by Davis Bunn
He took a deep breath, pressing his heart back into a semblance of proper shape. “After the funeral I took off all right. But I couldn’t bear the thought of going here or anyplace else that held memories of Sarah. I traveled in the exact opposite direction. Flew across America, hopped a plane to Hawaii, and from there on across the Pacific.”
Gladys asked from across the table, “Did you have children, dear?”
“No.” Another pain there, which was not why he smiled. No, his mouth was lifted by the fact that the irony did not hurt him as it once had, but rather allowed him to feel just how sheltered he was here by the night and the manor. Why this was the case did not matter so much, not now. For the moment it was enough to be able to lift the borders of time and peer into things that once had hurt like blades scouring the surface of his heart. “We wanted to, but we couldn’t. It was actually when we went for a diagnosis that the doctors learned my Sarah had leukemia.”
It was not the old couple who murmured, but the room and the manor itself. As though the centuries had granted the walls an ability to share in human sorrow. Brian continued, finding a vague pleasure in the fact that he could speak in a voice calm and steady. “Sarah talked to Heather on the phone all the time, every day if she could. It was her way of dealing with her favorite relative being deathly ill and her not being there.”
“Heather missed Sarah terribly,” Gladys murmured. “It hurt her so not to be with Sarah in her own hour of need.”
Brian nodded acceptance, not willing to move further than the simple motion from his own recollections. “Sarah’s parents did not have a happy marriage. They divorced when she was nine, and her mother remarried a man who didn’t have time for Sarah or any other child. Sarah’s Aunt Heather and the summers she spent here were what really gave her a reason to live and a love for life.”
Arthur offered softly, “Heather always referred to Sarah as the child she had long dreamed of but never deserved.”
Suddenly Brian had to rise. Not from sorrow, but rather because his wife was too close just then to share with anyone else. He stood by the table and mouthed words he could scarcely hear. “I can’t thank you enough for a lovely evening.”
The older couple’s eyes were filled with the act of silently sharing. “You really must feel free to return anytime, dear,” Gladys said.
Brian said his good-byes, left the apartment, and climbed the stairs. To his relief, the upper chambers did not rattle with loneliness or pain or the dust of all that was lost and gone forever. For the moment at least, he was able to look back without bitterness, anger, or lamentation. As he prepared for bed and felt the house creak and sigh companionably, Brian knew it was safe to remember. And to move on.
Eleven
THAT FRIDAY MORNING, BRIAN AWOKE TO A VAGUE SENSE OF fear. He lay in the gray light of an unfinished dawn, pinned there by the hollow dread that he was returning to the bad old days. Other mornings crowded about him, reminding him of the hard times back when he would awake to the empty knowledge that his life was over and gone. That he would walk through another day alone and without purpose or direction or even a sense of life.
And yet, this morning’s fear seemed fashioned from something else. Brian lay upon his pallet and tried to put a name to what was so new it would have been easier just to assume it had come from the previous night’s dinner conversation. He almost wanted to think that he was trapped once more in the painfully familiar, but it was not so. He knew this without understanding why or what he faced.
Two years of habits took over, and he rolled from his little bed, dressed, and took his coffee out to meet the day at riverside. All the while, he felt a tremendous pressure within, as though he were being blown up tighter and tighter. His mind returned to the previous night: the dinner and his confession. He expected to feel remorse, or at least unease, over having been so open with strangers. But that was not the case. Nor was his fear based upon having exposed his wounds to the raw light of inspection. Brian felt the same pressure in his chest as the night before, but pressure from what he could not tell.
Then he heard the footsteps swishing through the grass behind him and even before he turned, he understood. Not what was behind his fear or his internal pressures; no, that would have been asking far too much of a newborn day. But at least he knew what he needed to do now.
Cecilia had always been an early-morning person. While still very young she had learned to push the chair over to the kitchen counter, climb up and pull out the bowl and the cereal, and make her own breakfast. Throughout school she had loved to rise before the world was reshaped and revel in hours that were hers and hers alone. So it was that she stood by her kitchen window, rinsing out her breakfast dishes, when Brian came out the manor’s front door. He was dressed as before, wearing layers that almost masked his sleek strength. Her hands froze in the process of drying a plate as she watched him walk around the manor’s corner and disappear in the direction of the river.
Before she could think things through and come up with reasons to remain where she was, Cecilia was moving. She poured another half cup of coffee, slipped into what she called her garden clothes, picked up the book she had been reading when she had fallen asleep, and headed out.
Twice she almost halted and turned back. The farther she walked down the elm-lined lane, the louder became her internal objections. The loss of her beloved Rose Cottage, the man’s two-year absence, the apology she knew she owed him; this and a new vague unease left her regretting her impulsive action. Even so, it was somehow easier to continue than to go back.
When she was halfway across the back garden, Brian turned around. And there in the gladness of his smile and the way he raised his cup to her in easy greeting, Cecilia found a rightness in her coming after all.
Once more she found herself startled by the clearness of his gray gaze, as though life had washed away all but the very essence from his eyes. His features were even, granted a stark edge by his leanness and his tan. He was both young and old, his years overtaken by experience, his age no longer measured by time alone. He turned back to the river and the eastern horizon without saying a word.
