But he wouldn’t lower himself to snooping. He had plenty of work set out for the day, especially with traders coming through within the fortnight. Everything in the logbooks, every pedigree paper and purchase record, must be perfect if he was to make an advantageous trade. Straightening, he moved toward the door and touched the handle. There he stopped, that simple opening ringing in his head. Dear one.
This was useless. He’d never get the wretched thing out of his mind until he read it and saw for himself it was simply a misunderstanding. He crossed to the desk and yanked out the note amid a flurry of papers, reading it with growing dread from start to finish—twice. Then his hand shook. He controlled this estate, a house full of staff, even several investments, but his marriage and wife eluded his firm grasp.
He read it a third time and anger boiled within. With an incensed growl, he jammed the note in his pocket and marched out the door. What a fool he’d been to ignore the signposts. Distant and withdrawn, Clara had disappeared into the attic more and more until she’d begun missing meals and outings. Family events. Chances to be alone with him.
Now he had a clear view of the wedge that had formed between them.
Disbelief feathered in him at the notion that his wife had a secret love. She was pretty, no doubt about it, but what about her might drive a man to such desperation, to take such great risks with his reputation and hers? It was her old family name that had drawn his mother to suggest her, and her sweetly unsullied beauty that had drawn him, but besides those traits she was sadly reserved and unremarkable. A nice little addition to the house and his life, but nothing to inspire the raw passion on that dreadful page.
His anger burned, desperate for release, and he channeled it into every physical movement as he banged out the door and up the stairs. “Clara?” Who was the man, anyway? Likely some nobody little artist who wasted as much time as she did on useless frivolity, abandoning family and responsibility. That was the only sort with whom she’d truly connect.
The man was obviously important to her, for he’d seen the way she gazed at his note when she’d slipped it onto the desk. He pictured the woman he’d chosen to marry with a wave of fresh pain. Why on earth did she need another man, anyway? What about Burke was not enough? Was he not even able to keep a simple shop girl happy? There had to be an explanation.
Bang, bang. The attic door rattled against his fist, but no one answered.
Wait. What was he doing? Was this not his family’s estate? He shoved the door open, stumbling into a raftered space hazy with floating dust. Wide-open silence greeted him, and the messy clutter that seemed to naturally trail behind his wife. Brushes, overturned cups, broken pencils, and unstretched canvas littered the fringes of the room.
No Clara.
He glanced around at the sum total of the work she poured herself into. Her painting had been a nice little benefit at first, something to keep her from becoming a cloying, demanding wife, yet he had to admit, he’d always thought it a rather pointless endeavor. Replicating a horse or a flower, the foaming ocean, when one could simply step outside and see them, made little sense to him. All this effort, time, and expense for what—a wall hanging? It baffled him that she threw herself into it, heart and soul, as if it would bring in a living or save a life.
He moved deeper into the room, shoving things aside with the toe of his boot. Completed paintings stood propped against the far wall, and he gazed upon each, shaking his head. How did this steal so much of her attention? They were wasters of her time and heart, for it seemed she spent all she had of both up here.
He lifted a small square picture of a man’s face and held it close, looking for some hint of who he might be, some connection to the letter. A picture of an unknown stone chapel had received much of her careful attention, down to the shading of the ivy climbing its side. He’d never even seen this place, nor the man in the other painting. Most of the others were a view out an unfamiliar window.
Burke’s frown deepened. How foreign she was to him, this woman he’d married. She had such odd things, pictures that held the faces of other men, and letters that started with Dear one.
The pain of betrayal assaulted him again fast and hard, stabbing at his usual composure. How could she? How dare she? It was abominable. Wretched! Why would she even do it? Why? The question burned inside, his soul a furnace of anger. A primal noise rumbled in his chest and exploded out in a terrible growl. He spun, kicking paintings and easels with the force of his pain.
He fell back onto a crate and dropped his face into his hands, chest heaving, and that’s when he saw it. There in the dormer window was the image of a beastly man in hard, angular lines with blazing eyes. It was him.
