Glancing about my bedchamber, which was already covered top to bottom, including most of the furniture, with bursts of colorful flowers, curling vines and ivy, and rich green leaves I’d painted, I decided to begin a new design in one of the many unused rooms about Trevelyan. It had to be some space no one would frequent, for anyone who saw that I had painted on the walls would think me mad.
My wandering brought me down into the arched undercroft, which had served as a sort of tinker area for Father. Taking a quick turn about the empty space, fear prickled my skin and I wished I’d taken someone with me. The eerie silence seemed robust and alive rather than a simple absence of sound.
A tall metal shield draped in cobwebs depicting a coat of arms caught my eye where it sat angled in the shadows, just past the single shaft of light streaming in the slit of a window. Then my attention was drawn to the splendid vineyard tapestry that always left me in awe. It was truly beautiful, this rendering. The solid vine trunk rose up from the ground between two posts and out at the top into heavily leafed branches that twined along their guide wire. Heavy grape clusters hung from the leaf-filled branches and tendrils burst out between the foliage. The center of the thick trunk had been filled with an iridescent gold filament that shone even in the dim light of this space.
The vineyard’s secret scrolled along the top, always enflaming my curiosity, drawing me back to stare at this tapestry often over the years. Below it read, the abundance lies within. I’m not certain exactly when I’d decided this tapestry was a hint at the hiding spot for Father’s fortune, but it had always been that in my mind. Perhaps words like secret and abundance led me to this conclusion, or maybe it was simply the glowing gold of the vine’s trunk.
I stepped forward and traced the bold letters stitched across the bottom, and again I wondered at the name.
Malvern.
Father had been utterly fascinated by the grand family who had built Trevelyan centuries ago and worked against nature to bring about a vineyard in the part of England where one did not belong, yet he never wasted the few words spoken to us explaining the reason for his captivation. I turned away and pulled out a jar of deep red pigment, settling myself on a tall stool before the wall that would receive my touch of color. Somehow he felt he owed that family his fortune, but I never knew why exactly, for he’d died without finishing the story. Without finishing our story.
I closed my eyes against another wave of sorrow as images of Father played through my mind, and an odd notion swept over me as gently as the strokes of my brush: It isn’t over. It was as if two parts of me warred constantly. One hoped for the impossible, and the other accepted reality and resounded the truth of it incessantly. Of course it was over. I was merely in denial. Father was dead, and that fact placed a cap on that part of my life forever. I continued my work.
But that story isn’t over.
When the notion returned with gentle insistence, I wondered if these words were not of my own wishful thinking, but from God. I had drifted so far from the easy conversations of my lonely childhood in which he’d impressed various thoughts upon my heart. Had I mistaken this prompting? What could it mean?
Perhaps there was more to be uncovered about the story of Father’s life—or his death. Dr. Caine’s words about the Malvern legends niggled at my mind. When I’d finished, I cleaned my brushes and tucked away my jars, stepping back to look over my scripted painting of the word Malvern on the wall, and the doctor’s casual words swelled to an overwhelming dread. Death, sudden and early. It had happened again to the new master of Trevelyan. But it was merely a legend. A silly superstition. Yet the chill of this space settled on me invasively. I looked about the room so full of Malvern relics and suddenly fancied it haunted.
Fear and excitement swirled through me in this forgotten space and compelled my feet toward the door. Wind moaned long, low notes outside the castle walls, and I scampered up the narrow staircase and burst into the servant’s hall to catch my breath. Fortunately, the room stood empty. Most of the staff was busy repairing the dining room from the chaos of dinner. Setting my paints and brushes on the floor, I curled into my favorite deep windowsill that often held baked goods and closed my eyes, breathing deeply of night air.