Cecilia smiled in reply, recognizing another spirit shaped by too many days in solitude to ever feel the need for vacant speech. She walked over and seated herself, then looked up toward the dawn.
The day arrived as gentle as birdsong, as soft as the river’s whispered journey. A predawn veil remained cast over the sky, softening and spreading the light. The colors rose in gradual crescendo, from rose to palest yellow to the gold of heaven’s crown.
Only when the sun finally appeared and the veil was cast aside to reveal the new day, did Brian finally speak. “For the first six months or so after Sarah left me, I couldn’t even name the places I visited while I was still there. It really didn’t matter, because most of the time I couldn’t see beyond the burdens I was carrying.”
Cecilia was shocked to realize Brian spoke of the days following his wife’s funeral. She turned slowly toward him, astonished by the way he had gone from utter silence to deepest confession. Yet what surprised her most was her own internal reaction. For by speaking in this way, it felt as though he were not exposing his innermost self, but rather her own.
Brian kept his gaze fastened upon the river, which was transformed into a billion mirrors by the day and the morning breeze. “I had to have something to aim toward, though. Something to give me a sense of direction. So I always headed for places near water. I wanted the expanse, the chance to look out and see nothing but an empty horizon. Every morning and evening I would go out to the water’s edge, marking the slow beat of empty time. And I’d try to see beyond the walls I had inside of me.”
Cecilia felt ashamed by her lack of anything to say. His words felt like a gift, one that would be incomplete without something in reply. But what could she tell him of worth? That she had been alone so long that she could not imagine a different life? That she had grown used to the fear that she would never fin
d anyone to ever care for her as he had for his dead wife?
A shiver went through her, as though a trace of winter’s breath had drifted across her heart. In truth, what she wanted to say was that she had prayed the previous evening and again that morning. The first two such prayers she had said outside of church walls for years. But how could she share such a thing with a stranger? The shiver strengthened, and with it an unreasonable desire to speak nonetheless. It was silly. She was overreacting to a journeyman’s disclosure of nothing to live for. Cecilia found herself trying to respond with an anger, but the man’s calm matched the day, and together they left her without the ability to escape.
The silence weighed upon her now, and she dropped her head, defeated by the absence of something to confess. Her eyes then settled upon the book, and it was almost with relief that she said, “I went by the vicar’s yesterday evening.”
Brian seemed to have been waiting for a reason to turn her way. “Trevor?”
She nodded. “He’s been living through a terrible strain.”
“The bells?”
She met Brian’s gaze for the first time. “How did you . . . Oh, of course, the dollhouse. That was a lovely gesture, by the way.”
The clearness was still in his eyes, the extraordinary directness to his words. “Some of Sarah’s finest childhood memories were centered around that dollhouse. I couldn’t sell it.”
“Even so, it was such a nice thing to do.”
He turned back to the day and the river. “Sarah had a terrible childhood. She was terrified when she first came here. Heather designed a series of mysteries, puzzles. Each one led Sarah to know the house better, and each one had a reward at the end. The first riddle’s reward was the dollhouse.” His tan seemed almost golden in the morning light, as though it was for moments just like this that he had been darkened. “What’s the matter with Trevor?”
“The fight over the bells is wearing him down.” She dropped her gaze to the book in her lap. “He gave me a book about the town’s early history. I had no idea the bells were so important to Knightsbridge’s heritage. But that’s not the problem. He wants me to speak on the church’s behalf at tomorrow’s town meeting. I hate speaking in front of a crowd. The thought alone is appalling. And I’ve never had to address a hostile audience.” She swallowed, her throat so tight the noise drowned out the birds. “I can’t believe I agreed to do it.”
Cecilia waited with head bowed for him to offer some platitude, something to the effect that it would all turn out fine. Instead he spoke so softly the words were almost lost to the morning symphony. “You’re talking to the wrong guy.”
She raised her head and had to squint against the sun’s glare. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I’ve spent the last two years running away from every commitment I ever made.” He seemed not to speak to her, but rather to unburden himself to the sun. “Since I’ve arrived here, I feel like there has been a swirl of thoughts blowing around my mind. Once in a while I pull out a single shred and then spend hours trying to make sense of it.”
The lines of his face seemed to grow sharper and the edges clearer with each minute of strengthening day. There were tiny flecks of silver in his dark hair, or perhaps it was just the sun’s bleaching. Cecilia found herself resisting a sudden urge to reach out and draw a wayward lock of hair off his temple. To cover herself, she added swiftly, “What about commitment?”
“I think too many people go through life assuming everything is going to work out just like they want, and then when it doesn’t, they feel this gives them the right to pull up stakes and move on. But life isn’t like that. Some of the most beautiful times I had with Sarah were also some of the most tragic.”
Brian started to raise his cup, realized it was empty, and set it down on the table. “I don’t miss the burdens of commitment, but I sure do miss belonging somewhere.”
Almost before she realized what she was going to say, Cecilia asked, “Would you come to the town meeting tomorrow?”