He peeked again at the window, looking at the face she saw every day, the face from which she so often cowered, as she did last night. He spun away and covered his eyes, trying to exit the memory. It was, after all, no excuse for the letter he’d found. She was his wife—she’d vowed to honor and obey him, forsaking all others. There was no addendum to that promise, no loophole. Besides, they’d been mere words he’d launched at her. Only words.
Rising, he tore down the stairs and into the study, his sanctuary full of meaningful, logical work where there was always one right answer, a clear-cut expectation. With a firm jaw and resolute mind, he took one last look at the letter written to his wife by some other man, let it flutter down toward the cold hearth, and turned his back on it.
This was not over, but at least he didn’t have to look at the thing again.
eleven
Words sink into the parts of our hearts that no physical weapon can go. And it’s those standing nearest to us who can thrust their swords the deepest.
~A scientist’s observations on love
I caught Essie in the parlor Saturday morning, cloak and bag in hand, as she attempted to steal out a side door. She spun when I touched her shoulder and her face was mottled, eyes red. “Essie, what’s happened? Is it your family?”
She shook her head, erratic curls bobbing. “I’m not cut out to be in service, miss. I make mistakes. I am a mistake.”
Stricken, I grabbed her arm. “What nonsense, Essie. Tell me what’s happened.”
“I’ve gone and broken something again.”
“Nothing that can’t be—”
“Her red teacup.”
“Oh.” I pulled back and looked over the doomed girl’s face. “You’ve not told her yet?”
“Why should I? She’s going to sack me. She tells me so all the time. Might as well start the leaving before she makes me.”
“Do you have somewhere to go?”
“I’ve a friend in Cheapside who says he can find me work.” By the dip and hard angle of her face, it was obvious what sort of work she meant. “It’s decent pay for a sacked maid with no references, and he says there are men who favor red hair.”
I tightened my grip on her arms. “Oh Essie, you cannot do that.”
“Well, I can’t do much else now, can I?” She stiffened, chin jutting. “Alls I’ve ever done is this, since I was ten, and if I can’t do it anymore . . . Well, any job is better than the workhouse, ain’t it? At least I’ll have a chance.”
“You can do this work. Surely you see that. There’s more to service than a lack of mistakes. You’re amiable and prudent, with a fine heart—exactly what a maid should be. Hasn’t anyone ever told you these things?”
She sniffed, eyes downcast. “Someone did tell me once that I had a great deal of strength and kindness. I rather liked hearing that, and I suppose kindness is a fitting virtue for a maid.”
“There, you see? Won’t you stay and give it a try? I’ll even talk to Mrs. Gresham for you. You’re a wonderful housemaid who sometimes makes honest mistakes. There’s no need to throw away all that good. Especially when someone else sees you that way too.”
She fidgeted. “He told me if I could see myself as he does, I’d be brave and unstoppable, and . . . well, I only wish I could be.”
“Brave and . .
.” Dread crawled through my veins. I knew those words. “Who is it, Essie? Who’s said all this to you?”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t rightly know, miss. It was in a letter, and he wasn’t brave enough to sign it. He passed it to me in the linens one day.”
I looked at that freckled face, the lines under her eyes, and the wayward hair—and I pictured her clinging to that letter while she hung over the washbasin.
“It’s only because things like this aren’t allowed to happen at Crestwicke, miss. You needn’t worry over his character. He’s only taking care that we’re not caught.”
“Might I see this letter?”
“I gave it to Miss Clara. She promised to help me figure out who sent it.”
“Who’s Clara?”
“Why, it’s Mr. Burke’s wife, miss. Haven’t you met her? Such a sweet little thing.”
I held back an inner groan. Of course it was her. The ghost-girl who was not a girl or a ghost, the one who hated me. I swallowed back the rising panic and took Essie’s hands. “Promise me you’ll stay, and there’ll be no more talk of the friend in Cheapside. You belong here, pouring your heart into service as you’ve always done, with or without mistakes. Let me worry about the teacup.” I hadn’t any idea what to do, but I couldn’t ever resist fixing a situation, whatever it took. It was the doctor in me.