Soft steps echoed around the corner and Lucy’s nervous face appeared in the shadows. At my tired smile, my lady’s maid entered. “Is something amiss?” Pity glistened in her eyes that went deeper than concern for the immediate moment. I’d rescued the girl once in her days as a chambermaid when Mother intended to dismiss her due to what she called chronic awkwardness. I insisted she become my lady’s maid, despite her lack of experience, for it was the only way to keep her. Ever since then, Lucy had been my devoted personal attendant, complete with enough characteristic blunders and missteps to keep me sufficiently amused.
“No, thank you, Lucy. I’ll be fine.” I closed my eyes and forced myself to relax. Then my eyes flitted open and I studied the girl as I remembered the odd bits of conversation I’d heard in the hall the night we’d returned. “Lucy, there is one thing you can do for me.”
“Yes, miss.” She clasped her hands behind her back and stepped forward, her little black boots swishing in the empty room. For all her flaws and mistakes, her lust for gossip made her a wonderful source of information.
“There’s more to this situation, isn’t there? About my father’s death, I mean.”
Her features froze, eyes wide. “Of course not. What more could there be?”
I leveled a look at her, boring through her façade until it cracked.
She dropped her eyes. “I suppose you’ll find out soon enough. It’s the way he died.”
“Go on.” I spun around and dangled my legs down from the sill.
“It wasn’t sickness that took him. It was the sea. The waves wrecked his boat against the rocks and he drowned.”
I gulped, forcing away the terrible image. Yet, drowning was no great rarity in a coastal town. “Did they find something unusual about him when he . . .”
She looked away awkwardly. “He hasn’t done it, miss. Leastwise, not yet.”
Hadn’t washed ashore? “You mean they never discovered him?”
She nodded, gaze still on the apron bunched in her hands. “I’ve no idea what you’ll do about the rites and services, miss. Nothing can be done until . . .”
I studied the girl, her frizzy curls framing her face, and thought of Father. I shuddered at the image of him drowning.
Yet I was breathless at the thought, the farfetched notion, of him secretly surviving. It isn’t over yet. As those words resounded in my heart, losing Trevelyan Castle became unthinkable, for it was the only place he’d return to if, in fact, he did return. It was not likely, and it only gave a shred of hope. But I found it was all I needed to feel immensely better and full of purpose.
“How do they know he drowned, then?”
“Amos said the fishermen saw him go out, and only his ruined boat came back. And why else would his boat come back empty?” She fidgeted. “I’m sorry, miss, that you cannot have the funeral yet. Really I am.”
I touched her arm and smiled, glowing inside. “It’s quite all right, Lucy. Truly.”
6
The appearance of death in a vine does not mean the end has truly come. Every vine has its winter, but when you cut below the stiff surface, you’ll find life.
—Notebook of a viticulturist
That sweet drop of hope still pulsed through me the next morning, pulling me from my bed before anyone else had risen. This secret would be mine to hold and savor, for I dared not suggest it to anyone else. Who would believe it?
Wearing a simple frock that I had saved for wandering in the vineyard, I burst out the back entrance and into the chilly field, wondering why on earth everyone seemed perfectly content to sleep through such an artistic display every morning.
After a refreshing run to the vineyard slope, I dropped to examine the soil, rubbing it between my fingers to check its loosely clumpy
texture. I reached up to the branches that spun along their guide wire, extending out in both directions from the vine, and saw with satisfaction that Father’s latest graft had held. New leaves burst forth along the length of each branch, and little green balls of fruit hid beneath the foliage. Standing to survey the gentle downward slope of the vast fields now in my command, I delighted in the lovely green color too vibrant to be bottled in my jars of pigment.
Along with the flood of color assailing my senses came a tidal wave of memories. The clearest recollection was a childhood conversation that had occurred near where I now stood.
“Father, I have the grandest secret to tell you.” I twirled and danced down the fresh-leafed vineyard in the glow of early morning sunshine.
