by Karey White
Lucy raised the oil lamp to see a man standing behind Lucille. He didn’t look like one of the dark-haired Quinn men she’d seen in the portrait corridor. This man was tall, with fair hair. Leaning forward for a better look, Lucy had an odd thought. Perhaps the man wasn’t the woman’s brother or father. Perhaps the man in the portrait wasn’t a Quinn at all.
That would mean it could be Calvin Bevans, a strange idea. Why would Lucille have a portrait of her and the man who’d married another?
Lucy turned and looked at the bed. Had Lucille fallen asleep each night looking at that portrait? If so, it wasn’t too far-fetched to think that the poor woman had died of a broken heart. After taking another look around, Lucy left the room.
She found her own room again easily enough, where the fire had warmed the chamber, just as Mrs. Yates had said it would. Her luggage was already there, so after lighting every oil lamp in the room, Lucy set about unpacking. Without electric lights, the place was positively dim— but it was still intriguing. And thinking about Lucille made the history of the house all that more mysterious.
Lucy put away her underclothing in the bureau, then hung up her dresses in the closet. They were wrinkled from traveling but would likely smooth out with the moist English air. Nestled in her clothing was Robert’s package. She smiled as she reread his farewell note to her. His handwriting was so bold and sure. He reminded her to pay special attention to a couple of the stock-market articles he’d included.
She leafed through the pages, deciding that if she read one per day, she’d finish by the time she stepped onto New York’s shore. She’d like to be able to give him a good report when she returned, perhaps even impress him. Lucy smiled as she removed her sketchbook from beneath some folded clothing. It wasn’t wrinkled or bent, and the pencils had all stayed untouched in their square tin.
By the time Lucy had finished unpacking and had gone into her mother’s room to do the same for her, she realized there was still more than an hour before supper, and apparently her mother was going to remain in the sitting room with Mrs. Yates.
Lucy found herself with her sketchbook on her lap, drawing the outline of her room, then filling it in with details of the furniture. She marveled that everything in this house belonged to her. Every chair, every vase, even the frames around the window panes. Surely a new owner would rearrange things, so soon, her sketches would be all that remained of how the house was organized.
She continued to sketch until the supper bell rang, when Lucy set her things aside and went downstairs. Dinner was a quiet event, with just her mother, so Mrs. Quinn insisted that Mrs. Yates join them. “Peters is welcome too,” Lucy’s mother said.
“Oh, he is content in his little room at the back of the house.” Mrs. Yates turned to Lucy. “What did you think of the blue room?”
“You were right,” Lucy said. “There isn’t much to see with an oil lamp. But I was curious about the portrait over the sofa. Who’s the man in it?”
Mrs. Yates clucked her tongue. “Mr. Bevans himself. It was their engagement portrait.”
Lucy raised her brows. “They were engaged to be married?”
“They were, but Lucille called it off. She took her last breath with the portrait staring down at her.” Mrs. Yates pursed her lips and stirred the creamed potatoes on her plate with a fork.
“What a scoundrel,” her mother said, and Mrs. Yates gave her a significant look.
Lucy let the information sink in. “Well… I supposed we can explore the rest in the morning.”
Her mother offered a half-smile, then turned her attention back to the silverware she was holding. “It will be a difficult thing to decide what to have sent home and what should stay with the house and be sold.”
Mrs. Yates gave a slow nod. “I’ve made a list of what you need to particularly consider.”
“I’m looking forward to going over it,” Lucy’s mother said. “After a good night’s sleep.”
Her mother retired early for the night, and Lucy tried to fall asleep too, but found herself lying on the stiff bed, the image of the portrait of Lucille in her mind. Why had Lucille kept such a bold reminder of her former fiancé?
When morning came, Lucy wasn’t sure how much she’d slept, but as soon as the room started to brighten, she stepped into her slippers and made her way to the blue room. Her practiced artistic eye took in everything with a quick glance. She walked around the room, wondering about the aunt she was named after.
Lucy sat on the sofa as the sun’s rays filtered through the white drapes, casting a white-yellow glow in the room, making the room appear almost heavenly. The pale blue carpet extended nearly to the windows, although in one corner it looked a bit warped, like the carpet had been damaged.
The layer of dust on the dressing table seemed a part of history as well, as if it held memories into place. Lucy examined the various bottles. Would the perfumes even have a scent anymore? She used her sleeve to pick one of them up, and the dust that bloomed made her sneeze. She set the bottle down and walked to the window. The view was of the rear gardens, which looked a bit scraggly.
Lucy assumed that there wasn’t too much of a need for a large garden with only a few inhabitants. She moved back, her slipper catching on the edge of the carpet, where part had rolled up. When Lucy stepped away, she felt unevenness, as if the floor beneath was warped.
Lucy knelt down and smoothed the carpet into place, earning her another sneeze. That’s when she felt a bulge under the carpet. She lifted it as far as she dared, and with her other hand, felt around. Her hand touched something smooth and cool. She flinched, pulling her hand back. When nothing moved or made a sound, she reached beneath the carpet again and pulled the object out—a satchel.
