—Notebook of a viticulturist
How is the vineyard faring?”
Donegan dropped the sack of food on the rough cottage table and faced the owner of Trevelyan. “Surviving. For now.”
“Did you complete the soil mixture?” Josiah Harlowe rose to retrieve a plate of bread and cheese and clomped back to the table.
“No. Soot will destroy the nutrients in the soil. I decided on a different mixture.”
“Nutrients won’t matter if the moisture is not controlled. Mold will kill every one of my plants in a single season. You will do as I instruct. I hired you, after all.”
“To improve the vineyard. Not ruin it.”
With a growl, Harlowe kicked the chair and plunked down in it. “All these years I’ve worked. I know these vineyards, I say. I know them. Have you already killed them?”
Donegan’s jaw twitched. “As I’ve said, they’re surviving. So far.”
“And Tressa?” The old man’s haunted eyes lifted and searched Donegan’s as he asked the question, as if he needed to know more than the words would tell him.
Donegan softened. “Also surviving. But she needs you.”
“Hardly.” Harlowe jerked his gaze away. “No more than her mother, who simply wants my bank account.”
“Can you truly be so blind?” Anger pumped through Donegan, fueled by the haunting image of the girl’s face as she spoke with such sorrow about this very man. An odd sense of protectiveness swarmed him for the girl so out of reach. “You have no idea what you have within your grasp, do you? Your daughter is a pure anomaly. She’s the only grape that has ever flourished without any tending, the sweetest and most pure fruit you could ever taste, yet you let it rot on the branch while you throw yourself wholeheartedly into so many plain grapes that will give you nothing in comparison.”
He watched Harlowe’s shadowed face crumple as if his words were a physical assault and felt triumph that compelled him to continue, even as the old man turned away.
“She is brimming with every color imaginable, no matter what fills her life. Her outer beauty attracts so many, but her inner beauty simply captivates.” He slowed the storm of words and lowered his voice. “And for some odd reason I cannot fathom, she is deeply devoted to you.”
The muscles of his back worked, but Harlowe did not turn.
Finally, when no response was forthcoming, Donegan stood with a sigh of surrender and grasped his lantern. “I’ll be back in a few days with more food.” Treading across the room and out the door, regret pulled at his steps, weighing them down, but what more could he do?
He traveled down the steps, but before he’d turned onto the path, the door behind him opened, casting an orangey light over the ground. Clomps of footfall neared. Donegan paused at the base of the steps and waited.
“Her mother was that way once. So pure and full of beauty and light. I wanted to hold it all in my arms, to give her everything, and in doing so I broke her. All that light died, replaced by frivolity and pettiness. I couldn’t bear for the same ruination to come to Tressa.”
Donegan turned to look up at his tired face. “They’re not the same sort of woman. What you said before about your daughter and the fortune—it isn’t true. She cares nothing for it. Not like her mother does.”
“Then why follow me about for years asking about it? Why all the fascination with its hiding spot?”
“I don’t know. But I know she sees much more in you than money.”
Harlowe stared toward the distant channel, his features hardening.
“Give her a chance. She needs your money, but even more than that, she needs you.”
“There isn’t much reason for her to love me. I’m a broken old man. I’ve never been fatherly toward her. And my past . . . I can never seem to be rid of it. You don’t understand—don’t know anything of what I truly am. What a mess I’ve made of things . . .”
“Her affection is not based on what you do for her or what you’ve done before.” Donegan strode toward the steps and slipped the folded drawing out of his cloak, holding it out to him. “Perhaps this will convince you where my words have failed.”
Frowning, Harlowe unfolded the page. When he looked upon the portrait, awe and surprise unfurled in his face, light filtering through the creases of his features as his eyes widened to take it in. “I’ve loved her from afar for so long. My little butterfly, with the wings I dared not touch. Is it possible . . . ?” He stared for endless minutes as Donegan looked on, reading the hope upon his face.