That brought him fully around. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.” Confusion leaped into her mind, a clutter of reasons and desires for having asked him at all. “You could perhaps walk over with Arthur and Gladys. I know they plan to attend.”
“All right.” Brian rose with her. “This is going to sound a little crazy, but I have a favor to ask.”
Nothing, she told herself, would sound as bizarre as having just invited this man to a village gathering. “What is it?”
“Heather has left me some riddles of my own. That’s what was in the letter Trevor found in the kitchen, and there was another in the dollhouse letter.” He dug in his pocket and came out with a much-folded sheet of yellowed paper. “I’m terrible with puzzles.”
Cecilia backed away from his hand and the risk of further entanglements. “I really have to be going. But you might ask Arthur. I’m sure he’d be happy to help.”
Twelve
BRIAN WALKED DOWN THE LINE OF ELMS TO THE SOUND OF a scraping rake. Through the trees he glimpsed a handsome man with a shock of red hair and the build of a wrestler pushing leaves off the main drive.
The man looked up and flashed Brian an easy smile. He dropped the rake and walked over, grassy hand outstretched. “I’m Joe Eaves, your lordship. Welcome to Castle Keep.”
“Thanks.” The gardener was about his own age, with a grip like sweaty iron. “The name is Brian, and I’m not lord of anything.”
The news only broadened Eaves’s grin. “Mr. Seade’s paying for the work I do ’round these parts, so you don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“Could you maybe clear the leaves out of the backyard?”
“Mr. Seade only pays me to mind after his bit here by the stables.” He gave an easy nod and started away. “Any questions you have, just take them up with Mr. Seade.”
Brian watched as Joe Eaves went back to his work. For reasons he could not identify, Brian found the gardener’s presence disturbing. Despite the man’s friendly efficiency, Brian could not get over the fact that Hardy Seade was paying for the work.
The thoughts stayed with him as he wound his way toward the central market square. In ways he could neither explain nor deny, he was also certain his sense of transition was connected to this place. Somehow a ramshackle manor in an English market town was charged with a potential for change. And the realization left him sorely distressed that the manor would soon belong to others.
The winter sky was chalk blue. Sunlight adorned the ancient village with an enticing sparkle. Centuries and secrets reached out from both sides of the lane to catch his eye and slow his walk. A beamed lodge with the date 1614 branded over the doorway stood next to a trio of town houses whose dressed Cotswold stone was turned honey-blond by the morning. Beside them ran a bowed wall of brick and flint, the hard stones as translucent as uncut diamonds. Lead-paned windows watched his passage within a pair of newish homes designed to blend comfortably with the ancient street. Brian walked and took in lace curtains and cobblestones and medieval peaked doors and blooming wisteria and a sleepy kitten watching from a recessed portico. The way narrowed just as the central church spire came into view, and as he walked he decided that in his two years of travel he had never come across a place as gentle or as appealing as Knightsbridge.
Two friendly passersby directed him across the square and down a short cul-de-sac to the modern building at the back. He climbed the stairs to the second floor, read the sign, and knocked on the door. When the voice inside answered, Brian entered and asked, “Are you the county finance manager?”
“That’s right.” Then the woman’s head lifted, and her features turned to stone. “Oh, it’s you, is it. Well, come in. I’ve been wondering when you’d show up.”
Brian had no choice but to enter and shut the door. “You know who I am.”
“Let’s say your reputation has preceded you, shall we?” Her head dropped back to her papers. “By approximately twenty-four months.”
Brian settled into the chair opposite her desk and listened to the pen scratch angrily. She was in her late thirties and would have been very attractive were it not for her frosty air. She wore a silk blouse of bright yellow, the one touch of color in the austere office. Her forehead creased as the pen traced its way down a long line of figures, then she scribbled at the bottom. Brian realized she was giving him the treatment, putting the new manor owner in his place. He was tempted to leave, but there were answers he needed, and there was nowhere else to turn.
“All right.” She slapped the file shut. “You are aware of the upcoming foreclosure auction for Castle Keep, I take it.”
“I was actually wondering if you might be willing to postpone it.”
She looked genuinely aghast. “Postpone?”
“Yes. I’ve just heard about the unpaid inheritance taxes. A postponement would give me a chance to put together the money and pay—”
“Now, look here, Mr. Blackstone. That is your name, correct?” She eyed him as she would a bit of refuse. “I fail to see how you can waltz in and talk about slamming this great huge change right smack-dab in the middle of our town’s scheduling. Our town, mind you. Not yours.”
He struggled to keep his tone mild. “All I’m asking—”
“I have nothing against the casual visitor from America.” The words were as flinty as her gaze. “What I do object to is the wild gadabout who blows in and expects the town to offer him the bended knee.”
Brian decided he had no choice but to sit and simmer and wait her out.
She rose from her desk, crossed the room, flung open a filing drawer, and said as she riffled through the files, “We will not thrash about merely because you finally elect to show your face.” She pulled out a file, opened it, and set it on the drawer. “Your property is in arrears, Mr. Blackstone. To the tune of six hundred and thirty-four thousand, five hundred and twelve pounds.”
