by Anita Higman
Mom shuddered and rubbed her arms. I’d have to ask her later if she knew of the animal Miss Easton was talking about.
Clearing her throat, Miss Easton continued. “So I tried to make you feel unwelcome—so that you’d want to call off the wedding and leave. I tried to scare you away, with the mannequin wearing Madam Celeste’s old wedding dress. I knew Master Helsburg would never fire me, knowing what I know. Although he was livid at me for attempting to drive you away, he merely ordered me to remain out of sight, which is easy enough in the abbey. There are many ways one can hear without being heard and see without being seen.” Her brown eyes briefly caught mine, and with a start, I realized that those eyes were the same ones I’d seen peering down at me—through what must have been well-placed peepholes—in Celeste’s portrait in the dining room. She must have heard Wyatt and I planning to sneak into the catacombs and followed us so she could catch us in the act. And perhaps it had also been Miss Easton who was spying through the painting when, years ago, Celeste happened to glance up and realize she was being watched.
Shaking her head, Miss Easton looked at the floor, her proud features collapsing with shame. “But I didn’t try hard enough to frighten you and your daughter off. Despite all my efforts to spare Ivan from prison, I’ve now lost everything. And many more could have been killed because of my foolishness.”
The police chief stood frozen, his stub of a pencil still poised in the air, the notepad blank. Wyatt had ceased to struggle in the hands of the officers. Shaking off his stupor, the chief pocketed his pad and pencil and gestured for Miss Easton to walk out of the chapel with him. “If you’ll come willingly ma’am, it’s time to head to the station.”
Mom removed her veil and stood then, a determined expression on her face. “Despite all the bad you’ve done, thank you, Miss Easton…for stepping up in the end to save Wyatt and Anne. They would surely be dead if it weren’t for you. As would I.”
Miss Easton gave a curt nod in response. As she began to make her exit with the chief, her head held high again, Miss Easton glanced back at Wyatt. “Young man, I hope you can forgive me. Your mother was a kind woman. I see that kindness in you. Don’t let this stamp it out.” And then she strode away, the jingle of the keys at her waist growing fainter and then disappearing altogether.
Chapter Twenty Four
Dauphine
My body wanted to collapse on the pew again, but I held steady, rubbing my head and straining to clear the last of the drug out of my system. Except for Anne and Wyatt, everyone had left the chapel now. And the setting sun had come out from behind the clouds, filling the sanctuary with a brilliant incandescent light, and yet to me, the atmosphere remained full of shadows and questions.
To think of what could have happened to my dear Anne and to Wyatt sickened me all over again. In a fresh wave of emotion, I pulled my daughter into a tight hug. “Oh, my darling, I can’t stop thinking about…well, thank God Miss Easton came when she did.”
Anne held me tightly too as our tears turned into gentle sobs. When we released each other, I gave Wyatt a hug too. He’d looked like he needed one. When I let him go I said with conviction, “I guess it was never meant for us to be family after all, but this is your home too, Wyatt. I sincerely hope you still stay here for as long as you like.”
Wyatt didn’t reply, except for a slow nod and then a small smile.
“Good. Very good.”
“Mom, what will we do now?” Anne had a twinge of hope in her voice. “Even though you didn’t marry Ivan, you’re still mistress of Belrose Abbey.”
I closed my fingers around the cameo brooch—the one that my former fiancé had given me as a gift. The jewelry now felt so cold and my memories of him so shattered, I pulled on it, allowing it to tear the lace at my neck. Then I let the expensive trinket drop to the floor.
The light streaming in through the stained glass windows took my attention then, and for a moment I studied the various pastoral scenes of Christ depicted in them. I felt a strength come to me, a strength I hadn’t felt in a long time. “Well, I guess we will allow something good to come out of this, Anne. How that can be, I have no idea. But we three will start a new chapter of our lives here…at Belrose Abbey.”
