The Love Note

by Joanna Davidson Politano

  “Hmm.”

  “I find independence much more alluring. Besides, I have work to do.” I sat up, suddenly energized. “Gabe, we’re so close—so close—to opening a clinic in Brighton. One that’s safe and sterile, with fresh air and ventilation, a place where patients can truly heal.”

  He frowned. “Another Brighton mineral bath for the wealthy?”

  “At first, perhaps.” Then my face warmed as I told him what I’d not yet dared voice to anyone. “One day I want it to be for the common folk—the ones dying in those dirty, infection-ridden hospitals all over England. When Father passes it on to me, that’s what I’ll make of it—a refuge for healing, inside and out, and real care. Dignity. I simply must become a doctor and finish this work. Life is too meaningful, too important, to spend it on the wrong thing.”

  “Hmm.”

  I smiled at the way each hmm from Gabe had a different meaning, distinct and clear. This one had been full of approval, perhaps a tinge of admiration.

  It was so different with Gabe than with any other man of my acquaintance, for we knew each other as two books whose pages were worn from heavy reading, their lines memorized and recalled in a moment. Knowing him was not exciting and romantic, as marriage should be, but there was a sweetness to it, a weighted sense of peace, that brought never-ending contentment.

  “It seems you have quite a path carved out for yourself. Have you asked God what he thinks of it all?”

  “If doors open, I’ll assume he’s inviting me to walk through them.”

  He eyed me. “Or he’s giving you a choice. And a choice is nothing but an invitation to have a talk with him.”

  I pondered this, then turned to Gabe. “What about you? Do you still spend your days in the stable, or has some woman managed to tame you?”

  A wide, open silence followed, making me aware of the distant hiss of tide over sand. Gabe looked out at the water and strained to see something far beyond our little scene on the hilltop. The expression on his face was one I dared not intrude upon, so I waited, studying his profile against the darker parts of sunset.

  It struck me suddenly that Gabe, steady and ageless Gabe, had a love story. By the distant look on his face, the woman he loved was nowhere within a ten-mile radius of Crestwicke.

  Wind ruffled the hair on the back of his head. “No wife.”

  Was there pain in that admission? Feeling as though I’d intruded, I threw out a lighthearted smile. “There’s nothing so special about marriage, anyway. You’ll find your wild horses far easier to manage.”

  Out came the easy smile that was slight but powerful, carving pleasant creases in each cheek. “I have to find one who thinks me a tolerable pairing first.”

  I turned away from the quiet humor in his expression as my foolish words from earlier were echoed back to me. “Well, now you know the great secret of my spinsterhood. I cannot manage to keep my tongue in my head, and that is why I do not have a husband.”

  “I thought you were the one rejecting them. Besides, speaking your mind is a rare asset in a person. A blessing.”

  Guilt twisted even tighter. “A blessed curse is what it is. I owe you every apology ever invented for what I said before, and you owe me a lecture.”

  “I never lecture. Lessons are best learned firsthand, not second.”

  “You should yell at me. It’d give me a great deal of relief, and I have it coming.”

  “I never yell, either. Especially at a lady.”

  “But it’s me. You can tell me anything.”

  He looked down again as another wild horse wandered onto the beach, snuffing about in the sand. “I speak up when I’ve something worth saying.”

  Something worth saying. I studied the profile of this rugged man, the one who had rescued me from the dark valley of invisibility and loneliness years ago. It was he who convinced me to study medicine and work with Father, although I couldn’t remember just then, as I stared at him in the burning red sunset, how he’d done it exactly.

  He’d simply harnessed his few words with amazing strength and sent them sailing directly into my soul. It was as if God had wrapped his directions up in my friend’s voice so I’d be sure to hear them. There was always something of God in Gabe’s words, it seemed—eternal truth leaked out when he opened his mouth. I gave him a light shove. “Perhaps you ought to speak up more often. The world would be the richer for it.”

  “The Almighty has blessed you with a fine voice. Not me.”

