Her head jerked up and she stared at him. “You’ve read my book.”
“Of course.” Years of hopeful love bloomed in his expression. “It’s another reason I bought Crestwicke.” He looked about the grand manor whose ruins had once been their childhood sanctuary. “I knew if I did, I would see you again.” Then he leaned down, his expression melting with affection, and kissed her thoroughly.
Matched souls always find their way back to one another, for they seek refuge in the same place.
Golda sighed. “It was Aunt Maisie who convinced me to keep looking for love when I cried into her lap over Grayson. She made me believe that I would find someone, but I suppose I had to discover the great secret . . . that I already had, and it was Peter Gresham.”
Lovely. I put my hand over my chest, my heart barely able to hold all the beauty. I felt it all the more deeply after what had occurred concerning my own childhood chum. It was like holding a mirror up to the past and seeing one’s self—and needing to know how the reflective story ended.
Yet something wasn’t right. It hardly matched what I knew of their reality. It was as if there were pieces missing or put in backward. “So when you married Peter . . .”
“I thought I’d eventually tell him what had happened with Grayson and the Aberdeens, but he never asked and I never offered the details. Those years were simply a shadow that we never explored. Soon there was no need.”
“Surely you weren’t still afraid of the Aberdeens.”
She raised her eyebrows. “And why shouldn’t I have been? They were still the squire and lady.” She clutched the arms of her chair, eyes shining like two gems. “And I am still in possession of their most precious family heirloom. I have it here at Crestwicke and they’ll never find it.” She sat back and sipped her tea with satisfaction, that feline look lifting the edges of her lovely blue eyes.
“And what of Peter Gresham? Have you let them drive a wedge between two best friends?”
Her poise wilted. “We’ve come to have a quiet marriage.”
Indeed. “One your family believes is merely a business arrangement. Why didn’t you ever give him the letter?”
“He was willing to marry me, wasn’t he? And we were always the best of friends, even after we wed. Words were not necessary between us. He knew I cared for him, and we shared a happy marriage for several years.”
“But something changed.”
I could see by looking at her shadowed face that the years of torment had altered something deep within, shaking loose a delicate piece of her youth. She gave the barest shake of her head, her expression crumpling just as it did before that angel headstone. “I expected too much of our love. Of him. Life broke us.” Suddenly the final twisting path of this story reached its conclusion, and I understood. Of all the grief I’d encountered in patients, none tore a jagged path between two people more than the loss of a child. Or in this case, several. Death after suffocating death, a helpless grasp on another perfectly formed yet breathless little body . . .
I looked into her watery eyes. “After all this time, neither of you have recovered, have you?” Not in the elastic way one returns to who she used to be, at least. Despair had settled this woman into a comfortable new shape and she’d continued surviving. I saw that head-above-water look that had settled into powdered lines on her aging face.
“Grief has a funny way of sending two best friends in different directions in search of relief and leaving them very far apart in the end.”
“Perhaps it’s time they came back together.”
She simply stared, seconds ticking by on the clock. “One day after the last baby came early and died, I woke from a nap to see a bonfire out in the yard. I wondered what was burning, and why it was so large. Such a wretched smell it was, that awful smoke.” Tears appeared on the glassy surface of her eyes. “Then I walked by the nursery, that sanctuary full of beautiful furniture and toys all set up, where I always went to remember . . .”
Everything inside me twisted.
“I practically flew out that door and across the yard, but he just stood there, watching it all burn like he was glad to be rid of the rubbish. It felt so familiar, rushing headlong into the stone wall of a man who’s made up his mind, who’d taken the choice from my hands, and I couldn’t bear it happening again.
“I hurled the most wretched insults, anything to make him feel a sliver of the pain I felt every day, even that I’d never loved him. That I married him only because I had to. That he’d never measure up to Grayson.”
I stifled a gasp.