His answering grunt appeared to come from his worn hat, which was all I could see bobbing above the row of vines separating us. The man seemed empty somehow, as if his soul and body had separated at some point. My childish self believed that I alone held the ability and the obligation to catch that drifting soul and gently ease it back into the empty shell before me, and I forever persisted in that effort. Finally his face rose above the leaves, his wild beard blending in with the tangled vines that surrounded it.
“Don’t you want to hear my secret?”
He blinked, as if remembering anew that I was there. “A girl of nine shouldn’t have any secrets.”
“I’m ten, Father. And I shan’t tell you unless you tell me yours.” Secrets were wonderful commodities, little nuggets to be grasped and then spent at the right moment. For years he’d kept the delicious mystery of his hidden fortune from everyone, but I had determined long ago that one day I’d be the solitary person who knew where it was. The one special person he trusted.
How I longed for that honor.
He squinted and removed his hat, the hair stretched over his balding scalp lifting in the breeze. I held my breath as I waited for what he’d say.
“What sort of grape draws the gnats, girl?”
I sighed, knowing I’d failed. “A broken one.”
“Broken. Penetrated.” He stood and shoved his fists into his back. “Any secret sweet enough to draw pests should always remain perfectly intact.” We always talked of vineyards and grapes, Father and I, but in doing this, we spoke of so much more.
“But Father, I’m not a gnat.”
“You’re a girl.” As if that rated even lower than gnats. Then he bent again and plunged his arms into the tangle of leaves and tendrils to count the clusters. “I will tell you where it is before I die.”
Even now, years later, I still dwelt upon the possibilities, gazing over the perfect rows of vines. They seemed like an elaborate symbol of Father’s life that might offer me great understanding of the man and his hidden fortune, if only I knew how to interpret what I saw.
Just then distant movement caught my eye. Even at this hour, I was not alone. Frowning, I stepped past the tangle of vines on wires and moved toward this lone worker. Father only hired the most faithful men, but their loyalty was reserved for the days he was present. None would be moving about this early if he was not here to compel it. The distant figure could be none other than Donegan Vance.
As I neared the man, my bare feet whipping slender grass blades, I squinted to see what work had drawn him out so early. His movements seemed odd. He grabbed and jerked, delving heavily into the work of destruction. But how could that be? Pruning in this season would kill the vines, and surely he knew that. Those fresh, delicate leaves, the tiny fruit buds . . .
Lifting my skirts, I charged toward him, weeds and loose vine tendrils whipping my bare ankles. “Hey!” My shout echoed in the fresh air of the morning, sending a flock of birds twirling up to the sky. “Hey, stop that!”
His tunic hung loose across his powerful back as he hefted up armfuls of free-hanging vines, yanked and tossed aside leaves, destroying the plants’ springtime efforts. Then as I looked at the ground around his feet, what I saw nearly choked me with anger—perfectly formed little buds lay scattered around his dirty boots like debris. I grabbed his arm and yanked. “Stop. Stop this! What are you doing?”
He straightened, eyeing me. “Surely you’ve witnessed pruning before.”
“Nothing as brutal as this. You are ruining our vines.”
His hand glossed through his dark curls, pausing at the back of his neck. “That’s already been done. I’m merely trying to repair the damage so we can give what’s left a chance.”
“By pulling perfectly good clusters that have just begun to form? You’ll kill the plants if you prune them this way, especially before winter dormancy. Surely you know that.”
His eyes met mine and a shadow passed over them.
Suspicion curled in me. “You’re not here to improve the vineyard, are you? Father never hired you. What are your intentions, exactly?”
“I told you. I’m here for money. It’s what draws most men from their beds in the morning, is it not?” He turned to the nearly bare plant and with deft hands plucked clusters of leaves from what remained, leaving a path of thinned-out vegetation in his wake. Each snap of new leaf shoot made me cringe, as if the man broke the very heartstrings of my father.
Seething inside, I controlled my words so they rolled out of tight lips. “I urge you to consider what you’re doing. You will be charged for all the damage you cause.”
