She swatted him away with a dish towel. “Did he have trouble settling home?”
Thad indicated the coffeepot, brows raised. When Rosie handed him a mug, he took that as permission to pour himself a cup. “He awoke when we went back there to exchange news and would not be consoled.”
“Poor mite.” Rosie poured something into the pot, and the sweet smell of maple came drifting upward.
“They will get through it, as they always do. Have you heard from Emmy?”
Her face lit up at the mention of her daughter. “Henry said she can’t leave his sister alone yet, but Emmy is well.” Rosie set the spoon upon the rest and held up a hand. “I just remembered. A letter came from Uncle Freeman yesterday, and it had a page for you.”
He waited while Rosie disappeared into her room off the kitchen, wondering what Free might have to share from the Canadian front. He took a sip of his coffee and let his gaze go to the window. Yes, storm clouds knuckled on the horizon, purplish gray where the crimson had seeped out.
“Here you are.” Rosie bustled back again with a folded piece of paper outstretched and worry in her eyes. “About that Miss Fairchild…”
He waited a moment as he tucked the page into his breast pocket, but she didn’t continue. “What about her?”
She sighed. “She be sore troubled, Thaddeus. Far as I can tell, the girl stayed in the drawing room all night. She was still up when I came out this morning, hunched over the desk.”
“Hmm. I will look in on her.” He nodded his thanks and strode from the kitchen, coffee in hand.
Comfortable dimness cloaked the hallway, no lamps lit nor daylight finding foothold. Thad traversed the space with sure, silent steps and ducked into the drawing room. He spotted the young lady exactly where Rosie had said she would be, hunched over the writing desk with papers scattered all about. An oil lamp burned next to her, and the sound of a pencil’s steady stroke filled the air.
“Miss Fairchild?” He spoke softly, wary of startling her. But needlessly, since yet again she seemed not to hear him. Thad edged closer, trying to make a bit of noise as he went, though still she didn’t look up or give any indication of sensing his presence.
He ended up beside her, torn at which picture to look at—the one beneath her fingers or the one upon her face. Both begged for attention, but for now he ignored the detailed drawing and focused on her.
The lamplight caught her hair and spun it a fiery gold. Though she had worn it up when she came downstairs last night, the pins had loosed their hold, and curls tumbled all about her shoulders and down her back. Chaos—of the most alluring variety.
Dark circles still stained the fair skin beneath her eyes, but still it was the shadows within them that struck up an ache in his chest. Shadows that looked all the deeper because of the feverish light in them as she drew. “Gwyneth?”
She blinked, once, twice, thrice. Her pencil slowed.
Was she ill? He reached out cautiously to touch a hand to her forehead, expecting her to jump or scream. Expecting to find heat radiating. But her skin was cool to the touch, and she merely drew in a long breath and finally focused her gaze upon him with a small smile.
“Thad. I thought you were going out.”
What was he to do with this girl? He removed his fingers from her forehead, though he couldn’t stop them from then brushing a tangled curl away from her cheek. “I did.”
“Oh.” She jerked her head toward the window. “Oh. I am sorry. I…I always get lost in my art. Mama used to say my muse was a cruel taskmaster.”
“I would have thought you too exhausted to succumb to your muse last night.” He took a step back so as not to crowd her and leaned onto the edge of the secretaire. So that, he admitted, he could better study her face.
Such an interesting face it was, with its broken beauty and emotion flitting on and off it like sunlight through the clouds. What did those troubled eyes seek? What could he do to ease the torment within her?
She touched a hand to her tousled hair, alarm sparking in her gaze. Resignation followed a second later, and her hand dropped back to the desk. “I had a snack at some point to sustain me. Your servant brought it—what is her name?”
“Rosie.”
“That is right.” Her brow knit. “I confess I found it startling to see so many Negroes along the streets. My family has never owned slaves.”
