A Rumored Fortune

by Joanna Davidson Politano

  I grasped the thick trunk of the vine beside me as Donegan’s flippant words returned to me with powerful force. The eternal Vine from Scripture. I clung to that vine as a band released from around my heart, exploding with understanding and exultation. Excitement and awe spiraled through me as I mentally stepped back to view all the brushstrokes of the last few painful weeks in one magnificent piece of art that told a deeply beautiful love story. All the pruning, the relentless removal of the seemingly good things, was an act of mercy and healing. A gentle pull on my heart away from what I deemed necessary, freeing me to cling hard to the only true Vine.

  All while I’d conveniently shelved him.

  The undeniable truth of God’s pursuit engulfed me in a great awareness of love I’d never expected. That word connect—it was not a command from God, but an invitation. A lifelong one. The realization of this abundant love beamed onto me in glorious rays of lovely moonlight, solidifying his true position in my life.

  My Father who art in heaven.

  I tipped my face heavenward for a taste of life, my hand grasping the thick trunk of the vine beside me. I closed my eyes and breathed the word “Father,” for once directing it heavenward. It flooded my prayer with a powerful sense of intimacy I’d never experienced before. Strangely unfettered, I poured out my frustration, confusion, even anger to the heavenly Father who seemed determined to make himself known to me.

  Father, I’m so lonely. I’ve always been lonely. There’s such a mess to handle, but I cannot do it alone. As everything slips out of my grasp, that truth is clearer than ever.

  I continued, breaking the remaining pieces of my heart in forthright, earnest prayer and casting them before this Father in heaven and those broken pieces connected so instantly, so deeply, with his.

  Then they slowly began to fuse back together into a messy whole. His presence settled about me more powerfully than anything in the physical world, filling me deeply in a way I’d never yet known. And I knew in that moment I’d never be alone again.

  As I returned to the house, basking in the wonder of this undeserved love, the rocky hardness of my anger toward Donegan began to erode. Why hadn’t I at least heard him out? The memory of my angry, self-righteous retorts made me cringe in the face of what I’d just received. I could have gracefully confronted him, requested that he return the money, and then worked on forgiving him. Yes, that’s what I would do.

  But when I went looking for him in the stable, John gave me the news. “He’s left, miss. He took his stallion about an hour ago and said he wouldn’t be back.”

  30

  Of all the seasons, pruning is the one that finds the vintner working most intimately with the vine, involved in every detail of the plant.

  —Notebook of a viticulturist

  She’s making inquiries, miss.” Margaret smoothed the thick brush down my hair splayed over my back that evening. “Your mother is sending word to her contacts in London that she’ll be in need of a property in town for a small sum. A widow’s situation, she’s calling it.”

  “So she’s considering him dead.” I closed my eyes as the brush smoothed the stress of the day from my scalp. “I suppose it won’t be the end of the world to live in town.” Yet the irony was that I’d just learned Father wasn’t dead. What would become of him if we left? I could not leave him on that island.

  Part of me wished to sing out the truth that Father was alive, but his simple command stilled my tongue. “Tell no one you’ve seen me.” Whatever the secret he kept, I’d not be the one to pierce the grape and draw danger to him.

  “He’d be so displeased, wouldn’t he? Your father, I mean.” Margaret softened her voice as she normally did when speaking of Trevelyan’s master. “You and the mistress leaving this place. I cannot recall a time he ever truly wanted to leave, even on short trips.”

  “He’d despise so much of what has happened around here.”

  She ran her fingers through my hair as she looked at me tenderly in the mirror. “If only he were still here, he’d know what to do.”

  It was only as I lay in bed in the dark that night that it struck me once again that I had another Father from whom I could seek advice. For years I had painted my mental image of God with the same colors that made up my earthly father, fallible and distant, yet God had reached out to me so many times in gentle, personal ways.

  I looked at the word connect painted above my door, then blew out the candle and burrowed under the blankets. Dipping my heart into the well of the rich conversation we’d had earlier, I cast up little arrows of prayer in these moments before sleep, connecting us yet again. I would never tire of such intimacy.

