five
If I marry, I shall choose someone because of their quirks—not in spite of them.
~A scientist’s observations on love
Queen of the linens, that’s what I am. Alone in the servant’s hall, upstairs maid Essie Bellows dropped the soiled tea linens onto the table, her movements fueled by frustration. Filthy rich and they don’t even hire a wash girl. “Essie can do it,” they always say. “It’s no trouble for her.”
She flipped out each linen as if beating back the rising despair and cast a look toward the door where the lovely Miss Duvall had gone. There was a woman whose life was brimming with possibilities and love just around the corner, if only she’d step down out of the clouds long enough to notice it. Any number of men likely wanted her. A pretty little laugh, bewitching face, a slender waist, and oh, her energy! A burst of sunshine and heart permeated the air around that one, with dimples to boot.
And all Essie had was this position at Crestwicke. Chapped hands, sore muscles, looks of disdain—those were her lot. Stiffening against jealousy, Essie sped up her work, flipping harder, shoving faster. A sudden wave of loneliness, dark and consuming, pummeled her, and she collapsed onto the bench, dropping her face into the tea-soaked towels.
Loneliness was not silent—it was loud and painful, like a whirring noise that crept up on you and wouldn’t leave you alone. She’d existed for so many years in a state of placid acceptance, until she’d met him. Interest led to hope, and hope to dreaming, and dreaming to pure and utter longing. He’d been so kind to her that she’d fooled herself into believing him interested too, but the passage of time had dulled that hope. Until Miss Duvall had brought it all up again, she’d convinced herself she’d completely forgotten about Charley Mason.
But the familiar pain of rejection rose like a buoy.
She lay there for several moments, giving in to it, which left her weak and desperate. It always went this way, when there were weddings or babies or walks in the park behind happy couples. Anything, really, that paraded in front of her what she didn’t have. Round and round she went in her busy, never-ending days followed by nights of exhausted slumber, and time passed her by without a hint of love. It was easy to be happy for those who had found love and family, but it didn’t lessen the ache carving a hole in her own gut. Not even a little.
The tears came then, hot and pitiful, wetting the pile of laundry. What a sorry mess she was. If she planned to wash the linens anyway, could she wipe her nose with them?
A door banged deep in the house and she jerked up, a stray paper plastered to her moist face. Grimacing, she batted the fool thing away, but then she caught sight of it. What was this? Peeling off the beautifully embossed vellum paper with red edging, she stared at it. Flipping it back and forth and seeing no label, she opened the thing. Lovely, slanted letters met her gaze, and she skimmed for a few smaller words she might sound out. “A-D-M-I-R-E-R. Admirer.”
Admirer? A short laugh burst out despite her drying tears. An admirer—her?
Wryly amused, she skimmed to the end . . . someone truly loves you and believes you remarkable. Re-mar-kable. What was that? She frowned. A dire need to know what someone believed her to be drove her through the kitchen and out into the hall in search of the one Crestwicke servant who could read better than her.
She found him near the front doors. “Parker. Parker, come look at this, will you?” She tapped his arm, and the towering butler spun, his face displaying shock.
“Essie. My, what a fright. You’re looking . . . ah, well. Are you well?”
“Aren’t I always? Here.” She flipped out the paper toward him. “What’s this word here?”
He followed her point. “‘Weaknesses.’”
She grimaced. “Someone’s written to tell me I have flaws? Heavens, I tell myself that enough as it is.”
“This is, um, your note, then? Someone’s written it for you?”
“What do you take me for, a snoop? You think I’d go around reading other people’s letters? Here now, what’s this word?”
“‘Remarkable.’ It means someone finds you unusual and . . . well, rather extraordinary.” He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “There now, you see? It’s not just about your flaws.”
“What about this—what does this mean? happy beyond all comp . . . compre . . .”
“‘Comprehension.’ Well, there he’s saying that he’d be delighted beyond what a person could understand if you’re favorably disposed . . . that is, if you return his feelings.” Another shift. “Do you?”
