“Only she didn't,” Hope whispered.
Bella Haddington shrugged. “How do we know? I've lived long enough to know that anything in this crazy world is possible.”
Hope reached for her tea again, unable even to look at the sandwiches. Her stomach was churning already. “Do you know the names of any men who worked for Faith's husband?”
“One or two. Why?”
“I was just wondering.” She rummaged in her purse and pulled out the three scouts' names. “Do any of these look familiar?”
Bella accepted the list and scanned the names. Her brow furrowed as she studied each one. “No, not offhand.” She looked up, her brown eyes pinning Hope. “But you might try a Professor Richards in Duluth. He seems to know everything about everyone, and is a delightful man to talk with. You might also try several of the historical homes in the city. A few are museums now, and offer a wealth of information.”
“Thank you.” Hope stood, her hand outstretched. “And thank you for allowing me to read Faith's diary. It was just what I was looking for,” she said, referring to the story she had given when she had entered Mrs. Haddington's home.
The woman's laughter was almost girlish. “I enjoyed it. My son says that I could talk about our family history all day long for a year and wouldn't run out of tidbits of information. And he's right.”
They walked to the front door slowly stopping just before they reached the center of the large entryway. Mrs. Haddington pointed to a framed painting on the wall. “This is Faith Trevor Haddington. It's no wonder I thought you were a relation.”
A portrait of Faith was sealed inside the glass, cracked and slightly faded with age, but clear just the same. She must have been around thirty when this one had been made, and a tragic sadness seemed to emanate from the smile on her face. “She was beautiful, wasn't she?” Hope said softly, seeing the vulnerability in her eyes and the hope in the uptilt of her lips.
“So are you, my dear,” Mrs. Haddington replied, equally softly. “Let me know if I can help you in any other way.”
“I will,” Hope promised; then she walked through the portals and to her car. As she slid behind the wheel, she saw another car approaching the house from the long drive. She drove away slowly, watching the other car take her place in the driveway.
All night long she tossed and turned, unable to let Faith's story go. Even though she hadn't been outside the fort at the appointed time, Faith had wanted to be with Armand after all. She hadn't been too young to know what was in her heart, just too young to do anything about it.
And that almost broke Hope's heart.
The next morning, she rinsed her face in cold water, splashing her wrists and throat, too. Her toothbrush got the best working of its life as she scrubbed away. If only her feelings of inadequacy could be scrubbed away, as well…
Not quite a month ago she had met a ghost, and he had turned her life, her thoughts and her beliefs topsy-turvy. Had she fallen in love with him because he was a ghost, and that made him a safe risk? Or was it because he was so caring, so loving, so very real to her? She didn't know.
According to what she'd read in the diary. Faith had been a pretty but flighty young lady, who wasn't willing to sacrifice everything in order to love her man. Then she had paid a heavy price for that shallow thinking by having to live with a man who was a harsh taskmaster.
Her hand dropped slowly to the sink. What difference did any of it make? No matter what happened, or what Armand felt, she had to help him put his soul to rest. And the time was coming when she would have to leave the island. The winters up here came early, the snow and ice and cold were pure Arctic. The house wouldn't help Armand, thanks to that damnable invisible wall. The cold would trap his soul, too, just as the land did. And she would be gone by then, unable to help anymore. There was no alternative. She had to help him now, even though she knew by doing so she would lose him.
She grabbed her purse and left the room. She still had to ask the professor a few more questions.
The professor ruffled through his papers. “I believe I told you yesterday that I recognized one of the names. Well, I was right, Tourbet was a voyageur in these parts, a French soldier at one time who decided that providing pelts to France was a much better way to earn a living. His family, offspring from a beautiful Indian maiden, married others at the fort, and before long the family moved to Minneapolis. Now the family is in North Carolina in the tobacco industry.”
“I see,” Hope said, taking it all in and trying to assimilate his words in the presence of a growling stomach. She should have eaten something before she came. “Have you ever heard anything about a brass-bound chest? Or a key, an ivory key? I believe it was a keepsake he owned that was about six inches long, intricately carved, and the handle was bound with brass thread.”
The professor frowned. “No, I don't believe so. It doesn't sound familiar, but that doesn't mean anything. My mind isn't what it once was.” He stared at her through his thick glasses. “Is this key important?”
Hope smiled. “I don't really know. But one of my ancestors had one, and it was a family keepsake. It may be that when I find the key, I'll find my relatives.”
“I see,” he nodded slowly. “Sort of like a seal that makes it official. A confirmation of sorts.”
Hope smiled. “Yes, sort of.”
“Well, I’ll certainly keep it in mind for those other fellows you asked me about. If I find anything, I'll let you know.” He glanced down at the file folder in front of him. “I have your address.”
“Yes, but my mail is delivered here, and I come in once a week to pick it up. If you'll just put a note in my box, as soon as I get it I'll come over right away.”
“Very well.” His eyes took on a faraway look; obviously, he was eager to get back to his studies. “But I won't promise anything. Even my own research leaves much to be desired. I'm scarcely halfway through.”