  “Just because you haven’t used a skill doesn’t mean it isn’t there.” I stood, brushing off my skirt. “Come now, you’ll start with me.”

  He simply faced the beach below, letting the wind muss his dark hair. “I couldn’t yell at you, Willa.”

  I smiled and danced backward toward the cliff’s drop-off, bracing my feet on the worn sandstone and laughed into the night air, throwing out my arms. “Care to place a bob on it?”

  He swung his gaze toward me and did a double take, then sprang up. “No, stop!” He practically flew toward me, tripping over himself. “Willa!”

  He pounced and grabbed my skirt, yanking me away from the edge. I laughed as we tumbled onto the grass, my giggles a staccato echo against the crash of waves below.

  He rolled away and pushed up, panic showing white and tense across his face. “What were you doing?”

  “Winning.” I gave a wicked smile and held out one hand. “My shilling, please.”

  He stared at it, then took hold of my hand to pull me up instead. I expected his good-natured grumbling and a brief, awkward lecture. Instead, he only held onto my hand, staring into my face as if he could see through to the little gears turning within, understanding their mechanics in a way few others could. Including me.

  I sobered. “Truly, I am sorry for what I said before. I can’t abide people making a match out of me, and it just came out.”

  He waved off the apology. “No harm done. Part of me wonders if she did it on purpose, to test you. She knows we were close years ago.”

  I tugged his hand. “And still are.” This earned a tender smile. “Why does she disapprove of me so, anyway?”

  “She has a match for everyone, and you are not mine. She’s chosen to pair me with Caroline Tremaine, the daughter of our longtime friends.”

  “I see. What do you think of that match?” I tried to imagine the woman his mother would choose for him.

  That same faraway look came into his features. “A fine woman. Quite beautiful and accomplished.” He dropped his gaze to his boots and pinched his shoulders into a shrug. “I doubt she’d have me.”

  That simple statement squeezed my heart. “Have you tried? At least asked her for a dance? You could sweep her off her feet without saying a word.”

  “That only works if we happen upon one another at an event with dancing. I don’t dance, and I don’t attend social functions unless forced.”

  I could imagine him attempting to speak to some lovely flower of a woman, stumbling as if his brain couldn’t locate the words. It happened when something mattered to him, and that particular issue threatened, I was afraid, to leave this wonderful man unattached forever. Unless . . .

  I narrowed my eyes and assessed him. “Gabe, have you any special attachment to forget-me-nots?” A letter would be the perfect way for a man like Gabe to approach a lady.

  “What are they?”

  “A flower. A rather beautiful one.”

  “Like the ammenomie? That’s the only one I know.”

  I paused and braced myself against the urge to giggle. “They’re similar, I suppose.” Stop it. Don’t laugh. Enough poking this man for one day.

  There was a slight pause. “You want to laugh, don’t you?”

  “I never said a thing.”

  “Go ahead, have your laugh.” He shot me a playful look, eyes narrowed in fun. “Amenomie.”

  A laugh burst out, and I clapped a hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry, Gabe. I think no less of you, but I cannot help it.”

&nb
sp; He lifted his face that was not devoid of amusement. “Amenomie. Annennemonie. How do you say it, anyway? Amenenomenomie.”

  I laughed wholeheartedly, falling backward in the grass. “Oh Gabe, I tried so hard.”

  His smile only grew. “It’s why I leave them for you. It pleases me to know I can make you laugh on my whim.”

  I smiled up at him towering over me. He was always able to accomplish a great deal without saying a thing.

  “Come, I’ll walk you back.” He helped me up and pointed down the hill. “Unless you wish to take the tunnel.”

  I glanced at the spot where a heavy wooden door near the ground covered the entrance of a priest tunnel that had allowed many men of the cloth to escape persecution. It had always fascinated me, but just now being in the presence of my dear friend pleased me more. “I think I’ll walk back with you. We can part on the side of the house, before we’re seen.”

  With a nod, he took hold of his horse’s bridle and placed the other hand lightly on my back. It felt good to once again have a close friend—an older brother looking out for me.