“What about this?” She pointed out an especially long word.
“‘Involuntarily.’ It means, against his will.”
“So he doesn’t want to desire me. Well now, isn’t that flattering.”
“It simply means he cannot help himself. That your nature is so appealing to him, even if it isn’t convenient to feel such an attachment, and he . . .” Parker cleared his throat. “He’s simply drawn to you because of who you are.”
Essie closed her eyes, holding her breath, then exhaling and smiling up at him. “Thank you, Parker. You’re a peach.”
The words caught in her mouth, clicking a memory in her brain. Essie, you’re a peach. She blinked, then looked up at the stairs where Gabe had disappeared after saying those very words . . . and handing her the linens with the letter. Well, glory be—it was from Gabe Gresham! With a smile and a final pat to Parker’s arm, she dashed off to do the beds and ponder the miracle that had entered her quiet life.
She stole glances at the page while she worked, and the gentle words warmed their way into the quiet places of her soul. She made her way through it again, skipping some of the harder words. By the third time, her tired eyes were eating up those lines with a hunger she’d never known. I’ve seen the strength and kindness you believe go unnoticed, watched when you thought no one was looking, and observed what exists below the surface.
No one ever noticed her—no one. She’d lived and worked by the passage “And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord,” knowing the Almighty saw what no other did. Yet was it possible that someone . . . ?
She looked down with wonder at the chapped hand Gabe Gresham had kissed. I have no business writing to you . . . Was it possible a gentleman had come to care for a maid? Had he, years ago, left those flowers for her? The scandalous nature of such an idea prickled all over. She might have dismissed the notion except for one little sentence that had planted itself firmly in her head: I even know that secret you hoped to keep from everyone.
She had known for some time that someone had found out about her mother, but it was never clear who. A hand went to her throat. Awareness seized her. Someone’s been to pay her bail, miss. I’m not allowed to say who. It would have been someone with the means to pay it—someone with money.
Heart pounding in her plain little chest, she spread the clean linens across the bed and looked at herself in the long looking glass across the way. She’d mostly hurried past mirrors and kept her nose in her work, using only the warped looking glass in her room for morning toilette, but now she allowed herself a lingering glance. The longer she stared, the more the words invaded her solidly built self-doubt and cracked it apart. Dearest, if only you could see yourself from where I stand.
She touched her rounded cheeks where the freckles had begun to fade—when had that happened?—and her flame-red hair had tempered down to a burnished copper color that was quite fetching. She wasn’t terrible to look at, when taken at a glance. She’d never noticed how comely her figure was, how pleasant and affable her face.
But he had.
She felt dizzy. Was he toying with her, hoping for a dalliance? But no, this letter spoke of a deeper affection than that. Unless Gabe Gresham was only the deliverer . . .
Rising to her feet, she tucked a stray curl into her cap, secreted the precious missive in her pocket, and swept up the linens. As she carried them to the laundry, the load of her life felt considerably lighter.
Tossing the sheets into the tub, she climbed up to the little chamber where Miss Duvall was to stay, whipping linens off the bed with stunning alacrity, always feeling the eyes of her secret admirer on her—he might be anywhere about the house. She finished preparing the room in record time, then curiosity finally overwhelmed her work ethic. She ran up the stairs and burst into the attic gables, breathless from the climb, and the object of her search turned on her stool in the window, paintbrush in hand.
“Why, Essie, whatever is the matter?”
“Miss Clara, I’ve had a letter.”
The young woman turned fully away from her painting, beautiful even with her dark hair tied back by a cloth. “News from home?”
“Oh no, nothing of the sort. It’s a good letter. A very good one.” She handed it to the young lady who had become more friend and sister than mistress.
Clara scanned the page in silence, her eyebrows arching. “I should say so. Who sent it?”
“I haven’t any idea. I was hoping you might help me find out.”