Tossing down another handful of leaves, he turned to me and swiped his hand across his moist forehead. “We cannot wait for the vines to go dormant months from now or you’ll have no crop this season. These vines are far too full of useless shoots to nourish the grapes.”
What an arrogant man. “How little you know about vine dressing. The grapes are in their infancy, and they have plenty of time to grow.”
“But they won’t.”
“Did they tell you that?” The drying dirt on my hands began to itch. “I do hope you move on before the constable lays fines on you that are too great for your meager purse.”
He paused and stared at the sun behind me. “I believe you have company.”
“What sort of response is that?”
“A truthful one.” He nodded toward the house.
I spun to see a small black carriage rumble across the red drawbridge toward our house, horse hooves pounding the faded wood.
Company. Neighbors paying respects, most likely. But the single-horse carriage looked shabby, and desperately in need of a new coat of paint and a polish. None of our acquaintances would own such a vehicle, and none of the local villagers would own a carriage at all.
“I suggest you leave me to my work,” said Mr. Vance as he paused to brush dirt from his hands, “and go tend to yours.”
Lucy’s words about treasure hunters rang a warning through my head. Helplessly pulled in two directions, I let out a sigh and sprinted toward Trevelyan. Past the rows of vineyards and up toward the house my legs pumped until I reached the back door.
I raced through the kitchen toward the courtyard, but Cook blocked my exit, hands on her abundant hips. “We need meat. The butcher has refused my market orders until his notes are paid, but your mother is demanding all this fine food for your Mr. Carrington. And now you have more guests.”
“Have you enough for dinner tonight?”
What a mess this hidden fortune was making of everything. Had we truly fallen so far behind on payments in the short time since Father’s demise?
She grimaced, nose twitching. “One last meal. Two with no guests.”
“Serve what we have and we’ll see to everything later.” I held my poise on the outside, but fear and anxiety swarmed just below the surface. Only a fortnight Father had been gone, and already the damage had been great. God, won’t you help us? You wouldn’t let a whole household starve, would you?
I strode toward the front of the house and out a side door to the courtyard to assess the visitors, hoping they would not wish to stay. If the butcher had stopped serving us, the other vendors wouldn’t be far behind.
/> Who were these guests, anyway? Slipping behind the roses that climbed the courtyard wall, I glanced about the open yard but saw no one. I breathed in the gentle perfume of flowers and leaned into the tangle of foliage, craning my neck for a closer look. Who on earth would—
“Hello there, little one.”
I jumped at a voice nearby. A familiar-looking man in a bowler hat and faded suit peeked through an adjacent archway against which he lounged, watching me snoop. His jaunty smile said he enjoyed my shock. “Fancy that, you’re woolgathering outdoors. Still your favorite pastime, I imagine.”
“Cousin Neville!” The years dropped away and I was a child again. He had been my companion in many long summer months when Mother had insisted on visiting her family in town. My lively chum had almost replaced the vibrant hues of nature I’d had to leave behind. I flew to him with the abandon of youthful affection and threw my arms about him. “Oh, you’ve no idea how happy I am that you’re here.”
“Surprised to see me, little Tressa?”
“Delightfully so.” How many years had it been, ten? Mother’s family had distanced themselves from us over the years as their decreasing fortunes widened the chasm between us. This was especially the case with this only offspring of her brother, who was firmly planted in the working class as a junior clerk. “Have you driven all the way here from Kettering?”
“Of course I have.” He pushed me back and held me by the shoulders, inspecting me as an older brother might. “You look well. But the question is, are you as well as you seem?” His words warmed my battered heart, breathing a little life into me.
“One is never well after losing a most beloved father.” My shoulders trembled against my will beneath his grasp. “I’m glad you’ve come, though.”
Behind Neville the carriage jostled and a large purple feather emerged, followed by the pert-nosed, stylish little woman who wore it. The lad perched on the driver’s seat leaped down to assist her.
A Rumored Fortune Page 5
