The Love Note

by Joanna Davidson Politano

  They’d paired us together at the end, as we had both been included by a technicality of social graces, and Aunt Maisie eyed us with her shrewd monkey-eyes. She’d turned into her usual dinnertime statue, but I felt her gaze. Oddly enough, I seemed to have Celeste’s as well. “As well as can be expected, I suppose.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Tillman smiled around his bite and continued to watch me expectantly.

  I gave a faltering smile, uncertain exactly what I was supposed to say. “And you? Did you pass a few productive days in town?”

  “Quite.”

  A pleasant hum of voices punctuated by clinking flatware served as the background noise. Golda spoke to Burke about her presentation of verses and meeting Longfellow. Burke and Clara hardly spoke, and Celeste’s frequent glances toward our end of the table did not go unnoticed.

  Then a door banged open toward the front of the house, echoing through the front entry, and the pleasant chatter dimmed. The dining room door opened, and it was Mr. Gresham, that ghostly shadow of a man filling the doorway behind Parker. The butler bowed and removed himself, leaving the awkward owner of the house to face us all.

  He shifted, looking at the faces turned toward him, and fiddled with the buttons of his suitcoat. “Well then, carry on.” He seated himself as a footman pulled out a chair at the far end between the doctor and myself, separated from his wife by the massive walnut affair holding our meal.

  “Why, Mr. Gresham, what a surprise.” Golda’s slight frown said it wasn’t a welcome one.

  “I do live here, after all.” He lifted knife and fork, eyeing the meat on his plate.

  “So you do.”

  I flashed a glance toward Golda and suddenly became aware that her husband was here because I had goaded him into it.

  Which had been less than brilliant, as it turned out.

  The diners returned to eating, but the talking had ceased. Footsteps of the staff moving here and there punctuated the hushed moments. Mr. Gresham sat at the head of his own table clearing his throat and keeping his gaze down as if he were a guest at the palace. “You look well, Mrs. Gresham.”

  Golda gifted him with a tolerant smile. “I’m glad I appear that way, Mr. Gresham.”

  Celeste and Burke exchanged looks of longsuffering while Gabe studied his mother with keen eyes.

  Celeste forced a bright smile. “What sort of adventures have you had lately, Father?”

  “Business matters, mostly.” He took a bite. “I’ve been pursuing a lead on a completely new type of stallion. It’s an untapped opportunity, and I’ve arranged to travel there and pursue it before others get wind of it. It’ll be a big undertaking, but an even larger reward, if it pays off.”

  Golda froze, napkin at her lips. “I see.”

  “I meant to write you about it, but I thought—”

  “That it was meaningless, of course, as my opinion often is to you.”

  He hunched his tall frame over his food and silence reigned again. The web of private tension thickened, all of us finding ourselves caught up in it.

  Burke spoke in low tones to Celeste about a garden party, and the attention of the room dissipated. A sense of release spread over us.

  “So here I am, Miss Duvall.” Mr. Gresham leaned toward me as he sipped his drink and blotted his lips. “Is it what you hoped it would be, having me at Crestwicke?”

  “Ah, so you are the reason for his return.” Dr. Tillman smiled at me, one eyebrow raised. “Very keen powers of persuasion.”

  Gresham turned to his physician. “Speaking of which, the entire board is still in shock over what you’ve done.”

  “Oh?” Tillman stared at his plate, avoiding my gaze.

  What had the man done now? Perhaps “Tillman’s Tablets” turned out to be a hoax, and now he had to answer for them.

  Gresham buttered his bread. “On that note, Miss Duvall, I wish you all the best in medical school.”

  I bit down hard on my tongue, and cried out, blinking back tears. Silence blanketed the room again, but with my small smile of apology, the talk resumed around us. Heat washed over my skin. The letter from the admissions board—that precious letter, in the long envelope. Magic, indeed. The board hadn’t changed their minds—Tillman had.

  But why?

  Mr. Gresham slipped out the tall doors after quickly clearing his plate, and I turned to Dr. Tillman, looking over his scholarly face behind the spectacles. “Whatever you did, thank you. But I hope it wasn’t some misguided effort to gain my affections.”

