I was already feeling a little foolish, waiting in the hospital all night. I resolved, though, not to let their behavior get to me. I really didn’t want to leave until I’d seen Gregory.
Finally, Rosemary told me to follow her. She led me down a maze of corridors, chatting the whole time about how she loved to read and was always at book fairs and, by the way, how frightening was it that I had been attacked on my own property?
“That is just so scary,” she said, as we strode down the hallway. “I wouldn’t go back home either, just so you know.”
“I didn’t stay here because I was scared,” I growled.
She nodded understandingly.
“You were lucky to have a rescuer,” she said. “The night nurse told me he was calling your name during the night, while he was unconscious. You must be…” and here she grinned slyly again, “…very close.”
Before I could respond, she reached for a door, and threw it open with a cheerful, “And how are we feeling this morning?”
I pushed past her and found Gregory laying on top of the bedclothes, dressed in a robe and hospital gown, his head swathed in bandages. A pair of drug-store mini-glasses was perched on his nose, and he was reading a battered scientific journal. There was an I. V. stand near his bed, but he wasn’t hooked up to it. The knuckles on his left hand were bruised and swollen and his eyes, when he looked up, were red and strained.
But he was awake, and he was alive, and that was enough for me.
He sat up quickly when he saw me, only to fall back, holding his head.
I stepped forward, but Rosemary was faster, scolding, “Now, now, you can’t move that quickly, not for a few days yet, you know.”
He brushed her hands aside, his gaze fixed on me.
“Warwick!” he said, happily. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Have you brought my glasses?”
I’d taken another step forward - torn between wanting to rush to him, and my need to maintain my restraint in front of Rosemary. The sound of his voice was enough to make me want to dance, while his use of “Warwick” and the impersonal request made me want to stomp my feet with impatience.
His spare glasses were in the front pocket of the backpack. Aunt Susanna had thought of everything. I handed them to him, and he tossed the cheap glasses aside, rubbing his eyes while Rosemary went about straightening the room.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
“Like I’ve been hit over the head with a shovel,” he said wryly, pulling on his glasses. He blinked through them, then smiled broadly at me.
“Ah,” he said softly, and his eyes caught and held mine. “Now, that’s better. Warwick, you look like…”
“Like she spent the night in the waiting room?” Rosemary’s voice bisected the moment. She stood by his nightstand, holding his chart, grinning at us like she had the inside scoop on a delicious secret.
When Gregory glanced at her, she nodded eagerly. “That’s what she did, you know. Flat out refused to go home until she knew you were all right.”
“Really?” He looked at me with amused interest mixed with feigned shock. “Why, my dear Madeleine, that’s so sweet.”
“I shouldn’t have bothered,” I muttered, and gestured at Rosemary. “It seems you were in good hands.”
“Oh, the very best,” Rosemary hastened to assure me. She turned to Gregory and gushed, “You have a lot of huge fans here, you know. I’ve read all your books.”
“Have you? How very gratifying! Did you hear that, Warwick? She’s read every single one of my books.”
“Awesome,” I said.
“You know,” he said, leaning closer to Rosemary, “the nurse before you told me the same thing.”
“Louise is a huge reader, like me. I can’t wait until this next book comes out. I think you are brilliant.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Why, thank you,” Gregory said and grinned at me. “It helps when you enjoy what you do for a living. But I can’t take all the credit for the next book. Maddie’s been my right hand in all of the investigation and she’s going to help me to write it. Surprisingly enough, she has quite a flair for this kind of work. Almost as good as myself.”
I looked at him in surprise. Rosemary surprised us both by giggling like a school girl, and she blushed when we looked her.
“Oh,” she said, and giggled again. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to ask about that. Oh, no, I wouldn’t – though I guess I’ll be reading all about it soon enough, won’t I?”
She slapped her side and then pulled something out of her scrubs pocket. “My goodness! I almost forgot! Can you autograph this for me? I just got it the other day and I can honestly say, it’s your best yet.”
He took the paperback. “Absolutely. Warwick, do you have a pen…”
The words faded from his lips. He stared at the book. He looked so surprised that I went around his bed to check it out.
On the cover, a man and a woman grappled with each other. Her dark hair flowed over her bare shoulders, her hands flat on his impressive chest, resisting his passionate embrace, though not enough to break away.
The title was Her Lord and Master. The author was Gregorianne Vincent.
Rosemary was saying, “My friend, Delia Fontaine, told us about you, Mr. Vincent. I hope you don’t mind that she passed it on to me about you and your, um, research assistant.”
She winked at me.
I pointed to the book. “You think he… That I… That I’m…”
Rosemary shrugged primly, but grinned again.
My face went hot.
“I’ll say this for the artist,” Greg said. He was studying the cover with exaggerated fascination, his mouth tight from restrained laughter. “The eyes are the wrong color, but he’s captured the real you, Maddie. The essence of the character, the bow-like mouth, the firm…”
My face was flaming now. I snatched the book out of his hands and smacked him across the shoulder with it before tossing it back to the nurse. She caught it, her eyes wide.
