“By feel. We are a team, remember? Follow the pressure as my hand guides you.”
He remained transfixed on my face, allowing his gaze to settle into mine, and I guided with gentle backward pushes against his hand. We glided through two sets of three-count, his body following my lead with surprising ease and compliance.
“You’re doing it, Gabe.” I flashed him a full smile. “You’re dancing.”
He grinned and his boot thunked the fountain wall, making him stumble. I helped him up with an echoing laugh in the empty garden, and he sighed, brushing off his jacket front. “Would you by chance be impressed by standing still? I can do that quite well.”
“Oh, Gabe.” I smiled playfully and sprang up to the fountain’s rim, spinning as I clung to his hand and splashing the toe of my kid boot into the water with each twirl. “How do I love thee, let me count the ways. Your solemn brow, chock-full of know-how, the way your waltzing sways.” I threw my head back and laughed, stumbling off the ledge and he caught me.
His eyes were glowing down at me, a solemn smile creasing his rugged cheeks, and suddenly my memory faded from the present, the fountain and the gardens, replacing it with the sunlit backdrop of the ruins, with that same face—years younger—looking down upon me with that ocean-deep smile and those soul-rich hazel eyes.
Mum had been freshly buried, the wound of her passing still sharp and fresh. I’d lugged my heavy grief up to a ledge on that ruined tower, not sure how to untangle myself from it. Gabe had scrambled up and settled his lanky frame beside me, resting for a few moments before breaking the silence. “A cold castle you’ve chosen for yourself. It hasn’t even got a roof.”
I leaned back against the mossy stones and looked up into that face that would come to mean so much to me. “All the better to see the stars. I rather like the stars.”
He turned to look up at them without a word, as if he valued the sight as deeply as the eight-year-old girl beside him. He’d taken me riding every time we’d come, showing me how it was done and turning me into a proper horsewoman with patience and good humor. Seconds stretched on and his presence weighted my soul back down into me, making the world feel like something I could handle even if it was messy. “Might I coax the lady to leave her castle for another turn at the horses?”
I smiled a little, dried tears stretching on my skin.
“That spritely little mare won’t take to anyone else the way she does you. I need someone to work her out. I don’t suppose the princess of the castle could help a lad out, could she?”
“I’m no princess.”
“Sure you are.” He leaped down, disappearing in the shadows of the old ruin, then reappearing with a thin rope-like thing. “All you need is a proper crown.” He grinned like a little elf, ears jutting out from scraggly brown hair, and wove flower stems into a pink-blossom crown. “I dub thee Princess of the ammenomies.”
I blinked moist lashes. A giggle escaped. “Ameno-what?”
He scowled playfully and crossed his arms. “You know. Ammeno—anemo—”
“They’re anemones. And they don’t make me a princess. My father’d have to be a . . .” I glanced down the hill at the giant house that had swallowed him hours ago.
“King. And he is, you know.” He looked up into the great open sky. “That Father, anyway.” He settled beside me and his chest rose and fell for several silent moments. “You come out here and talk to him when the house gets too noisy. It’ll hold your soul together when no human hands can manage it.”
I breathed in the fresh sea air and smiled, for I could feel it too. I hadn’t known what to call it, but it was God, and he was here, no matter where my earthly father was. The notion blew my chest wide open with wonder and eternally flavored thanks and made me love the place.
And miss her. Miss her all over again. She’d have loved this so. Fresh tears leaked out of swollen eyes and slid down my cheeks. I fisted my hand, pretending I was holding hers.
When the weight threatened to crush me, this unusual lad bounded down and held up his hand. “A proper royal must dance in her own castle. Would you do me the honor?”
I giggled through my unwanted tears and climbed down into his spindly arms. “I’m not certain I know how.”
“Good. Neither do I.”
He spun me about in awkward circles as we tripped over each other’s feet and laughed like the silly children we were, shaking the grief loose for a moment. In those stolen sunlit hours, I remember feeling blessedly whole and hopeful for a normal future. I knew there’d be healing someday, because I’d tasted it.
He now tucked my hand safely into the crook of his arm, and the motion jolted me from my memory and back into the present.
“You’ve gotten your dance out of me,” he said. “Will that do?”
“For what?” We walked through the trimmed shrubbery as crickets began their serenade.
“For my apology. I oughtn’t have been so harsh with you when Mother fainted. I had no idea you didn’t know about her condition. She’s wretchedly closed off about it and, well . . . I hope this’ll make up for it.”
I looked down at the path, at the shined shoes of this man who had rescued me from pits I hadn’t even known how to describe. “Yes, Gabe. It’ll do,” I said softly.
I had come out here to teach him to dance tonight, but I suddenly struggled to remember why it mattered. We walked along the bridge together, striding through the gaslight muted by drifting fog, our footfall echoing in tandem, when I spotted a smattering of pink flowers in pots near the entrance gate. I stopped to pick one and consider its simple petals so like the anemone. “Gabe?”
“Hmm?”
“You don’t have to learn to dance, you know.” My voice was quiet, and I offered a shy smile up toward him. “You’re mostly all right the way you are.”
