A Rumored Fortune

by Joanna Davidson Politano

  “Mother truly was impressed by it.” I dug the toe of my boot into the sandy soil. “I, for one, was shocked. I’ve never known him to be knowledgeable in such matters.”

  “People are often more than you can see.”

  I paused and pinched my lips, watching his repetitive work and the power of the arms that drove it. I couldn’t decide then what he was meant to be—friend, enemy, or something else entirely. “That is why Mother was surprised.” I cut a glance at him. “And why she’ll be even more surprised at who actually rescued us.”

  He paused but did not look up. “Not if you don’t tell her.”

  My pretenses fell away then, frustration rising. “And why shouldn’t she know the truth? It would change the way she sees you. Surely you know what she thinks. Perhaps this would at least entice her to be civil to you.”

  “Fortunately I’m not required to impress my enemies.” He raised the hoe and brought it down again with a mighty swing. “Only to love them.”

  His words instantly stilled the argument boiling in me and turned it to guilt. Had I truly doubted him, this man who had been nothing but blunt and painfully authentic since his arrival? Perhaps he didn’t make the finest dinner guest or stay in one place for long, but he was trustworthy and honest. He was not a suitor, but he was a worthy business ally and friend.

  With one final blow to the soil, he straightened, leaning on his hoe, and looked down at me. “And what about you? What do you say I am? That matters far more to me. Do you also think me detestable?”

  Under the powerful weight of his steady look, thoughts evaporated from my mind. A brief silence ensued in which I summoned my courage and reminded myself I was now talking to the man who spoke truth to a fault, so I was free to do the same. “Quite rough around the edges and distinctly opposite from me and everything I’m accustomed to.” I offered a glimmer of a smile. “Yet not wholly unredeemable, it would seem.”

  His eyes searched my face, burrowing into the depths of my thoughts yet again. A small light of amusement settled in his face. “I’m glad I’ve found favor in your eyes, even if it’s the tiniest sliver. I shall seek to increase it.”

  “You should know,” I hastened to add, “that I still cannot ignore how dissimilar we are.” I dropped my gaze, then forced it back up to his face. “I should apologize for the other night, for what happened on the balcony. It was foolish and impetuous of me. I do so value your friendship though, and I’m grateful for your help in this vineyard.”

  He squinted at me and dropped his hoe beside him. “Come then, partner. I’ve something to show you.” He motioned with a sweep of his arm toward the plants farther down the row and I followed him. He knelt and dug gingerly through the foliage of one branch, indicating that I should look at it. “I’m afraid half of your crops are failing.”

  “What do you mean? What’s wrong with them?”

  He lifted the shoot of one branch with a single finger. “Many of the grafts haven’t taken.”

  “How can that be?” I crouched beside him and inspected the joint. The branch burst toward us with leaves like an open hand. The shoots appeared strong and healthy.

  “I’ve thought a lot about grafts over the last day or so, and a simple truth has struck me.” Donegan ran his hand along the branch to where it fed into the vine and snapped it off with ease. The broken branch dangled from the guide wire it had wrapped itself around. “They are still two separate plants. It clung to the vine just enough to receive the life necessary for producing leaves and small grape clusters, but it’ll never draw enough life to make decent fruit. The most you’ll see is these hard little balls.”

  “But they’re here, aren’t they? If the grapes simply exist, we can make them grow.”

  He shook his head. “Every one of these branches appears attached, but it’s not enough. A successful graft means the two plants meld into one. So much so that you cannot tell where the branch ends and the vine begins. They bear the same type of bark, the same coloring, and they cannot be easily snapped away.”

  “Have the men graft them better, then. We’ll try again.”

  “It’s too late. The vine is already healing over the joint, closing off the wound and moving its sap elsewhere in the plant. It’s a slow but certain death, even if it is invisible to the outside observer.”

  I let out a gusty breath and dropped my forehead into my hands. “What went wrong? Can we even do it any better in the future, if we start over?”

