“If that’s how it leaves her, then she hasn’t finished the search.”
“But if a person is already married . . .” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Aunt Maisie, why did Grayson abandon her?”
She straightened. “We haven’t finished the story yet, have we? Besides, it was his family who forced the annulment.”
“That means he still had to stand before the church and claim the marriage was never valid, retract his vows as if they were nothing more than a mistake. What good is it to belong to someone if they can suddenly decide you no longer do?” I pushed the words out, and my heart retracted, as if it had just released something important from its very core. I stared at the cold fear exposed in me. Everyone left, whether they meant to or not. So many married couples remained present in body, but their heart had long since departed the union. Even Mother had left Father, in a way, and a gaping hole had grown in her absence. How could I bear it? How could anyone?
“It’s far more complicated than that, lass. You see, poor Grayson was forbidden from seeing his Rose. They even planned to have her arrested and sent to America. They didn’t want their son wasted on a little butcher shop girl, and their wishes had a nasty habit of becoming reality. They arranged for a servant to plant an heirloom necklace on the girl, but Grayson found out and bargained with them. Rather than having Rose forced to go overseas, where she’d be destitute, he would go himself. He’d join his father’s regiment if they promised to leave the girl alone. They agreed, and he was shipped out to the West Indies.”
“Did Rose follow him?”
She shook her head sadly. “She didn’t know what had become of him for a long time.”
“Didn’t she try to win him back?”
“Of course she did.” The old woman grimaced. “What kind of spineless heroine do you think she was? Every week for several months, Rose appeared at their doorstep, asking for Grayson. Every time, they sent her away. Then she came one last time and confessed, in all irony, that she actually was in possession of a priceless family heirloom from Grayson, but they didn’t believe her.”
“What did she do?”
“There was nothing for it but to return home, ruined and abandoned. No one would marry her after that, and truth be told, she didn’t wish to wed. Those years broke her. When her father found out what had happened, he kicked poor Rose out, calling her a disgrace and a great deal of other names not repeated by decent folk. The only man who thought well of her was Grayson, and he was off fighting for his queen.”
“Did he ever come home? Surely his parents would not stand between them forever, if they were truly in love.”
She offered a weak shrug, her faded eyes wandering into some unseen attic room of her mind. “I looked for him for a while, but no one knew where he was, or wouldn’t say. He’d been known all over Upton Currey for his charm and wealth, but suddenly no one spoke of him. It was as if he hadn’t existed, and there was nothing to be done about it.”
Emotion shimmered in me, absorbing the immensity of this story . . . and the shift in her narrative, that single word giving it all away: I. It wasn’t Clara’s story, or Gabe’s betrothed, but the bright-eyed sharp-witted grown-up young woman before me. She had been telling me her own story. Another listener might have missed the subtle slip, but my medical mind sorted through emotion daily to thread out facts.
Despair and hope mingled in my heart, swirling into a chaotic desperation to find that love note. I had to deliver it to her, even if she never saw its writer again. She had to know how he felt. If only I knew where it was! I fisted my hands, wishing they still held that elusive letter.
Aunt Maisie ran her crippled old hands along my arm and grabbed at my hand. Her skin was loose but smooth. “Don’t let this story cause you to give up, child. Keep looking, keep chasing that deep desire for real love. Cast aside every wrong one, and eventually . . . eventually you’ll find the real thing.”
I looked her full in the face, heart pounding. “Tell Rose, if you should see her, that it isn’t time for her to give up just yet either.”
Her gaze locked onto my face, searching for something of vital importance. “You’ve found her letter.”
“No, but it’s turned up again. It’s still here.”
She stilled. “Who?”
“Celeste.”
“Truly?”