“There’ll be no autographs today,” I snarled, and she took that as her cue to exit.
I turned to Greg, who raised his hands protectively.
“Now, now, easy does it, Warwick,” he said. “I’m grievously injured, you know.”
He was laughing, the insufferable man. I pointed to the door.
“Do you know what she thinks? She asked me downstairs if I was your research assistant! And I told her yes!”
“And fine assistant you were, too,” he nodded. “In fact, in a dozen or so years, with the proper tutelage, you’ll make a reasonably good treasure hunter. And that’s not a compliment I give out to just anyone.”
“Oh, thanks!” I fumed. “That’s fine. That nurse is going to tell all her friends about this. The entire hospital is going to think that we’re… That you… How am I supposed to live that down?”
“Why, Madeleine Warwick,” he said. “There are worse things than to have your name linked to mine. Some people might think it’s an honor. Besides, if you’ll recall, this ‘Gregory Randall as the new Barbara Cartland’ wasn’t my idea.”
I stopped and sighed. I’d spent the entire night worrying about him and beating myself up over the cruel things I’d said, intending to go straight to his side to set things right. Now, not two minutes in his presence, here I was reaming him over a case of mistaken identity that was essentially my fault. I didn’t know whether to be relieved that he was feeling well enough to tease about it or just annoyed.
“So you say,” I said, and decided that it was time to change the subject. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper in a plastic bag. “This is for you.”
He took it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“A letter from an old friend,” I said. Seeing his confusion, I explained. “It’s Alexander Chase’s. We found it in the old trunk.”
“You opened it?”
Only once before had I heard him sound and look so upset. I shook my head.
&nbs
p; “It wasn’t me,” I said. “The police opened it to see what the fuss was about. Aunt Susanna laid them out but good, then she had them repack it and put it in the kitchen.”
When he opened his mouth, I interrupted. “I was with you in the ambulance. With your blood on my shirt. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t really object too much.”
That put things into perspective. He opened the letter.
I’d already read it, so I studied his face as he absorbed the contents, memorizing every line and crease. I noted the way his eyes jumped around the page - as though he was not just reading the letter, but taking in the page, the texture, and the various markings. I wondered how much he saw that I didn’t.
He caught me staring and I looked away quickly, focusing on the floor.
“Well,” he said, slowly folding the letter and returning it back to the plastic wrap. “This seems to explain everything. Your uncle was right. Alexander didn’t do it for money or revenge.”
“No,” I said. “He did it for love.”
When I looked up, he was smiling at me.
“Not bad for an amateur,” he said softly.
I nodded, and the moment held.
Then he cleared his throat.
“Well, that’s that, then,” he said, and swung his legs around so that they were hanging off the bed. “You’d better go, Warwick. I’m going to get dressed now and we wouldn’t want the nurses to have too much to talk about.” He tried to stand, but he moved too quickly and had to sit down again.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, alarmed. “You can’t leave!”
“I can’t stay here,” he said. “There’s far too much to do. I have to get this letter back to my lab at Hadley, and the treasure, too, for proper study. Then there are the reports and the meetings and the press releases and…”
“You’re going back?” I asked, my heart sinking. “Back to Hadley? Today?”
“The sooner the better,” he said, holding his head. “My job here is finished - It’s time your aunt had her house back. I was serious about the book,” he said. “About writing it with you, I mean.”
I stared, so he continued.
“This is a rare opportunity. You know how I feel about collaborations, but I think it would be interesting to have your perspective. The exposure would be good for your farm and, of course, there would be the revenue. I may not be the academic star I used to be, but my name still can sell a few hardcovers. You might even find it fun. And you’ll get a chance to work with one of the best-regarded professionals in the business.”
All I could do was gap as he resumed, “It’s a good opportunity for both of us. I know this is coming on fast and not that I wish to exploit what happened last night, but putting that in the book – talk about a solid ending. It’s a win-win situation. What do you think, Warwick?”
Warwick.
The name he only used when he was talking business. Not Madeleine, not Maddie – just Warwick.
I stared at him, aghast.
“How can you take this so lightly?” I whispered. “Leaving and… Gregory, you almost died last night. I was in that waiting room all night, worried sick and all you can talk about is writing and business relationships and asking me to…” I groped for words, my tone building as I continued, “to exploit Joe’s attack to sell a few miserable books?”
My voice rung in the room.
He winced.
“When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound as good,” he said. “But you’ve got to admit that we’ve got a good story here. It would be criminal to throw it away.”
“You are crazy,” I yelled. “You’re lying on your back, calmly talking about business ventures and book sales and I was downstairs, thinking, he’s hurt, he’s dying, it’s my fault… I thought you’d died last night. Do you know what that did to me?”
He looked up at me, suddenly still. “No,” he whispered. “What did it do to you?”
I stood there for a moment, debating.
Then I thought, He called me Warwick.
That was my answer. There was no need to stay.
“Not a thing,” I lied. “Why don’t you just go back to your precious Hadley U?”
