The Painted Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  “I didn’t mean it.” She leaned back. Smiled at that familiar face. “Okay—I didn’t mean all of it. You really should get to your shopping a little earlier next time. But I’m a grown woman, remember? If I’m trusted by restoration teams to handle their fine art, I think I can manage to close a pub dining room and wash the lot of pint glasses on my own. You didn’t have to come all this way just for that.”

  “Look, ’tis not my fault. You heard him—had to pick somethin’ up so he met me at the airport. Cormac was insistent that we both go. Just squeezed in on the last flight. What do ye think of that?”

  She turned, finding Cormac standing by the polished wood snug frame, hands buried deep in his jeans pockets.

  “What are you going on about? Last flight to what? What could you honestly need to pick up at six o’ clock on Christmas Eve, and that Cormac had to go with you?”

  “That’d be my fault.”

  Keira didn’t turn to look at Emory but knew with a flutter in her midsection that he was standing just behind. Instead, she tossed her glance to Cormac, who’d moved over to the snug wall and leaned against it, his mouth iced shut. Not telling her what to do. Not bristling at a Yank coming all the way to Dublin to chase after his little sister.

  He just waited. All respectful like.

  Very un-Foley of him to duck out when she needed him most.

  “You two know he’s here?” Keira folded her arms across her chest and faced Emory, waiting in the deserted dining room, the glow of the firelight dancing against his shirt and jeans and black leather jacket with racing stripes down the sleeves.

  Cormac answered with a nod and a short and sweet, “Aye.”

  “And you don’t have a problem with this?”

  Her brothers ignored her—classic evasion tactic.

  It was Emory who walked forward with the casual stroll she knew, as if he didn’t just come from an English jail all the way across the Irish Sea. No worse for wear though—same easy smile, except he was a bit rain-splotched. He stopped when there was only a pub chair in between them.

  “I’d write that negative review I talked about before if I wasn’t scared out of my socks about the two Irish hotheads giving me the evil eye in this dining room. I honestly thought I’d been found by a hit squad when your brothers showed up in Framlingham. Between that and a stint in jail, I’m surprised I’m still breathing right now.” He glanced at Cormac. “No offense.”

  “Wait—what? You said you were taking the day off to spend with family.” She turned to Cormac, still holding up the wall. He pushed away with a shrug and crossed the room to the bar.

  “He did.” Emory answered first, as if the men had reached some sort of understanding that said though he’d wounded her already-skittish heart, they still forgave him enough to let him speak and repair the damage. “Cormac and Quinn—finally met him by the way—they went looking for me, found out I was released from jail. Then just showed up, pounded the front door at Parham Hill and stood over me while I tossed clothes in a duffel. Said we had a family Christmas waiting and to get my passport because we were going to the airport. And then I ended up here. That’s all I know. Do you honestly think I was in a position to argue with—” He tossed a glance to the brothers, staring them down. “Well, that?”

  “Don’ blame us,” Cormac cut in. “If’n it was me alone, I’d have left ye in that broken-down English cottage of yers. But my wife stepped in after she got a call from Keira sayin’ she loved the Yank, an’ she got our da to go along wit’ this whole thing. If I were ye, I’d be countin’ my lucky stars they didn’ see it the other way around, or ye might not be standin’ here at all.”

  “Merry Christmas, Keira.” Quinn, ever a man of few words, smiled and stepped back outside to the rainy bustle of O’Connell Street, the brass bell over the door chiming through the dining room as he went.

  Cormac lingered a bit longer in the shadows behind the bar, sweeping a towel over the polished wood top, then folded it behind the counter. He turned off lights and flipped the switch of the digital Open sign, bathing the dining room in darkness save a few lights from the kitchen and the fire’s glow.

  “Make sure the fire’s out before ye two leave.” He winked at Keira. Then shifted a cool glance to Emory. “Better not take longer than it ought to talk this through an’ then drive to Wicklow, yeah? I’ll be timin’ ye.”

  “She is an adult, you know.” That vibe wasn’t going to work. Cormac fired him a look loaded with a subtle layer of gunpowder, enough that Emory added, “Yeah. Right. Got it.”

  Cormac’s features softened, his true heart unable to play the protective act the entire time. He reached for his rain jacket, pulled it from the coatrack’s wooden peg, and reached for the doorknob, then stopped. “Take care of her.”

