A Grave Matter

by Anna Lee Huber

  Whenever the butler appeared unbidden, we leapt to attention, curious to see if a messenger had come from Marefield to bring us news of the arrival of the ransom note. But even in this, we were thwarted.

  We moped about the library and the billiard room, trying desperately to distract ourselves and keep the tension that had suffused the household to a manageable level, but nothing really helped. Not even our sharing wild suppositions on the ringleader’s motive and identity.

  As the days stretched on without word from Lord Fleming, I began to worry that he had changed his mind about sharing the ransom note with us. Lady Fleming’s outburst during our initial visit might have been motivated by fear for her nephew, but just because I had written to put her mind at ease in that regard didn’t mean that she and her husband would not still take it into their heads that our involvement would hamper the successful return of the late Lord Fleming’s bones. When I broached the subject with Gage, he insisted that Lord Fleming had welcomed our assistance and would honor his word. However, I was not so confident.

  If Lord Fleming chose to exclude us from the payment of the ransom, there was little we could do about it. They were his grandfather’s remains, his money being paid for their return. We could not force him to let us take part, even though it might be our last chance to catch the villains.

  We could attempt to visit the house in Coldingham where Mr. Stuart was rumored to stay in hopes of uncovering something, but if there was nothing there, we would be compelled to wait until either we could locate Mr. Stuart and question him or, worse, another body was stolen. The latter seemed unbearable. What if instead of bribing the next graveyard watchman or caretaker they encountered, they simply decided to kill him, like Dodd? What if an innocent bystander unwittingly got in their way?

  I did not believe that these men would avoid violence. Nor did I trust that whoever was choosing the graves to rob, be it Mr. Stuart or someone else, would be able to restrain them if they wished. If these Edinburgh criminals found themselves in a tricky position, like they had been with Dodd, they would not hesitate to kill again. And because of that, they needed to be caught now, before anyone else was harmed.

  Gage and I briefly considered the possibility that they would never ask for the ransom, but quickly discarded it. They might be aware of our investigation, and even be wary of our getting too close to the truth, but they had already taken tremendous risks. They wouldn’t abandon their plan before receiving their reward, not with a dangerous group of Edinburgh body snatchers to pay. It was far more likely that they were being cautious, reexamining their strategy, and waiting for the right moment to act.

  Given our continued thwarted efforts, I couldn’t help but wonder about the effect the first-footing ceremony had on the events of the past few weeks. Perhaps Willie’s arrival had brought ill luck to the investigation. Though, technically, it was the Rutherfords, the owners of Clintmains Hall, whose fortune should be affected. But I had been there. Perhaps the bad omen had attached to me as well.

  I felt mildly foolish even considering something so superstitious, but given the circumstances, I couldn’t completely dismiss the thought. Or the wariness I felt as the inquiry progressed.

  When not stalking the post or speculating with Gage and Trevor, I tried to distract myself in my studio, thinking that if I could lose myself in my art, I might find clarity in other areas. Perhaps I would have a flash of insight about something we’d underestimated or overlooked. Maybe the key to everything was there waiting for me to find if I would just stop trying so hard to make all the pieces fit. Like a name you know you should recall but simply can’t remember no matter how hard you try, that is, until you cease attempting to recollect it.

  And if clarity was not to be found in the investigation, then perhaps I could at least untangle the emotional knots I found myself twisted up in when it came to Gage. Unfortunately, the more I tried to understand what lay between us and what brought us together, the more muddled I became.

  The entire situation perplexed me, and I urgently wished I could talk to my sister. As much as her pestering annoyed me, and as much as I’d resisted confiding in her while we were in Edinburgh, I knew that she, better than anyone, would be able to help me make sense of it all. She was far more experienced in the ways of the heart than I was. I knew what it was to suffer loss and to feel bitter disappointment, but when it came to the lighter emotions, I was untried.