My words caught in my throat, my eyes filled and I panicked, turning, running for the door before he could see.
“Madeleine.”
His voice stopped me dead in my tracks. I didn’t turn. I stood there with my back to him, biting my lip hard so that I wouldn’t cry.
“Oh, my dear Madeleine,” he said softly. But this wasn’t the same dismissive “My dear Madeleine” that I was used to hearing. This was a soft, tender whisper, something new. “Don’t leave. Not yet.”
“I’m going home,” I insisted, taking a steadying breath, thinking about life on the other side of that door. It would be as cold as before – and lonely. Loneliness stretching out like acres of neglected, weed-choked fields. No one there to run along beside me. No one there to tease me into eating properly, to push me out of my comfort zone, to need me to listen, to ask me to work with them, to look for me when I came in, to bandage battle wounds, or to wander about the trails, talking about nothing. I’d be alone, as lonely as when Uncle Michael died. Only worse. Much worse.
I squished the images before they overwhelmed me, but the truth came out in a savage rush: “I don’t want a business agreement with you, Gregory. That isn’t good enough.”
There. It was out for both of us to hear.
He was silent. Absolutely still.
A desperate need to salvage my pride made me add hastily, “I really have to run…”
But as I reached for the doorknob, he said, in the same quiet tone: “Madeleine, aren’t you tired of running? I know I am.”
My hand dropped to my side. I didn’t turn. I couldn’t bear to see his face. I couldn’t leave, either.
“I don’t want just a business relationship with you, either,” he continued. “It would never be enough for me.”
I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, so Greg went on.
“You know,” and there was a wistfulness in his voice, “when you spend your life as I have, buried inside books and genealogies and maps – and the endless hunts for other people’s fortunes, you can look up one day and realize that you neglected to look for the real prize.”
I turned to face him then, tears flowing down my face. He was sitting up, leaning forward as though to stop me, his head wound forgotten.
“But that was the life I chose.” He smiled, but it was tentative, unsure – something I’d never seen in him. “Until I met you, that is. I couldn’t dismiss you like I could others. You’re unforgettable, Maddie. Just being with you makes me want to be more than I am. Being away from you is a kind of loneliness I didn’t know existed.” He shook his head. “I know I drive you up the wall sometimes…”
I had to smile at that. “Goes both ways, I think.”
He didn’t return the smile or agree. “Last night you said that there is no ‘us’, but Madeleine, don’t you think someday, there could be?”
I felt as though my heart were swelling painfully in my chest. There was a look on his face, in his dark eyes. A look that made me think I could, maybe, safely lose myself in their depths.
He continued softly, “I don’t want to just work with you. I want you in my life permanently, but I’ll accept whatever you can give, even if it means saying goodbye to you today or tomorrow or after the project’s done. It’s up to you. Working together on this book – it’s a poor substitute for a life, Maddie. But when a man’s in love with a woman who loves someone else – well… can you blame him for taking whatever time with her he can get?”
My throat was so constricted I couldn’t speak. I remembered how I felt when I thought he’d died. I thought about Joe, and how duped I’d been. I thought about Uncle Michael’s death, and how it had nearly ruined me - as Darlene had almost allowed her daughter’s death to do to her.
And then I heard Aunt Susanna’s voice, clear and strong
and sure: It’s a small price to pay for a lifetime.
I couldn’t promise forever. Not yet. We were still too raw, still too new, with too many hurdles to jump over before either of us could promise that. But I couldn’t dismiss him, either. To do so would be tantamount to ripping my heart in two.
He was watching me, his heart shining through his eyes, his hand stretched out for me to take.
“I was never in love with Joe,” I whispered. “And I don’t want to say goodbye.”
I put my hand in his.
Gregory’s face lit up like the dawn.
“Then don’t,” he said and pulled me to him. “Please don’t.”
As I melted into his arms, one clear thought bubbled above the heady waves of emotion that rolled over me:
So this is what it’s like to be kissed by the right man…
Two Years Later:
From an article by Charlie White in The Triple Town Sentry
Chase Book Published:
A book launch party for the newly published Read On This: The Chase Treasure Hunt was held at the Chase Farm last night. Written by Professor Gregory Randall and Madeleine Warwick Randall, this non-fiction book outlines their search for the legendary McInnis treasure, long thought to have been stolen by Alexander Chase.
Back in 1861, Chase was accused of stealing from his wealthy employer. The scandal ruined the family reputation, a stain that lingered until the climatic affair two years ago, when the treasure, and the explanatory note was discovered on a neighbor’s property. The note exonerates Chase, who had secured the goods at the behest of his fiancée, the daughter of his employer.
“It’s really exciting to finally have the truth about the whole affair,” said Susanna Chase, who had just returned from an around the world trip with her friend and neighbor, novelist Darlene Winters. “My husband always believed in Alexander and in the treasure. It’s nice to have his theories proven.”
Ms. Winters, also releasing a book this year, wrote the introduction to Read On This. “This is such a fantastic book – it reads more like a mystery thriller than a history. And the old saying is correct: truth is stranger than fiction.”
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