“She believes she has an admirer now too. I’ve no idea how to break the truth to her—or to Essie. And somehow Clara Gresham is part of this.” What had Aunt Maisie said about Burke keeping tabs on his wife? A mess is what I’d created. Not a reunion, but a volatile mess. “Perhaps we should tell—”
“No.” She squeezed my hand with a stranglehold. “Whatever comes, you must not tell them anything. Not yet, anyway. Promise me you won’t.”
“Why ever not? They can’t go on believing—”
“What, that someone, somewhere truly loves them? Don’t you see? These words have a life beyond the page. They’ve taken flight in this house, moving where they will, seeping into the cracks of hearts. It’s woken something up in them, opened them to the possibility that love exists and they are the worthy recipients. And that is vital.”
Truth and compassion, always at war within my outspoken self. This time my strangled heart chose compassion . . . and silence. Not a lie, just silence. “How long?”
“Find that letter, and we’ll discuss what comes next.”
I couldn’t stop thinking about the path that missive seemed to be carving through the hard rock of Crestwicke’s walls. Even I had been captivated by the thing.
What makes the past so intriguing, anyway? Perhaps because understanding those stories that so enchant us, those ghostly echoes of long-ago mistakes and passions, means untangling the present and changing the future.
Which is what I intended to do. Armed now with the name of a town, I would find Grayson Aberdeen and see if, by some chance, he was unattached.
twenty
There’s power in simply listening to the one you love, because it gives weight and value to your beloved’s thoughts before they are even spoken.
~A scientist’s observations on love
Upton Currey. There was nothing magical about that hamlet, but in order to sew the whole mystery together, I needed a story thread that wove through that little place—Grayson Aberdeen’s whereabouts. An opportunity to chase the lead came a mere three days after Aunt Maisie had let the name slip.
By Tuesday of the following week, exactly three weeks into my stay, Golda had agreed to see the specialist, and she planned to leave with Dr. Tillman in two days’ time. I forced myself not to think of the looming contract deadline—one week away. Unless Father forgot—but he never did.
“Why not give your nurse the day off, and let her have a little holiday?” Burke sipped his water that evening and pointed his glass in my direction. Suspicion arose, but I thrilled at the idea of sneaking off to pursue Grayson. I could do it—there and back within the day. But what would it cost? I watched Burke through slitted eyes, waiting for him to reveal his angle. “She hasn’t taken any of her half days, and I’m certain Celeste could accompany you and Dr. Tillman to town.” He gave a wink toward his sister.
Celeste reddened, and my mind watched the puzzle take shape. So, it was Dr. Tillman she suspected of being her secret letter writer, and somehow Burke had found out. How on earth had all that come about? And which of them had the letter now?
Golda fidgeted. “I suppose I do owe you a day.”
“If you could spare me, ma’am, I have an errand to do that’s several towns over.”
Mrs. Gresham turned her imperial gaze on me. “I wouldn’t pay you for the day off.”
“Naturally.”
“Very well, then.” Golda Gresham looked me over. “I suppose I’ll oblige you. I assume you’ll have a traveling companion, yes? I’ll not have a member of my staff acting in an unbecoming manner.”
I struggled to find my voice. “I hadn’t given it a thought
. I don’t imagine I could find anyone to accompany me at this late hour.”
She raised an eyebrow, silently berating the unseemly individuals who had raised me this way. “I suppose if you have no one, you shall simply come with Dr. Tillman and me.”
Celeste’s fingers struck a dissonant chord on the piano and she spun on the bench. “I’ll do it.”
We all turned to Celeste as she rose, closing the lid over the keys. “A trip sounds delightful, and I’ll take any excuse to see something new.” She came to stand beside me and impulsively slipped her hand into the crook of my arm. “Come, it’ll be nice for the both of us. Poor Miss Duvall should have her holiday, and Dr. Tillman mentioned earlier that he’d rather take his own nurses. I’d merely be in the way.”
Golda gave a queenly nod. “Very well, then. On Thursday we shall go our separate ways.”