“Nor has mine.” At her wide eyes he aimed a smile. “Rosie’s uncle is my grandfather’s closest friend. She had been a house slave in Virginia, but he purchased her and her daughter’s freedom when I was a child, and my parents gave her employment so she might support herself and Emmy. When I offered her the position of housekeeper if she moved to Baltimore with me, she agreed. Emmy is married to another free black, a ship’s pilot. Henry has been serving as a handyman for me now that there is little piloting to be done.”
“Is Maryland not a slave state, then? I know there is some division.”
At that he sighed and shifted his gaze to the drawings on the desk. “The northern states all outlawed slavery back in eighty-three. Maryland was not among them, though. It and Virginia are now the leaders in the slave trade, sending slaves south and west since the international trade was banned five years ago.”
He frowned at the picture she had been working on when he entered. A library, from the looks of it, or perhaps a study. The detail was exquisite, each tome looking as though he could reach out and pull it from the shelf, each title legible, but why had she drawn such a scene? One with intricacy but no real subject. There, in the center, at the desk, where one would think a figure would repose, was naught but gaping, empty space.
“You sound bothered. By the state of the states and the trade.” She leaned an elbow on the desk and rested her head in her hand, sending a river of red-gold curls onto the paper.
Thad noted the genuine concern on her face but went back to the drawing. Something about a shadow on the floor felt off. One looked almost like a…sword?
“Well, for starters, my family comes from New England, Miss Fairchild, where slavery is banned. I was raised with corresponding sensibilities, and I despise how it continues to drive a wedge into the heart of my nation.”
She made no response. He looked down and loosed a soft laugh. Her eyes were closed, her respiration deep and even.
“And you accuse me of putting people to sleep with my conversation.” Father eased into the room, his voice a quiet whisper and a smile upon his face. A smile that faded to a concerned frown as he studied her. “The poor girl. What do you think is haunting her so?”
The better question might be why whatever it was made Thad yearn to reach out and smooth back her hair, to promise her all would be well.
He shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back to keep them in order. “Something more than the pitching of a ship, that is certain. Perhaps it is tied to whatever inspired Fairchild to send her here.”
“That itself is certainly odd, given the circumstances.” Father moved his regard to Thad, that steady, probing gaze he knew so well. The one that saw well below the surface. “You wonder as to his motives. And, hence, hers. But I know him, Thad. He would never exploit the bonds of friendship for a political purpose.”
Mother came quietly into the room. “He is better than the rest of us in that regard.” She stopped in her usual place at Father’s side, and his arm went around her.
They had always been this way. They shared a love he had assumed was comfortable and normal until he grew up and realized it was so very rare. His sisters had found the same strong bond with their husbands, and he was grateful for that. But Thad…perhaps he wasn’t built quite like the rest of them. He had been fond of Peggy, to be sure, but he hadn’t loved her the way his parents loved each other.
He shook off that thought and looked again to Gwyneth. “Why, then, Mother? Why would he send her here? It is hardly an appropriate time for a holiday.”
And why did Mother’s lips seem to itch at a grin? �
��I know not, Thaddeus, but given how much like your father you are, I daresay you shan’t rest until you figure it out. You Lane men never can let a mystery go unsolved.”
He snorted a laugh. “Especially since this Lane man is half Reeves, and you are every bit as bad about it as Father.”
“Precisely.” She leaned into Father for another moment and then pulled away to crouch at Gwyneth’s side and smooth her hair. “Gwyneth darling. Wake up. I shall take you to your room.”
Though it took a minute of repeatedly speaking her name and gently shaking her, Mother managed to get the girl to her feet and leaning against her for support. They made it halfway across the room before Gwyneth stopped. Expecting her to have succumbed more fully to unconsciousness, Thad shifted when she pulled away from Mother and spun around, her gaze flying about the room in a panic.
“Gwyneth? What is the matter?” He started forward but halted when the fear evaporated from her turquoise eyes.
