by Tracy Sumner
Elle tossed her father's last will and testament to the floor, where it glided beneath a tasseled footstool. She hoped Gerard Claude Beaumont, whoever he was, appreciated his good fortune.
Her father had misread her. She didn't care about his money. Of course, she would have liked to control the modest amount her mother left her, use it to complete her education and make the necessary repairs to the school. Perhaps repair Widow Wynne's roof. The rest, the estate of Henri Paul Beaumont, did not concern her in the least.
The savage cruelty of her father's last communication stung. She could imagine him dictating the marriage clause to his hawk-faced solicitor, a stranger who stank of Macassar oil and aided in sending paternal threats from the grave. A threat preserved in black ink for everyone to see. Elle felt humiliated, furious, and very disappointed.
Again.
These emotions gnawed at her, negating the grief that had bubbled forth when she got a good look at her father's lifeless body. Grief that swiftly turned to horror as Noah collapsed, a crimson streak slicking the side of the boat, following the path of his descent.
There could be no greater fear than thinking she'd lost the one man who would never be hers to lose. Much greater than the nagging uneasiness she'd felt long before Caleb rowed their boat toward shore.
She twisted her hands in the folds of Noah's coat, picturing the wash of blood down his side.
He's not going to die. No, but he would leave. And, sooner or later, he would touch another woman as he had touched her.
Elle wrapped her arms around her stomach, threw her head back, and laughed until her lungs burned. Caroline Bartram: another of her father's asinine errors in judgment. Unquestionably, he had not expected his daughter to be in his library at dawn, cleaning before a rush of consoling visitors stormed his house. The file lay open on the desk. Two large circles caught her eye. Printed in block letters inside them was a woman's name.
Smaller print below the vicious circles had given a great many particulars about Mrs. Caroline Beatrice Bartram. Age, family history, known associations, close friends, and presumed lovers. A detailed and rather fascinating report; it was news to Elle that you could buy a written account of someone's life. And Mrs. Bartram had led an interesting one, to say the least. This seemed a frightful intrusion, and she wondered, lacking any genuine interest, which drawer in her father's desk held Noah Garrett's life printed on cheap bond.
Noah and this woman knew each other well enough that an investigator had connected them. She dropped her head to her knees and swallowed past the choke of tears. Would she be listed in Noah's report?
Doubtful.
She sniffed and wiped her nose on Noah's sleeve, his scent sending a jolt of—oh, God, she knew—desire through her. Desire and the foolhardy love she wished to crush like a stick of chalk beneath her heel.
This morning, confused by her father's final thrust and eager to talk to Noah, Elle impulsively decided to take Zach's advice. She would tell Noah she loved him. She would never forget the sight of his blood on her hands. Never.
She loved him, and she wanted him to know.
She put on her nicest dress, which wasn't saying much, pinned her mother's brooch on her collar, arranged her hair in a shabby imitation of a French twist, and topped the ensemble off with a narrow little nothing of a hat she had purchased two years ago but never worn.
Following everyone's advice but her own, Elle dabbed the honeysuckle fragrance Noah liked behind each ear. Beneath the haze of grief and uncertainty, she felt joyously relieved. Joyously relieved, grieved, and uncertain, she opened the door to his childhood bedroom and her world tilted on its axis. A complete, soaring tilt. Backing out of the room, she then walked into town, and telegraphed Savannah.
My father has died. Stop. No change in dire circumstances. Stop.
If anyone found a visit to the telegraph office on the day of her father's funeral a strange occurrence, they didn't say anything. As for the odd looks, who cared? She'd been receiving those since the day she set foot in Pilot Isle.
She didn't think she could watch Noah walk away from her life again.
Therefore, she would walk away from his.
11
"There was a curious popular notion."
~ C. Wyville Thomson
The Depths of the Sea
Caroline Bartram did not consider herself a person of exemplary moral fiber. She had grown up in a mill village in Solitude, West Virginia, in a squalid one-room shack. No running water, just a creek out back, newspapers stuffed into every hole and crevice, four children to a bed and three stretched beside it on the floor. Caroline had done things she was not proud of to escape.