“It felt good to say it—ripe and delicious—but even then, he was so wretchedly unmovable. He said only two hateful words—no more. There would be no more babies. I loathed having no say in the matter. Something snapped in me, and I determined to speak out always, about everything.”
A small shudder passed over her. “Those days seemed so long, but years went by without a blink. Bitterness grew up like briars between us, all those little jabs like thorns, and I was hardly aware until it was too vast to climb through. He left for London one day and rarely came back.” She gave a weak shrug, as if to say it was the end. “As I said, I simply expected too much of him. Every man eventually disappoints, somehow.”
Yet my mind wouldn’t release the heart-rending words from her novel, the words Peter had spoken on the morning of their wedding—Matched souls always find their way back to one another, for they seek refuge in the same place. “It cannot end that way. He rescued you, over and over again, loving you before you ever loved him. There’s something incredible in that—something nearly divine. Please, you have to try.” I thought of Gabe. Dear, precious, overlooked Gabe who had gently pulled me from many pits—including the pit of self.
“No one can write the letter I read without fully meaning it, and that doesn’t simply vanish. You think it’s too late, the wall between you too thick, but look what your letters did to this entire household. Imagine if such words came directly from your mouth, and he heard you saying everything you’ve put off telling him. He has always been your hero, your rescuer, even if he isn’t perfect, and you’ve been his love. Please, Mrs. Gresham, won’t you give him another chance?”
She looked at me steadily, chin trembling. A horse clopped outside and the clock behind her tick-ticked. “Will you fetch a tincture, please? I have a headache.”
“But—”
“Please.”
So I left.
But not without the letter.
twenty-nine
When all you have left is words, it’s more than enough.
~A scientist’s observations on love
He was your hero.
Golda Gresham stared into the cold hearth for long moments after her nurse left, those words nagging at her worn-out heart. That was exactly what Maisie had told her to search for years ago—a true hero. It rattled her a little to hear Miss Duvall utter the same phrase about Peter, because as the waning years and approaching death began to muffle so many past hurts, she knew it was true.
She couldn’t bear to let that little nurse see how much she always affected her, pushing and prodding at the calcified shelter of hurt she’d allowed to grow up around her. Holding onto that anger came easier, felt safer, than exposing her raw and battered heart. Yet that heart had an end date, and ever since the doctor had given his prognosis—three to six months—she’d been able to loosen her protective grip on it. Not that much longer and she’d be free of it, and everything that hurt it.
Her mind journeyed up to the attic, where a certain self-bound romantic novel created in her youth lay in an old hatbox. A dashing hero had swept through the city and charmed the sense right out of the heroine. It had been deeply thrilling and romantic to write it, and living it out with Grayson had been even more intense.
Yet it was the story she’d written next that gripped her heart now. It was an illustrated children’s story about an unlikely hero, a quiet blacksmith, who fashioned his own armor from scraps
in his shop when his maiden was in trouble and charged off to rescue her. She’d wept as she’d sketched Peter, her beloved and gallant friend, and thought about how to explain to a young mind how she was being rescued as she wed him. She hardly dared breathe in those days for fear it would all vanish, after all she’d climbed through already, all she’d escaped. It couldn’t be so easy—so right.
Peter had always been the constant in her life, the safe rock outcropping on which to land. Yet somehow, just like everyone else, he had slipped from the hero pedestal.
She had changed too, though. That letter had been the most convicting peek into who she used to be, like the aroma of chestnuts on the fire that reminded one of cozy childhood Christmases. She looked now into the mirror at the sharp-featured old woman with purple moons under her eyes and was repulsed. Bitterness had made her ugly. Staring at her reflection over the little glass bottles of perfume lining her vanity table, she decided a little kindness was due her childhood hero.
Leaning to the left, she pulled the bell, and soon the little redheaded maid Essie was scurrying down the hall. When her nervous face appeared in the doorway, Golda beckoned her in. “You may ask Cook to prepare a roast pheasant—exactly the way Mr. Gresham likes it. And have her make a lemon truffle with raisins for dessert.”