Harlowe studied Donegan for a brief moment, then shifted it immediately back to the page and drank in his daughter’s portrayal of him and all it conveyed.
The following evening, Donegan watched the sun descend below the horizon as he did every night and pondered his predicament. In a life of travel and constant change, it provided a sense of home to watch the same great ball disappear below the earth, no matter whose land he stood on as he did so. Shoving both hands roughly through his hair, he sighed and walked toward his cottage. But as he neared the little building with the crooked chimney, a lone figure appeared on the horizon. It was a child—one who walked with a remarkably familiar gait.
It couldn’t be. How could she have come all this way?
Donegan squinted as she came closer, observing the halo of red curls framing her narrow face. The girl looked up as she neared, focusing on him with the unabashed directness of a true acquaintance, and he knew it could be no other. He uttered aloud the name he had not expected to say for some time. “Ginny.”
With a weary smile, she trudged the few remaining steps separating them and threw open her arms to collapse against him. Donegan swept up the trembling girl wrapped in grimy clothing and tattered plaid shawls, holding her close. The slight weight of the nine-year-old’s frame shocked and worried him, but he said nothing as he held her close and drank in her presence. Then Ginny leaned back and looked up at him with bright eyes sunken into a dark face. “I always knew you were telling the truth. That you weren’t running away from us.”
He hugged her close again, that dear, precious girl. “Why ever would you think such a thing? Have I ever lied to you before?”
“The whole village is saying it. Even Mama said it. After what you did, no one thinks you’ll be back to right things.”
Tucking her dirty tufts of hair behind one ear, he smiled at the girl. “Let me show you something.” Adjusting her weight against him, he carried her to his cottage and ducked into the dark hovel. Placing her on the only chair in the little home, he reached up into the rafters and pulled down his leather pouches, dropping them one after the other on the table before her. “This is what I planned to bring back. When I had a little more, that is.” He pulled them down in great clumps, never more proud of the vast sum he’d counted hundreds of times already. Only a glimmer of the earlier conviction concerning his money attachment tugged at his spirit.
She peeked into one bag and her eyes rounded at the bank notes that unfurled from its depths. “That’s enough to fix almost anything in the whole world that’s broke.”
“Enough to fix our little corner of the world, anyway.”
She smiled at him, lighting her wan features with just a trace of the former brightness he remembered. A bag dropped and he knelt to retrieve it, but the filthy boots beneath her dress caught his eye as she tried to slide them farther out of view. With a frown he grabbed one and pulled it toward him. Those boots, likely her brother’s, had been abused down to their final days. The sole flapped at the toe and was worn nearly clean in other places.
“Ginny, did you walk here?”
Her shoulders collapsed and she bowed her head. “Only when I couldn’t find a tinker to give me a ride. Your address was always on the envelopes when you sent those bits of money, so I thought . . .”
“So they could send letters. Not you!” He tugged at the laces and eased the boots off her damaged feet. “We’ll soak these feet tonight. Then we’ll see about sending you back.”
“I can’t go back. Not without you.” She grabbed the edge of the chair with both hands and leaned forward. “Things is bad at home. I had to find you, because you’re the only one who can fix it. Mum left and I’m alone.”
He sat back slowly, looking at her face and absorbing the distressing information. “Sarah is gone?”
She nodded, red curls hanging over her face. “She had to go into town to find work because there’s nothing left and the rest are sick. She left me with old widow Cromwell, but there’s no room for me there. The old lady told me I should find you and see what could be done about things. We need you, Uncle Don.”
A gusty breath of defeat whooshed from his chest as he sat back against the wall, his thoughts racing. Even his sister had left now. He had to have that money so he could buy back his family’s land. There was no more time to waste. Harlowe would simply have to give him what he’d promised. No more games, no more treasure hunt.
“You’ll stay with me, then. We’ll send word that you’re here and I’ll find you a place in Trevelyan. Can you work?”