She took a sip of tea, her pinkie angled away from the chipped handle. She remembered Ruby Garnet's lessons and used them well. She glanced from one man to the other, smoothed her hand across her bodice, and balanced her cup perfectly in its saucer. Her presence troubled them, Noah's brothers. The broad, rough one shuffled his feet and drank from the cup using both hands. The tall, thoughtful one, Zachariah, alternated between staring at her and staring out the window.
Troubled, indeed.
Patience waning, she asked, "Do you think a short visit would tire Noah too much?"
Zachariah pinned his brother with a hard glare. "Did you announce Mrs. Bartram, Caleb?"
Caleb's gaze flicked to her, to his brother, to the floor. He shook his head.
Zachariah sighed and swiveled toward her, his face set in lines of a serious nature. "Of course, Mrs. Bartram, since you've come all the way from Chicago. I just wanted"—he threw another heated glance at his brother—"to let Noah know you'd arrived so it wasn't a big surprise. I'm sure you understand."
"Is he all right?"
They both halted, studying her.
She placed the cup and saucer on the end table and tugged at the button on her glove. "I would love to see him now that he's awake." Vaguely, she questioned whether this constituted a breach of etiquette for a widow to visit a man in his bedroom. Ruby Garnet had never covered such a lesson that Caroline recalled.
Zachariah nodded and rose to his feet. "Right this way."
She brushed her gloved hands over her skirt and stood with a whisper of silk and crinoline. "Good day, Mr. Garrett."
"Mrs. Bartram," Caleb said, averting his eyes.
What they must think of her, she wondered, and climbed a narrow staircase in desperate need of a woman's touch. A spot of color would do nicely, a flower or two, a picture. She almost tapped on Zachariah's stiff shoulder and told him. Such rigid posture. She frowned. After all these years, people's derision still hurt. However, this time, she had lumped the scorn on her own shoulders. By accepting an offer to come to a place she didn't belong. Belated, perchance, but she hoped Noah would not be angry with her.
Zachariah halted before a door. Touching the dented knob, he said, "It's only been three days since the accident, and he might be sleeping, like he was during your visit yesterday. If he's not, he won't last long. The doctor gave him these pain powders and they snuff him out as quick as you can snuff out a candle."
"A short visit only, I promise. A quick hello, and I'll be on my way."
He pressed his lips together and peeked inside. "Awake, I think."
She thanked him and entered the bedroom, instantly recognizing the stench of illness. Caroline had doctored many people in her life, mostly women, and for ailments hospitals shied from.
He lay on his back, gazing through the window, his lids sleep-heavy. His hair was longer than she ever remembered seeing it, curling over his brow in streaks of color. She suppressed the maternal urge to sweep the strands from his face, instead, clutched her hands together, and slid into the chair by his bed.
His chest crested and dipped. "What are you doing here, Caro?"
"I came to see you, darling. What else?"
Gingerly, as if movement pained him, he turned his head. Skin shadowed and cheeks gaunt, but his gaze was clear and observant. "Are you
in trouble?"
She laughed and yanked at a button on her glove. "I don't get into trouble anymore." Not terrible trouble, anyway.
The smile didn't reach his eyes. "Why, Caro?"
She shrugged and tapped her fingers together. "Maybe I wanted to see the place you've talked so little about. The family you've told me nothing about."
He laughed, then made a pained sound, and rubbed a spot below his ribs. "Now that you've seen it, seen them, do you think you'd like to tell me why you left Chicago?"
"Well"—she unbuttoned and buttoned her glove—"you remember my gentleman friend, Russell?"
"The lawyer."
"Apparently, Russell conducted some fraudulent business. Something to do with whiskey and illegal importation, if I understood the agreeable magistrate correctly."
"Good God, did you get arrested?"