  “Actually, I do have a solution. Or rather, you do.”

  I frowned as he pulled out a roll of papers from his back pocket.

  “Your father made an entire vineyard of new hybrid breeds by grafting heavily across the field. He knew a lot about the practice, but you knew one secret he missed.”

  I took the papers and unrolled them. To my surprise, it was my own sketches of grafting methods, pages torn from my drawing pad and given to Father years ago, when he’d declared me too old for playing in the dirt.

  “Wherever did you find these?”

  “They came to my attention as I dug through the notebooks. I was surprised to see them.”

  I shifted uncomfortably on the packed earth. “I fancied us partners of sorts, working together to invent a wonderful new breed. Foolish, I know.”

  “That isn’t what surprised me.” He shifted, resting one arm across his bent knee. “It was your incredible understanding of the way vines and branches are joined. I do believe your wisdom surpassed your father’s.”

  “I hardly know more than a professional vintner.”

  “You remember what I told you about the Tayleur and the ark—the failed professional and the successful amateur? I believe that’s the case here. If your father had simply followed your amateur method, we’d be looking at a completely different crop.” He leaned over the papers and pointed at one diagram that depicted a deeply angled tip on the branch and a matching cut into the vine. “Here you show how these plants are supposed to fit together. It’s meticulous and takes much extra work, but you see the results when you rush that part as your father did.”

  “Why does that matter so much?”

  He shifted back and looked at me with a heavy gaze. “Because only two opposites make a perfect fit.” He watched me expectantly as if awaiting my reply.

  Heat swirled up into my face and suddenly the man felt far too close. I felt his breath on my skin and his scrutiny upon my private thoughts.

  Finally we stood and he angled his face toward the sun overhead, releasing me from his probing stare. “Think on it and make a decision about this year’s harvest, but no matter what, the faulty grafts will not last. You can count on that.”

  “Thank you. I’ll consider what to do.” I hesitated, fiddling with the hem of my sleeve. With a polite nod, I turned and strode back toward the house, but he called out to me.

  “You never told me what you thought.”

  “Pardon?” I turned to face him again, the thunk of tools on sod in the background.

  “The notes. I assume you read them.”

  The morning’s pain jolted back to me. “Yes, I read them.” I stepped closer again to shield our conversation from the others around us.

  “The talk of soot, of the past. Did it strike you in any way?”

  “It made me sad.”

  “Did your father ever talk to you about being a climbing boy?”

  “You mean one who climbs from working class to wealthy?”

  “It’s a chimney sweep. What if your father swept chimneys?”

  Chimney sweep. “That would explain so much, like the scarring on his lungs, and why he was ashamed of his past.” Immediately all the details came together to form a clear image that made sense as a whole story. Father had been poor. Wretchedly poor. And he could not bear for anyone to know it. The stench of such a background would have stuck to him as indelibly as the name he was given at birth, and that’s what he’d been so afraid would tarnish his family—his poverty.

  Relie
f poured through me at the idea of Father’s possible innocence. He hadn’t done anything to Cassius or anyone else—it was his background that had caused him such shame.

  “He told me when we met in France that he believed creosote from chimneys was a secret way to cure moisture problems in a vineyard, killing off mildew before it climbed the plants.”

  I turned those thoughts over in my mind and allowed all the implications to sink in. “A secret ingredient.” Truth snapped into my mind and my gaze shot to my search partner, who watched me with serious eyes. “Donegan. It’s soot, isn’t it? That’s the answer we’ve been searching for, the secret of the vineyard.”

  That meant the money was . . .

  We said the words together. “It’s in a chimney.”

  “We have to find the right chimney first, and it’s not in any of the fancy rooms about the house.” I stopped short of telling him about the workroom I’d seen in my childhood memories. As much as I’d grown to depend on the man, almost against my will, I knew now I couldn’t fully trust him.