Perhaps she had only forgotten where she was in her stupor, and peace returned with realization. That must be why her gaze settled on him with such relief, and why a smile touched her lips. She said nothing, but she let Mother slide an arm around her again and lead her out the door.
Thad waited until he heard their footsteps on the stairs. “Tell me it’s not a mistake, Father. Having her here.”
“Logic says it may be.” Father clapped a hand to his shoulder and squeezed. “But something tells me this is not a matter for logic.”
An odd enough statement coming from him that Thad couldn’t argue. Instead, he went back to the desk. “Take a look at this, will you? What do you see?”
Father joined him, humming low in his throat in that way that said he was impressed with what he beheld. “Astounding. Her attention to detail…”
Precisely. Which was why those shadows bothered him. The one that looked like a sword, yes, but also the pattern that stretched across the whole picture. Perhaps from a scalloped curtain?
Father leaned down, frowning. “This is her father’s study, Thad. I recognize the books.”
“You recognize the books?”
“You have the things you notice, I have mine.” He straightened again, but his frown didn’t lessen. “Not all of them, of course, but most. Especially this one.” He indicated a tome upon the second shelf, though his finger didn’t touch the paper, no doubt to keep from smudging her careful work. “I gave it to him. Look, see that crease? ’Tis where Philly dropped it upon the corner of his desk. How on earth did she remember that crease, Thaddeus?”
He could only shake his head. “Remarkable.” He shuffled the papers and pulled another forward. A garden, this one, with buds holding tight their petals and a mist seeming to slither throughout it. And there, in the far corner, barely visible behind a tree, was a figure with his back to the viewer.
Father squinted. “It almost looks like Alain.”
“The hair is too fair.” An invisible hand squeezed his chest. “Does it feel desperate to you?”
At Father’s silence, Thad looked over to find his brow raised. A corner of his sire’s lips tugged up to match. “I can examine the technical aspect of the drawing, Thad, but you know well I have never been an expert on how a piece of art makes one feel.”
Thad sent his gaze toward the ceiling and then back to the paper. “Were it a Greek epic, you could pinpoint tone and emotion in every conjugation.”
“But it is instead pictures. Pictures are not my forte. But I presume it feels desperate to you?”
“In a strange way.” He sank into the chair. “As if that figure is out of reach.”
“Lost to the mist, perhaps?”
Though he sounded proud of himself, Thad had to chuckle. “That is not what struck me, no. More that he is…too far away. And with his back to her, as if denying her somehow.”
The case clock ticked. Father sucked in a deep breath. “’Tis a depiction of a spring garden, that I can tell you. You see how this bush here has yet to bloom, how small the leaves are? And these buds are still a good week from opening. I would say sometime in April, depending upon the year. If it were a warm one, possibly late March, if a cool one, as late as the first of May.”
And horticulture wasn’t even his specialty. Thad grinned. “Her garden?”
“Possibly. The architecture of the building to the side there is correct, though I don’t recall the layout.”
“Yet you recall the crease in a book’s spine.”
“Priorities, man. I have mine in order.”
A laugh spilled out as Thad looked around to remember where and when he had put down his coffee. Apparently on the corner of the desk at some point. He picked it up, let the warmth seep into his palm, and took a sip. “At any rate, the detail is again confounding. Though the shadows feel wrong in this one too.”
“Do they?” Father picked up the paper and tilted it this way and that. “The dappled shade of a tree, I should think. That would account for the odd shape of it.”
“Perhaps.” He had no better explanation.
Father patted Thad’s shoulder and set the garden drawing down. “Try not to worry overmuch about the purpose in Fairchild sending his daughter here.”
He could only snort at that and send his father an arched glance. “It is too confounding. Nearly as confounding as how you seemed perfectly at ease in her company, despite the fact she is female.”
Father grinned. “Let it confound you, then. We shall see how long it takes you to see what I did at first glance yesterday. For now, I believe I shall go peek in on Rosie and the breakfast preparations. You stare at those drawings until you have unraveled a few mysteries of the universe, hmm?”