  As we neared the well-lit house, I couldn’t shake the notion that he’d written the love letter. Perhaps he’d forgotten the flower’s name. “I don’t suppose you’re in the habit of writing a lady letters.”

  His brow furrowed as he paused near the ivy-covered wall. “What sort of letters?”

  Oh, you know, simply the most beautiful piece of poetry dripping with love and affection ever penned. “I came across a note that was unsigned, perhaps quite old, and I’d like to return it to its owner.”

  “What was in it?”

  “I never said I read it.”

  He gave a pointed look.

  “Fine, then. It was quite lovely and irresistible, and the writing was of the most beautiful sort.”

  “And it mentioned those flowers.”

  “And Crestwicke.” I shifted. “Well?”

  “I think you know the answer. I’ve never written a letter to anyone outside of business matters. Love is meant to be spoken aloud.”

  “Have you any idea who might have written it, then?”

  He was silent for several seconds, then a shrug. “Aunt Maisie might know. She knows everything about Crestwicke.”

  I frowned, remembering the odd woman in the balcony with the circular answers. “Truly—her?”

  He studied me for a moment, disappointment evident on his brow. “Do you know how many countries that woman has visited? Seven. How much her cleverness has amassed for Gresham Stallions? Nearly double its value. Her life may seem small in scope now, but she’s lived well. She speaks her mind, notices much, accomplishes a great deal. And like you, she’s never needed a husband to do it.”

  I cringed. “I suppose I judge too quickly.”

  Then he turned to me in the shadows of his family’s great home. “Will you stay long?”

  “I hope so.” I stopped short of telling him about the contract with Father. I couldn’t bear to see silent disapproval in his eyes again, and I was fairly certain I would. “At least while your mother needs me.”

  “Actually, I need you.” It was stated simply.

  “Oh?”

  “I could use an accomplice where my mother is concerned.” He raised his eyebrows. “Keen for a mission?”

  My heart wavered. “Well, that is my job, isn’t it—helping her?” Although I had a sinking feeling he had something more than nursing in mind. Something far more complicated.

  “Partners?” He held out his hand and I took it. “I’m glad you’re here. I know I can count on you.”

  I gave a weak smile.

  “Here’s to a few more adventures, then.” He bowed and backed into the thickening shadows toward his horse.

  Inside, I took a candle from a little table in the foyer and went to my patient.

  “She’s still sleeping,” Essie whispered from her chair in the corner.

  I roused the woman and, along with her ladies’ maid, readied her for bed, but the pull of the lost letter was strong. I glanced around my room again, but it didn’t appear. I couldn’t bear the thought of it being mislaid among the scraps and litter of this household—or worse yet, discovered and read by the wrong person.

  If I’d left it anywhere, it must be the library, for that’s where I’d gone to find those medical journals earlier. I sat with Golda and perfumed her pillow, rubbed her head, and read aloud in low tones until her breathing evened. Then I slipped down to the tall circular room delightfully lined with books. Setting my candle on a table, I leafed quickly through papers scattered on the desk, then pulled a few books I’d looked at off the shelves and paged through. Please be here.

  Just as I was about to give up, I was flipping through a book and my eyes focused on the same fanciful handwriting I’d seen in the letter. The sight of it struck me. It was an inscription in the front cover that read “Property of G. Aberdeen.” Inside, several papers bore the same writing—market lists, from the looks of it, and short business-like notes and half-sentence reminders. I frowned at the inscription, reading it several times. Aberdeen.

  There it was, the identity of the writer. Shivering in a sudden chill sweeping in from the window, I stared at the writing in the candlelight.

  Footfall nearby startled me, and I dropped the book to my side, backing away, but I saw no one—at first. The dim light threw a garish glow across an ancient, speckled face high up on the circular stairs.

  “Pray, what do you think you’re doing?” The aged woman I’d seen before loomed above me, passing judgment from the high courts.

  “Visiting the library.”

  “You’re windblown.”

  “I’ve been taking in a little fresh air.”