We rode on horseback toward the burning orb of a sun that Thursday morning, bright enough to blind me from the road. My mind spun. The clop-clop of our mounts was the only sound until Celeste finally spoke. “How do you do it, exactly?”
The sound of her voice startled me after a quarter mile or so of silence. I turned to blink at my longtime friend and recall the threads of some conversation we’d dropped. “Do what?”
“Draw men to you like honey and have them pining after you?”
I blew out a breath. “I only wish I knew—so I could stop doing it.”
She blinked in shock, then the tension faded from her face. A chortling giggle came out, ending in a small snort.
A smile pulled at my lips and my stress lightened. “What, you don’t believe me? It isn’t purposeful, you know. I’d rather enchant no one than break hearts and sully friendships. Everywhere I go, there’s a trail of misread feelings and dashed hopes. Believe me, it’s nothing to be jealous of.” I turned in my saddle to look at plain, spinsterly Celeste, who was made much prettier by a genuine smile. Please help me form the right words, God. There is more than I even understand happening in her heart. “About that letter . . .”
Her gaze snapped to me.
“Have you gone and changed your mind about men?”
Her smile faded and our horses plodded on in quiet. She stared at the road ahead. “I thought I was completely happy. The women’s league is important work, after all, and I’m proud to be part of it. But perhaps . . . perhaps someone changed my mind.” She sighed. “I’ve had another letter. It was left in my chambers, and it was even more memorable.”
“Another.” This was becoming a pattern. An odd one.
A brilliant array of possibilities spun, then narrowed to one. Maisie. When words are all you have, it suddenly makes you want to keep as many as you can and do something with them.
She had imitated Grayson’s handwriting to stir the pot. An attempt to help or wreak havoc? Either way, she was making an impact.
I sighed in my utter helplessness and looked at Celeste. I couldn’t tell her. Not yet, at least. The new lift of her chin, the easy manner of her movements, the dewy hope in her eyes—I couldn’t crush that until I knew for certain.
Besides, I’d promised Aunt Maisie my silence. Now I knew why she’d asked it of me. Quiet closed back over the conversation once again and remained until we neared the village.
“So tell me more about this errand, Miss Duvall. Is it to do with your relations?”
“Not at all. I’m tracking down half of an age-old love story, and I hope to find closure for someone.” I’d only promised silence concerning the letter, right? Not the story. “A man named Grayson Aberdeen once married a girl for love, but his parents forced an annulment. They never spoke again.”
She looked at me. “Well, that’s a fine thing to do, toss me crumbs that way and not finish the story. Who are these people? What’s become of them?”
I shifted on the creaky leather sidesaddle and ushered her into the magnificent old love story of Aunt Maisie and Grayson Aberdeen. I called the girl Rose, of course, to keep her secret, and left out the part about the letter. The tale spilled out of my overfull heart in an easy, flowing tempo, and my companion listened intently. “You find it remarkable too, don’t you?”
“I admit, I’m intrigued. Perhaps we can work together on it.”
I smiled at this woman who was surprisingly as receptive to authentic love as I was and sensed a reemerging kinship. “I’d like that.”
We rode into the small town of Upton Currey before I realized I had no destination more specific than the town itself. How did one go about inquiring after an individual to whom she’d never been formally introduced? Perhaps this entire trip was rather uncouth of me. I admitted my lack of plans to Celeste, but she merely smiled and said, “Why, we begin with the church, of course. The parish vicar will know everyone.”
We slowed our mounts and steered them toward the distant clang of a bell, aiming for the steeple that rose above cresting green hills. We reined in at a black iron fence and dismounted.
After securing our horses, we approached the weathered wooden doors and pulled on the iron ring.
Celeste stepped in first. “Hello there!”
A young face popped out from behind a curtain, eyeing us with hesitant welcome.
“I was hoping you might direct us, sir. Where might we find the vicar?”
He shrugged. “No telling, this time of day. Out winning souls, I expect.”
