She brushed broad strokes on her paper, quickly sketching in the sky, which she’d soon enhance with other shadings of blue and gray and puffy white clouds. The young man turned, and as the sun lit up one side of his face, Elisabeth flinched, her hand jerking across the page, the brush leaving a ragged gash of blue where she’d meant to paint the lantern room in white and black lines delineating panes of glass, with the lens visible through them.
But she wasn’t thinking about her painting at the moment. The soft-featured face was that of Duncan Muir. Even as she watched, a young woman joined him. Melissa. Her face was shaded by the pink lace parasol she carried, but there was no mistaking the dress she wore, which was the same one she’d been wearing during the garden tour. Or her voice when she spoke.
“I’m sorry to be late. It was so difficult to get away from father this morning.” Melissa had raised her voice so Duncan could hear her over the crash of the waves, which allowed Elisabeth to catch the words as well. Melissa tilted her head, and she could imagine the flirtatious smile the young woman flashed at him as she lifted the parasol just a smidgeon. She grasped a small item in her fist. From the way she held it and the colors of the thing, there was no doubt that it was a tussie-mussie.
Duncan put a finger on her lips. “I would wait until the end of eternity for you.”
He spoke softly, and some of the words were swallowed by the sound of the surf, but Elisabeth could hear enough of them to surmise the rest. “Please speak softly. I wouldn’t want our secret meeting place to be discovered by anyone who might tell our parents about it.”
Melissa nodded, then thrust the tussie-mussie forward. His face glowed as he took it from her. A smile came to his lips as he held it under his nose and breathed in the scent.
Although shrouded in the shadow of the keeper’s cottage, Elisabeth wished there were a better place for her to hide. She felt like a voyeur eavesdropping on this intimate conversation. At the same time, she was captivated by it and couldn’t stop listening, so she was relieved when Duncan took Melissa’s hand and led her farther down the beach to the edge of the water. They were out of hearing now.
A piece of paper he retrieved from his pocket fluttered in the wind as he unfolded it. He seemed to read whatever was written on it to Melissa, then handed it to her in the same manner she’d handed him the tussie-mussie. Elisabeth could only believe she’d witnessed an exchange of gifts. Very personal gifts.
She returned to her painting and focused on repairing the damage of that large slash of blue. She hadn’t started the lighthouse, so perhaps if she moved it a bit to the right, she could yet salvage her latest creation. So engrossed in her work was she, she totally forgot about the young lovers, until once again, she heard Duncan’s voice.
Her head jerked up at his angry tone.
“I don’t care what our fathers think. I love you and I’m going to marry you!”
The couple was walking on the pathway that led to the front of the keeper’s cottage, where the trolley stopped. No wonder she could hear them. They were much closer than they’d been before.
“But won’t that make our life more difficult than it already is?” Melissa asked. Her eyes glittered as they filled with tears. “I’ve always dreamed of a big wedding in Trinity Church with everyone I know attending, not a quick service in some small out-of-the-way chapel with the minister’s wife serving as a witness.”
“I would love to have that with you, but do you think your father will ever change his mind?”
She bowed her head as she shook it. As she looked up at her beloved, a tear slid down her cheek. “When he digs his heels in on an issue, he never reverses his opinion. At least not publicly. Even when he considers that he might have been wrong, it’s impossible to get him to admit it.”
“So there’s no hope for us.” He jammed his hands in his pockets.
“I’m afraid there’s not, not as long as he lives.”
“There must be a way.” Duncan’s smile seemed forced, his tone ingenuous. “All I have to do is think of one.”
The lovers reached the cottage at about that time, putting it between themselves and Elisabeth, so she didn’t hear anything further. Which might have been just as well. What she had heard was… disturbing, to say the least.
CHAPTER 17
Titus Strong stood on the boardwalk in back of the Seaview Hotel and watched the surf roll in on the sand. Last year, he’d lived in this hotel and gotten used to a morning swim before work. He couldn’t imagine swimming anywhere else. The bay in front of his townhouse was much too calm for someone accustomed to ocean swims. Or so he’d thought when he started out this morning. But he now realized that he’d been on land for six months, most of that seated behind the desk in his office. Despite having won several swimming competitions in college, he wondered if he were up to a vigorous swim today.