  Father, help me submit to Mother’s wishes with a glad heart. Release me from the hold of any resentment that might come about from this change.

  I rolled over and then back again, my mind refusing to rest. Prescott’s angry face loomed heavily in my thoughts, and the notion of ignoring the debt plagued me. I prayed again, but even more unrest sparked through my tired brain. Still saturated in the newfound intimacy with God, I prodded further into this conviction.

  Father, would you have me pay the man? Is that your desire?

  I remained still and silent in my bed, under the fluffy softness of blankets, and nothing happened. I turned onto my right side and gazed out the window, toying with the idea of using the fortune to pay Prescott what we owed. An unexpected calm stole over me, weighing me down comfortably in the soft bed. Please, Father. Will you give me a firm yes or no? Mother will be so angry if I do this.

  No answer came other than the gentle release of obedience that relaxed my body and allowed me to sleep.

  My conversation with God rolled into the next morning, stopping and starting as I thought through my decisions and actions. Dressing in a simple gray dress and upswept hair befitting the call I’d need to make, I bundled up the money in a much smaller box and ordered the groom to drive me to see Prescott.

  After a short trip, the carriage wound up the spruce-lined drive of the wide brick house with white Greek-style pillars and crunched to a stop before the doors. John helped me step down and I surveyed the perfect house for signs of fire damage and, surprisingly, saw none. Fresh and clean spring air met my senses rather than the odor of burnt wood and brick, and wealth draped the oversized house. Why on earth would God ever want me to give all we had to this man? With a breath I climbed the steps and knocked with one gloved hand, my other clutching the little box.

  I shifted the weight of the box as the door opened and handed my card to the housekeeper, who showed me in. “Mr. Prescott will be pleased to see you, miss.”

  I strode on plush carpet through glass doors that led into the drawing room and took in the sight of the overly red room with three clocks ticking just out of sync with one another. A distinct air of loneliness pervaded the enormous space, despite its sunny, open windows and light oak furniture.

  “You’ve come into the lion’s den, it seems.” I spun at the sound of a deep voice as Mr. Prescott limped into the room, his cane popping against the wood. “I assume you have an excellent reason, since this is the first time you’ve granted me the honor of your presence.”

  “Of course.” I approached the gruffly cynical man and held up the box. “I’ve come to pay what we owe.”

  He arched his eyebrows and pulled a nearby bell to summon his staff. “Constance, will you have tea sent into my study? Come, child, we will talk.”

  I followed him down a long hall and into a tall library studded with taxidermy where he sat at a desk. Books lined three of the walls floor to ceiling and the fourth wall was nothing but windows and little cushioned window seats. I perched upon the chair facing the desk and watched him.

  “So, you are prepared to repay the debt.”

  “I am, sir.”

  He studied me for a moment with an expression akin to doubt. Placing spectacles on his nose, he frowned over several account books. When he motioned for the box, I placed it on the desk and waited
, my heart pittering rapidly. “Eight hundred sixty pounds.”

  “The restoration expenses, plus interest, minus the portion already paid . . .” He named the total that was within just a few pounds of what I’d brought. He tallied the numbers in the column of his log book. “Roughly eight hundred fifty-five pounds.” He flipped open the box and thumbed through the mess of pound notes, then pushed the box aside with a grunt. “I’ll have my solicitor count the money more thoroughly and draw up the papers. I’ll have a copy sent to Trevelyan for you if all is well.” He lifted a coin to the light to inspect it, then tapped it on his desk. “I suppose you are hoping this clears you of the charges of arson as well.”

  A white-capped maid wheeled a tea cart into the room and the pretty china rattled as it was transported over the wooden floorboards.

  “Two millstones off my neck? I believe that’s too much to ask of a single day, sir.”

  He frowned as the tea was poured and stirred sugar into his with rapid movements of the clinking spoon. “I’ll release you from the debt, but do not attempt to make me like you, Miss Harlowe, for you’ll find it a difficult task for even the most interesting and well-spoken people.”