"Oh, gracious, no. But they searched my house. Russell apparently used the back corner for a felonious reserve. Quite a stink on Prairie Avenue, I can tell you. None of the silk stockings want a former madam for a neighbor. Even if I keep my lawn neater than theirs and drive the grandest carriage on the block. Anyway, the magistrate suggested a short respite until they had Russell, bless his dear heart, locked away."
One of Noah's brows kicked high. "Do you have a place to stay?"
"My, yes. A kind whaler gentleman offered to bunk with his friend and give me the largest bedroom at the boardinghouse. Decorated in shades of pink and ivory. Reminds me of a child's room but lovely just the same."
"You ran to Pilot Isle to escape Russell the whiskey swindler?"
She frowned and clicked her back teeth together.
"I can hear the clicking, Caro." He yawned. "Dead giveaway you're withholding information."
"How about we have a nice, long chat tomorrow?"
"Hmmm, tomorrow the... mystery unfolds."
Caroline shook the wrinkles from her skirt and walked to the window. A shaggy-headed boy raced along the street, a mutt on his heels. A wagon crept past, loaded high with barrels and crates. A strong gust shook the branches of a tree and whipped the stalks of grass into a verdant frenzy. Long ago, Carrie McTavey might have known what kind of tree this was, what to call those red-and-white flowers surrounding the house. She might have understood how to let the simple joy of life overcome the everyday pain of living.
A kind, sweet girl, Carrie McTavey. Gentle and trusting. Completely happy to share a bed with three sisters and plug the holes in the walls with scraps of salvaged newsprint. Life had been as shiny as a new penny, even if the edges were dull. Then, her father's foreman put his hands on her on her twelfth birthday. After that, men touching her became commonplace. Expected. She shrugged and let the curtain slip from her fingers. She had harmed no one by earning money for the expected.
Noah mumbled in his sleep, and she glanced back. He looked so young. Worry lines smoothed by slumber. He was the only man, besides her da, who wanted to help her and didn't seem to want her body in return.
He had never touched her in a disrespectful way. At first, Noah's reticence hurt, because she'd come to understand men wanted her or else they didn't know she existed. Somehow, over time, Noah's view of her had become her own.
Caroline liked Pilot Isle, the picturesque avenues and earthy smells. Reminded her of Solitude, with friendlier people. They didn't scrunch up their noses when she smiled at them. Besides, Chicago had lost some of its charm, and more important, Justin would love the town. He hated the boarding school in Michigan. He wanted her and, gracious, she wanted him. In Pilot Isle, she could have him. What she wanted most in the world was to be a true mother to her illegitimate and much-loved son.
She glanced out the window as a young woman walked up the drive, a boy about Justin's age holding her hand. Her gaze lifted, and even from a distance, Caroline saw her eyes, green as the grass beneath her feet and spiked by long lashes. Not sure why, she moved out of sight. Through a slit in the curtain, she witnessed the play of emotion across the woman's face. Confusion, anger, and ultimately, love.
Evidently, this was Marielle-Claire Beaumont. The description matched well enough. A beautiful little thing. Exquisite face, lavish body. Caroline laughed softly. She could have made a fortune in the Pink House.
She looked back at Noah, his chest rising and falling beneath a bleached sheet. Frayed holes dotted the edge. She sighed. Men.
She remembered what little Noah had told her. Beaumont's daughter was a part of the discovery of his illegitimacy. Maybe he didn't want to have anything to do with the girl because of it.
She looked back to find the yard empty, the sun sinking low and throwing all kinds of vivid colors against the clouds. She saw more of the sky here than she could in Chicago.
She liked that.
Caroline knew from personal experience that small towns bred rumors faster than an alley cat bred kittens. A walk about town, a smile, a subtle question or two. She would ascertain enough to know if she'd made a mistake coming here.
Elle did not anticipate having Jewel Quattlebaum crash into her as the reporter tripped down Zach's front steps. "Merciful heavens, what's gotten into her?" Elle asked as Jewel strode down the path without issuing an apology.
"Noah, that's what."
Elle glanced back to find Zach leaning against the screen door, a yawn parting his lips.