  But as I turned away, the secret safely tucked in my mind, a departing figure caught my eye. Neville’s hasty gait carried him quickly toward the house with purposeful steps.

  25

  The vine’s best protection against wind is not higher walls, but deeper roots; walls may crumble, but no amount of wind can move the earth.

  —Notebook of a viticulturist

  Sixteen. That was the number of fireplaces our home contained outside of the elegant front rooms, and I knew that because I madly searched every one—and found nothing. I’d eventually relented and had a bath readied so I could soak away the grit of my failed effort.

  Donegan did not accompany us for dinner that night, and his empty place at the table seemed louder and more prominent than the man himself. I stared at the lone stack of china plates and the cutlery that bordered it. I felt as wilted as the dying branches in our vineyard that possessed only a trickle of sap—enough to preserve life in an endless game of striving, but never able to thrive. As yet another thing was plucked from me, my hope dwindled.

  Are you still there, God? Won’t you please help me before it’s too late?

  The waters of frustration and panic rose until I felt I’d drown in them. What was I missing? Which chimney was it in? And where was that workroom?

  Andrew sat across from me, delicately poking at his food with a silver fork. “I find the gardens enchanting this time of evening. Don’t you, Miss Harlowe?”

  I stiffened. This was his coded way of requesting my discreet presence in a secret garden tryst, but my tattered soul could not bear it that night. I lifted a solemn smile to him. “I rather prefer seeing it in the bright glow of daylight, and in the presence of many, so that we may all appreciate the blooms.”

  “You look lovely in moonlight, you know.” Andrew lowered his voice for these private words. His handsome face watched me earnestly, likely expecting me to change my mind.

  “You will have to rely on your memories to prove that.” With a hard look of politeness, I returned to my bread and smoothed butter across its spongy surface.

  He leaned forward when the others became engrossed in their own conversations. “I’ve considered telling the constable you were with me the night of the fire. I’ll make him promise to keep it out of the inquest and make it a private matter, but would that make you happy?”

  A ray of hope beamed through my heart, spearing through the ice that had thickened there, but it passed quickly. I found I no longer wished for Andrew to redeem himself. Or perhaps I had given up hope that he truly ever would. Either way, his attempts fell dormant upon my ears and sank away without fanfare. “Let your conscience guide you, Mr. Carrington.” Part of me simply refused to believe he would follow through.

  The entrance of the butler then drew my mind away from suitors, vines, and all other trivial matters, for the ashen look on his face alarmed me. Amos leaned in to whisper to Mother, and when I heard the word “constable,” I rose. The moment I’d dreaded had arrived. “Excuse me for a moment.” But if my suspicions proved correct, my absence would be much longer than a mere moment.

  I pushed out from between the table and chair and hurried into the drawing room beyond, then curved back through the hall to the stairway. Mother would take the constable’s call in the drawing room most likely, the room built to impress anyone of consequence. The constable was, by virtue of his position, a man of that description.

  I hurried up the steps as my pulse throbbed in my ears to the beat of my footfall. No one hovered about in the hall, and for that I was thankful. I unbuttoned and removed my ankle boots in the interest of silence and slipped up to the peep overlooking the drawing room, for I felt I must hear what was said. Soon Mother swished into the room below, her lavish skirts billowing around her like a bell, and a stocky man in a long buttoned coat followed as he removed his hat.

  “I’m aware that I’ve come at an awkward time of day, and I thank you for seeing me.”

  “Of course, Constable. Have you any word of my husband?”

  “I’m afraid not, but we do have a few suspects we’d like to pursue for his disappearance.” He shifted uncomfortably, shuffling his hat between one hand and the other. “The first one is the younger mistress of the house. Is she at home tonight?”

  The reality of his words slowly swirled about and took root in my understanding. It was me he spoke of. Me he suspected of involvement in Father’s disappearance.

