“You’ve brought your wife.” My joy was briefly punctured by the arrival of this stranger who would witness my daily grief.
The newest visitor gazed about the exterior of my home with the sharp intelligence of one who had seen much of the world and had a great many opinions on it.
A grin lit Neville’s face, which was clean-shaven below the mustache. “I couldn’t well leave the little woman behind if I plan to stay any length of time.”
“And what length of time might that be?” I dearly wanted my cousin to remain, but I wasn’t certain about this ill-fitting woman he’d brought. I turned back to his eager face.
“Well, the respectable amount for a grieving nephew, of course. Which I expect will be plenty long.” He tipped his head and winked. “It’s been so long since I last saw you that all I remember is a little girl fiercely attached to some big dreams.”
“Which is the making of a visionary.” Neville’s wife, a young woman with neatly arranged black hair and the poise of an elegant parlor chair, clicked up to the courtyard with quick, purposeful steps and summed me up in one keen glance. “I’m glad to find someone of like mind in this place. I was afraid I should find only provincial minds and antiquated ideas out here in the country.”
I raised my eyebrows, wondering what thoughts I’d conveyed that led her to believe I was not those things.
She smiled and thrust a gloved hand toward me. “Ellen Langford. I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you, which is perfect. My opinions of you are a fresh slate ready for you to fill.”
I pinched back a smile and took her fingertips for a brief touch, then released them. “How kind of you to journey into our remote little part of the world.”
“But of course.” She smiled as if we understood one another, but no one had ever felt more foreign. Our provincial country estate was, to me, more real than the big city where man-made creations rose and crumbled in a vain effort to overtake what God had made. Here, nature ruled supreme in bountiful, unrestrained richness.
She slid one arm behind my back and cinched me close as if we were sisters, leading me toward the doorway. “No man could provide the comfort a woman needs as well as another woman. I make sacrifices where I must.”
We stepped into the dark hall lit only with the glow of overhead candles, and there Ellen stopped, her arm tensing about me. “Neville, it’s like a medieval castle.” Disdain leaked into her terse words.
“Ah, it’s good to know your eyes still work, my dear.”
“Did you know it would be like this?”
“Much as I can see through walls, dearest.”
Such was my introduction to the newest members of our household, for it seemed they had come to roost upon Trevelyan.
Just then the door creaked open and Margaret peeked in. “Miss Tressa? You’re wanted outside. Mr. Vance wishes to speak with you.”
“Tell him I’ll be along as soon as I’ve seen to our guests.”
But the dear housekeeper’s face puckered with worry, her hands wringing under her apron. “You won’t want to keep him waiting, miss. He has a man by the shirt.”
7
Weeds are merely misunderstood plants whose use the gardener has yet to uncover.
—Notebook of a viticulturist
Donegan Vance lunged for the man when he darted, catching him by the collar and dragging him back with a scramble of boots on loose rock.
“Mercy, Mister. Have mercy.” The skinny intruder trembled in his oversized rags, his face paling under the sheen of dirt that covered his sun-scorched features.
“I haven’t called the constable yet, have I? That’s plenty of mercy.” He had no plans to hurt the young man, but he had no patience for lazy workers and even less for those who stole instead of working. They denigrated everything he’d tried to do for underpaid laborers working an honest day. He wouldn’t release him to continue pilfering, yet he couldn’t bear to call the constable and see the man deported or hanged. Therefore, he’d leave it up to Tressa Harlowe, who was the one wronged. Part of him was desperately curious to see what that little slip of a girl would choose.
The sun bore down on the exposed soil in the fields, drawing an earthy smell into the atmosphere, as the slim little figure in gray swept out to pass judgment on the poor wretch now in his grasp.
Donegan shoved his prisoner toward her. “It seems you have a poacher.”
“I see.” She considered him with a look that revealed nothing. “To whom do you belong?”