He noticed a young man standing on the sand below, probably contemplating the same dilemma as he was. Concluding it would be better to swim with a partner than alone this morning, he descended the stairs to the beach.
The young man turned toward him as he approached. “Mr. Strong,” Duncan Muir called out with a grin. Relief was evident in his voice as well as his expression.
“Are you thinking of going in?” Titus asked.
“Thinking of it, yes. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.” He wet his lips, then said shyly, “I’ve always admired Lord Byron. Such a dashing figure! He was not only a boxer, but an excellent swimmer, too. He swam across the Hellespont, you know.”
“I know. He was also an outstanding poet,” Titus said.
“Have you read him?” Duncan regarded him with a wide-eyed stare.
Titus burst out laughing. “I went to Harvard. They insist you study more than history, religion, and the law in order to get a degree.” Then, thinking those wide eyes might be a sign of awe as much as surprise, he asked. “By any chance, do you write poetry?”
“On occasion.” He dropped his head to avoid looking at the lawyer. After a moment, he dared to meet Titus’s gaze. “Mine isn’t nearly as good as Don Juan or Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. I thought if I sought to emulate him, I might start by becoming a better swimmer.” He glanced down at the beginning of a paunch that, without corrective action, might soon hang over his belt.
“Would you like to swim with me? I used to be a fairly good swimmer, although I’ve gotten a bit soft myself over the winter.”
“That would be smashing,” the young man said enthusiastically.
“All right, then. Shall we strip down to our bathing attire?”
They quickly shed shoes, socks, pants, and shirts. While Titus charged into the waves and dove in as soon as the water was deep enough, he soon realized Duncan wasn’t with him. He rolled over on his back to float and saw the boy standing ankle-deep in the foam. He raised his arm and beckoned. When that didn’t work, he righted himself and tread water. “Come on!”
Reluctantly, the young man edged his way out into the sea, then made the novice’s mistake of stopping right at the point the waves broke. As expected, the next big wave made him tumble under the foam. Eventually, he came up, sputtering and shaking his head.
“It’s better once you get past the breakers,” Titus called out. Then, thinking he might have overestimated his charge’s level of skill, he asked, “You do swim, don’t you?”
Duncan nodded, although not with much assurance. He took a deep breath and managed a dive into the surf. Titus watched with concern until he broke through to the gentler swells and his arms competently stroked out toward him. When he reached a spot a few feet away, he, too, tread water. His eyes gleamed, and he flashed the lawyer a smile full of teeth. “I made it!”
“So I noticed,” Titus said dryly. “Are you ready to test your speed?”
“You mean a race?”
“I do.”
“But you said you won medals.” He touched his tongue to his upper lip.
“That was years ago. Besides, I also said
I’d been lazing around all winter. And you’re nearly a decade younger than I am.”
“All right. Where shall we race to?”
He surveyed the coastline for a landmark. There wasn’t much that would serve on this section of beach. In fact, only one structure was clearly visible. “How about the bathhouse?”
“You’re on.”
“Ready!” Titus shouted.
“Set!” Duncan responded.
“Go!” they shouted together and lunged ahead, arms stretching out as far as they could, legs kicking vigorously to propel them forward.
For the first few yards, they swam side-by-side. Then young Duncan pulled ahead by a few inches. Determined not to lose, Titus pushed himself to swim faster.
He was also keeping a weather eye on the incoming waves. While he’d wanted something more challenging than the bay for his swim, this surf was rougher than he would have liked. A storm off the coast must be powering the swells this morning. They seemed to be coming in sets of three, too, with the third wave larger than the other two. Not much time for recovery should a big one catch you.
He’d slowed while he was contemplating the conditions, and Duncan had pulled a full body-length ahead. The boy turned his head and smiled when he saw him. Young whippersnapper, Titus mentally growled to himself and, once again, doubled down in his efforts.