  I wanted Alana to explain how she had felt when Philip was courting her. Had she always been blissfully happy? Or had the periods of joy alternated with darker moods, moments when apprehension and doubt had pressed down on her chest like a heavy weight? Had she felt certain of his devotion and affection, or had she worried it was only temporary? That whatever he’d felt for her would swiftly shrivel and fade with time?

  The trouble was that I didn’t know what it was to love and be loved in this way, so I did not know how to discern that which was real from that which was illusion. Like a portrait in which the subject wishes to be painted not as he really is, but as he wishes to be seen. And I was afraid that the moment I let myself believe, I would be proven a fool.

  So I took refuge in my studio, taking comfort in the tangible feel of the brush between my fingertips, the touch of its bristles against the canvas as I created my own reality. Here I solely controlled the truth—the authenticity of the pigments, the accuracy of the representation—and no one could tell me otherwise.

  On Monday I barely left my corner of the conservatory, stopping only long enough to consume a bowl of soup when Trevor came to pester me about my luncheon tray having returned to the kitchens untouched. I could not argue with him, for I’d not even noticed it being delivered or taken away. But beyond that, I was unaware of anyone’s presence.

  That is, until early Monday evening, when shadows began to overtake the conservatory. I blinked to adjust my vision as the darkness settled around me, becoming conscious of the sun dropping behind the tree line outside the windows at my back, taking with it my sole source of light. I reached out to light one of my lanterns when I noticed a movement beyond my easel.

  Gage leaned negligently against a table covered in potted plants, one ankle crossed over the other. His lips quirked in amusement. “You truly do lose yourself in your art. That wasn’t simply a saying.”

  It took me a moment to find my voice after such intense concentration, and by the time I did so, he was already moving toward me with his long loose-legged stride. “How long were you standing there?” I murmured hoarsely, and then cleared my throat.

  He shrugged one shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. You’re fascinating to watch.”

  “Oh?” I said stupidly.

  I suddenly realized he was coming very close and I glanced at my easel, unwilling to let him see what I’d been painting there. I took a step away from my painting area, and pivoted to drop my brush in the jar of linseed oil I had sitting at the ready.

  “D-Did you need something?” I stammered.

  “Just your company.” He stopped half a step in front of me and stared down into my face, paint-smeared, no doubt. “Have you been hiding from me?” It was said in jest, but I could see the genuine concern reflected in the depths of his eyes.

  “No,” I replied, even though that wasn’t strictly true. “Waiting for word from Lord Fleming is just . . .” I looked about me, at a loss for the right words. I sighed. “Frustrating.”

  He nodded in understanding.

  Feeling the warmth radiating from his body where he stood so close to mine, I realized how cold and stiff I was from standing for so many hours. I wanted nothing more than to lay my head against his chest and let him wrap his arms around me. Even standing amid all the fumes in my studio, I could smell the spiciness of his cologne and that lovely elusive scent that was purely him. But I knew I probably looked a fright, and smelled like one, too, so I resisted.

  My gaze dropped to the paper in his hand. “What’s that?” I asked hopefully.

 
; He lifted it to show me. “Just a letter from Mr. Tyler.”

  I felt a jolt of interest. “And?”

  Gage’s eyebrows rose in emphasis. “Mr. Stuart did visit them the weekend his father’s grave was disturbed.”

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about this news, but I knew what it meant for our investigation. “Which only confirms our suspicions and makes him an even stronger suspect.”

  “Yes.” One corner of his mouth rose in disgruntled chagrin. “So it appears we have Bonnie Brock to thank for pointing us in the right direction.” I could hear how much he hated admitting that.

  “Well, maybe,” I added for his benefit. “Mr. Stuart’s guilt hasn’t been proven yet.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Are you trying to make me feel better when I was the one who was being stubborn?”

  I bit my lip, staring up at his now healed and unmarred face. “Well, he didn’t give me a black eye.”

  “True.” His eyes gleamed down at me, and I had to look away, feeling both a flush of pleasure and that same pressing weight of uncertainty.

