The Love Note

by Joanna Davidson Politano

He threw her a darkly shadowed smirk that pleasantly curled something deep inside her. “Trying to be rid of me, are you?”

  But then he sobered. He glanced down and pulled at his waistcoat. “I should like to speak with them. It occurs to me how little I know of your childhood, of who you are outside of Crestwicke and the Greshams. Who better to tell me than the people who raised you?”

  Clara was speechless. And bemused.

  The wardrobe door shut, and she flinched, struck with the sudden realization that it was not even seven in the evening and Burke was undressing. “Is something the matter with your work?”

  “What makes you ask such a thing?”

  She hesitated, gathering the words. “Well, only that you’re not still doing it. Especially after a long absence.” She wished to swallow those last words that sounded like an accusation.

  He gave a long sigh, after which he settled himself on the window seat beside her, cravat still hanging over his unbuttoned shirt as he stared at the floor. “No, I suppose I’m not.”

  The memory of that terrible painting hung between them, a massive, pulsing thing sucking all the air from the room.

  “Are you happy here, Clara?”

  “Of course.” The words snapped out like a reflex.

  He waited, continuing to stare ahead, and the silence magnified the actual truth that lay buried inside her. Happy? Hardly. She tried again. “It is a little different than I expected, I suppose. The days can be rather empty.”

  He fidgeted, as if deciding something. “I’ve a favor to ask, then. If you would.”

  She nodded, mind fraying at the hem.

  “I’d like to commission you to make a portrait.”

  She blinked. “A portrait? Of who?”

  “You.” More fidgeting. “I want . . . that is, I very much desire a likeness of you to hang in my office.”

  She tensed. What an odd request. What could it mean?

  He took her hand. “Will you do it?” It felt as though he were courting her, stepping through that delicate dance toward a possible future together.

  “I suppose I could.” She couldn’t see a reason not to, yet there had to be a catch. Burke and her paintings never mixed willingly.

  He studied her as if trying to glimpse something more than she’d meant to allow, sorting all the pieces of her and arranging them into place. “I’ve also been wanting an oil of that black stallion, if you have the chance. It doesn’t make sense to bring in a stranger to do it when my wife is an artist.”

  Mouth slack, she rolled that word around in her mind, tasting the fresh loveliness of it. Artist. She was an artist. Not merely Burke’s childish wife who dabbled in paints now and again, but an artist.

  He tore his gaze from her, shoulders hunched to his jaw. What was this new awkwardness that cloaked him? He laced his fingers, unlaced them, pulled at his trousers around the knee. “Right, then. I suppose I could . . . pay you for it. Like commissioned work. A little extra spending money, at least.”

  Heat climbed into her face. “Don’t be silly.” What man handed his wife money? He’d already lavished on her every material thing she could want and paid every note she brought home. And resented her childish mistreatment of those things.

  “Right, then.” He turned his gaze back on her then, all dark-eyed and passionate and bare of annoyance, and her poise buckled in the face of it. Why did he have to be so handsome?

  He rebuttoned his shirt and left her then, disappearing through the door without another word. She remained exactly where she’d been when he’d entered, but everything inside her had turned upside down and spun around, leaving her pulse pounding. She forced her breath in and out. What was happening? This surprising side of him scared her in a different way than his anger. With that, at least she knew what to expect.

  Burke Gresham didn’t tell his wife where he’d been. How could he explain the odd impulse he’d had to go into town, lock himself into the London flat, and simply stare at the scattered boxes of her paintings left in the rafters? First, he’d stumbled upon a small square piece that was a man’s face in close range—mostly his right eye. Upon closer inspection, one could see the entire ocean painted in great detail within that blue-green iris, as if it filled his vision.

  He dug through boxes and stacks of her childhood pieces stored there, seeing the world through his wife’s eyes, reading her thoughts. They were more than mere replications of reality—they were her view of it. He found, to his surprise, that her reflections captivated him. She had a lovely spin on the world, unique insights and a knack for capturing them in an image.