  Her chin lifted. “Tressa? You cannot possibly believe that . . . No, you will not take my daughter.”

  “I’m not here to make an arrest just yet, Mistress Harlowe. I only want to make a few inquiries. Did your daughter enjoy a close relationship with her father?”

  “Why, I—yes, I believe she did. Hardly a harsh word between them.”

  The evasive lie smote my old wound. Hardly a word of any sort existed between us, and well she knew it. Yet I could not deny the glimmer of warmth that lit inside me at her answer meant to protect me. Stubborn and demanding as she was, she did love me.

  “Besides, we were both in London when this occurred. Tressa could not have been involved.”

  “One does not have to be physically present to be involved, but I appreciate the information. One other question, madam. Who was the beneficiary of the man in question, your daughter . . . or you?”

  I held my breath at the veiled implication she could not have missed—who benefited most from Josiah Harlowe’s death? Who would she choose to protect—herself, or me?

  The pause lasted less than a second. “I’m certain everything would have gone directly to Tressa, with only a modest income for myself. She is his heir.”

  I sank down against the wall as her words descended into my soul and pierced me. The woman cared for me, it seemed, but not more than herself. Andrew’s words at the fountain returned to me then and rang true—I was no more than a lackey to those I loved. Did anyone truly love me in return?

  “Were you aware of her whereabouts the night of the fire at Prescott’s?”

  “No, I’m afraid I was not well and had retired early.”

  I would be arrested. And in my absence, the others were free to search out and seize Father’s fortune, taking from me the ability to keep even this empty shell of his house.

  “Now if you’ll send Mr. Carrington in, I’d like to speak with him.”

  At the sound of Andrew’s name, a tiny bubble of hope rose in me. He had agreed, only this night, to reveal the truth about me that would clear my name of the arson charges, at least. Surely that would help matters considerably.

  Mother left the room and Amos returned with the news that Mr. Carrington had stepped out and could not be found.

  Loneliness chilled me with the force of an arctic blast. Would no one speak up for me?

  I pushed up and stumbled away from the peep. Andrew, my final hope, had flown. His absence screamed louder than any lie he had yet spoken.

  Mother entered t
he room again and the constable approached her. “One other question, if you don’t mind. Do you employ a lad named Smithy at the estate? Young boy about so high, usually wearing a green cap.”

  “I don’t believe so, but then again we have so many people employed here.”

  “Yes, of course. Might I trouble your daughter for a brief interview, Mistress Harlowe? I have some questions for her. What she has to say will be of great importance on both cases.”

  “Of course. Margaret, please find my daughter and send her in.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Panicked, suffocating, I sprinted down the hall. I tore down the stairs and into another hall to a lone window and glanced out at the vineyard, the tangled mess that resembled my own life. How would I ever untangle it?

  Do you see, God? Do you see where I am? The mess my life is? Everything has been taken from me, and soon my freedom will be gone too. Why is this happening? I clenched my hands into fists and a tremble convulsed me, and the underlying thought slipped out. Why are you letting it?

  I closed my eyes against the soft glow of the moon casting its light down on me, and the moment of silence brought recent words of comfort to my mind. If you are ever in need . . . you may freely ask of me anything you need. Anything.

  Those words from Dr. Caine beckoned my aching heart, drawing me toward the open window where I leaned out into the night. I desperately needed the rescue of a father, but none stepped forward, except the man who wasn’t even truly my father. He was the one ray of hope, as he had been often lately. He was to me what a father should have been, and now I would fly to him and beg his help as any daughter would. I drew a light wrap from the closet nearby and darted out, only to collide with another body. I recoiled, but it was Lucy’s familiar form that stepped into the light of the hanging chandelier.

  “I’m sorry, miss. I’ve come to see if I could help and I knocked into you instead. Oh, I always manage to do this.” Her hands fluttered and her brow creased. “Oh here, let me fix your hair. Look what I’ve done.”