A quick bob. “Will there be anything else, my lady?”
With an eye to her reflection, Golda gentled her features and smiled at the young woman, working hard to overlook the loose strand of hair and drooping apron. “You’ve such an eagerness about you, Essie.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gresham. I’ll try to be more composed.”
“No, no. It’s . . . commendable.” Her smile wobbled.
Essie’s hands stilled from smoothing her apron. “Pardon, my lady?”
Heavens, she was horrible at this anymore. Like a squeaky gear forced into action after many years of neglect. She straightened. “You’ve become a fine maid, Essie. So many in service are apathetic, idle even, but you’re so keen to our whims and needs, and you’ve an air of modesty about you that’s quite pleasing.”
She blinked like a fox cornered by hounds. “Oh.” She fidgeted with her apron again. “Thank you, my lady.” She backed out with another bow to relay the message to Cook, but a moment later she reappeared, her fingers worrying the edge of her apron even harder. “You must have found out about the teacup. I’m so sorry, my lady, and I’d gladly replace it from my wages. Truly, I would. It was only an accident.”
Golda Gresham pushed aside the news about her teacup and let her gaze wander over the slender maid. “That won’t be necessary.” The letter had also provided a keen insight into the large cracks that existed in the hearts of those around her as well, as they clung to those rare words of affection like the last crumbs on the luncheon table.
They deserved more than crumbs—all of them.
She tilted her head. “Have you a young man, Essie?”
She dropped her gaze with a powerful flush. “No, ma’am. I don’t break your rules.”
Only my cups, it would seem. She looked over that plain face and saw the appealing sweetness that might catch a man’s eye. She’d make a fine wife, modest and kindhearted. “Perhaps I’ll lift that rule. It is a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
The girl merely blinked.
“In the meantime, Essie, it’s perfectly acceptable to remain as you are. You’ve been a faithful servant, and you’ll have a place here as long as you want it.” She fidgeted. “Marriage isn’t always a fitting solution, mind you. It’s often merely exchanging one set of problems for another. But if you happen to find one who’s suited to you . . .”
The girl nodded awkwardly and backed toward the door.
“Oh, and Essie.” Golda smiled. “I’ve heard you’re learning to read. Parker would make an excellent teacher, don’t you think?” She gave a prim smile, and the flustered girl turned and hurried out to the hall.
A fine start, even if a little rocky.
The word more echoed through Golda Gresham’s brain as she left her room, along with all the other things Willa Duvall had said to her. More chances, more love, were all possible. Despite her narrowing future, what she did have right now was more. More time, more words, more choices to make. A little bit, at least. As the final grains of sand neared the hourglass spout, she would make use of them.
After a moment alone, her cupid’s heart compelled her toward the servant’s hall to see if Essie had the courage to follow through. It was Celeste she encountered in the narrow hall, though, pale and dumbstruck at the sight of her. She hid a child, of all things, behind her skirts, shielding her from Golda as a mother bear might defend her young.
Celeste tipped her chin. “It’s my house too, you know. More than yours, I think. We were here first, and we have every right to invite guests.”
Golda took in the defensive posture, braced against the “you’re not my real mother” glare Celeste hadn’t used since her youth, and found her heart was no longer capable of hardening to this tenacious stepdaughter. In fact, the arrogant tilt of her head reminded Golda how marvelously strong Celeste was, and also how vulnerable. It seemed she was still upset about the little game she’d played, leaving those additional letters. Everything she’d written to Celeste had been true, even if there had been no secret admirer writing them.
Golda steeled herself against voicing the smart remarks that came naturally and knelt before the spindly creature behind Celeste’s skirt. Her knees slipped and popped. “Who might you be? Are you visiting Celeste?”
“She’s taken me in, ma’am, and she’s going to teach me things. I’m going to university someday, even though my mam and pap couldn’t read. Miss Celeste says so.”