"You look exhausted."
He stroked his bearded chin. "Frustration over tangling with a six-foot-two baby."
"That bad?"
"You won't believe what he told Jewel. She came here looking for details about the accident. Said Noah was a hero. Make a good story for the Messenger and all that. I assumed he would at least talk to her."
"And?"
Zach scowled, thoroughly disgusted. "He told her to climb on her gnawed-off pencil and ride it straight to hell."
Though she knew it would anger Zach, Elle laughed until her eyes smarted. My, she had not felt like laughing in days.
"It's not funny, Ellie, he's driving us crazy."
She nodded, struggling for breath, trying to agree.
"Go talk to him. Please."
She straightened, the laughter dying in her throat. "No."
"What have you got in your hand?"
"The book you asked me to bring from the coach house. The one you said Noah needed."
"Talk to him. I beg you. Before I kill him or Caleb does. They've been going at it as fiercely as they did when they were children. I'm ready to run away from home."
"Zach, I—"
"I really believe you're part of this temper tantrum he's having. You haven't been by since the day of the funeral. Not that he's said anything, you know Noah. I told him you ask after him, and he just grunts."
"Me? Why would he care if—"
"What are you going to do? Avoid him until he leaves because of this woman? We don't know what to make of her, Ellie. Maybe they're good friends."
She hugged Noah's book to her chest, her father's file tucked inside. Good friends, indeed. "How is he?" she asked, unable to stop the question.
The door hinge squeaked as Zach stepped inside the house. "You've asked me a hundred times." He smiled at her through the torn screen. "This time you'll have to find the answer yourself. By the way, he's out back."
"Thanks a lot." A fine wind scattered her hair, tugged at her divided skirt. For a moment she considered leaving the book on the stoop and riding away on her bicycle. Except, she couldn't leave that despicable report for just anyone to stumble upon. For purely malicious reasons, she had decided to let Noah stumble upon it.
I really believe you're part of this temper tantrum.
Had her avoidance hurt him? Was that possible? Elle figured Mrs. Caroline Bartram would keep him entertained.
"Oh, the nerve of the man." She would give him his blasted book and then some.
Sunlight and dew sparkled on the blades of grass she crushed beneath her boot. A bout of rain the night before had cleared the air and hastened the transfor
mation of spring. The scent of the ocean lingered, and through an open window she passed, the aroma of bacon and browning butter.
She rounded the corner of the house and halted, her fingers sticking to the book's leather cover. Noah sat in a rocking chair beneath the oak they had climbed as children, in a stretch of shade provided by a copse of branches. Wavering bursts of shadow and light swam across his profile, the pensive tilt of his lips, the taut line of his jaw. A table sat next to him, piled high with papers and books, and the box of metal instruments she had delivered two days earlier.
His hand swept the page of his notebook with rapidity she found hard to follow. He nudged his spectacles, then tapped the pencil against his straight, white teeth, staring into the distance. As she stood there, torn between love and dismay, Noah stiffened, the pencil sliding from his fingers. He cocked his head and looked directly at her, his reflective, unguarded mien hardening into the detached one she knew well. For a long moment, he stared, the expression on his face almost anticipatory.
Then he blinked and glanced down, a shrug of indifference his only reply.
Elle tipped her hat back and filled her lungs with a strong dose of courage. The wind shook the thicket of branches as she stepped beneath them and flattened a stray curl against his brow. She swallowed. He'd fastened nary a button on his shirt, leaving an open tangle of faded, blue cotton trailing past his waist. White gauze circled his ribs and a swatch of hair, darker than the hair on his head, peeked out above and below.
Juste Ciel, she thought, a pool of heat unfurling in her belly. Stunned, she dropped the book to the ground and plopped her rear end upon it.
Eyes still glued to his notebook, he asked, "Which one of my textbooks are you sitting on?"
She didn't answer, just watched the wind ruffle his hair and lift his floppy shirttails, exposing more of a man's body than she had ever seen except for an intermittent fisherman on the docks.