  “As I had no plans to tell you I’d done it, it’s safe to assume that wasn’t the reason.”

  It was impossible to believe. There had to be more. I stared at him unflinchingly, waiting for him to crack, but he didn’t. “Then what was it?”

  “What?”

  “The reason.”

  “Are you suggesting I recommended a potential student for reasons other than pure talent and suitability for the field? I pride myself in a keen perception of people and their abilities. I happen to believe you’d make a fine doctor. Better than most, actually.”

  I narrowed my gaze. “Why?”

  “Well, your research, for one. It’s quite impressive. But mostly . . . let’s just say I’ve watched you face the flames of a rather sizable dragon and barely flinch at the heat.” The edges of his mouth jerked up in the hint of a smile. “If that is any testament to how well you can hold your own with patients, this profession needs at least ten more of you.” He paused to wipe his hands with a napkin. “Congratulations, Miss Duvall. I wish you every success.”

  What in the world was he doing? He flustered and flattered me in the same sentence, his even tone conveying thoughts I could hardly wrap my mind around. I clamped my mouth shut, horrified to realize it had been hanging open.

  He sipped his drink. “Is something the matter?”

  “I’ve said nothing.”

  “Exactly.” He winked.

  A series of tingles passed over my skin in quick succession, the sensation not altogether unpleasant.

  He threw me a terribly playful grin then, and it only made it worse. “Well?”

  I blinked, faltered, then returned his charming smile with a shy one of my own. He’d asked how I was. “I’m better than I ever have been, Dr. Tillman. Which I suppose I owe to you.”

  “It was your skill that earned my recommendation. I only suggested they reconsider you. I’m honored to have you as a colleague in this harrowing world of medicine.”

  Colleague. My mind fixated on the term he’d so casually dropped into conversation. He saw me as a peer? With all the suitors who had scraped together the words of a poem-worthy proposal, none had ever granted me this level of dignity.

  I rather liked it.

  Our eyes met for a moment and I straightened. Those uninvited chills continued to climb into my scalp. I couldn’t make head or tail of the man before me, or my own heart for that matter, but I knew that the icy air of Crestwicke had been pierced by a small sliver of warmth. He’d done this, knowing I didn’t care for him. I studied his familiar features, the once-despised face that now seemed . . . what, exactly? Tolerable? Handsome? He met my stare with unblinking ease, his eyes crinkling at the edges in an endearing way, and I hadn’t any idea what I was supposed to do with my arms, my fidgeting hands.

  The moment snapped with the shove of a chair. Celeste rose with unusual force and hurried from the room.

  I followed her into the hall, wondering if I should fetch my medical bag. “What is it, Celeste?”

  She turned troubled eyes on me when I reached her. “Trying for a fifth proposal now, are we?”

  I blinked as hot and cold chased through me. “Who? What?”

  “You are considering Dr. Tillman now, are you not?”

  Was I? “Well, he isn’t completely odious.” I lowered my gaze from the accusation in hers. I could only picture the hope in her eyes when she’d first asked if I was “one of us,” and I felt now as though I’d betrayed her, even
though nothing had occurred. I still wanted, more than anything, to be a doctor—especially now.

  She stepped back, her eyes narrowed. “You spoke with more passion about him when you hated him.”

  “I never hated—”

  But she was gone, sailing through the door. I exhaled.

  “Well, what was that about?” Aunt Maisie moved up behind me.

  “I’m not certain, truly. I want to help, but I feel as though I’ve only stirred the pot.” I shifted on my feet. “Why can’t I ever seem to say the right thing? My words . . . they’re still wrong, Aunt Maisie.”

  “Because they’re yours.” She hobbled close and rested a crooked hand on my arm. “Make your heart a deep well of the Almighty by saturating yourself in his presence, and your words will come out drenched in him no matter what you say. I can promise you, no matter how many brilliant things you have to say, he has better ones.” With a nod, she hobbled out of the room.