His face grew tender as he looked down at me. “Good to know.”
“I wouldn’t mind you being right a little less often, though.”
“I rather like being right. It’s one of the few advantages I have over you.”
I laughed, then sobered, squeezing his arm where my hand lay nestled in its crook. “No, I believe you have a few more than that.”
He stopped to take the little flower from my hand and twirled it before me, then he tucked it behind my ear with a tilt of his head and a smile.
He paused near the theatre steps, shoulders hunched and stretching his well-cut coat. “Thank you.”
“For?”
He shrugged, a boyish grin peeking out. “For enjoying me anyway.”
Before I could gather a response, he was gone, melting into the shadows of Brighton that stretched beyond the garish lights of the theatre. No, Gabe did not fit into this world at all. He did not bear the polished sheen of the people with whom he was raised, but he glowed and flickered like a flame, warm and alive, the glass and crystal people around him merely reflecting his light. There was something so very real, so rich and deep, about Gabe Gresham that I struggled to remember exactly why I’d decided he needed to be improved at all.
“Well done, young lady.”
I spun at the gravelly voice behind me. “Mr. Longfellow, sir.”
“I came looking for you to beg your address, so I may return your handkerchief.”
“Oh, thank you.” I handed him my card and tried to shake the odd sensation Gabe had left on me.
He jerked his head toward Gabe’s retreating form. “You’ve chosen well.” A wistful smile touched his lips as he tucked it into his breast pocket. “I wish you well, and that you have a long and happy love story.”
“Love?” My face heated, and I looked to the theatre as if Golda could overhear. “Oh no, sir. We don’t have that sort of acquaintance.” How could I put into words what we were to each other?
“A pity.” He heaved a sigh. “Well, perhaps there is hope for the future. I take it you are not well acquainted yet?”
“He is Golda Gresham’s son, and I’ve known him since I was a girl, but there’s no under
standing of that nature between us.” I’d had a sense for some time that Gabe nurtured a budding infatuation for me, but it was easy to put it from my mind when nothing changed between us. If it existed, it would fade with time, and our friendship would outlive it—at least I hoped so.
He frowned, and I hurried to explain, even though my argument felt solid as pudding. “I value freedom and independence, and I hope to one day become a doctor.”
His mouth slid closed, as if words could not properly convey his thoughts. “Might I be so bold as to suggest you reconsider? You’ve stumbled upon a rare gentleman. I don’t know him, of course, but any man who honors his mother with the devotion and gentleness I witnessed tonight is a gem. Take note of it, Miss Duvall, for he will do the same for his wife one day. You’d be smart to make certain that was you.”
I stiffened. If I had feathers, they would be ruffled. Did the man believe me helpless? “Thank you, but I have no need for a caretaker.”
“Yet.”
“Marriage is not an insurance policy.” I studied the man for a moment, weighing my words. “However, I shall consider changing my mind if you change yours.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Write poetry again, Mr. Longfellow. Not those plays and translations you’ve done of late, but the words of your heart. Even if they’re dark. Write them down so those of us who are lost from time to time can stumble upon them in a dusty old book and fill the cracks of our hearts.”
He sighed. “It’s hard to imagine a broken old man has anything to offer the world.”
I smiled, hugging my arms around myself and looking boldly up at him.
“Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.”
The words of his own poetry once again filled the chilly space between us. “Keep leaving your footprints, sir. You have many finding their way through the dark by them.”
He stared at me for long moments as he retracted a worn, square envelope from his breast pocket. “It took me seven years to earn this letter, and I cannot part with it. Of all my published works, everything I’ve ever written, these are the words I deem most important in my life.”
I opened and read the strong, angular writing of Frances Appleton, who was agreeing, against her long-held inclinations, to accept the many proposals of Mr. Henry Wordsworth Longfellow.
He shook his head. “Once I had her beside me, I wasted a great deal of time—on writing. I wore myself out one night pouring my stormy, passionate words onto the page, and the next day I was abed by teatime. I slept like one dead, and I never heard the chaos below.” He blinked, nostrils flaring. “She was melting wax, sealing up locks of our childrens’ hair. She was like that, taking care of the little things, savoring those sweet remembrances. Who ever knew a dress could catch fire from a few drops of wax? Or perhaps the candle fell. I’ll never know, because I wasn’t there. I had spent myself on poetry and pride, with little left for her.” His beard trembled, and I noticed the jagged burn scars beneath. “She was gone the next morning, but I watched my love suffer the torture of my neglect through the night. Because of my selfish need to write.”
My hands trembled. Tears burned the backs of my eyes and I blinked them back. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Don’t waste a moment when you find the one you love. I hope my story encourages you to do that, at least.”
“In truth, it inspires me to wait until I find a love equal to yours, one that’s burned into my heart. I shall not settle for less.”
A small smile stretched his voluminous white beard, and his eyes twinkled with sad merriment, if that was a possible combination. “Don’t take terribly long to find him, Miss Duvall, for he’s already found you.” He gave a nod toward the darkness where Gabe had disappeared, then he too was gone.
It was now nearly dark. I stood alone in the encroaching shadows, under the glare of theatre lights, my heart tangled.