His dark squirrel-like eyes darted about, flashing onto Donegan and back to the girl. “I’d rather not say.” Donegan gave him a jerk again and the man’s feet swished against loose rocks. He whimpered. “Old John Dowell is me father, but I’m me own man now. Clinton Dowell.”
“What did your father do, Mr. Dowell? What’s his trade?”
He gulped, tugging on the shirt that hung loose about his neck, and said, “Drink. Kicked me out years ago when I tried to sober him. Don’t belong to no one now.” Pity smote Donegan’s wrath and his hold on the man’s shirt loosened.
Tressa’s lashes fluttered against pink cheeks as she absorbed those words, then her steady voice softened. “What were you attempting to poach from my land, sir?”
“Just a pheasant. There are so many of them and your woods are vast.”
Amusement sparkled over her downcast features. “I see. And did you catch one?”
“Yes, miss.”
Donegan glared at him and the lad cringed. “Three, actually. Please, don’t call the constable.”
“Three. How wonderful.” She strode forward to stand before the poacher, arms folded across her chest, and inspected him with those glittering green eyes of hers. Like a queen she was, approaching a subject begging for mercy with no amount of indecision. Although her face revealed nothing of what that decision entailed.
The vagrant shifted back toward Donegan at her approach. The man’s tattered clothing had an aura of trapped moisture and soil, marks of a drifter living outdoors—the sort who lived off what he could pilfer from other people along the way.
“Well, then.” Tressa’s delicate face glowed with composure as she faced the man, and Donegan held his breath in anticipation of the coming decision. “In punishment for your offense, you will work for this estate.”
Shock rippled over Donegan. Now that was one answer he hadn’t predicted. She kept doing that—yanking the rug out from under his expectations. He shifted and studied her face, so fresh and lively, glowing with keen intelligence, and wondered what sort of creature this was. Maybe mad, perhaps brilliant, but definitely unexpected. Wonderfully so. Her judgment was an interesting blend of mercy and resourcefulness that impressed him greatly.
“I have need of fresh meat, and it seems you are able to catch it for me. Do you also fish?”
Hope lifted the ragged man’s chin and his bleary eyes looked at her with a flare of optimism. “All the time. All I need is a knife and a net.”
“Will a space in our barn suit you for sleeping quarters? I cannot pay you, but I’ll offer you food and lodging, if that will suffice, as well as honest work.”
He merely stared in response, then bobbed his shaggy head. Moisture glistened in his eyes.
She offered a smile. “Well then, welcome to Trevelyan. Now you belong somewhere. Mr. Vance, please allow him to fetch his poultry bag so he may work. Then I’ll have John show him to the barn.”
Donegan simply stared at her, but he moved aside so the lad could scamper toward the woods and his bag. “You want him working for you?” The words came out with gravelly disbelief. He hardly knew what to think.
She lifted her chin. “At times, circumstances compel one to become creative.”
“Be careful. He may not be what he seems. He might be—”
“A scrawny bird with airs?” Her rosebud lips tipped up at the corners as her soft-spoken jab once again unsettled him in a pleasant way, enchanting him nearly against his will. “Let’s give him a chance
and see what he does with it.”
“You’ve released him now. He may scamper off into the woods and—”
“And what, continue to starve? Perhaps it’s a risk, but I’m willing to take it. You see, I’ve just asked God for help in providing for my family, and I’m not about to go wasting his solution.”
Yet another surprise that jolted him. What wealthy person had ever spoken so frankly about talking to God? Most of the ones he’d encountered merely seemed to politely acknowledge God on Sundays and at sewing meetings, without having much reason to actually converse with him.
“Ah, look who’s coming over the hill—our scrawny bird, eager to work for his living.”
Donegan pivoted to see the lad loping back up the hill from the woods with a purposeful stride, sack flung over one shoulder.
“You jump to an awful lot of conclusions, Mr. Vance.”
He gulped. How true were her words.