“I'm sure,” Hope soothed as she edged toward the door. She needed a history lesson, but only on the period that pertained to her search. “I'm very grateful for your help.”
But he was already lost in examining a scribbled piece of paper in front of him.
She spent half an hour reaching the family in North Carolina. But when she did, it was a dead end. No one had ever heard of an ivory key. And no one in the family particularly cared…
When she retrieved the mail, she shoved it into her purse unopened. She picked up her car and drove to the grocery store, then to the island.
She might as well get past the initial meeting with Armand, telling him about the tobacco family and Faith's marriage. Her stomach did a little flip again, and a flush heated her face. As long as she didn't think about faith, she could function. But the thought of the other woman made her ill with jealousy. She had never been jealous before in her life, but then she had never been this much in love either. She hated it!
Armand stood on the shore several yards from the dock, the binoculars Hope had given him resting on his chest. His hands were perched almost arrogantly on his hips as he watched her angle the small craft toward him. The moment he had heard its engine pop to life, his heart had soared with both relief and love. She was all right; nothing had happened, he kept reassuring himself. But even though Hope had returned, apparently in one piece, something was wrong. From a distance he could see the worried look in her eyes. The gray pallor of her face matched her outfit. What had happened?
“What is it?” he asked solicitously as he helped her out of the boat, ignoring the boxes of groceries stacked on the seat. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’ll explain later.”
He clasped her shoulders, holding her directly in front of him as he stared into her eyes. “Now. You will tell me now.”
His command was just the spark she needed to set off her anger. Her eyes flashed up at him, and her body went rigid in his hands. “After we get those boxes off the boat and put away.”
“Tell me,” he said coaxing
ly his strong hands leaving her shoulders to cup her slim neck and chin as he stared tenderly into her vulnerable face.
She closed her eyes against the loving look he was bestowing upon her, knowing now, beyond a doubt, that she was only a stand-in for the woman whose picture was in her purse.
“It has to do with Faith,” he guessed. Hope flinched.
“Yes.” She straightened her spine, then slumped. “I discovered that Faith married a man just one year after you died, and that she had three children. She lived to the ripe old age of sixty-two.”
“Who was he?” His voice was a monotone, his hand clutching hers painfully.
“A British officer. Charles Haddington.”
He spit out an expletive, and she winced as his hand tightened. Suddenly he let her go, covering his face with both hands as he tried to control himself. When he looked up, his expression was as bleak as a hard winter’s storm. “That man was the most pompous ass I ever met. Faith used to stand clear of him for fear that would happen.”
Hope didn't know what to say so she nodded.
“She did not like him from the moment they met. At a dance at the fort, I believe.”
She nodded again, knotting her hands in her lap when she really wanted to stroke the side of his jaw, brush back that lock of onyx hair that continued to fall on his forehead. Comfort him, she told herself, but the cold, angry look in his eyes kept her at bay.
At last he sighed, his shoulders relaxing. “I knew she would have to marry. I just did not expect it would be to a bastard like Haddington. She must have lived a terrible life.”
His sympathetic response to Faith's predicament acted like gasoline to a spark. Hope quickly began packing a few provisions into a box, carelessly slamming packages from one into the other.
“Hope! What are you doing?” His hands touched her waist as she bent over a box. She twisted around until he was forced to let her go.
“Nothing,” she said thickly. “I'm just going down to the house. I need to do a few things, and you need some time by yourself. This will be better, believe me.”
“No!” His denial boomed across the top of the hill, echoing across the lake and stopping her cold. He took a deep breath, “l am sorry, but I do not want you to go anywhere. You are here. You will remain here.”
Her anger flared. “To do what? Watch you ache for a woman who didn't have guts enough to go after what she wanted? A woman who didn't love you enough to fight for you?” She gave a bitter laugh. “No. thanks I'm no masochist, and I won’t be a substitute.”
He smiled at her fury. “You never were a substitute.”
She knelt in front of him, her knees giving way as the anger bled from her. Her breast still heaved and ached with emotion. “Yes, I was. You said I looked exactly like her, and you were right! No wonder you thought you loved me, thought that I was Faith!”
“How do you know?”
She rummaged through her purse looking for the article she had copied, spilling the contents before she found it. “Here!” she cried, handing him the paper. “There's a picture of her.” She gave a nervous laugh again as he slowly took the copy from her shaking hands. “Then I saw the original. Except for the hairdo, we'd be twins!”
With painstaking thoroughness, Armand stared at the picture before looking back at her with eyes that told her the whole story. “You do look very much alike. Your souls are just as kind, too. But in—how do you say it?—personality you are two very different women. Faith would never have dared to oppose me, to inject an opinion into a conversation, to love me with an abandon that reveals true love.” He glanced down at the article, then back at Hope. “The woman of my idealistic youth is here, on this paper. The woman I love as a grown man loves is right in front of me.”
“I read her diary, Armand. She was a shallow woman in her youth, and a bitter, regretful woman in her later years. But we look so much alike, it's frightening.” Tears shimmered in her eyes. “And I don't think you can tell us apart.”