The leather was cracked and worn, as if it had seen decades of use. Lucy held it in her hands for a moment, then rose to her feet and walked to the sofa, where she sat. The satchel had probably not been opened since the owner put it there. Based on its location, Lucy guessed that the person didn’t want it easily found.
She hesitated a moment, her heart pounding, before she untied the thick leather cord holding it closed. As she lifted the flap, a dozen thoughts flitted through her mind as to what she might find. When she pulled out a bundle of what looked to be letters, Lucy’s pulse increased. Holding her breath, she unfolded the top letter.
The handwriting was definitely male.
Dearest Cille,
I cannot believe the words of your note. You surely don’t mean to break off our engagement. Meet me at Blackberry Hollow at sunset. Please do not end this.
— C
Lucy stared at the words. From the letter, which must be from Calvin to Lucille— or “Cille”— it seemed that she had broken off the engagement. But why?
She opened the next letter, but the date was three years later. Before reading it, she sorted through the other letters, spreading them on the carpet and organizing them by date.
When she came to a letter dated only a few days after the first one, Lucy started reading.
Dearest Cille,
I do not sleep. I cannot eat. When you told me your kiss at Blackberry Hollow would be our last, I didn’t believe you. Now that you haven’t replied to any of my letters and refuse to see me, I wonder if perhaps I’ve fallen asleep and am only dreaming. Or living a nightmare. I don’t care if you can’t ever have children. I wouldn’t want you to attempt it because of your weak heart. Even if my cousin inherits Bevans, at least I will have lived my life with the woman I love. You are more important to me than the possibility of any children.
Earnestly yours,
— C
Lucy’s eyes pricked with tears. Her great-great-aunt had sacrificed her happiness because of her inability to have children. Lucy read through several more pleading letters from Calvin, each similar in tone. The dates told her that he gradually wrote less and less frequently. She came to a space of about six months when there were no letters at all. She picked up the next one.
Dearest Cille,
I caught a glimpse of your blue cloak in the back gardens this morning. It seems that blue is still your favorite color. Do you read my letters? Or are they burned the moment they cross the threshold? Or perhaps you do cherish them, just as I cherish any glimpse of you.
I heard that you were ill over the holidays, and I sent up dozens of prayers to heaven. Seeing you outside walking this morning was the most joyful thing I’ve felt in a long time. You are well and safe.
Cille, my heart is yours and always will be. It has been more than a year since I held you in my arms at Blackberry Hollow, and more than a year since I’ve heard your voice. I understand now. Perhaps it’s time passing, or maybe it’s knowing that even as you suffered through another illness, you did not send for me.
I realize now that you are determined to live your life without me in it. I have grieved over this. But mostly I have denied it. Yet now, I’ve decided that at the end of this month, I will travel to London for the Season, and I will find a wife.
Unless you tell me not to.
Send but one word, and I will remain here, always yours.
— C
Chapter Six
Calvin paced the threadbare rug of the front parlor. He’d heard his sister’s carriage before it had come into view, which one might argue was impossible, but every nerve in his body was taut, and his senses had risen to those of a hunting dog. He stopped in the middle of the floor, his eyes focused on the window as the carriage drew closer.
He barely breathed as he watched the driver hand his sister out of the carriage, followed by her eldest daughter, a girl of about six or seven. His breath released when he realized no one else had arrived but his sister, her daughter, and a maid. No husband. No infant son. That was a relief. His brother-in-law, Phillip Worth, pretty much let Sylvia do anything she pleased.
Calvin strode out of the room and into the hallway. He opened the door himself; there was no butler anyway. Sylvia was coming up the steps, and her eyebrows lifted in faint surprise, but her smile was quick.
“Brother, you’re here,” Sylvia trilled. Her daughter, Gwen, clung to her mother’s skirts.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he said in an exceedingly patient voice. “You knew of my plans and where to write me.”
Sylvia reached him and pecked him on the cheek. He was assailed with the scent of something floral. “I thought you might have fled once you opened my note.” Her smile broadened.
That infernal smile. No wonder his sister had attracted, then married, the wealthiest bachelor in London. “I was tempted,” he said.
“Say hello to Uncle Calvin,” Sylvia said, prodding her daughter forward.
It appeared Gwen wanted to do anything but greet him. She gave a small smile, then, in a voice with the strength of a mouse, said, “Hello, Uncle Calvin.”
“Hello, Gwen,” he said as kindly as possible.
Her face reddened, and in an instant, she was back behind her mother’s skirts.
Sylvia sighed. “We’ll take our tea now, and after Gwen’s nap, we can talk.”
Calvin opened the door wider to let them in. Then he went to tell Mrs. Rollings about the expected tea, knowing that she was already up to her arms in preparing bedrooms. But it gave him an excuse to get away from Sylvia’s tirades, which had already begun when she walked into the parlor and found that the fire had not been lit. Calvin saw no reason to light a fire when the sun was out.
Less than an hour later, with tea finished and Sylvia and Gwen miraculously cloistered in their room, Calvin had to escape the house. Ever since the letter informing him that his sister was on her way, everything in the house had looked rundown. More so than usual, and to the point that it bothered Calvin as well.
