’d been holding it, waiting.

Eva was thoughtful as she ended the call and clicked on to her gmail. She re-started the music. It was a mystery, but she’d find out soon enough. At least her grandfather was pleased that she was going. It wouldn’t be nearly so easy, she knew, to tell her mother.

Eva parked her ancient but much-loved red-and-black Citroen 2CV in the drive and got out. She pulled on her jacket, grabbed her overnight bag from the passenger seat, slammed the door sufficiently hard for it to shut properly and walked up the path to the front door. The yellow stone was pockmarked by sea winds and the green paint on the door was a little cracked and faded, but otherwise the house of her childhood looked much the same as always, the orange rose climbing from its pot by the bay window up to the black roof slates and beyond, still in full bloom. Eva bent to sniff the nearest blossom. The scent of tea-rose immediately whirled her back to childhood days, making rosewater perfume and picnics on the lawn in summer. Those were the good bits. It was different – everything was different – after her world fell apart. But she wouldn’t dwell on that now, not when she had Burma to look forward to. Not to mention her grandfather’s mystery.

She lifted the brass door-knocker and let it fall. Pulled her hair out from under her collar. Waited.

Her grandfather opened the door, beaming. ‘Hello, darling. Come in, come in.’ He helped her with her bag, took her tweedy jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. ‘How was your journey? I suppose the roads were busy? They always are these days.’

‘The journey was fine,’ Eva reassured him.

He turned to her. ‘Let me look at you.’

Eva pulled down the sleeves of her lacy blouse and slipped the silk scarf she was wearing from her neck, tucking it next to her jacket. ‘Let me look at you,’ she said. Her grandfather had always been tall and lean. But was he a little more bent than the last time she’d seen him? Was his kind and familiar face more lined?

‘You look as lovely as ever.’ He smiled. ‘How about a hug from my favourite girl?’

Eva stepped into his open arms and closed her eyes, just for a moment. His hair was fine wisps of snow-white. His fawn woollen cardigan smelt of eucalyptus and wood, a fragrance she seemed to have lived with all her life.

‘Do you mind if we eat in the kitchen tonight, darling?’ he asked, holding her at arm’s length for a moment, his hands on her shoulders. ‘It’s so much more cosy now that the nights are drawing in.’

‘Of course not.’ Eva followed his slow passage along the L-shaped hall past the shelf of memorabilia that her grandfather had brought back to the UK after his Burmese days. She knew it all so well, but now she lingered, taking it all in as if for the first time: the wooden elephant bells, a souvenir of his work in forestry; the set of opium weights made in the image of Buddha; the Burmese flowered paper parasol and finally the Japanese flag in a bamboo case, the silk burned by shrapnel during the war. And soon, she reminded herself, she would be experiencing her own Burmese days.

In the farmhouse kitchen at the back of the house, the Aga’s reassuring warmth filled the room and one of Mrs Briggs’s stews bubbled on the hob, a rich fragrance emanating from the pan. Two places had been set at either end of the old pine table and a bottle of red wine had been uncorked but not poured. Thank goodness for Mrs Briggs. Now that he was on his own, Eva’s grandfather needed her help with cooking and housework more than ever. Eva knew how much he valued his independence. And she couldn’t see him anywhere else but here, in his own house, big, rambling and impractical as it was. It was pa