She pushed up her sleeve and flexed her scrawny arm with a smile.
He returned it with a brokenhearted one of his own. “You shall have a place here for a while then, while I arrange things. Surely one of the servants will spare a corner cot if you can scour pots.” He glanced at the pages of translation work scattered across his table and determination settled over him. “This will be my last stop. When I’ve gotten what I’ve come for, we will return together. Then everything will be set right again for all who remain at Carin Green.”
She cocked her head at a delightful angle and offered a smile of approval that emboldened him to the hilt. The bright face of Tressa Harlowe faded into the background of his mind as his larger task once again swelled and saturated his mind, calling forth every ounce of his determination.
17
Pruning involves difficult decisions. It’s about removing growth, even what is good and beautiful, to attain something far better.
—Notebook of a viticulturist
I held the little opal ring up to the moonlight in the hall and watched the colors dance about, sparkling across its surface. What happened to you, Father?
I opened the door to my bedchamber and crossed to the little lamp to heighten the wick, flooding the great room with its glow. There on the little chintz-covered dressing table lay more pages, and the sight of them quickened my heart. I hurried over to them and lifted the pages, crossing to the open window to read. I settled myself into the wide windowsill and took a breath before plunging in.
Donegan’s note was scrawled across the top:
I read further until I found more about the Malverns. I don’t know how they’re connected to the fortune, but I can’t help thinking they are.
After a small space, the notebook translation began.
I’ve spent many years with this vineyard, nearly 25 of them in ownership of it, yet I still haven’t learned the balance that will bring about the perfect grape. Perhaps that is what drives me back into it every year, especially when I finally had free reign of it.
We had another decent rainfall last week and the sulfur is no longer drying it out. My next step is to adjust the pH level of the soil, but I still must dry out the plants as well as the fruit.
So he had been involved with the Malverns before purchasing the estate. But he couldn’t have been a field hand, could he? There had to be more to it than that, because there was no way a field hand could ever purchase his master’s estate. I shoved away the horrifying possibilities that invaded my mind and skimmed ahead until I reached the section that spoke of the Malverns.
The only times I will think of the Malverns now will be as a model for how I should not live my life. We are attached to different vines, drawing life from a different source. Thus the fruit we produce, the life we experience, will be completely different. I owe them my fortune and my vineyard, but that is all. I am glad to be done with them, glad that Cassius is gone. I do not regret what I did. A dying branch left to rot on a vineyard will only kill the whole plant.
The light flickered as a breeze whipped through the open windows and fluttered the papers about. I ran to force the windows closed and latch them, then I bent to retrieve the scattered pages that had sent my heart racing with panic and dread that I had no idea how to face. These lines proved nothing at all—did he even claim involvement in Cassius’s demise? If only he hadn’t written the word regret. What had he done?
My loyalty tried to swell over my dread, but it had weakened. I desperately clung to the hope that he’d admitted nothing specific, until Dr. Caine’s words returned to me. The only perfect father is the one in heaven.
But I wanted the one on earth. So very much. One I could see and feel and hear.
Looking down at the condemning words scrawled on the now-wrinkled pages, I crumpled them into a wad and tossed them into the cold fireplace where I touched a lit candle to them and watched them burn. Cassius Malvern hovered about this castle like a ghost, haunting this search as if he had a stake in it. The closer I came to understanding Father’s notebooks and finding his fortune, the more thickly Cassius seemed to descend until he nearly inhabited my dreams. Grabbing my candle, I exited the room to find my lady’s maid and share tea with her. Perhaps that would help. Footsteps echoed somewhere deep in the house. “Lucy?”
I slowed when I reached the study, for the doors stood open a crack. Somewhere there had to be proof of his innocence, or an explanation—something that released me from this terrible feeling. I rummaged about the shelves and cabinets until I found the housekeeper’s register and a new idea struck. Would I find Father’s name among the workers? I looked about the desk but only found recent log books—nothing that was before Father’s time as owner.