She studied me, then gave a nod. “All right, then. I do so want to find out who’s written those lovely things.” She smiled. “I want to tell him what he’s done for me. I’m quite low sometimes, but I cannot help feeling he knows something I don’t. That makes me hope, and hoping makes me a fresh, shiny new woman.”
I forced a smile and squeezed her arms again.
She heaved a sigh. “I suppose I should start with the linens in Miss Clara’s room, and perhaps steal that letter back for a moment. I’ll show it to you.”
She disappeared then, leaving me alone in the chilled parlor where Essie was to have stoked the dying embers. I rubbed my hands together and moved to stoke the hearth as best I could, but stopped, struck by the pale face of Clara Gresham watching me from the opposite double doors. When our eyes met, she floated toward me with her usual ghost-like movement and held out a letter. “It isn’t the one you’re looking for, but this has come for you. It was delivered to my room by mistake with some other correspondence.”
I recognized Father’s bold scrawl across the envelope and tucked it into my apron pocket. “Thank you.”
“That was kind, what you said to her. Very kind.”
I released tension I hadn’t even known was there. “She deserves every kindness. Essie is a good sort.”
She studied me, as if assessing my motive. “That letter of Essie’s—you know something about it, don’t you?”
“I can’t be certain unless I see it again. Would you mind—”
“Impossible.” Her lids lowered, and she glanced to the side. “I’ve misplaced it. Or someone’s taken it, I cannot tell. Don’t tell Essie until I find it—she’ll be terribly crushed.”
My tense heart twisted further. “Of course.”
I helped my patient open up her day, bringing her correspondence and listening to the lively planning of her performance. My brain galloped with worry, here and there, but I came to no brilliant solutions on anything.
Finally when the early afternoon sun drove Golda to her damask lounge chair and her eyes fluttered closed, I moved to the window and looked down over the yard to the stables and saw man and horse in their delicate dance. Gabe stood tall and still in the corral before a sleek and glorious creature of deep walnut color, palm up and waiting. It was amazing, really, watching him approach the great beast with both gentleness and supreme control, even while the skittish animal leaped away to circle the corral over and over.
The horse took a few quick sniffs of the upturned palm, then Gabe moved closer and smoothed his hand down the length of its neck to the shoulders. It was like an invitation, warm and gentle, that drew the horse in spite of his fear. The horse flinched and jerked away, its massive muscles quivering, and Gabe approached again, palm turned up. I nearly felt the gentle, calming caress this time as his hand moved along the great beast’s neck and down to his shoulders and back, his quivering muscles easing at the touch. Perhaps that’s why we got on so well—I was just as skittish and he had the same impact on me.
Turning back to glance at my patient, I wondered at the way even Golda seemed drawn to him, comforted by his mere presence when she tolerated no one else. Watching her sleep, I sighed and pulled out Father’s letter, breaking the seal and slipping out the contents. It was a letter as well as three notices of local betrothals from a newspaper, a recipe my stepmother had clipped, and a notice of a poetry night with Longfellow in Brighton. I pondered this last one—perhaps I should tell my patient her favorite poet was in England. I unfolded Father’s letter, skimming through. The paragraphs about his new clinic made me homesick.
I’ve begun speaking with investors about building. I have a few on board, but most see it as little more than another small-scale hospital. I only hope my work outlives me, so people realize from it exactly what is lacking in London hospitals.
A few more paragraphs, then he wandered awkwardly into advice on love.
You will find joy in marriage, Willa, even if it isn’t what you hoped for. Belonging to a person, and having someone who belongs to you, has a surprising sweetness and comfort in maturing years. I pray you’ll find such comfort, daughter. No medical career has arms to hold you in the dark nights.