  It was the classic hand-off line from one guy to another. And Keira thought he’d leave it at that. But with a look at her so layered with care over everything they’d lived through together—he the brother who’d raised her after Mum had died and who’d always been Keira’s safe place—he amended the thought with very Cormac-like wisdom.

  “No. Take care of each other.”

  The bell chimed again, and they were alone. Just the pub. Rain. The fire, and a bit of a spark catching between them too.

  Emory stared back, waiting with hands buried in jeans pockets. “You had me arrested.”

  Keira tilted her chin up a notch. “You lied to me.”

  “I never lied. You didn’t give me the chance to explain,” he said evenly, causing her to acknowledge the truth in his words. “But I don’t blame you. I can imagine how it must have looked. To tell you the truth, I didn’t even know what was happening, it all went down so fast. But the detective called you and told you the truth—that Carter has a royal mess waiting for his London lawyers to untangle.”

  Keira needed something to focus on other than the convincing case he was making. She was scared and she knew it. Moving to wipe down a pub table or two gave her precious seconds to think. “They had a few more questions for me, but yes. The police did call. And told me that apparently there’s a problem with Empress.”

  “It’s a fake.”

  “A forgery, yes. But then, you don’t seem surprised.”

  “I had my doubts from the beginning. Carter’s father was on the gallery board and arranged for the purchase, with a certain percentage as an acquisition fee. It seemed a little too buttoned up. Too fast. But the board needed the notoriety of it and so I was overruled. And in my distraction over Elise and her death, and in Carter’s naivety to remain a loyal friend at my side, it seems his father used the opportunity to slip the painting out before it could be authenticated—and proven a forgery. But it was never found, until now.”

  “Sounds like some odd remake of How to Steal a Million. But how did it end up at Parham Hill?”

  “Well, that’s Carter’s question to answer, and his lawyers to deny any knowledge of it outside of his late father’s sins having caught up to him. But Carter did step in the gap of all this and demand my name be cleared. Had to pass muster with the police, of course, and the fact that I told the truth helped quite a bit. They may have more questions, but as of right now I’m a free man. I can go where I please. And it’s sure not to step back into my old shoes, even with a restored reputation. I’m pleased instead to be here in Dublin. With you.”

  “We both know you don’t stay planted for long.”

  “What if I did?” he offered without a breath of hesitation. “For the first time in my life I think I’m actually jealous of something Carter has. M. J. is standing by him. But I have to wonder if you have faith in me. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  “I did.” She slipped her fingers around two glass rims, then swept the tip up into her pocket.

  “But you don’t now?”

  “Emory, it’s Christmas. You think you can show up, flash a charming smile—” When he looked like he was going to comment on the last two words, Keira set t
he glasses on the bar and challenged him. “And don’t you dare read into that. I’m not a schoolgirl wilting over a spot of charm here. If you meant what you said to me, that this job was more than Victoria, a library, or a cottage . . . then why didn’t you tell me about the Klimt right away? I admit it—I fell apart. All I could see was the past repeating itself.”

  “I only found the Empress that morning. And I should have told you right away. But I was afraid that when you saw it, you’d have to make the decision of whether or not you could trust me. And for the life of me, I couldn’t risk it. Not when I loved you too. More than you know. More than I could say then, but I’m sure not letting the moment pass now.”

  Keira held for a moment on a shaky breath.

  Those “I love you” words were terrifying to hear for the weight they carried.

  “What Alton did isn’t your fault. But I suppose I won’t settle. I want truth. And I want something real. If you can give me that, I’ll believe what you just said.”

  “Alright. Evelyn Addams.”

  The sweet old dressmaker from Framlingham?

  “Okay . . . Evelyn Addams. Meaning what exactly?”

  “Funny thing is, she wanted to know what my eight hours in the slammer were like. She’s got something of a rebel streak in her. But turns out she also shared a few things that changed my perspective about the cottage.” Emory turned to fetch a backpack he’d discarded by the door. He knelt, unzipped it, and pulled out a book.

  He stopped in front of her and held the binding out to her—a worn red cover that she’d seen in the glass sideboard but not examined.

  “Here. A Christmas gift.”

  She took it, then turned the cover over in her palms.

  Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens.