Golda swallowed her surprise, keeping her gaze steadily on the somewhat uncouth girl with wide-set eyes and wildly crooked lower teeth. Freckles covered her face with the same disorder. “Does she, now?”
“She has no one.” Celeste spoke with an edge of defensiveness, her hand tightening on the girl’s shoulders. How long had this been going on? Golda supposed she deserved to not be consulted. Celeste’s eyes still snapped with the same fire she’d heard in her voice that awful day in the parlor, when the truth had come out. What could she do now? Was it all too far gone to be mended?
The words need to come from you. Drat that little nurse, with the voice that echoed through her skull.
Golda looked back to the girl. “What’s your name, child?”
“Phoebe, ma’am.”
With a weak smile, Golda touched the girl’s arm and looked directly into her gold-green eyes. “Well, Phoebe, you’ve found yourself the finest advocate a girl could ever have. Celeste is a fierce champion, and a wise teacher. You’d do well to model yourself after such a woman. Very few have strength to match hers.”
She pulled herself up, praying her knees wouldn’t give out.
“You might as well give her the green room. I assume there’s no one else from whom you’re hiding her.” Golda leaned on the back of a chair, her gaze level with an astonished Celeste. She considered her stepdaughter. “You know, perhaps you should start a girls’ school someday. If you’re planning to empower and embolden one young foundling, you might as well save some time and do it to a whole roomful at once.”
Celeste’s nostrils flared, eyes wide. All well and good—it’d take time to adjust to change, and even Golda wasn’t convinced of its permanence. Speaking this way hardly felt natural, even if the words were quite true.
“It would be a daring and colorful future for Crestwicke, don’t you think? A refuge for girls who’ve given up.” She paused and smiled, caught up in the fragrant sweetness of it. “I believe they need to hear what you’re advocating even more than anyone.”
Celeste stared, every emotion flickering over her face, but no words came.
With a nod to them both, Golda moved to sweep down the hall, but paused, considering this strong-willed stepdaughter who’d grown into a woman in so short
a time. “By the way, Celeste, it was I who was here first. Crestwicke was my haven long before you were even born. But that’s a story for another day.”
Golda turned and paced down the narrow passageway, smiling at the way Celeste’s mouth had hung open. That plucky little nurse was right—there were second chances to be had. Even for her. Overwhelming despair threatened to steal over her again as her lonely footsteps clicked on wood, but she lifted her head and moved forward, not giving it a chance to settle. Time was short, and she had some living to do yet.
Burke was next, but he wasn’t in the study anymore, or his chambers. In fact, Clara seemed absent as well. How quiet this old house seemed.
Finally her maid located Burke in the attic, and Golda forced her stiff body up the narrow stairs and into the stuffy old rafters. Light burst upon her senses when she entered, with no curtains blocking the light, but there sat Burke, straddling a paint-stained stool and staring out the dormered window. Golda grimaced, shielded her eyes, then forced her uncooperative body forward. Her problematic heart pumped hard to keep up with the strain, but she was determined. Burke turned at the sound of her huffing, his grimace solidifying at the sight of her.
“I’ve never known you to hide yourself away up here, Burke.”
His eyes narrowed.
Golda steadied her breathing, her racing heart, and felt the latter pop a little before settling into a regular rhythm. She straightened, taking in a breath. “I owe you an apology for that whole letter business. It was never meant to cause trouble.”
“Ha! You, not mean to cause trouble?”
She cringed. “From boyhood you possessed such potential, and I couldn’t bear to see you settle—ever.” She adjusted her weight, plagued with that awful tightening in her chest that reminded her of her own mortality. “When a person lives long enough, they gain experience. It’s no good unless you pass it on to those depending on you to teach them.”
“Teach or command? First it was what to study, which university to attend. Then it was a leading share of the family business, but only if I signed my life away to the little shop girl. She doesn’t even love me, did you know that? Doesn’t care a fig about me.”
The Love Note Page 27