Donegan turned once again to face the heiress he had planned to disdain when he arrived, yet the bright green eyes staring back at him began to melt the hard rock of dislike he felt for ladies such as her into something akin to admiration. She was wealthy and privileged, aristocratic in bearing and probably quite accomplished—everything a man of breeding would require in a woman. Yet he found himself growing to like the girl in spite of all that.
Dinner found us seated around the table with our guests, who were swiftly becoming acquainted with one another. Thanks to Clinton Dowell, we’d been saved the embarrassment of serving our guests stew, a meal so obviously made to stretch for days. His ill-gotten pheasants graced our table, with more to come.
Afterward we moved into the gallery and Mother retired to her bedchamber. I wished I could also make my escape. Yet when Neville and Andrew took themselves off to tour the gun cabinets, I found myself alone with my cousin’s wife, whose very nature exuded opinions even if she did not speak them. Upon closer inspection, it was clear that her neat and trim dinner gown was merely cheap fabric expertly tailored to mimic the attire she likely could not afford.
The enticing draw of the treasure hunt beckoned me, yet politeness kept me firmly rooted in the room with my guest. I stood by the pianoforte in awkward silence, but she immediately filled the space with words.
“How well appointed this house is. Not at all what I expected when we first arrived.” Ellen lingered near Mother’s harp and ran a fingertip over it. “A bit dreary, perhaps, but there’s an unmistakable air of magnificence and wealth.” She spoke the last words tenderly as if savoring the name of a lost love.
“I’ve never loved any place half as much. Perhaps more for what it represents to me than the grandness of it.” I tolerated our trips abroad, but every sweet and precious moment in my life had occurred upon this estate.
“But of course.” She smiled across the room with perfect pink lips. “You are surrounded by endless possibilities. You may marry who you wish, or no one at all. Why, you are the master of your own fate, over any man. How delighted you must be.”
“I believe that you and I are far more different than you’ve come to believe. I’ve never aspired to have any sort of power over a man.”
She turned to face me as high emotion swirled behind her face and pinked her cheeks. “It’s never about having power over a man, Miss Harlowe, but over our own lives, rather than giving it to a man. It’s a luxury afforded to so few of us.”
After nearly a half hour of such conversation, I excused myself under the guise of checking on Mother. I pondered Ellen’s words as I slipped through the halls and glanced about at the cavernous rooms that had always been my home. Is that what its emptiness represented—freedom? How odd that it was the last thing I wanted, yet I seemed to have it in abundance. I was free of close attachments, drifting about an open sea, hoping desperately to connect to something or someone in a meaningful way.
I climbed the stairs and peeked into Mother’s room. Dr. Caine bent over her grand bed where the heavy velvet drapes were tied back. He turned at the sound of my entry and his face creased into a pleasant smile. “Miss Harlowe. Your mother was just telling me what a comfort you have been to her.”
“Is she worse, Doctor?” Her slender form looked so insignificant in the large blue-and-gold tower room that rose to a grand cherub-painted dome at the top.
“Just a bit overtired from the visitors. Perhaps there should be fewer guests about for—”
Mother’s quick hand on his arm arrested his words. “No, please. Don’t send them away.”
He patted her hand. “Of course. You should have people around you for now, until you feel safe. Those rumors about his death—”
Panicked, I caught the man’s eye and interjected, “Are perfectly meaningless, yes? Of course they are.” I swooped to her bedside and fluffed the pillow behind her.
He hesitated and Mother stiffened, drawing her crisp sheets up toward her chin. “What rumors?”
“Oh, they’re just rumors passing around the staff. Nothing to them, really.” The man had unwittingly walked into dangerous territory and now I’d have to sweep up his mess all night if Mother persisted in knowing more. A day did not exist when she simply accepted what happened to her without seeing a sign somewhere. “It’s time you slept, Mother. It seems our visitors have settled in for a long stay, and you’ll need your strength.”
Her eyes flicked between us nervously, her face smoothing a bit when she’d held my gaze for a moment. “Rest. Yes, rest will be good. How thankful I am for you, Tressa. You always seem to know what I need.”