Chapter Twenty Five
Anne
Suddenly feeling our exhaustion, Wyatt and I left the chapel, passing over a patchwork of kaleidoscope colors coming from the lit stained glass windows above. Mom stayed behind in the bridal room to change out of her gown. I could tell she was anxious to get out of the dress, since she’d been picking at the lace of her sleeves as if it were a monstrous skin she needed to shed.
I trod down the chapel steps with Wyatt at my side. I felt as if I’d entered as one person and was leaving as another—burdened by new, haunting memories, but also feeling an odd sense of freedom, as if I’d been bound before but I didn’t realize it.
We both paused at the foot of the steps and gazed at the abbey, the angle of the sun making the shadows long. I couldn’t believe that Mom was mistress of it all and that this was our new home. Glancing at Wyatt—whose dazed eyes stared at nothing—I asked, “Are you okay?”
Wyatt didn’t answer—he only slipped his hands into the pockets of his tux.
In spite of his silence, I asked, “Do you feel better knowing the truth? And that justice was served?”
Not looking at me, he said, “I don’t know. I don’t know what to feel right now.” Then he met my eyes, his focus sharpening. “But I do know that I’m glad you’re not going to be my sister.”
Surprised, I asked, “Why?”
The briefest shadow of his old smirk curved his mouth. “Never you mind.” Then he bent down, removed his left shoe, and reached over to grasp the ankle of my bare foot.
“What are you doing?”
“No arguing please. Just wear the shoe. It’s quite a walk back to the abbey.”
Sighing, I lifted my foot and allowed him to slip his oversized dress shoe on me. Despite the horrors of the day, I felt an unfamiliar fluttering in the pit of my stomach.
We continued on toward the abbey—me clomping unevenly in mismatched shoes—a companionable quiet between us. Just as we reached the gravel walkway leading to the main doors, my eye caught movement in a grove of trees bordering one of the gardens. I squinted. It appeared to be a man, huddled among the trunks of the trees. I nudged Wyatt and pointed. “Who is that?”
He followed the line of my finger. “I think that’s the foreman, Marley.” Wyatt stopped, shading his eyes against the glare of the falling sun. “I wonder what he’s up to. It almost looks like he’s…burying something.”
Stay Tuned for the next exciting installment.
Continuing reading for a sample chapter of Love Will Take Me Home
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About the Authors:
Anita Higman
Best-selling and award-winning author, Anita Higman, has forty books published. She’s been a Barnes & Noble “Author of the Month” for Houston and has a BA in the combined fields of speech communication, psychology, and art. A few of Anita’s favorite things are good movies, fairytales, traveling, gardening, exotic teas, and brunch with her friends. Feel free to drop by Anita’s website at www.anitahigman.com or connect with her on her Facebook Reader Page at https://www.facebook.com/AuthorAnitaHigman. She would love to hear from you!
Hillary McMullen
Hillary McMullen received an English degree from Sam Houston State University and has published a short story, articles, a devotional book, and a middle grade novel called The Ragamuffin Sisters. She enjoys curling up with a good book and a big mug of coffee.
LOVE WILL TAKE ME HOME
Chapter 1
Olivia Lamington wriggled the key into the lock of the manor’s heavy front door, but it didn’t fit quite right—just as her own irregular life had never slipped easily into this world. Especially now. It had been thr
ee months since Finney’s passing, though her heart still felt the weight of her employer’s absence. What a turn of events it had been for her—imagine—an orphan becoming heiress to a castle. She’d embraced the manor as her home, as Finney had requested, but sometimes it still felt as though she were playing house.
The hinges of the door groaned and echoed through the entry hall, making Olivia wither. Although Bromfeld Manor was filled with antiques, tapestries and paintings, it was empty of Finney’s scents and sounds. His joy. After twenty years in Finney’s employment how would she live her life now? Was God still smiling down on her?