  Then there was one single painting that rocked him to his core. He gaped at the portrait where it languished in the corner of the dusty attic, discarded on its side. He propped it upright and stared at it as if into a mirror that regressed time. A bold and gallant man, the hero of a great story, stared back at him, a face that sparked with such life, with expectation and adventure.

  It was the same man that was now overlaid by the face of Golda Gresham, twin lines of anger hardening their features, yet how vastly different the two depictions were.

  And the truth broke him.

  He’d wrapped the piece up and had it sent to Crestwicke where he could stare at it more intently. This painting had embellished his masculine features and softened his faults, giving him a distinctly heroic glow, and he desperately wanted his wife to see him that way again.

  Now he stared into the gilded mirror at Crestwicke, smoothing fingers along his two-day stubble and wondering how Clara had ever seen him as the man in that first painting. Hitching up his shoulders, he continued on to the morning room where he’d seen his wife through the window speaking with that wretch who called himself Burke’s brother. He’d been right in his hunch about Gabe, it seemed, and if Burke were to ever right this mess, he had to remove his competition.

  “Parker, assemble the family, if you would. I have an announcement.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He felt no anger toward Clara over the matter. There’d been no evidence that she’d entertained his advances or even written back. No, the seething wrath was all channeled now toward the only person who was to blame for the havoc in his life. As he entered, a tall figure hovered near the fire, hands stretched before it, and Burke bent his lips into a smile. “Gabe.”

  The man in question turned. “Welcome home. I suppose you’ve been to London.”

  “I’ve investigated the wild stallion opportunity and decided that Gresham Stables will be fully taking part, with one change. You, lucky man, will be at the helm. I’ve called the family together to make the announcement of your departure.”

  Gabe simply stared.

  “You’ve never met a horse you couldn’t best, and you’re the only one with nothing tying you to Crestwicke. I’ve already purchased your passage while I was in London.”

  “Passage? Where are these horses?”

  “Mongolia. It’s a newly discovered species—the only truly feral horses left—that are said to be both untamable and stunning. Not even the Gypsies could break them. That is, until Gabe Gresham attempts it.”

  Gabe’s face was hesitant, but his silent zeal for this project shone through, as Burke knew it would. The man couldn’t resist an untamable horse—or an unavailable woman, it would seem.

  “The grooms will take over here while you’re away, and it’ll be a whole new chapter for the Greshams. It’s said the wealthiest men in Europe are looking to purchase these creatures, if someone could be found to break them and bring them across.”

  Indecision played over his features. “From where, again?”

  “Mongolia.”

  “Is that past London?”

  Burke smirked. “It’s past Russia. You leave tomorrow.”

  “That soon?”

  “Word has gotten out in the equestrian circles, and there will be other businessmen scouting soon. There’s a vast fortune to be made from this, if it’s handled right. I’ve already spoken
to someone about purchasing land out there, and you’ll find it stunning.”

  “Yes, but . . . tomorrow?”

  “Would you rather it be today?”

  Gabe ran fingers through his hair. “I’ll go, of course, but I cannot leave Crestwicke so soon. I have people here depending on me. People I care about.”

  Burke forced his practiced smile. “One in particular, if I remember correctly. Have you made any forward progress with this mystery woman?” He tapped the table edge with his thumb, forcing that hard smile to remain on his face.

  Gabe dropped his gaze, staring down into a steaming cup that sat on an end table. “Only a little. But it’s an inch in a mile-long path.”

  An inch he never should have taken—not with someone else’s wife. “Perhaps you should go to your cottage and pack your things. I’ll make your excuses with everyone here.”

  Gabe crossed his arms over that solid work-toughened chest. “I’m not ready to leave. I have certain unfinished business here, people I cannot leave just yet.”

  Insolent bloke. I know too much about you to make this easy on you, Gabe Gresham. I’ll use your secrets against you if I have to. “The passage is booked, and there’s no other ship departing for several more months.” Burke narrowed his eyes. “Be on it, or you’re out of Gresham Stallions, and Crestwicke.”