  The whole thing left me confused and not a little unsure of myself. I’d stepped into the middle of a novel—no, a chapter—and was attempting to fumble through it.

  Yet I wanted the rest of the story.

  eighteen

  Love may come unexpectedly by getting to know someone different, or getting to know them differently.

  ~A scientist’s observations on love

  The passageway was starkly quiet as Gabe Gresham slipped into it from the drawing room. He needed space, silence, and several feet of solid wall between himself and the rest of the family. Ever since the trip to Brighton, his brain was alive with questions, what-ifs, and bright, sparkling hope. Willa Duvall had said she loved him.

  Well, in a way. She’d recited a silly poem while dancing and twirling around him like a ridiculous little woodland sprite. Unquenchable she was, and sort of a mystery.

  Which was precisely why he adored her. It was a truth so ingrained in him he’d wear it to his grave. She drew out something primal in him, a visceral magnetism that awakened life. He was a black-and-white charcoal sketch turned full color when she was here.

  Gabe stopped at a window to look up at the distant ruins, inhaling with the sweet aroma brought by memories of their times together. It was a delight having her back here. Perhaps it was time to tell her the truth about himself. She should know, if her feelings for him were changing even in the slightest. But after watching her with the doctor at dinner . . . now he was confused.

  He returned to his original mission—Celeste—and the morning room where he heard voices. What could have upset her? Yet when he pushed open the doors, only Dr. Tillman stood there, staring down at a piece of paper with a look of utter bemusement. His gaze jerked up when Gabe stepped in. “Doctor. I trust it is not our family that has left you so unsettled.”

  He blinked, looking back to the paper then up at Gabe. “I’m not certain what I am, to be honest.” He held up the paper. “This is from your sister. Or at least, I think it is. Here, see what you make of it. It doesn’t sound like her, but she’s just flung it at me with the greatest fit of passion. I’ve never seen the like.”

  “She threw it?”

  “Well, yes, after saying a great long string of nonsensical things. Something about what was between us, and then something about Miss Duvall. It left me feeling like quite a cad, and I’m certain I must be, but I cannot for the life of me understand why.”

  Gabe accepted the letter and frowned as he read the unusual lines. The handwriting looked familiar, but he wasn’t certain if it belonged to Celeste or someone else.

  Tillman’s face was grim. “Perhaps I should go sort this out. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “Why not give her the night? Let us sort through it here, see if we can’t reason with her.”

  Unguarded relief shone through the man’s face. “Perhaps that’s best.” The doctor slipped the note into a book and set it on the desk. “I’ll just . . .” He cleared his throat. “In case she asks for it.” Then he darted out as if through an escape hatch.

  Gabe stared at the door, his mind plagued with questions and a strong sense of duty toward the hurting sister more delicate than she let on. If only he understood what to do for her. He was as lost concerning love as she was, though.

  Perhaps Burke would have an idea. He was far better with people and words. Gabe found him in the study.

  “Well, then. Come to help, have you?” Burke shuffled papers into a pile and set them aside. “I cannot seem to make head or tail of Father’s new venture, and I could use a second opinion on a few matters.”

  “I’m more suited to the stables than the desk.”

  “I’ve no idea if we’re to expect racers or sires or hunting steeds, or perhaps all they’ll be good for is renting out to the tenant farmers to pull a plow.”

  “Labels are about as helpful for horses as they are people. Simply expect them to be horses and let them show you over time what they are.”

  Burke grimaced. “Can’t you at least make a guess? We have some sketches here, and some possible bloodlines.” He dropped the messy stack on the desk before Gabe.

  He didn’t touch them. “It’s not for us to know before they’re ready to reveal it.” How like these wild stallions Willa could be. Untamable, unpredictable, defying labels . . .

  “I’m not asking you to read the creatures’ minds, Gabe. Simply look at their legs, their bearing. Make a guess as to what they might be.”

  Oh, how her eyes twinkled. Her words so flippant yet intimate too. She didn’t speak of love with every man, of that he was certain. Yet she’d meant it in a friendly manner this time.

  Right?

  “Gabe.”

  He shook himself free of his tangled thoughts—but too late.