  “I have reason to believe I was framed for this crime, and it is my hope that my innocence will be proven as soon as this man’s guilt is cast.”

  “I see.” He leaned back in his chair, the leather squeaking. “And who is the unlucky fellow who carries the weight of your suspicions?”

  “Mr. Donegan Vance. A man we’ve had the misfortune of keeping on our grounds as an employee.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’d sooner believe you did it than the man you offer up to me, Miss Harlowe. I find you quite a wretched girl.”

  I rose, my hands gripping the edge of his desk as I faced him. “Mr. Prescott, let me remind you that the law has not yet found me guilty, so you have no reason to do so either. While I’m sorry for the inconvenience—for that’s all the fire must have been, if you are still living in your home which shows no signs of a fire—I beg you to be a decent and civil person to me.”

  He met my gaze directly then and studied me for long minutes as his weathered skin wrinkled and scrunched. He raised a gold-rimmed teacup to his lips and sipped, never taking his eyes from me. “I’m not entirely sure what to make of you, Miss Harlowe. You’ve a fire in your spirit, but I cannot decide if it’s dangerous or glorious. Perhaps both. Like your father, I’m never sure if I should trust you.” He set his teacup in its saucer. “But it’s become rather clear to me that you are most likely not the one who caused the fire at my home.”

  “You mean you’re dropping the charges?”

  A smile twitched his lips then disappeared. “Suspending, perhaps. For you see, this is not my house, Miss Harlowe, but that of Rumilla DuPlane. She has leased it to me while I decide what to do with my charred ruins. I would assume a person who had tried to burn my house down would know which one it was.”

  Hope unfurled in glorious layers. “Perhaps you can lend your keen perception to the constable when he interviews me.”

  Humor sparked in his eyes set in an otherwise pallid face. “It’s awfully hard to go on despising you, although it has been my dearest pastime for weeks. You have that same quality your father had. That spark of wit.”

  I smiled then, and it was genuine. “Anything that likens me to him is the highest praise.”

  “Yet somehow, you are even more remarkable.” He scribbled his signature across the bottom of a page and poured and stamped the wax with his ring. “This will do for now until my solicitor is able to draw up further paperwork.”

  “Might I trouble you for the box, sir? And the remaining money?”

  He blinked. “There was only five pounds difference.”

  My chin lifted and I held out my hand as I rose, pushing my shoulders back into a poised bearing. “That may be so, but those five pounds belong to me.”

  He lowered his bushy eyebrows and studied me as he passed the box back, likely surmising exactly how much this repayment had cost me. “Right you are.”

  “Good day, Mr. Prescott, and I thank you for your time.” I strode to the door of his study and paused, hesitating with my hand on the doorframe. “Why is it that you don’t believe Donegan Vance guilty, Mr. Prescott?”

  “Because, Miss Harlowe, it is he who came a week or so ago to beg your innocence in the matter. He spoke of your goodness and uprightness of spirit in terms so ardent I was nearly induced to believe him simply because of the passion with which he spoke. I’m not a man swayed by sentimentality, but Mr. Vance is not easy to brush aside.” He raised his eyebrows. “Might I inquire what has caused you to believe that one of your truest allies was your enemy?”

  Truest allies. Guilt tugged at my heart over our last encounter, but I shoved it aside and refocused myself. “Dr. Caine told me certain incriminating things he witnessed.”

  “This Dr. Caine must have the wrong man. Or perhaps he’s mistaken in what he saw.”

  His words lingered in my overwrought heart as I left his rented estate and returned to my carriage. Prescott almost spoke as if he did not know Dr. Caine. Perhaps he simply did not pay heed to the physician who attended his elderly relation, but it left a niggling doubt about the doctor’s claims concerning our vineyard manager. The doctor might be growing feeble of mind and confusing facts. Maybe he had not been to Prescott’s at all but another home with a family similarly named. I began to wish ardently that I’d thought to question his comment in the moment, but I couldn’t concern myself with these matters now. Soon I’d have to explain to Mother what I’d done with our fortune and why it had been a good idea.