Suddenly I knew where to look. I scooped up my candle and flew out the door, through the hall and down to the abandoned undercroft, that great mausoleum of all things Malvern. It wouldn’t be in Father’s register anyway—it would be in theirs. Setting the candle on the stone floor, I knelt before a stack of crates and began to dig. I cast aside odd papers and other items until at last my fumbling hand found what I searched for—a leather volume tied with twine at the top, labeled with the name Malvern.
With trembling fingers I flipped through the pages. Season after season flew past my eyes, countless names of workers in every position, then at last it was there before my eyes, in black and white—Josiah Harlowe. Heart hammering, I traced the line across the page and read every detail about him:
Harlowe, Josiah. Recommended by S. Hentsworth. Start: summer of 1835. End: Harvest of 1837. Reason: hostilities toward CJM.
I held my breath and reread the last section: hostilities toward CJM. Cassius J. Malvern.
Then my gaze lifted to the Malvern portrait hanging high up on the wall. I’d seen it many times and it had always fascinated me, but today I stared at it with new eyes, full of greater understanding of the family portrayed there. A finely dressed couple dominated the scene with darkly colored clothing and proud faces.
But there in front stood a tow-headed boy with the jeweled hand of his mother resting noncommittally on his shoulder. He stared directly at the artist who captured them, while the parents stared off into some dreamy space elsewhere. I met the painted gaze of the little boy I’d observed dozens of times on this canvas, seeing him anew. Here was the lonely, cast-off child, the one who had been sent away and forgotten. The last Malvern heir.
Cassius.
Refusing to dwell on it more, I strode out of the room and up the circular stairwell, away from the unblinking eyes of the painted child. There had to be a reason for Father’s feelings toward the boy. Possibilities swarmed through my brain as I tried to crowd out the nagging ideas I could not bear to examine.
I knew, as my mind recalled Donegan’s words about him, that the fault could not have been Cassius’s. Everyone in Cassius’s life and in mine had been filled with greed—yes, i
ncluding my dear father who had so proudly clung to his mighty fortune—and they had all called Cassius a failure. As far as I could see, he’d only failed at one thing—greed.
When I slowed on the landing, I suddenly had the chilly awareness of being followed. The glow of a single candle bounced somewhere behind me, its light flickering in a hall. Footsteps echoed, and the name Cassius vibrated through my being. With one hand on the stone wall to balance, I hurried into the main part of the house.
Pausing at the well-lit entryway, I dipped behind a column and blew out my candle, watching the hall as my eyes adjusted to the dark. Light gleamed from its depths, growing brighter as it neared. Footsteps matched its bounce. When a boot clunked on the tile floor, I peered around the corner and up into the shocked face of Dr. Caine. Relieved, I ran to him and grasped his arm. “Dr. Caine, it’s you. Oh, I’ve become such a child in this big old house. If only there were enough candles in the world to light every corner of this dreary place.”
His shock melted into a warm smile and he patted my arm. “Nothing wrong with having a little fright now and then. This isn’t an ordinary house.” He lifted his candle and glanced around the hall, at the suit of armor watching us from the doorway. “I must admit to being rather captivated with the place myself. Something about the eeriness appeals to the mischievous little boy in me.” He sighed. “It’s silly to feel that way, but there’s no escaping the effect of Trevelyan Castle.”
No, I thought. It isn’t silly. The same spell has captured me for my entire life. But I kept this to myself.
“Dr. Caine, I must know about Cassius Malvern.”
Instantly the name drew his brow into a series of wrinkles.
“What became of him? Please, Dr. Caine. You must tell me.”
“It’s best if you don’t ask about him. He was so unlike the other Malverns, and his story has no happy ending.”
“At least tell me this—is he alive?”
The silence that followed nearly consumed me as the candlelight flickered over his troubled features. Then he gave the answer I expected yet dreaded. “No.”
A Rumored Fortune Page 14