  Burke paused his paper shuffling to stare at him, as if truly noticing him for the first time. Something in his expression made Gabe painfully aware of himself and the tiny glimpses of his thoughts he’d let leak out onto his face. He was used to knowing all about the people around him, but not the reverse.

  “Something troubling you?” Burke came around to stand in front of the desk. “Is it Celeste? Women are a confusing lot, I’ll grant you that. She’ll come around, though.”

  Gabe stared.

  “Something else. Is it woman troubles?”

  Gabe’s jaw tensed.

  “There is someone, isn’t there? Some woman has worked her way into Gabe Gresham’s solid heart and set up home there, at last.” His smile was mercifully solemn and brotherly, rather than the mocking expression he so often wore. “And now you are in a muddle about what to do with it all.”

  “Merely attempting to understand.”

  He gave a harsh laugh. “Give up now. Take it from a married man—women are as confounding as they are lovely, and the moment you think you’ve untangled things, you see the knotted mess it truly is.”

  “Hmm.” Uneasy, Gabe let the implications hang in the air and disintegrate. Of all the things people had divulged to him over the years, he didn’t care to feel like a bedroom eavesdropper.

  “One word of advice—do your own choosing. Never let her interfere, no matter how hard she works to insert herself. She’s made more than one unhappy match, including her own. So when it comes time, make certain you choose your own person to love.”

  Gabe looked down. For him, it was never a matter of who, but if. He had never considered himself, a true loner, fit for marriage. Unless it was to her. Willa Duvall had woven herself into his life as thoroughly as a golden thread running through a tapestry, never to be removed without a thorough unraveling.

  He remembered the first time her smile had caught him off guard—he’d been following her up a path and she’d flung a bright, dimpled smile back over her shoulder. He stumbled and tried to feign a trip over the rocks. Her melodic laughter followed—never directed at him, but somehow coloring their encounters with joy. It was infectious.

  Burke’s voice broke through his sweet memory. “I suppose I shouldn’t be speaking of her so, especial
ly to you, but she drives you mad at times too, doesn’t she?”

  Willa? No. Gabe blinked, circling back to their conversation. Mother. He’d been speaking of Mother. “She has my pity. My empathy.”

  Burke eyed him. “You’re not a bad sort, Gabe, even if you don’t say much.” He returned to his chair behind the desk, blotting his pen and writing. “I suppose I’ll merely figure those horses in as sires until we have a look at them and know more. Any horse can be that much, at least. Here, take these bloodline papers with you. Once you’ve untangled the great mystery of these creatures, you let me know.”

  “The horses?”

  “Well, them too.” His smile was coy.

  Gabe ignored the insinuation. “It’ll take time.”

  “So be it. And Gabe.” He lowered the pen, his gaze direct. “Go on and ask her, whoever she is. It can’t hurt. The worst she can say is no.”

  He was absolutely right—nothing could be worse than her saying no. And she’d had a fair bit of practice at it.

  Burke watched Gabe’s broad back move through the doorway and disappear into the dark passageway beyond, his mind still simmering with thoughts of his wife. Perhaps Clara should have married someone like Gabe, who was as quiet and reclusive as her.

  His gut gave a sickening lurch. Was it him? Had Gabe written the letter? He couldn’t recall just then what Gabe’s handwriting even looked like.

  Where was Gabe going, anyway? Where was Clara?

  Panic seized him once again, as it had of late, compelling him toward the hall. The stranglehold only released whenever he found his wife involved in some innocent task, without the company of a man, without a new letter. Candle leading the way, he slipped through the long, shadowed passageway until he heard her voice, low and solemn, in Celeste’s chamber.

  “Perhaps there was a misunderstanding. That Willa Duvall has a habit of accumulating men without the intention of keeping them. Dr. Tillman may find you utterly appealing in her wake.”

  What was this? He stood at the door, which was slightly ajar, and watched his wife in intimate conversation with a very unsettled Celeste, who was apparently pining over Tillman. All the pieces fitted into place with a gush of relief. Celeste and the good doctor—who knew?