“You have a fine daughter, Mistress Harlowe. Good day now, ladies.” Lifting his bag, Dr. Caine strode out of the room.
I turned to escort the doctor out and ask more questions in the privacy of the hall, but Mother’s hand held tight to mine.
“Stay with me, Daughter.” The slender fingers contained surprising strength as they clamped over mine. “Are the rumors dreadful? What are they saying?”
I sank onto the edge of the bed. The woman took hold of every ghostly tale and rumor as truth, as one might latch on to the characters in a novel enough to light a candle for them in church. “Nothing you need to worry over.”
She fumbled with her throw. “There’s something odd about Josiah’s death though, isn’t there? I’ve heard whispering since we’ve returned, but no one tells me anything.”
I sighed. She’d have to know sometime. “Mother, we did not miss the funeral because of our journey. There has been no funeral. Father did not die as one might have expected.”
“Whatever does that mean?”
“They say he’s drowned, but they only found his boat.”
Her red-rimmed eyes stared at me. “They did not find him?”
I stiffened as her mind seemed to fly to the same conclusion that had lighted on mine the night before, but she did not find the remotest bit of joy in it. “You need warm milk.” I slithered my hand from her grip. “I’ll have Margaret fetch it and that’ll put you right to sleep.”
Without waiting for an argument, for there surely would be one if I gave her half a chance, I darted out the door and down the narrow hall. I glanced about for Dr. Caine, but the dark space echoed only with my own footfalls. Somehow the doctor had already disappeared. Emitting a deep exhale to match my feelings, I continued toward the stairs.
Yet Father’s opened study on the second floor beckoned to me, tempting me with the sight of his notebooks neatly shelved behind his desk. Slipping into the cozy room of heavy furniture and an oversized fireplace, I pulled down one of the narrow volumes, preparing to hear Father’s voice through his written words. But when I opened the book at random, the hard, angular writing on those worn pages was utterly foreign. How could I have forgotten?
Everything, all the deep thoughts and secrets of the vineyard, was recorded in Welsh.
Maybe I’d show them to Neville and see if he could make sense of the foreign lines. Perhaps we could return to the easy childhood camaraderie that had filled my days
and my heart for a few brief weeks every year.
The sound of my name spoken in muffled conversation below drew me toward the peep, the skinny slit overlooking the drawing room that had been the haunt of my childhood. I hung back out of view while the voices below floated up.
Neville’s voice came first. “You act as if you resent our being here to grieve my uncle.”
“No, I resent you being here to fortune hunt.” This came on the clipped voice of Andrew.
“Well, why dance around it? That’s why you’ve come, isn’t it? Because of the stories, the promise of hidden fortune.”
“I’m sure your purpose here is far nobler.”
My tender heart crumbled at the near-admission that came on the familiar voice of my childhood playmate. Would you take even this balm of comfort from me, God?
“That’s no business of yours.”
“Well, at least we’ve established why we’re all here.” Ellen’s voice rolled over the tense words. “But Neville and I are the only ones entitled to it.”
I’d been uncertain of how to label this woman who had swept into my home with her modern notions and quick approval of me, but these words firmly settled her into her proper position, further chilling my lonely heart.
“How can you be so vulgar?” This from Andrew, bless his heart. “The only one deserving of the fortune is the owner’s heir, Tressa Harlowe. Or have you forgotten the man had a wife and daughter?” I could have cheered at the bite in his well-placed words.
“The money was never his to begin with.” Ellen’s voice came sharp and clear. “Has no one ever told you how the great Josiah Harlowe came by his fortune? It was because of Neville’s father, Roger Langford. They were business partners years ago, and Uncle Josiah used Roger’s money to invest in the mine that made him wealthy. Only he never repaid him. That’s why the fortune was kept a secret—because it wasn’t truly his to begin with. It was Neville’s father’s, and now it should be ours.”
“You’ll have a hard time proving any of that. I should tell Harlowe’s widow what you’re doing and see how quickly she sends you packing.”
A Rumored Fortune Page 6
