She reached into her small leather handbag and drew out a long velvet box worn along its hinges, and laid it on the stone table exactly parallel to the edge of the glass, and slid it two inches toward me with one finger.

“This belonged to Jonathan’s grandmother.

The pearls are South Sea.

They require care.” I opened it onto a heavy strand of knotted pearls, their luster yellowed with age, lying against faded white satin like small cold teeth.

They are beautiful, I said.

Thank you.

“A Duncan wife is the custodian of many things, Clara,” she said, her voice dropping below the breeze.

“Our name carries weight in this county.