  That steady look of Gabe’s that had unsettled Burke for years remained. “I’ll need to say goodbye, leave a small note of explanation for someone.”

  “For who?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “I believe it is, and you’ve no business writing to her. You may not care for the customs of society, but a certain level of decorum is expected of everyone here.”

  Gabe’s nostrils flared. “I care not for decorum or expectations, I care for her.”

  Rage blared through every pore, consuming him. A deep growl tore out of his chest and he grabbed a book from the desk, hurling it. It whacked a vase off a little table, shattering it against the wall.

  A pause, a flinch deep in his jaw, but Gabe remained silent. Coward. That’s why he’d written Clara a note instead of speaking up—he hadn’t the courage to say things to people’s faces. Anger throbbed through his limbs, spidered up his scalp. What a fool he’d been, thinking Gabe harmless all these years simply because he kept quiet.

  Then, in that moment he saw it—lying open on the plush burgundy carpet, where it had fallen from the book he’d hurtled, that horrible, cursed letter with the scarlet border.

  The door inched open and Celeste appeared. “What was the crash?” She stepped further into the room when he didn’t answer and spotted the letter, her gaze locking on it. She froze. Soon his father appeared, and Clara close behind. In minutes the room had clogged with servants and family, answering his summons.

  He could tell when Clara spotted it, but she remained rooted to the rug by the door. Was that shame in her posture? Perhaps she wasn’t as innocent as she seemed. That silly little upstairs maid with the red hair whimpered, she and Clara exchanging secret glances. Clara gestured for her to be quiet. Ah yes, that’s right. The little imp had been in on it with her.

  “It seems someone’s misplaced a letter.” Burke eyed his wife out of his peripheral vision as he said this, daring her to disgrace both of them.

  twenty-seven

  The quickest way to repair a broken heart is to use it.

  ~A scientist’s observations on love

  Who knows what would have happened if I’d simply remained upstairs? Yet when I found Golda’s chambers empty, my instincts drew me to investigate the crash downstairs. I hadn’t seen my patient since Gabe had brought me back from the ruins, nor had I heard stirring there, and worry seeped into my thoughts. I made my way toward the center of the house, where the noise had come from. Hurrying down the hall, I peeked into the cracked-open morning room door. I only saw Burke, his face pale and drawn. I nudged the door open further to look for Golda, but the door squeaked with a terrible dying-mouse noise.

  Several pairs of eyes turned to me, and my gaze locked onto a heart-stopping sight. It was there, on the floor—the letter. I took one step toward it but stopped at the sight of both Celeste and Essie. No one looked at each other. The tension was palpable.

  Burke strode forward and stooped to collect the letter, then held it out to Clara. “I believe you dropped this.”

  She paled, then frowned, backing away from the letter and folding her arms. “So that’s what all this has been about lately, has it? You think—”

  He stepped near and spoke low, private words that left her even paler.

  Her gaze radiated heat. “How dare you.” The words were low and succinct. After delivering them, she spun and walked toward the door with one last glance, and slipped out.

  I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but Essie stumbled forward, head bowed and hands clasped over her apron. “It’s mine, sir. Don’t blame her. I’d no idea it would cause trouble. I meant no harm.”

  Burke spun on the girl and I launched forward, diving between them. “No, it isn’t hers, either. I promise you, it isn’t. Please, it’s not what you think. This letter simply needs to be thrown away—it was all a misunderstanding.” How could I confess the truth now—after keeping it veiled for so long? My silence sickened me as much as my rash words usually did.

  He glared at me. “Did you write it?”

  “No, I—”

  Burke faced the room with a growl, waving the letter. “Will someone please claim this letter before I go mad?”

  “Very well then, I will.”