As Father went out, Thad relaxed into the chair, content to brood into his coffee. His gaze wandered to the window.
Father was a master at spotting hidden patterns, be they in the elements or the written word. But people—they had to be unique indeed to capture his attention. What had he spotted within Gwyneth Fairchild to make him forget she was one of “those baffling creatures”?
Thad knew what he had seen. Mysteries. Questions that had no answers. Shadows too fleet of foot for him to examine.
Trouble. The intriguing kind.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and then opened a drawer in the base of the secretaire. He withdrew a scrap of paper onto which he’d written in bold ink a verse from his grandfather’s book of prayers. The one he needed reminding of most often.
Give me a deeper trust, O Lord, that I may lose myself to find myself in Thee.
Seven
As Arthur followed Gates through the doorway, he felt as though he were treading upon a grave. His companion headed for a shelf on the far wall, but Arthur drew in a long breath and clenched his teeth.
Emotions had their place, to be sure, but war had taught him well that sometimes, in order to stand tall, one must stand hollow. Let everything drain away and simply focus on facts. Mere, simple facts.
One—the room smelled musty after being shut up for eight weeks. It begged for the heavy drapes to be pulled back, the window opened.
Two—the floor was empty where the rug had lain.
Three—blood must have soaked through it, for the wood by the massive desk was stained.
Arthur turned on his heel and put his back to that particular fact. Better to face the man who was peeking behind picture frames. “How may I assist you, Mr. Gates?”
Gates didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder. “Anywhere you think a strongbox might be hidden, Sir Arthur, look. I cannot believe I forgot so long that my brother-in-law had one fabricated.”
The younger man cleared his throat and cast his gaze around the room. The chair was no longer overturned and glass fragments were no longer scattered about the floor, but the chamber still felt the way it had when he stepped into it two months prior. The same way he felt now to be poking about it. Wrong.
“Are you certain this is necessary?”
Gates lowered a fram
e back into place and sent him a patronizing look. “I suppose we could shrug our shoulders and admit Gwyneth has been lost to us.”
A year ago, when this feeling came upon him, his hand would have settled of its own will upon the hilt of his sword. Now, his belt empty of both blade and pistol, he had to merely clench his hand and wait for the pulse of insult to fade.
Once it had, Arthur headed toward the opposite side of the room. The desk and the bookcase behind it. Though he refused to look down, his feet nonetheless took the liberty of avoiding that telltale stain.
Blood had become a common sight in war, one they had all learned to ignore. On the battlefield it was expected. Accepted. But in a man’s own study? What was the purpose of fighting if not to ensure that one could come home and live without fear?
He crouched beside the desk and ran his hands down the sides, comparing the dimensions from the outside with the space available in the drawers. No unexpected compartments, so far as he could tell. He leaned into the space underneath and checked the floorboards. Tight and varnished.
Giving up on that idea, he faced the shelves and began moving the books out a few inches to look behind them. Pull three out, check, push them back. Pull three out, check, push them back.
On the bottom shelf, he found a piece of paper crumpled behind a volume of Montesquieu. There was nothing upon it but a few notes on the text. On the second shelf, a letter from some chap from the Colonies was tucked within the pages of Lavoisier’s Méthode de Nomenclature Chimique. He found nothing else until he moved over to the next bookcase. On the third shelf down, in a collection of French poetry, rested another letter. The scent of rose water still clung to it, the elegant script on the outside matching the fragrance.
Mon amour.
French? He glanced over his shoulder to be sure Gates was still occupied with his own shelves, and then he unfolded the paper. General Fairchild certainly wouldn’t be the first army officer to find a paramour from among the French while on campaign, but he had to admit that the thought shocked him. Though he hadn’t served directly under him, Arthur knew Fairchild’s reputation.
Whispers from the Shadows Page 6