Slowly he nodded, his eyes piercing hers. “Oh, but I can, Hope. Never doubt that.” His arms encircled her shoulders to clasp her tightly, so that she was pressed against him from shoulders to hips. His warm hands tried to stroke feeling into her back and hips and absorb her at the same time. The message his body sent was clear. His love. His darling.
He didn't realize that the two brief thoughts had been said aloud until suddenly she was crying, sobbing into the curve of his neck as if her heart were shattered. Firm, gentle hands touched her, heated her, comforted her. Words that were barely whispers passed from his soft, warm mouth into her ear. His strong, firm body pressed hard against her, reminding her of other times when he had held her like this because he had wanted her. Needed her.
Then they were kissing, as if it was their first and last kiss, and those dormant sensations he was able to arouse so easily flooded through her. She forced her body closer against his, longing to climb right inside him, to be protected by him. Loved by him. Consumed by him. How could Faith not have loved him enough to battle for the right to stand at his side!
Her hands clasped his head as she returned kiss for kiss. She stopped breathing to be one with him, so as not to lose this connection that was as vital to her as sun and air and water. Her lips trailed along his jaw, drawing succor from his very pores.
His callused hands were under her sweater, eliminating the first barrier between them. The snap of her slacks gave way under his tug as she lay down, and he lay on top of her, neither willing to lose contact, even for a second.
Her fingers worked at the buttons of his pants, as impatient with him as he had been with her because she needed him just as much.
His lips sought her breast, his searing breath reaching her tender nipple before his tongue and mouth found its firming softness. A low moan echoed from her throat as he raised his hips and plunged all the way into her in a single shattering stroke, his heated body shoving her against the earth.
They loved each other with a primal ferocity they had not felt before. Her eyes closed as feelings as heavy as he was began to infiltrate her very core. They were alive! This moment was the proof of it, her mind cried. Then she couldn't think at all. Her face glowed, her eyes widened to stare into the tender but frightening blue depths of his as he gave a final thrust to bring them as close as two people could be.
Time stopped. She had no idea how long it took her to float back to earth, clinging to his shoulders with shaking fingers.
His smile was so tender it brought tears to her eyes. “Ma petite,” he breathed as he stroked strands of her hair away from her face. “I love you so very much.”
She tried to swallow, but the emotions that were welling up inside her wouldn't allow her to do so. He kissed her forehead, then rolled to her side, his hand still caressing her waist. They lay that way in silence for a long time, but at last Armand propped himself on one elbow and looked down at her.
His expression changed from tender and loving to puzzled as his gaze shifted to a spot just beyond her left shoulder. “You are not opening your post, chérie?” he asked.
Hope glanced over her shoulder to see what he was referring to. For a moment she was confused. Then a smile teased the corners of her mouth as she saw her spilled purse and the scattered letters. “It’s from my father,” she answered, gradually releasing her fingers from their grip on his shoulders.
Armand grinned sheepishly. “Of course. A doting father. I should have guessed.”
Her smile faded. “You guessed wrong. My father has never been doting.”
“Then why else would he bother to write you two letters in one week?”
Hope’s heart actually stopped at his words, only to begin beating in double time. Something was wrong. She sat up and with shaking hands sorted through the letters and bills she had not even bothered to look at earlier.
Armand was right. There were two letters from her father, not typed on his usual formal stationery, but posted in plain envelopes and addressed in
his own forceful hand.
CHAPTER NINE
Hope quickly scanned her father’s letters. The first said he was coming to visit her in order to judge the state of her health for himself. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to remain calm. All she needed now was a monkey wrench in the works. Didn't she have enough to do with Armand fading faster every day? She shouldn't have to handle a ‘concerned’ father too.
His second letter announced the day he would arrive and that he would stay only two days because of pressing business. Pressing business? He hated the island and wouldn't be coming at all if he'd his druthers! She was surprised he was staying even that long.
Her state of health? Thanks to Armand, it had never been better. Besides, she could have sworn that her father had been affected more by his secretary's death than by Hope's experience in Central America. She shook her head, rejecting the thought. No, that wasn’t fair. Though Hope and her father were separated by distance of minds, he wasn't a monster. But while she had accepted that they would never meet on common ground to share any of the intangibles, apparently her father wasn't yet willing to acknowledge defeat. He probably wanted reassurance of her mental stability so he could relax and go about his own business. To him, appearances were everything.
Armand watched her as she scanned the letters a second time, “We are to be separated again.”
“No,” she said, reaching over to place her fingers over his lips, then lingering to caress them. “My father is visiting me to make sure I'm all right. He’ll sleep in the house, and I'll sleep in the tent. With you.”
His breath whispered across her cheek with a warmth that reached deep. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. I just have to straighten up the house and get cleaned up. He's arriving soon.” Her fingers drifted down the side of his face to trace the strong jaw, and she reveled in the sensation of the stubbly roughness of his day-old beard on her palm. No matter what happened, she and Armand would spend the rest of his time here together. She had him now, but too soon he'd be gone, and then all she'd have would be the memories they created today.
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