For fifteen minutes, there was nothing on his mind but the strength of his stroke and closing the distance between himself and Duncan. And then something about the feel of the water around him made him glance eastward over the ocean once more. Indeed, the waves had gotten higher as the sun rose. Still in sets of three, but the smaller ones were almost as large as the largest had been minutes ago. As he swam over the crest of the next wave, he caught sight of a mammoth swell several sets out.
“Duncan!” he called in an attempt to get his attention. But the youngster was swimming as fast as he could, head down in the water and only briefly lifted to catch a breath with each stroke.
The massive wall of seawater bore down on them relentlessly. Patches of foam were already erupting on the crest, and Titus knew this one wouldn’t wait until it reached the shore to break. He took a deep breath, preparing to shout at his companion once more, then realized he didn’t have time for that. The behemoth of a wave was too close. Instead of shouting, he held his breath and dove into the wave, praying he’d reach the calmer water beneath the surface turbulence in time.
The force of the ocean jerked his arms and legs at odd angles to his body. He fought against it, managing, for the most part, to stay perpendicular to the swell. As he felt the pressure abate, he reoriented, reaching upward with strokes of his arms and kicking furiously, his lungs bursting for want of air.
At last he reached the surface, gasping and blowing out seawater. As soon as he’d caught his breath, he searched for Duncan, praying the young man had survived the onslaught. He was near to giving up hope when he saw a splotch of pale skin bobbing in the sea.
Desperation gave him renewed strength, and he swam as fast as he could toward the limp form. When he reached Duncan, he turned him over and hooked his hand under the young man’s chin to keep his nose and mouth above water. He couldn’t tell if he was yet breathing, so the best thing was to get him to shore as quickly as possible. Fortunately, the tide was coming in, and he could use that to bring him in faster.
When it got too shallow to swim any longer, Titus stood, grabbed Duncan’s arms, and dragged him out of the water. He dropped to the sand with his knees on either side of the young man’s head, turned his face so he wouldn’t choke, then grabbed his wrists. Titus rocked back on his haunches as he lifted Duncan’s arms up over his head, then forward until their hands were pressing on his ribcage. He continued this for what seemed an eternity before a familiar voice intruded.
“Titus? Who have you got there?” Tim Kelley, now a sergeant with the Whitby Police Department, kneeled down beside them. He lowered his ear to somewhere near Duncan’s nose.
“Duncan Muir,” Titus gasped between compressions. “We were swimming when a mammoth wave knocked him under. If he doesn’t survive, I have no idea how I’ll tell his father he perished while under my care.”
Kelley sat up and touched Titus’s arm. “I think you can stop now. He’s breathing. Let’s see if he can keep it up on his own.”
The police officer lowered his head once more after Titus ceased giving him artificial respiration, then jerked back as Duncan began coughing, his body spasming with the effort. The two men raised him to a sitting position so he might more easily clear his lungs. Shortly after, he opened his eyes and stared around him bewilderedly.
“I thought I was a goner.”
Titus took a deep breath. “So did I. Are you all right now?”
“I think so. What happened?”
“A big wave. I tried to warn you, but you didn’t hear me over the sound of the surf. I barely managed to dive under it myself before it broke.”
“I suppose I have you to thank for saving my life.”
Titus didn’t deny it, but he was reluctant to take credit for being a hero when he felt like a fool for encouraging the youngster to race with him before knowing his capabilities.
“Let’s get you to your feet,” Kelley said as he took hold of Duncan’s arm.
Titus took the other one, and between them, they helped him stand. He seemed steady enough now.
“Thank you,” Duncan said. “I think that’s going to be the end of my Byron period.”
Kelley looked confused. He would explain it to him later.
“It doesn’t have to be,” Titus said. “But I do think you could use a little practice before we go racing in the surf again. How about you meet me at my townhouse tomorrow morning and we try some laps in the bay?”
“I’d like that, Mr. Strong, if you’re certain it won’t be too much of a bother.”
