“To the tree?” It was the sort of request Elise would have made when they were younger: playful, imaginative, but this time without the enthusiasm that had been so much a part of her character. “I would be delighted.” He hoped his smile was encouraging.
He walked at her side as they crossed the meadow. She didn’t put further distance between them. But what was she thinking? She was impossible to read.
“It is an oak,” Elise said. “Our tree was also an oak.” Elise studied the tree they now stood underneath. “Have you sat under it often?”
“It has only just become warm enough to do so. And I have been away for several weeks, in Nottinghamshire, then Lancashire.”
“And Stanton,” Elise added.
“That was an unexpected stop,” Miles said. “But a fortuitous one.”
She looked at him again as if uncertain he was sincere. “You are glad you found me, then?”
How could she doubt it? “Are you glad you were found?”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know yet,” she whispered.
It was a confusing answer. “Perhaps this tree will tip the scales in my favor.”
“It is a very fine tree.” Elise looked at him, a question in her eyes. But she just as quickly looked away.
She began circling the trunk of the tree, her fingertips sliding along the bark as her eyes studied the branches above her. She used to do precisely the same thing when she was very young, except she used to sing as she’d circle, skipping and hopping.
Miles watched her fingers as they rubbed along the trunk. She always said she liked the feel of the bark beneath her fingers.
“You won’t mind if I come sit here now and then?” Elise continued her perusal.
“You may sit here whenever you like.” He leaned one shoulder against the tree trunk, bringing Elise to a halt.
“I don’t know where the picnic blankets are kept,” she said, fingers still on the tree trunk. “And I would rather not sit on the damp ground without one.”
“That can be remedied, Elise.” It was such a paltry difficulty.
“I don’t wish to put anyone out.”
“You won’t inconvenience a soul.”
“Thank you for introducing me to your tree, Miles.” Elise smiled at him, the first smile he’d seen from her that looked almost happy.
His heart swelled in his chest. He had made a difference. He’d offered her his tree and had received, in return, a smile.
“You have as much claim to it as I do. We shared ownership of the tree at Epsworth—”
“At Furlong House,” Elise corrected, her smile growing a bit.
He loved hearing her tease him over a memory from their childhood. They’d often pretended to fight over which of the estates the tree actually sat on.
“So I believe we can manage to share this tree.”
“I’m glad. I do love trees.” Elise looked up into the branches once more. “I should . . . Anne will be up soon.”
“Has she settled in?” Miles asked.
Elise shook her head. She had turned a bit away from him. Her hand dropped from the tree. She clasped her fingers in front of her. She was retreating again.
“What is it?” Miles asked, though he was certain she wouldn’t give him an answer.
She only shook her head again.
“I don’t want you to be unhappy.”
“I have been unhappy for a long time, Miles.” She stepped away.
“But what can I do about it?” Miles followed her retreating footsteps. “How can I help?”
“I fix my own problems,” Elise insisted, returning to her somber countenance and detached stance.
Whether she wished it or not, he would find the source of her pain and put things right. He owed that much to her father and his and to himself. And to Elise.
Chapter Ten
“I want to do something for her,” Miles told Beth the next day. “Something to help her feel more at home here. I think that is what weighs on her. She has been away from all of us for four years and has only known for a handful of days that this very unfamiliar place is home now. That is a great deal to take in.”
“So you mean to find ways of making Tafford feel like home to her?” Beth asked.
“Exactly. I have been trying to think of her favorite things from our childhood.” Miles paced across the rug in the library. “Obviously, climbing trees and dressing up in Mother’s gowns won’t do the trick now that she’s grown. But I do remember she always enjoyed bread pudding. I’ve asked Mrs. Humphrey to make certain Cook serves that more often. Elise enjoyed spending time in the meadow yesterday. She found a picture book in the library that she meant to share with Anne.”
“Elise was always fond of stories,” Beth acknowledged. She seemed to be warming to the idea. “And when Mama Jones arrives, you should ask her which things have brought Elise the most comfort the past four years. If we can surround her with the familiar—”
“She might smile again,” Miles finished on a whisper.
“I had a feeling that was bothering you more than you let on,” Beth said.
“I want her to feel at home. If she can have that, she’ll be happy here.”
“I think this difficulty goes beyond the unfamiliar,” Langley said, sitting beside Beth on the sofa. “Admittedly, I do not know her as well as you do, but from what I remember of her at Epsworth before her disappearance, something was bothering Elise then, even while she was surrounded by the familiar.”
“Of course something was bothering her,” Miles grumbled, feeling frustrated at his continued inability to bring a smile to Elise’s face. “Her father had just been murdered. That was bothering me as well.”
“You were unfortunate enough to have come upon their bodies,” Langley acknowledged. “Elise, however, saw them killed.” He gave Miles a pointed look. “She was little more than a child. She became unusually quiet. She picked at her food, didn’t speak much. Any hint of lightness in her countenance vanished. You worry that she is not smiling now, but, Grenton, she stopped smiling then.”