Not wanting to go inside just yet, she turned back toward the live oaks. The canopy of leaves shimmered, looking like lacework against the afternoon sun, and the branches stretched across the lane as if straining to embrace each other. The breeze tickled her cheeks, making her eyelids flutter shut. The smell of Carolina jasmine filled the air. Oh, how Finney loved springtime in the country, especially his little corner of the world in Southeast Texas. So vivacious and expectant, he would always say.
The sun dipped behind the clouds, darkening the landscape. The shadows reminded her once again how alone she was.
Music, far away and sweetly melancholy, came in on the breeze. In the distance a stranger, who looked about her own age—perhaps somewhere near forty—plodded toward the manor, playing a harmonica. She recognized the folk song, “Danny Boy.” With each grinding step his shoes stirred up puffs of clay-colored dust. Had the man’s car broken down, or was he homeless? The moment the man noticed Olivia, he stopped as if she were a skittish bird he might frighten off.
He was right. She backed away into the house and locked the dead bolt. The man was a stranger, after all, and with the staff recently dismissed, she was truly alone.
Olivia hurried to one of the front windows, pulled the drape back and studied the man. A stray dog she’d befriended over the months—one she’d named Mops—latched on to his pant leg, snarling and generally causing him grief. The stranger didn’t seem to mind the tug-of-war, but he did look weary in a thousand other ways—like he was on the last journey of his life.
Believing that the stranger would ring the bell, Olivia scurried into the sunroom so she wouldn’t be tempted to answer the door. She found a book on the shelf—The Man Who Would Be King—and opened it to the first page. A pressed flower fluttered out of the novel and onto the floor, one she’d forgotten about. But then pressing wildflowers into books and hoping they would fall out later to delight a reader was her “thing.” Or as Rudyard Kipling might have said, “a trifling custom.” It was so much a part of her that many of the Bromfeld Manor books held hidden blossoms. She picked up the translucent bluebonnet and set it on the table.
Just as she expected, the doorbell rang. She sat still. Olivia, you will not answer that door. She tried to concentrate on the first line of the novella, but it was no use. She ended up going over and over the same words, waiting for the bell again. When it rang, Olivia jumped. Then the goofy thing ding-donged five more times. Who did the man think he was?
Olivia waited, holding her breath. Finally, there was quiet again. He must have given up. But a moment later when she turned toward the west end of the room, the stranger stood by the windows, staring at her through the glass.
Olivia’s book made a flying leap before slapping back down onto the wood floor. She let out a shriek so bone rattling that it frightened the stranger, making him stumble backward. He let out an equally impressive yelp as the big-thorned rosebushes devoured him.
Was he a thief? A murderer? Maybe he’d heard of Finney’s death and somehow knew she was alone. God help me! What could she do? Call the local sheriff? But there was no time. And Finney had never kept guns on the premises. If she had a gun she’d probably just shoot her foot off with the silly thing, anyway.
Glancing at each of the sunroom windows, she noticed one of them had been left open. Olivia ran to the spot and, with quaking hands, slammed the window shut, locked it and backed away until she hit the wall. Finding a broom behind the door, she grabbed it and held it in front of her as a weapon.
No sound came from the man and no thrashing about in the bushes. Had he been knocked out, or was he playing dead like a sly fox?
After another second or two, muffled words erupted from the rosebushes. “I am Finney Bromfeld’s son, Noah,” he hollered.
Olivia’s mind tore into a dozen questions at once. He couldn’t be Finney’s son; Finney’s son was dead.
The stranger tried to get his footing as he clambered out of the bushes. When he finally straightened, he held out a pink rose like a repentant schoolboy. “So, do you believe me?” He spoke loudly to be heard through the glass.
“I don’t know what to think. You don’t look anything like Finney.” The man had long brown hair, light olive skin and a boring kind of nose. Nothing at all like Finney who had blond hair, a schnozzle with angles and skin as pink as a newborn mole.
“That’s because I resemble my mother,” he said.
“Why don’t I believe you?” Olivia stepped forward, still aiming the broom at him. “By the way, you scared the woozoos out of me, peeping in the window like that.” She sharpened her tone, making it as unpleasant as a paper cut—a nasty one.