She brushed stray hairs off her face and glanced out the gable window. “Let me think on it. May I take it with me? I want to see if it matches any handwriting about the house.”
“You’ll give it back, though?” Essie stared at the letter in Clara’s fingers that were tinted by oil paints.
“Hopefully with a man attached to it.” She winked and spun back toward her work in progress—a portrait.
Essie moved to stand behind her. “Looks real nice, Miss Clara.”
“It’s just a wash now, but it’ll look like the real person when I fill in the details.”
“Can I bring you anything, ma’am? A fresh cherry tart or maybe a lemonade?”
“I couldn’t eat a thing now, Essie. I’m in the throes of creativity and I must give in to it.”
With another nod and bobbed curtsey, Essie moved back toward the steep stairway, taking two last glances at the precious sheet of paper now lying partially open on a nearby stool.
There it was. It existed. Someone very specific had written down those feelings and secreted them to her. In a few days, perhaps even a few hours, she would know who.
six
Childhood has an expiration date, after which a woman retires into marriage for lack of other options.
~A scientist’s observations on love
Huddled over John Snow’s Infectious Diseases and Germ Theory in the dimming light that evening, I marked passages about microscopic pathogens on medical instruments and forced myself to concentrate. I glanced up at my patient, who silently stabbed at her cross-stitch project in an ornate striped chair by the hearth. When Gabe appeared in the yard below striding toward the stables, all concentration disintegrated. Moments later, his stallion burst from the doors and galloped toward the hill. I felt a tug on my heart.
Meet me at the ruins.
It was nearly dusk. I took a sidelong glance at Golda. Her lips were pinched as she worked, her eyes alert. Yet as the sun spread its orange glow across the sky, her head lolled against her shoulder, eyes fluttered closed—one of her famous “eye restings.”
“Go on then, get some tea and get settled. I’ll sit with her a while.” Essie appeared behind me and I breathed a sigh of relief. “She’ll be out for at least an hour.”
But it wasn’t tea or settling I wanted. Outside, fresh air washed my skin and great bursts of water sprayed the cliffs. The yard was alive with night music from unseen critters, and the shadow of a distant horseman stretched long across the hill before me, a familiar rider tall and agile astride his mount.
I climbed the steep foot path and moist air dotted my face, cooling my skin and refreshing my soul. Even as I neared the ruined tower, I could feel the impact of its atmosphere.
I’d never forget the first time I’d seen it. Father had dragged me on his rounds again, unable to stay put in the crypt of his memories still so fresh with Mama’s voice, and we’d landed at Crestwicke Manor to call on Mr. Gresham. I remember Father’s black medical bag and shirtwaist, the only part of him at my eye level, and I didn’t lift my gaze in those days. He’d swung that bag out of the carriage, patted me on the head, and strode off to attend his patient while his very brokenhearted daughter slipped once again into isolation.
Children don’t grieve in the same way as adults, he’d told one of his sisters at the funeral. They simply didn’t understand the depth of loss or the implications of it. That was true, for I had no way to express the flat metallic pain that rested against my chest, squashing my motherless heart in a way that seemed would last forever.
I remember scrambling up this same hill then, in a desperate attempt to be near Mum, or to God. Either would have been fine. I tore my stockings and caught my satin bow on nearly every twig, but I finally reached the peak.
I knew instinctively when I found the old abandoned tower at the top that a magnificent presence resided there. It wasn’t a frightening one, like a specter, but one grand enough to thicken the very air of the place. I crawled onto a crumbling ledge inside the ruins and lay there, feeling strangely comforted, pretending Mum would come to find me when it grew dark. She didn’t, of course, but neither did Father. It was Gabe who’d come and rescued me from isolation, and now I had returned to this old tower on the hill to face that same boy.
I reached the top a bit winded and caught a glimpse of Gabe’s shadowed profile, still astride his horse as they looked over the cliffs together. He’d always been an ageless soul with a wealth of unspoken thoughts, and a solid, older brother aura that he wore on broad shoulders with grace. How perfectly his nature matched this ruin we both loved.