“I don’t remember her being that grieved,” Beth said. “I do recall she was upset, but—”
“You were deeply grieving, love,” Langley reassured his wife, even kissing her hand. “As was your brother. And”—he returned his attention to Miles—“you were dealing with the desperate nature of your family’s finances. I don’t imagine any of you noticed much beyond those immediate worries.”
“I would have noticed if Elise was—”
“Grenton,” Langley interrupted, an unusual moment of incivility for the characteristically polite gentleman. “As the weeks passed, you became less aware of everything beyond the burden you’d been given.”
Miles shook his head. He hadn’t been that self-absorbed. He was certain he hadn’t.
“Do you remember that Beth turned her ankle about a month after your father’s death?” Langley pressed.
Miles shot a look at his sister. He didn’t remember that. “Did you?”
Beth sighed and nodded. “You didn’t seem to remember that even at the time.”
“It was one of the reasons we were so hesitant to leave, even though we were anxious to reach Lancashire before winter made travel impossible,” Langley said. “Not Beth’s ankle, which healed quickly, but you and your distraction. And the knowledge that Epsworth hung in the balance also weighed on our minds.”
“I honestly do not remember Elise wasting away.” Miles paced in front of the fireplace, searching his inconveniently blank memory. “She seemed to be doing well. She was mourning and shaken by all that had occurred, but that was to be expected.”
“She grew worse with time,” Langley said. “I debated saying something, but I didn’t because I wasn’t sure she would appreciate me, a virtual stranger, sticking my nose in where it probably didn’t belong. Then she disappeared, and I wondered if, perhaps, her grief had overcome her judgment.”
“You think she ran away?” Miles felt
suddenly defensive. He’d told himself all these years that, while running was a possibility, he would have known if Elise was so miserable as to take such a desperate step. He would have known, and she would have come to him for help before fleeing her home and friends.
“I think it is a possibility but not the only one.”
Miles made another circuit past the fireplace. “You think she may have been abducted?” It was the explanation that had frightened him the most.
“She was the sole surviving witness to a triple murder, Grenton. If anyone could identify the murderer, it would be Elise.”
Miles dropped into a chair, closing his eyes and rubbing his face with his hands. Those had been dark times, days and weeks he tried hard to forget. But the memory came anyway.
“Are you certain there was only one man?” the Bow Street Runner, up from London to investigate, had asked for the second time.
Elise had nodded, her face paler than it had been only moments before. “On a horse. A black horse.”
“What did he look like? Short or tall?”
Elise blinked and seemed to twitch involuntarily. “Taller than Papa,” she said, her eyes unfocused.
Miles clenched and unclenched his fists. His father and hers had been dead only a few days. He wanted answers, wanted to find the man who’d killed them, but the interrogation bothered him. Elise wasn’t holding up well under the forced resurgence of memories.
“What type of weapon did he use?” the runner asked.
“Gun.” Elise spoke in that same empty voice she’d used to answer all of his questions.
“What type of gun?”
Elise gave him a confused look, obviously not understanding that there were some very specific types of firearms.
“Did he hold it in one hand or did it require both?” the runner pressed.
“One in each hand.”
Miles looked anxiously between the runner and Langley, who had offered his support throughout the ordeal. One gun—pistols, if Miles wasn’t mistaken—in each hand.
“Did this man say anything?” the runner continued.
“He told us to get out of the carriage. It had turned over.”
“Was anyone injured by the carriage tipping?”
Elise nodded. “But not like . . .” She shook her head and sank into silence, her brow creased.
“Did he do anything? Before telling you to get out of the carriage?”
“He said he’d shoot me if we didn’t get out immediately.”
“He said he’d shoot you in particular?” Miles stared at her. Elise didn’t acknowledge the question but continued looking blankly ahead. The runner gave Miles a look that warned him not to interrupt again.
“And after you left the carriage?” the runner asked.
“He made us walk a little away from the carriage.” Elise spoke mechanically. “The horses were struggling. Injured. The driver was”—she seemed to swallow with difficulty—“already dead.” She breathed heavily. Miles found his own breathing just as labored. “Mr. Linwood said that if the man wanted our valuables, he could have them but only to leave us be.”
“Did the man seem as though he wished to rob the three of you?”
Elise didn’t immediately reply. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes staring unseeingly ahead, her color dropping steadily.
“Did he accept Mr. Linwood’s offer of the valuables?”
“He shot Papa.” The words emerged shaky and nearly incoherent.
“Quick as that? No provocation?”
“Mr. Linwood said he could have the valuables. The man raised his gun. I thought he was only showing it to us, trying to scare us. But then he shot Papa in the head.” A single tear dripped from her staring eyes. Her mouth closed tightly as if barely holding back a rush of bile. “Mr. Linwood told me to run. But the man pointed another gun at me. He told Mr. Linwood to go where he told him. We had to go around the trees. Mr. Linwood asked him to let me go. He asked why he was . . . why he was doing—” Elise shook her head and didn’t complete the sentence.
Miles crossed to the sofa where Elise sat alone and took a seat beside her, pulling her hand into his. Lands, she was shaking.
“The man shot him.” Elise tapped her chest right above the heart. Another tear trickled along the path of the first. “And he . . . he . . . The man laughed. He laughed.” She breathed rapidly, her breaths alarmingly shallow. No color remained in her face.