  “So what have you been working on?” He stepped to the side, trying to move past me, but I sidestepped with him and pressed a hand to his chest.

  “I’d really rather you not see it. It isn’t finished.”

  He tilted his head. “Oh, come now. Surely, you know I won’t judge you. I understand artwork has to go through many stages.”

  He tried to move around me again, but I grabbed his arm.

  “Please. It’s really not ready to be seen,” I pleaded.

  His mouth curled upward in teasing. “Why, Kiera, are you hiding something? Perhaps you’re painting naughty pictures?”

  I gasped in outrage at the very idea, but he merely laughed. Then picking me up by the waist, he spun me out of the way.

  “Gage, no!”

  But it was too late.

  I stood by and watched helplessly as shock radiated across his features, draining his face of all amusement. It was replaced by a look of mute disbelief.

  I studied his expression, trying to interpret what he was thinking. Was he angry? Repulsed? Disappointed?

  I rubbed my hands anxiously on my apron. “I . . . I told you it’s not finished,” I repeated. “I . . . I’m not happy with it yet. You should have waited.” I could feel tears of frustration burning at the back of my eyes.

  Gage stood silently a moment longer before finally taking a step backward. He blinked several times before his gaze swung to meet mine. His pupils were wide and penetrating. I felt stripped bare. “And you would have shown me?” he asked gently.

  “I . . . yes,” I replied with a defiant lift of my chin, wrapping my arms around me. But as he continued to stare at me, I felt compelled to add, at least for the sake of honesty, “Eventually.”

  His eyes continued to search mine, looking for something. “So, this . . .” He dipped his head toward the painting. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “This is how you see me?”

  Hearing his voice so choked, I couldn’t find my own. My gaze darted to the canvas and then back to him where he stood waiting for me to speak, his hands clenched at his sides. I didn’t know what he saw when he looked at the portrait I’d painted of him, what had so upset him, but I could not lie. I alone had painted this, from memory, from my own thoughts and impressions of him. From my own heart.

  So I nodded.

  Suddenly he was before me, and I staggered back a step before his hands came up to stop me. Almost urgently, he reached out to cradle my face, his callused hands rasping against my skin. His eyes were bright with an emotion I’d only seen briefly before, if ever. An emotion that made my heart stutter in my chest. And I was terrified that my own eyes reflected it back at him.

  I inhaled swiftly, closing them, and a moment later felt the warm press of his lips against mine. My entire body tingled at his touch, and I reluctantly and then enthusiastically tumbled into his kiss, eager to block out all the worries and doubts tumbling about inside me. It was easy to get lost in the pleasure of Gage’s mouth on mine, but this time it was not the skill with which he kissed me, but the eagerness, the desperation of his embrace. It was far more potent than any of the other tricks he could conjure, and soon had me weak in the knees and gasping for breath. I clung to the lapels of his deep blue coat, still dazed with passion when he lifted his mouth from mine.

  His breath escaped in short puffs when he leaned forward to press his forehead against mine. “Kiera.” He spoke my name like it was a benediction, and it made my breath catch. “I don’t know how or why I resisted so long, but I find I no longer can.” He stared down into my eyes, so close to his, and I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. “Kiera, will you marry me and make me the happiest of men?”

  My heart swelled with joy at the same time that my lungs seemed to expel all of their air. I pulled back, but he would only let me go so far. “Gage,” I stammered, not knowing what to say or how to say it.

  He stared down at me so hopefully as if someone had shone a light behind his eyes.

  “Are you asking me because of the portrait?” I asked in confusion, stalling for time.

  “Well, yes, I suppose. It certainly gave me the courage to try.” His lips curled into a tender smile.

  “But . . . I don’t understand.” I glanced toward the canvas, trying to comprehend what he had seen. “Because that’s the way I see you?”

  He could sense my distress, and some of the light faded from his eyes. “You see, I wasn’t sure before. But now I am.”