  “Please tell me the servants are mistaken, Tressa.” Mother intercepted me in the garden where I’d gone to prepare my speech to her.

  I slowed on the brick walk and settled my gaze on her face shadowed by a pink-fringed parasol. “If they’ve told you about my visit to Prescott, they are correct.”

  Neville and Ellen flanked her as attendants would a queen. “Pray, tell me you didn’t give it all to him.”

  “If I did, that would be a lie. It took nearly everything in that box to repay the debt, but now it’s over. The debt will not remove us from Trevelyan.”

  Ellen came near and looked me over, that gaunt, pale face showing traces of the beauty muted by age. “I would pay someone to remove me from this ghastly estate. Can you not see I am withering in this wilderness? I need life and color around me.”

  I looked past her to the vineyard bursting with green, the sparkling blue water beyond, and the sprinkle of red and pink wildflowers that accented the vibrant hues of our estate. What sort of color did she hope to find in town that was not present—and even magnified—in this glorious place? But I knew no such argument would find favor in her eyes. “It’s far better to honor one’s word and repay what is owed than to live upon borrowed funds anywhere.”

  “Whatever we’re doing here is far from what I would call ‘living.’” She spoke this final return with a posture of pride and disdain. “Was it that Donegan Vance who convinced you to do this? He’s been the enemy of my days since he’s come here, and I don’t mind saying it. I’m glad to see the end of that boorish man, and I hope he hangs for his many crimes.”

  “One crime.” Guilt pricked me again and wouldn’t be shoved away this time. If only she knew all that Donegan had done for us. “He’s committed only one crime, and I’m wondering if he didn’t have a good reason for it. He’s not as bad as you would believe, Mother.” A man who had rescued us so many times would not simply steal most of what we had for selfish reasons. There had to be more to it.

  “Oh Tressa, you’d defend Judas Iscariot himself if you’d met him.” She frowned at me. “Perhaps we shall take a holiday. There must be a place to let in town that will accept credit on the Harlowe name. I’m sure our guests are equally weary of this provincial existence and would adore a change.”

  “Actually, Aunt Gwendolyn.” Neville took one gia
nt step forward to stand at Mother’s elbow. “Ellen and I feel we’ve infringed on your hospitality long enough and should return home. We cannot remain indefinitely without, as you said, a definite object for our grief.”

  Or a dead man’s fortune to be discovered. But I pinched my lips over the thought as a vague panic tensed Ellen’s pristine face. My glance dropped unbidden to her belly as her gloved hand unconsciously hovered there with a protective air. “I wish you both the best.” I offered a quick nod, meeting Ellen’s gaze that was heavy with many thoughts. “And you always have a home at Trevelyan, should you need it. Both of you.” A warning light flashed in Ellen’s eyes, and I merely smiled back. “I simply wanted you to know that.”

  Neville frowned as he looked back and forth between us. “I see you’ve told my little cousin about our talk, Ellen darling. Now you’ve given her the impression that we need charity.”

  “How silly, Neville dear.” The words gushed out with far too much lightness as she snaked her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. “Why ever would she believe us in need of charity?”

  I sighed and clutched my hands together, wondering what on earth she planned to do about the other secret. Pity for her nearly strangled me.

  With a forceful stride, she pivoted them both and moved down the walkway toward the house. She cast the briefest glance back at me, and those dark eyes laid heavily into her pale face created an image that remained in my head well after the pair had disappeared around the bushes.

  31

  The only thing you must do for weeds to take over is . . . nothing.

  —Notebook of a viticulturist

  What do you think of that Carrington man who hangs about Trevelyan?” Donegan thunked the mug onto the Campbells’ table and looked at the village man across from him.

  “Nothing that wouldn’t be gossip, Mr. Vance, but he seems a bit untrustworthy to me. Never cared for him. Has he wronged you?”