If you should happen to return unsuccessful, do not deal too harshly with yourself. Your old father—and Dr. Tillman—will welcome you back with ready arms, prepared to make a soft landing for you here.
What he’d meant as a comfort lingered like a threat, driving me to succeed—both with my position and with the love letter that had brought me here. I glanced again to the window, and Gabe stood now with his face beside the great creature’s, a cautious mutual trust forming between them. Not many could convince a wild stallion to allow them close, but it took the right man, a gentle touch, and a great deal of patience. This, Father. This is how a man should woo a woman. Gentle, patient, humble. Suddenly it occurred to me why I’d naturally tied that letter to Gabe—their approach was the same. How rare, how valuable, was that writer and the love offered to some unknown person.
“A love letter?” Golda’s voice made me jump.
Stomach clenched, I shoved the missive in my pocket. “News from home. From Father.”
When the dressmaker came for a fitting of the performance gown, Golda shooed me out and I went in search of Aunt Maisie. It was time to find that letter while I still had my position here, and deliver it. If anyone had taken the missing letter from Clara’s room, it would be her. Rightfully, it might be hers anyway.
I found her before a cold hearth in a little sitting room near the front of the house, a handkerchief draped over her upturned face as she slept. With a knock she stirred, the handkerchief floating to her lap. She glanced about, then settled her gaze on me with a smile. “You’ve come to hear more.”
“No, actually—”
“No matter. You’ve come.”
I moved a chair closer to her and helped her sit up. “Aunt Maisie, I must confess something. I’ve misplaced Grayson Aberdeen’s letter, and now it’s leaked into the household.”
She blinked. “Leaked?”
“You haven’t . . . taken it back, have you?”
“I only wish I had. Tell me, who’s found it, and what has happened?”
With a sigh, I clutched my knees and summarized the letter, Essie believing it was hers, and what had become of it. “I was hoping you’d found it among Clara’s things and—”
“What do you take me for, a common snoop?” She bounced in her seat on that last word.
“Of course not. I just thought perhaps you saw it and picked it up. I’ve no idea where it is now, or how to get it back.”
�
�I believe I know. Clara was the last to have it, you say?” She sighed. “It’ll be Burke who found it. Burke, who was slinking around the foyer, asking the poor butler to keep account of his wife’s comings and goings, and especially to notify him if she received any letters. Now what on earth would make a man say such a thing?”
I wilted against the chair, hand to my forehead. “A love letter among his wife’s things. Oh, Aunt Maisie, what shall we do? We must get it back, but how do we untangle the damage it’s already done? Burke thinks his wife . . . and Essie. I couldn’t bear to tell her the letter isn’t hers. Not after . . .” I told her in hurried sentences about the broken teacup and Essie’s dilemma, despairing over the scaffolding being built throughout this house and the mess it would soon leave behind when it fell.
Her prim little smile gave me hope. “Don’t trouble yourself over that silly red cup. She’ll have it come teatime.”
“But that’s a mere half hour from now. Where on earth will we find another?”
She straightened. “Why, in my little alcove of course, in a box under my bed where I keep the rest of the set. There were a dozen, you know.”
“Why, Aunt Maisie, you’re brilliant!”
“You think that poor little parlor maid is the first one to break the sainted red cup? I’ve eight left.” She winked.
I laughed out loud, squeezing her hands and beaming my warm thoughts in a smile. “You were the perfect one to come to with this trouble.” I helped her stand, balancing her with a gentle hand. “Now, if only you could help me solve the riddle of this performance too. She’s being fitted for her costume now.”
She grunted as she shuffled forward. “That would be your mess, Miss Duvall. I’ll be no help in convincing them of anything. Precious few care what an old woman thinks.”
The informal planning meeting happened accidentally the following Monday evening, after Golda had sent me off with a few assignments in preparation while she had a soak in her white porcelain tub. I’d gone to find Celeste, but it was Gabe who found me, and I rushed toward him. “Oh Gabe, I need your help terribly.”
The Love Note Page 10