“Woozoos? That’s a good one.” He didn’t even bother to squelch his laugh. “Actually, I wasn’t peeping. I was about to open a window so I could climb in.” Then the man stuck the rose into the lapel of his jacket and gave it a pat. “And you were the one guilty of gawking out at me from the front window.”
Humph. That wasn’t the same thing, but to say the obvious seemed ridiculous.
At least the barbed bushes, which had been planted near the windows to discourage thieves, had done their job. His hands and face were scratched up, and his T-shirt and jacket were dirtied. A trickle of blood drizzled down the man’s cheek from a small wound on his temple. Olivia’s heart softened toward him—but only a mouse’s portion. “Before I even think about letting you in…tell me something unique about your family, something only Finney’s son might know.”
“All right.” The man scrubbed his stubble-covered chin. “When I was seventeen my mother was…” He frowned and shook his head as if he’d changed his mind about telling her.
“Was what?”
“My mother was struck by lightning.” He crossed his arms. “So, will that do?”
“Maybe.” Finney had talked about the incident some years ago. Olivia gave up the idea that the man was a thief and motioned toward the front of the house. “Okay, I will let you in but not through the window. Please go around to the front door.”
Mops trotted up to the man and growled with more gumption this time.
Hmm. Could have used you a few moments ago.
The man tapped on the glass. “Could you please call off your dog?”
Olivia hesitated, since maybe Mops sensed a danger she wasn’t aware of.
Then with the shameless audacity of a burglar the man lifted one of the windows and stepped inside the sunroom. “Ever since I was five that lock has never worked right.” He stood inside now, dusting off his clothes. “Weren’t you tired of shouting through the glass? I was.” He looked at her broom and raised his hands as he were being held up by a loaded gun. Then he grinned.
It was a good smile as smiles go—a fine specimen—but she still wanted to slap it right off his face and maybe leave a stinging red imprint on his cheek to remind him not to go around frightening women.
He cocked his head. “You’re not going to scream again, are you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Or sweep me to death?” He gestured toward the broom—the one she still gripped as if her hands were welded to the handle.
Olivia slowly lowered her weapon and then dropped it cold, letting it make a spiteful clatter on the wood floor. She tried not to stare at him, but she gave up and stared anyway. His wild locks were pulled back in a ponytail. My, my, my. She’d never person
ally met a man with long hair before. Kind of sixties. Noah wasn’t terribly handsome, not short or tall, heavy or thin, but he was appealing with his dark eyes darting about, taking in the whole world at once. The man was a dreamer type—one could see that in a moment—but even with all his swashbuckling Johnny Depp air there was a tortured look about him.
And the man had no sense of personal space, since he came up to her and edged a bit too close. “Technically speaking, you’re the stranger in my house.”
Confused, Olivia backed away. The scent of him—weeds and wet dog—lingered in her nose. Not the best combo.
“I’m Noah, but I guess I said that back there in the shrubs.”
“You did.”
“By the way, you have blight on your roses, and they’re in desperate need of pruning. If you’re not careful they’re going to forget how to bloom.”
“They just need a bit of love.” Like a kite coming down to earth, Olivia reeled herself back in. “You’re bleeding.” She pointed to his cheek.
“My father’s roses were always unforgiving…as were so many other things about this home.” Noah pulled a handkerchief from an inner pocket and dabbed at his face.
“I’m Olivia Lamington. Like the little coconut-covered sponge cakes in Australia.”
“I’ve been to Australia, and since I have a great fondness for those little coconut-covered treats, I won’t be able to get you out of my head.”
What did that mean? Was he making fun of her? She hardly knew. Except for some church functions and shopping in town, her social interactions had been limited. Olivia wiped her sweaty palms on her clothes, wishing she’d worn something besides a shapeless gray housedress. Something, that is, less Jane Eyre-ish for a change. She thought about shaking his hand but then changed her mind. “I was hired as an assistant and, well, sort of a nurse to your father.”