“Perhaps you can help us. You are his . . . ?”
“Curate. I don’t hear confessions, mind you.”
“What can you tell us about the Aberdeen family? Do they live around here?”
I braced myself for a look of confusion, an apologetic no, but instead his face lit with interest. “Of course. They have for generations.”
“Generations.” I breathed this out, my heart suddenly pummeling my ribs. It was real—Maisie’s story was real. “What do you know of them?”
He smoothed his oiled hair parted in the center. “The Aberdeens haven’t been to church in some time. He isn’t well—rather delicate of mind, you see. He was once a force about this village, old Grayson Aberdeen, but now he’s an old man locked up in his tower.”
I could barely breathe. “Is that so? I suspect he’s grieving some deep sorrow.”
“Certainly he is.” The man waved for us to follow him out the door and into the churchyard with crooked grave markers stuck into rocky soil. He led us to a large crypt in the rear and pointed at the sign. “Most of the family lies here, and those still living have a place reserved.”
I scanned the engraved plates, pulse pounding, until I saw his name.
G. ABERDEEN
B. 1780 D. —
“His wife is still living?”
“That she is, and it’s a good thing too. There’s no one else to see to his care.”
I closed my eyes as my heart sank to the floor with utter disappointment. This was not the ending I was hoping for. “I thought you said he was grieving . . .”
“That’s right, their children. All died many years ago.” He pointed to the engraved plates of three more Aberdeens, all with dates of death in the ’30s. “Were you acquainted with the family, then?”
“A little.” Just the contents of one of their hearts.
“There are a great many legends about them. They’re the oldest family in these parts, going nigh on four hundred years. That house up on the hill there, it’s been theirs for many generations.” He pointed with a long finger to the fog-drenched hill in the distance that balanced a crooked old mansion on its peak. Slender towers flanked long stucco and timber walls, providing a charm that came from age rather than beauty.
“What sort of stories?”
“Oh, dealings with pirates, embezzlement, an illegitimate duke.”
“Anything about a Gretna-Green marriage?”
“You’d have to ask up at the house. I seem to remember something, but it may have only been rumors. People in Upton Currey, they do love to tell stories. It’s all they have to be excited over.”<
br />
It was only after the curate walked away that I noticed the inscription on several name plates also bore the name G. Aberdeen, and they all had a date after the d. I pointed them out to Celeste. “A lifetime of waiting, and it all ends like this. Either he’s dead, or he’s mad and married to someone else up in that old tower.”
I smiled at my companion, but she was pensive. “Well now, it seems there’s only one thing to do, if we wish to know for sure.”
The crooked castle looked almost eerie as we climbed the winding bramble-covered road, its walls designed to separate the family within from the rest of the world. With a breath, I leaned into my mount and urged her up the steep incline. A pair of stone gargoyles greeted us at the massive timber doorway, and I nearly didn’t dismount. It was Celeste who urged me on.
“Come now, we won’t find any answers from the backs of our horses.”
I slipped down and braved the steps. The knocker stuck to the door with a layer of grime, but I banged it a few times and stepped back.
An ancient maid opened the door, blinking as if she hadn’t seen sunlight in a decade. “Miss?”
I asked to speak to Mr. Aberdeen, and we were led hesitantly into a dark drawing room that was curtained with old threadbare velvet and limp gold tassels and promptly abandoned there. Dust collected along my moist skin while we waited. The place seemed more like a neglected curiosity shop than a home. Finally the owners appeared together, oddly similar to their furniture with outdated garments and haggard faces. The lady of the house wheeled in her slender husband, who sat arched forward in his chair, reminding me of a grasshopper with his bowed legs and round, dark eyes.
Deep pain and age had drawn their faces down like melted candle wax, and it struck me how wrong it was to come. I was asking them to dredge up pain that still obviously haunted them, poking their hearts into remembering little details that might feed into my foolish search.
The Love Note Page 19