As we rode back to Crestwicke the next day, the entire town seemed quiet as most Brighton residents had been tucked neatly into Sunday services. I tried to open my heart to the idea of marrying, for it seemed that would be my eventual end, but none of it seemed right. Thick silk and organdy dress, orange blossoms in my hair, my own name read in the banns . . .
I shivered.
With Golda staring out the window, her lady’s maid buried in Colin Fairchild’s serial, and Gabe nearly asleep, I mentally wandered back over Grayson Aberdeen’s love letter and pondered the missing man who’d written it. What was it about this love story that drew me so? What ingredient did it have that had been missing in all of mine?
Everything. It was courage in the face of denied love, tender hope without demands, a raw expression of total and complete love for someone who was known, seen, and desired. Perhaps if my flaws were more acceptable or my nature more demure, more controlled, and feminine . . .
When we returned to Crestwicke on Sunday afternoon, we brought Golda to her chambers, settled her in, then I turned to face a very pink-cheeked Essie. The cobwebs of my thoughts were sliced through by her news.
“Oh miss, I’ve had another letter—from him.”
seventeen
The secret to finding true love is not in discovering someone who will give it to you but learning how to give it.
~A scientist’s observations on love
I dropped my reticule in my adjoining chamber, then hurried back to the maid accepting garments as Jenny slipped them off her mistress. I held Golda’s arms to steady her and looked back at Essie. “You’re certain it’s the same person?” I whispered this.
“Oh, yes, quite.” She hugged the stack of linens with joy about to burst as Jenny continued discarding items across Essie’s freckled arms. “I hardly know what to think.”
I felt the same. “Well, what did it say?”
“He thinks my face is beautiful.” She shrugged as her cheeks pinked with pleasure. “He’s happy simply being nearby, even if we never speak. Oh, it makes me so curious, doesn’t it you?”
“Enormously.” My brain spun as Mrs. Gresham donned a burgundy housedress and moved into her sitting room to give orders concerning dinner. I ducked into my own room to change out of traveling garments, eying my patient as I went. She looked tired but poised.
Alone, I stood in the window. Essie was Rose? Aberdeen was here? I shivered with the warm awareness of Grayson’s presence creeping up around me, that foggy sense of something occurring beyond what I could see.
A distant knock on Golda’s sitting room door startled me more than it should. I heard Parker admit Dr. Tillman, and I moved deeper into my room.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Gresham. I trust your trip was uneventful.”
A rustle of skirts. “I wouldn’t call it that, but it was a success.”
“I had a few calls to pay in this district, so I thought I’d stop and see that the trip had no ill effects on you. Also, I wanted to know if you’d given any thought to that specialist I mentioned.”
I imagined her watching him with steely eyes.
“I’ll accompany you, of course, and you can bring along anyone else you wish.”
I held my breath. Would she go?
Her teacup clinked against its saucer. “Won’t you stay to dinner, Dr. Tillman?”
“Dinner? I suppose . . . but I wouldn’t think of imposing.”
“Well now, there’s a first.” The coy curl to her words delighted me. I leaned back against the wall with a smile. She was returning to herself. She seemed stronger, more alive. “Miss Duvall must join us then, so we have an even number.”
So much for a private evening.
When I escorted my patient into the drawing room for the meal at half past, Parker
met me at the door with a long white envelope. “This came for you, miss.”
I hardly glanced at the thing, intending to slip it in my pocket, but the return address shocked me. I stopped and leaned one hand on the wall as Golda brushed through the doors—Durham University School of Medicine.
It was a cruel mistake, this letter from the school that had already barred my application. I tore at the wax seal with trembling fingers. I yanked out the single folded sheet, eagerly reading it all.
We are pleased to inform you that your application has been received by the admissions board and we are considering it along with the other submissions. Be advised that, should you be accepted for admission to this university, you will receive a separate letter with the applicable dates for arrival and fee schedule for . . .
My vision blurred, then refocused. I scanned it again. Was this real? Yes, it was. But how? I read the letter again, feeling this moment sinking into the history pages of my life. It was here in black-and-white—they were considering my application, the one that listed a woman’s name on the top. They were considering a woman. This woman.
My heart pounded and tears formed. It was my very own sort of love letter, one that thrilled my heart with a rapture greater than all four proposals combined. I sank onto a page boy stool in the hall, clutching the letter and wondering what sort of magic had occurred. For them to send this, to know I was here, rather than at home—a miracle, that’s how. God is God, Mama had always said. He can do anything he wants.
How interesting and lovely the world suddenly seemed.
I nearly pounced on poor Aunt Maisie when she rounded the corner and held the letter before her cloudy blue eyes. She blinked through it, then that whiskered chin hung down to her chest, eyes wide and lips quivering.
“Ahahah, you’ve done it, my girl. You’ve done it!” She cackled with glee and wrapped her arms around me.
I walked into dinner with poise and tried to focus enough to join the conversation.
“I trust things are going well with your patient, Miss Duvall.” Dr. Tillman spoke from across the table when we’d been seated.
The Love Note Page 16