But he simply didn’t have the funds to start renovating yet. It would be so easy to let his sister help, but then Bevans Estate would be a product of Sylvia, not of him.
Calvin shoved his hands deep into his pockets and strode from the house. He’d ordered wood for the fence that morning, and now he needed to walk the rest of the property to see if there was anything else that needed immediate attention. Something moved over by Blackberry Hollow— a swatch of color among the autumn colors— a hue that didn’t match. He paused in his step, then changed direction and walked toward the hollow. Who would be there, except for the Americans who’d arrived the day before? Calvin slowed his step as he drew closer, realizing that what he saw through the trees was a woman in a lavender dress, sitting on the hill and writing in a book. The American. He hadn’t had a good look at her before, but there was no doubt. A large hat with feathers sat next to her in the grass. Her honey-brown hair was full and wavy at the top. She had it swept up into a knot, showing off an elegant neck as she bent forward, intent on her writing.
Calvin realized she wasn’t writing, but sketching. Every so often she glanced up, then down, and drew some more. He didn’t know how long he’d been watching her until she looked over and gasped.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She scrambled to her feet, dropping her pencil and clutching the book to her chest.
He walked up the hill, intent on meeting her, even though he’d startled her. “I didn’t mean to alarm you,” he began, then realized she was smiling at him.
“You’re my neighbor?” she said.
He halted, confused for a moment. Calling him her neighbor sounded so permanent. “Yes, I’m Calvin Bevans.”
She lifted her hand and grasped his. Her fingers were warm, despite the cool English air.
“I’m pleased to finally meet you.” She looked over her shoulder in the direction of Quinn Manor. “And I apologize about Mrs. Yates.”
Calvin nodded, his throat feeling thick. Dropping her hand, he stepped back. “A lot of history has passed between the families. I don’t entirely blame Mrs. Yates, but I don’t see any harm in welcoming you to Stanmer Park.”
She peered up at him, still smiling, and he found himself smiling back. It was hard not to. This woman’s smile was so unlike his sister’s too-bright one. This one made him feel… interested. Her brown eyes seemed to sparkle, but perhaps it was the sun playing tricks.
“I’ve set about correcting Mrs. Yates this morning on the relationship between your ancestor and mine,” the woman said.
This was not what he expected to hear. “What have you corrected her on?”
“Many misunderstandings have happened over the years,” she said, her voice breathless. “Probably the best way to explain is to let you read the letters for yourself.”
Now he was curious. “What letters?” She kept fidgeting with her book, and he wondered what she’d been drawing.
“Love letters from Calvin Bevans Sr. to my great-great-aunt Lucille.” She tilted her head. “Come with me to the house. You can read them there.”
Calvin hesitated. “I’d better not. Mrs. Yates may throw me out again.”
“She won’t,” the woman said. “She may even ask for your forgiveness.”
Calvin stared at her. “The misunderstandings were that significant?”
“They were.”
His mind took only seconds to make up. “All right. But only if you tell me your name first.”
“Why, I’m Lucille Quinn.” She flashed another smile and touched his arm. “But everyone calls me Lucy. And… it’s ironic that you, Calvin Bevans, are standing here with me, Lucille Quinn— with the two of us bearing the names of our ancestors— because Blackberry Hollow was their secret meeting place.”
The earth seemed to shift beneath his feet. Her hand rested on his arm still, and it sent waves of warmth through him. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his thoughts. Blackberry Hollow had been some sort of secret meeting place? “I’d love to read the letters,” he said, his voice sounding far away to his ears.
When she dropped her hand, his senses returned. He walked with her to Quinn Manor, and she asked a few questions, which he was sure he must have answered satisfactorily, as she didn
’t give him any strange looks. With each step taking him closer to the manor, he felt more and more strongly that his life was about to change significantly.
Chapter Seven
Lucy pretended to be busy sketching, but truly, she was watching expressions flit across Calvin’s face. It was fascinating to observe him read. She soon found herself sketching him, even though people weren’t her favorite subjects. She drew him sitting in the upright chair, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, as he read letter after letter.
She sketched the fireplace to his side, then the small table with the vase of roses. She drew his three-piece suit, his winged-collared shirt, and the cuffs on his trousers. And finally, she drew the way a wrinkle had appeared between his eyebrows as he concentrated. His hair was blonde, curling at his collar and longish in front, and it kept falling across his forehead. More than once, he brushed it back. At Blackberry Hollow, she’d noticed his blue eyes. How could anyone not? They were a deep blue, like a lake on a summer’s day.
She wished she had her colored pencils in the sitting room with her. She’d have to blend a couple of blues and greens to get the color of his eyes just right. With Robert, she’d never had to blend colors. His hair was black, his eyes plain brown… not that she’d made a habit of sketching him. When she had once, during a summer picnic, he’d laughed at the drawing and told her to stick to sketching flowers in the meadow.
“Well,” Calvin said, startling Lucy.
She snapped her sketchbook closed and met his gaze. Her heart pounded as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. Yet she’d only been sketching him… She looked at the letter he held. “Quite the romantic tale, isn’t it?”