I walked into the center of the old tower, and it muffled all outside sounds. I’d forgotten what it was like to be here, the grassy land lifting me in its palm toward heaven so I might bask in the warmth of God’s nearness.
Gabe spun and dismounted when he saw me, wearing the same look of settled contentment I felt as he approached. Sparks of light flickered in his dark eyes. I released a breath and looked around the quiet space where even the air stilled. “Why does it feel as though he’s here more than most other places?”
“There’s less to crowd him out.”
I was struck with the sudden urge—no, the need—to visit often and realign my heart when the world seemed to crowd my thoughts. I sighed and turned to my companion. “Gabe, I need to apologize—”
“Shh. None of that, now.” He took my hand with a playful smile and led me to the cliff’s edge. The enchantment of the place caught me up in its spell again—the sea below, the stars freckling the sky above, and wildflowers perfuming the air. Gabe sat on the grassy ledge, arms folded across his bent knees, and stared down to the rippled sand. “They’ve been moving about for days and I’ve no idea how long they’ll stay in the area.”
I lay on my belly and inched toward the edge, straining to see the beach below. Gabe’s breath was a calm, steady rhythm beside me, and the silence stretched pleasantly. This is easy. The thought struck me before I had time to stop it. Marriage could be pleasant—not exciting, but tolerable—with a friend like this. I studied his rugged profile, his endlessly welcoming face.
But then a great rolling thunder of hooves started in the east and pounded down the beach. A cloud of sand billowed out, then they were there—dozens of powerful bodies flying over the packed sand, manes flying and heads high.
The sight elated my heart and sparked my desire for freedom again. I simply had to succeed at Crestwicke. I was born to practice medicine, to take Father’s brilliant research and make it blossom beyond his life. I was not like other girls, seeking shelter under some man’s roof—I secretly craved a taste of deeply authentic love, but I also wanted the stars and open sky.
My heart thundered against the limestone I lay on, along with the pounding hooves below. There is a magnificence to wild things, a beauty that resonated with me deeply.
When the thundering receded, Gabe’s low voice rumbled beside me. “I
didn’t know you were coming to Crestwicke.”
“It was a hasty decision. And I wasn’t certain . . .” how to act around you. How you would receive me. What it would be like between us.
Five years after the ill-fated day, I still felt the awkward ending of my last visit. I’d merely asked if we could write letters—letters—and when word got out, the scandal had swelled almost as if I’d suggested we slip off and elope at Gretna Green. I always seemed to do that—enjoying a friendship and delighting in the company of another human while being totally unaware that anyone else saw it as romance. I’d argued loudly with them about my intentions, decrying any notion of romance between us, but we hadn’t returned since.
I sat up to cover the silence as my pathetic sentence faded away, but he picked up the thread. A smile warmed his face. “Don’t give it a thought. We’ll always be friends. Nothing more, and certainly not less.” He threw a stone down the rock face. “No one else around here will take these little jaunts. I’m always glad when you come.”
At least I had one trait on my side. “You are doing well?”
He gave a single nod, staring over his bent knees down at the beach. Gulls called out. “You seem unhappy.”
And there we were again, back to being friends, easy in each other’s company as if we’d always weaved seamlessly in and out of each other’s lives. “Not terribly. In the moment, anyway, I have freedom.”
“You say that as if someone has threatened it.”
I looked down and split a grass blade. “Only every man who has traipsed through the cottage asking for my hand.”
“It sounds like a small cavalry came to your door.”
“There were only four.” My flippant voice masked the immense trouble those “only four” had brought to my life.
He merely watched me, his narrowed eyes seeing much more than I’d choose to tell. “And you will have none of them?”
I pinched my lips. “Truth be told, I cannot bear the idea of marrying any of the men who have offered their hand.”
The Love Note Page 5