  “Without a wrap?” Doubt shadowed her face. Leaning heavily on the railing, the shrunken woman descended the last few steps and came to stand before me. Two sharp eyes rested atop an overlarge nose, and her lips were pinched over bare gums. She looked older than the foothills, and just as craggy. “Or perhaps my nephew provided his coat when you were together.”

  I gripped the book in my hands, then forced myself to set it on the table, feeling as though I were back on that cliff’s edge, with only my toes gripping solid ground.

  Her whiskered chin trembled. “He is why you’ve come back, isn’t he?”

  “There was absolutely nothing untoward occurring, I assure you. No romance exists in my life.” I tasted those words on my lips, making my peace with them.

  She turned and squinted as if she had only one good eye, a frown of disapproval curling her lips. “So, then. You won’t have him, won’t have the others who’ve asked for your hand. One is left wondering just who is good enough to catch your fancy.”

  My neck heated to think of all she’d heard about me. “I’ve no desire at present to marry.”

  “You wish to become a knitting, gossiping little spinster, a permanent fixture at your father’s table, a burden to your family? You want to be—”

  “Like you.” It tumbled out before I could stop it.

  Shock cascaded over her spotted features, her lashless lids blinking.

  “I wish to be like you.” With only a small glimpse into her life, I wanted it. Craved it. “You’ve done a great deal with your life, made important decisions and helped those you loved, all without marrying. I want an independent life too.”

  The shrunken old woman stepped slowly from the shadows, angling herself against her cane as she studied me. At close range, a thousand years of wisdom seemed trapped behind her faded eyes, her lined face a road map of adventures. Her eyes looked me over, then her mouth twitched. A smile wobbled on her face, followed by a great rumble of laughter deep in her chest. She waved me off and turned away. “Oh no you don’t, child. You haven’t the stomach for it.” She hobbled back into the shadows.

  “Wait.”

  She turned, her lined face expectant.

  “Would you happen to know . . .” I forced myself not to glance at the ope
n book on the table. “That is, can you tell me who is named Aberdeen?”

  She blinked, unmoving. “Aberdeen.” She spoke the name slowly, as if tasting it again for the first time in many years. “One single day at this house and you’ve managed to unearth the great secret of Crestwicke Manor. I’ll not be the one to share his story, Miss Duvall. The tale of Grayson Aberdeen is best left alone.”

  I bowed my head in acceptance, but a smile tickled the edges of my lips. Even if she was unwilling to tell it, there was a story behind this secret love, and whoever wrote the letter. I had been right all along—the letter I’d found in that desk was a piece of something much larger, a story more epic than mere romance. And piece by piece, it was about to be uncovered.

  seven

  There’s nothing so precious as secret love. It’s tucked close to the heart, protected from the scrutiny of the world, ready to be presented like a rare gift when the moment is right.

  ~A scientist’s observations on love

  Gabe Gresham preferred the shadows. He felt most comfortable there, where he could observe life without being seen. He leaned back in the stiff parlor chair hidden under the balcony and let the tea warm his insides. When soft footsteps approached, he stiffened, barely daring to breathe.

  It was her, at last. Willa Duvall moved through the silent hallways like a wraith, her boots soft against carpet. He had idled here for another glimpse of her before he returned to his own cottage at the edge of the property. He simply couldn’t wrap his mind around what she’d become. She paused in the gallery, looking about at the tall paintings, and he watched for her dimples. It had become a game, trying to draw them out. They appeared now as she pursed her lips, making him wish desperately to kiss her one day. He’d give half his savings for a single sweet taste of those laughing, quick-witted lips. She turned toward the stairs, and her candle warmed the shadows of this murky old space as she climbed, taking her glow with her.

  Willa Duvall had flitted in and out of his life for years, and though most people made him uncomfortable, he was inexplicably drawn to her flame. A startling collection of opposites, childhood Willa had captured his attention with her little-girl voice speaking grown-up thoughts, the bold recklessness paired with loyalty, the long hair that loved to be unruly, while under it resided a meticulously logical mind.