“No bother at all. In fact, I’m not sure I’m ready for the ocean yet myself.” Which was not quite true. He had, after all, brought a full-grown man into shore in a rough sea. But he had a feeling his body would pay the price for that over the next few days.
CHAPTER 18
Elisabeth craned her neck and stared at the books in the higher locations along the wall. From the outside, Breughel’s Books had looked like any other small store found on the streets of Boston. In fact, she’d wondered if Stella had been wrong about finding a better selection of books than at the bookshop in Whitby. But inside, the dark oak shelves rose two stories on this wall, with a ladder on wheels that enabled the clerks to fetch those on the upper shelves, while on the opposite wall a metal spiral staircase led to a second floor with its own feast of bound volumes on closely spaced bookshelves.
There were books everywhere: stacked on the counters, stacked on tables, even some stacked on the floor near the cash register to catch the eye of buyers on the verge of leaving the shop.
“Come,” Stella said from beside her. “Let me show you where they keep the antique and collectible books.” She led the way toward the back, which brought them to a section where a skylight provided much of the lighting and the width of the store almost doubled. A clerk behind a counter displaying prayer books and hymnals flicked a feather duster over the inventory, while another pursued the same task for the books on the shelves to her left.
She would have liked to stop and browse, but Stella continued to the rear, where a doorway was squeezed between two more sets of shelves. Elisabeth had assumed it led to a storeroom of some sort, which in a way it was, but this was a very elegant storeroom. There were no bookshelves here; instead, the room was filled with generously spaced glass counters holding beautifully bound books. At the back of the room were two roll-top desks on the right side and a larger roll-top behind a mahogany railing with a swinging gate. The larger desk was unoccupied at the moment. Mr. Brueghel stood beside one of the others, hunched down as if examining something on the desktop. The clerk whose station it was had dark circles under his eye
s. As she and Stella drew closer, Elisabeth saw a fine sheen of perspiration on his upper lip.
“I’m sorry, sir. But it doesn’t look as if we’ll be able to make these payments on time.” The clerk’s voice wasn’t very loud, but Elisabeth’s hearing was exceptional, and she heard every word.
The clerk noticed the two of them headed toward the back and tapped Mr. Brueghel on the arm. When he straightened, Elisabeth saw creases at the bridge of his nose for just a second before they smoothed out and a smile came to his face.
“Miss Wade! So good to see you again. And Mrs. Underwood. A pleasure.”
Stella held out her gloved hand, and the bookstore’s owner briefly brushed it with the tips of his fingers, the almost handshake usually exchanged between men and women.
“Stella’s the one who started a Chautauqua Club in Whitby.”
The elderly bookseller’s face briefly creased in a frown before the smile returned. “You have a literary bent, then?”
Stella replied, “Let us say I enjoy reading interesting books, books that make you think.”
“Ahem” escaped Brueghel’s lips before he could stifle it. Elisabeth imagined he was familiar with the Chautauqua Club’s other objectives, such as social reform, and like most of the old guard, disapproved of those interests. But they were still customers, and Mr. Brueghel was not averse to profiting from things he didn’t approve of. Elisabeth decided to get him to focus on that aspect of their visit. “We’ve come to select a title for our next book club reading. Mrs. Underwood assured me that Brueghel’s Book Store would have a fine selection we can choose from. And, of course, she wanted me to see your collectible books as well.”
“Of course. I remember now you had mentioned choosing a book at Muir’s dinner party. Let me show you some of our best volumes.” He led the way to a nearby counter and pointed through the glass top at a volume titled Beauties of the English Landscape. The leather-bound book was decorated with an embossed picture of trees and mountains and birds over which was printed a design matching each of the features in gold gilt. “This is a lovely item.” He pulled it out of the case and opened it to a page about a quarter of the way through. On the left page was a poem by Wordsworth. On the right page, a beautiful pen and ink drawing illustrated the subject of the poem. Brueghel showed them several more pages before concluding that he wasn’t going to make a sale. At least not of this book.
The Case of the Troubled Tycoon: A Gilded Age Historical Cozy Mystery (Shipwreck Point Mysteries Book 5) Page 9