  A hush draped us. Golda Gresham’s aura preceded her into the room, spreading the cluster of people as if parting the Red Sea when she approached Burke. Mr. Gresham shot her a look of challenge, daring her to claim this love letter written for another man. Shadows had etched themselves into his long face, making it even more somber. How could you? he mouthed and stalked from the room when she did not back down.

  With one black-gloved hand and all the quiet elegance in the world, Golda plucked that letter from her son’s fingers. No one moved.

  “You?” Celeste was pale, her fingers clutching the back of a chair. “You wrote . . .” A storm of emotions played over her face. Hurt, betrayal, fury. It was as if Golda had once again stripped her of the hope of love.

  Golda turned those icy blue eyes on her in answer. She paused before her son and turned to glare at the lot of them. “What is the meaning of this? Can you all not handle a civilized conversation?” Silence reigned. “How wretched that a mere letter can create such a ripple simply because no one knows how to talk to one another about it.” She looked once more over those gathered, pocketed the letter, and turned to me. “If you please, Miss Duvall, I’d like a word with you.”

  With one last glance at the stricken watchers, I followed her down the hall to the drawing room. My head throbbed terribly against the warmth of two popping fires, and I massaged my temples after settling Golda in a high-backed chair. I stared at my patient’s profile leaning against ivory fabric as she opened the letter and began to read, poring over the lines within, and all I could do was wait and observe. Wind howled outside. Drops splattered the windows. I quaked. She lost herself in that letter for endless minutes, her face a mask.

  “Miss Duvall, you never told me when we spoke before. How did you even come to know about this letter?”

  “I’m the one who found it. The letter was in a desk that was given to our family years ago. I brought it to this house to find out who it was meant for . . . and give it to them.”

  Finally she lifted her gaze from that lovely page to my face, those stunning blue slits looking me over. “Yet just now you said it was best discarded. You weren’t going to give it to me.”

  I straightened. “Because I believe in the sanctity of marriage, no matter its state. How could I, in good conscience, bring before you a relic of a past love when you were struggling so to leave it behind?”

 
She merely stared. Surely she did not mean to keep up the pretense that Grayson Aberdeen was a former servant.

  I dove back in. “Aunt Maisie told me of the Aberdeens and the forced annulment, the rumors of you stealing a family heirloom and being kept away from the man you loved. It’s a tragic story, but I cannot aid in allowing it to haunt this house forever. I simply saw no good coming of the letter, or in bringing it to light again, once I knew . . .”

  She lowered the letter to her lap, her pale face white against the glowing lights around us. “Aunt Maisie told you all that?”

  “She called you Rose, but I’m certain it was you. It has to be.” I shivered at the memory of that lonely tomb of a house where I’d met the once-great Aberdeens.

  “It seems Aunt Maisie hasn’t told you the entire story. I was that girl and I did take a family heirloom, but it was given to me. And what’s more, this letter wasn’t written by some lovesick peasant girl begging for her wealthy lover to return to her—not at all. Since you seem to be so misinformed as to my loves and dalliances, I suppose I should give you the entire story.”

  Anticipation flitted up my spine.

  “You, in particular, need to hear it, and one day you’ll understand why. Lock the door and sit down.”

  twenty-eight

  Over the course of a marriage, a man may go from a celebrated hero to the villain without ever changing a thing.

  ~A scientist’s observations on love

  “Falling” was the perfect way to describe the way Rose happened upon love. She fought it at first, but soon it was a heady, headlong plummet that had her struggling for balance. Intensity lined their every interaction, even a simple brush of hands. She was hungry for Grayson Aberdeen but also irrepressibly happy, even when she returned home in the fall to her bear of a father.

  “What’s wrong with you, girl?” Her father grabbed her shoulder and swung her around. He’d just demanded that she take the baked goods to Widow Frasier in a way that assumed she’d refuse, and in truth she might have—before Grayson lit up her world. She’d just returned home from her annual summer stay with Auntie Maisie in Upton Currey, which she’d spent largely with Grayson, and she hadn’t yet descended to earth.