“And then he shot you?” the runner pressed.
Miles squeezed her hand. She would not hold up much longer.
Elise nodded, touching her left shoulder. Her arm hung in a sling.
“I need you to describe him to me,” the runner said.
“Black horse. Black coat.”
“His face?”
“He wore a mask.”
“Voice?”
“I don’t know.”
“Anything identifiable?”
Elise’s brows had been drawn, even her lips had had no color. She’d turned and looked up at Miles, her blue eyes swimming in tears. “He laughed.”
It had been one of the most heartrending episodes he’d endured. Elise never was able to say more than that. The murderer had carried two weapons, had ridden a black horse, and had worn a black coat. A mask disguised his face. The one thing she repeated in the days that followed that interrogation was that he had laughed.
It hadn’t been enough information, and after a week of fruitless effort, the runner had returned to London, warning Miles that the murders would likely never be solved.
“Miles?”
He’d been lost in his thoughts and had completely forgotten Beth and Langley were in the room. “Forgive me.”
“Think on what I said,” Langley suggested with emphasis. “Elise was young, but she was not foolish. She must have had a reason to leave her home and her closest friend and confidante. I think you need to find out what that reason was.”
Beth and Langley didn’t stay in the library for very long after that. She must have had a reason. That insight echoed in his mind. There had to have been a reason. But what?
He couldn’t simply ask her. The Elise he’d grown up with wouldn’t have required asking. She would have bared her soul the moment she’d seen him. He’d known all her secrets up until the day she’d disappeared from Epsworth.
“Miles?”
He nearly jumped out of his seat. Elise used to bound into rooms, her exuberance announcing her presence. Now she sneaked about, appearing suddenly, without warning.
“Do you have any other picture books?”
Miles watched for some indication of her feelings, but her guard was firmly in place. “Anne enjoyed Robin Hood, did she?”
Elise nodded. “She is mesmerized. Anne stares at those pictures. I would love for her to have more books to look at.”
“Are there not any in the nursery?”
“I’m not sure,” Elise said. “I haven’t . . . Anne is still in my room. We haven’t ventured to the nursery.”
“Why ever not?”
She seemed to flinch at the exasperation in his tone. “This is your home, Miles. Not mine. I did not wish to presume upon your kindness.” Elise stepped back as if to leave.
“When has my home ever not been yours?”
She stopped. Their eyes met, and for the briefest moment, a rush of emotion swept through Elise’s eyes. She clamped it down so quickly, so fiercely Miles wondered if he’d imagined it.
“Where is Anne?” Miles asked, careful to keep his tone light and gentle.
“In my room with one of the chambermaids.”
“Let’s take her to the nursery. That is to be her domain, after all.”
“You don’t have to—”
“After more or less commandeering your nursery when we were children, I believe I owe you a nursery,” Miles insisted. “And it isn’t as though anyone is being evicted. It is a marvelous nursery, almost like a fairy tale, Elise. And it is waiting for a child. It needs a chil
d.”
“A fairy tale?”
He’d piqued her curiosity. Miles felt a grin spread across his face. “You have to see it to believe it. I have seen it, and I almost don’t.”
She seemed to debate for a moment. Her eyes darted to Miles’s face. He could see the interest there, though she obviously tried to hide it.
Please, Elise. Please give me a little hope.
“It isn’t as though she’d be pushing another child out,” Elise said tentatively.
That was enough for him. “Let’s go get Anne.”
“Let’s,” she answered. There was no mistaking the eagerness in her tone, as miniscule as it was.
He kept himself from shouting in triumph. If there wasn’t a picture book in the nursery, he would buy every one he could get his hands on.
* * *
“Oh, Miles.” Elise hadn’t intended to sound so breathless, but the nursery was absolutely marvelous. She turned around one more time, amazed. “If I’d had a nursery like this one, I don’t think I would have ever wanted to grow up.”
“It’s rather ingenious, isn’t it? The trees painted on the walls are so lifelike. I half expect a breeze to blow through and rustle the leaves.”
Anne was, at that moment, touching her fingers to the painted branches of a bush in the full-room mural of a forest. She looked up at Elise, making the motion with her hands she used to indicate a tree.
Elise nodded. “A painting,” she further explained, matching her own hand motions to the words.
Anne pressed her palm flat against the tree bark, rubbing her fingers back and forth.
“Anne likes to draw,” Elise told Miles. “And for so young a child, her drawings are actually rather good. She’ll not be invited to display at the Royal Academy or any such thing, but one can easily tell what she’s drawn, which is a feat for a three-year-old.”
“A talent she clearly inherited from her mother,” Miles said. “You were forever sketching and painting. Your mother was a talented artist. I don’t know if you remember that.”
She hadn’t, actually. Mother had died when she was not much older than Anne. Elise had very few memories of her.
Anne rushed to the child-sized table, clearly in awe of the magical room, and dropped to her knees and crawled beneath it, looking up at its underside. The table was made to look like a tree stump. The chairs were painted to resemble toadstools and flowers. The floor was painted to look like grass, the ceiling like a sunny day, complete with wispy, white clouds.
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