  I finally managed to pull away from him, and wrapped my arms protectively around my middle, where my stomach swirled. I shook my head. “I . . . I still don’t understand. Sure of what? My artistic ability?” Of wanting me? The last went unsaid. I simply couldn’t voice it.

  Gage’s gaze turned scolding. “Kiera, you know I’ve been aware of your artistic talents for quite some time.”

  “Then what? Why are you asking me to marry you?” I pleaded in frustration.

  He searched my face, and whatever he saw there made his eyes harden. “You don’t want to marry me.” He spoke in that emotionless voice I so loathed.

  “Yes. No.” I pressed a hand to my forehead and whirled away. “I don’t know.” My heart pounded in my chest, making it difficult to catch my breath. “You confuse me,” I told him accusatorily, in an unconscious echo of our conversation in the carriage on the day we visited St. Boswells. But if I’d thought he was perplexing then, how much more so was he now.

  “How do I confuse you?” he bit out, his body stiff. “I asked you to marry me. What could be less confusing than that?”

  “Yes, but how do you know it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision?” I flung my arm out to gesture to the painting. “Because of the portrait. How do you know you won’t regret it later?”

  “Because I know my own mind.” He glared at me. “But it sounds like you don’t.”

  “Of course I don’t! Because you won’t explain anything to me. We . . . we’re nothing alike. You’re charming and adored, and I’m . . . I’m a pariah. I can’t understand why you would want to be with me. Unless . . .” I inhaled shakily. “Unless it’s for another reason.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits. “Like what? For your artistic abilities? Your investigative skills?”

  “Yes,” I snapped, hating his derisive tone.

  He drew himself up to his greatest height, staring down his nose at me. “Kiera, I am not Sir Anthony.”

  “I know that,” I retorted angrily. My chest rose and fell rapidly. “But . . .”

  I couldn’t finish the sentence, so he did so for me. “You can’t be sure.”

  I gazed up at him in pleading, trying to make him understand. Begging him to make me understand. But he merely stared down at me unmoved. I felt my heart shrivel inside my chest.

  “Then I suppose we’re at an impasse,” he replied.

  I could not speak, not past the lump that was forming in my throat, th
reatening to choke me. But it appeared Gage didn’t require a response. Instead, he turned and marched from the room.

  As I watched him go, my lips wobbled and a single tear slipped from my eye, and then another. I pressed my palms to my eyes, grinding them into the sockets as I tried to calm myself. But the seal was broken, the dam was burst, and I dropped to my knees.

  I wept quietly, my body shaking with grief and despair, wishing Gage would return, hoping he would stay away. And all the while hating that he had the ability to do this to me. I didn’t want to want him, to need him. It was so much easier, so much safer, to be on my own.

  The look in his eyes as he’d realized I was not going to say yes kept flashing through my mind—the pain and anger. It made me sick to my stomach seeing what I’d done to him, and yet I could do nothing else. Not knowing how disastrous marriage under false pretenses could be.

  In that moment, I think I loathed Sir Anthony more than I’d ever loathed him before, which was saying something. I cursed his name in every foul way I could imagine, furious that he’d taken so much from me.

  I railed at my father and his foolish choice in picking a husband for me, and his inability to protect me from what was to come. Why hadn’t he seen what really lay behind my late husband’s motives? I’d trusted him. I’d trusted him to find a good man for me, trusted that his judgment was honorable and true, and he’d failed me, damning me to a three-year-long nightmare and a lifetime of regrets.

  But my wailing swiftly devolved back into tears. I didn’t want to be so upset at my father. I didn’t want to feel this. After all, he was my father. He’d done the best by me that he could. If only he hadn’t let me down in this regard, how different my life might be.

  I wept for the loss of my innocence. I wept for my friend William Dalmay and all the suffering he’d endured, his life ended too early. I wept for Dodd and Willie, and the old caretaker’s murder still unsolved. I wept for Gage and the pain I’d caused him. But mostly, I wept for myself, for my cowardice and the past hurts that stung too deep.