  “While Carter’s working out his battle in court, I’ll be staying on to manage Parham Hill. So I’ve been spending time in town. At St. Michaels. And accepted Evelyn’s invitation to take tea with her. In her shop this was hanging on the wall.” He moved closer with boldness, then flipped the cover open and grazed her fingertips when he pulled out a photo. “Here.”

  A bride smiled back—one they’d seen before.

  Amelia Woods stared out from the photo in a drop-dead gorgeous gown—less wedding like and more Hollywood like than what one would expect for a wartime bride. But she glowed, standing next to an American officer in perfect uniform dress. He had an arm slipped around her waist, and she must have been surprised because her wildflower bouquet drifted off her hip like she was about to lose it from the smile, and laugh, and complete joy they shared.

  “It’s Amelia, from the photos of brides hanging in the church. But we never saw this one.” Keira looked up, her heart aching for someone’s story to have had a happy ending. “What happened to her?”

  “She met the love of her life at Parham Hill and married him—a Captain Wyatt Stevens of the 390th Bomb Group, apparently. But before they went to make a life in New York with two children they adopted after the war, it seems Amelia Woods shut up the manor to keep a story alive in its walls. You see, you were right. The chemical analysis you had done confirmed it—the official letter arrived at Parham Hill after you’d gone. Victoria is exactly how old you thought. But along with her, there’s a painting among the eight in the attic . . . I don’t want you to think this is in any way a bribe to get you back to England, but it’s signed ‘Winterhalter, 1843.’ And the inscription on the back states that the woman in a yellow gown, with an easel and paintbrush in hand, is a portrait of celebrated artist Elizabeth James, Viscountess Huxley.”

  “So what you’re saying is, Carter may have owned a Winterhalter all along?”

  “Authenticating that and, you know, the job of revealing Elizabeth James and her portrait of Victoria to the world will keep me pretty busy. I could use a hand from a professional. Oh, and I have no idea what I’m doing, but the beekeeping on the estate is going to need management. You can’t honestly tell me you don’t want to laugh at my stubborn hide every time I get stung. I can’t believe you, of all people, would want to miss out on that.”

  In the dining room where they’d first met, with a good Irish rain outside and the firelight dancing within, Emory closed the gap between them. He looked down on her, as if reading that her heart couldn’t decide whether she needed to laugh or cry for being so happy. He lifted his fingertips, and the tears that fled off her bottom lashes were softly, sweetly wiped away.

  “There’s a cottage that needs new memories, Keira. A new story. A new start. And heaven help me, but I can’t imagine watching a single one of those Parham Hill sunrises without being able to share it all with you.”

  Thirty-Two

  May 9, 1945

  Church of St. Michaels

  Framlingham, England

  “I can’t help thinking there’s something decidedly unlucky about this,” Wyatt whispered as Amelia reached for his hand and gripped tight. “Seeing the bride before the wedding? I seem to remember my gran warning young grooms about it. Something about wedded bliss. I sincerely hope I won’t miss out on that part because of a pair of shoes.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain, but I can’t possibly get these on unless you hold me up. There’s no chair in here and I refuse to sit on the floor in this remarkable dress. Darly would agree with me. Are you going to argue with that?”

  Amelia struggled with the buckle on her strappy golden heel, draping the liquid-satin train over her ankle and laughing as she pressed against his side because hadn’t she sworn she’d never wear them again as long as the sky was blue?

  “I wouldn’t dream of arguing with someone as pretty—or as stubborn—as you, my love.”

  “You fancy your wartime bride tripping her way up the aisle, hmm?”

  “Why wear them then?”

  “You Yanks don’t understand English girls. These heels may induce pain, but they’re lovely. And the best I own until rationing decides to leave us for good. So I’ll bite my lip during the ceremony and, if necessary, through having our photograph taken. I promised that we’d allow the dress shop to hang our photo of Bertie’s prized gown behind the counter, and I refuse to be caught grimacing for the rest of eternity. Afterward I’ll throw them in the bin on our way out of the church, and you can carry me back to Parham Hill for all I care.”

  “Careful.” He pressed a kiss to her lips as soon as she’d straightened against him. “I might try it.”

  Amelia reached up, tilting his uniform hat a shade to give him just enough of an off-kilter look to add a little mystery.

  “There. Now you’re perfect,” she said, pecking him back. “Now shoo. Get out to that altar before I race you to it. And see that Luca looks smart in his suit. I’ve a feeling he’s going to try to get out of wearing a tie, and I’m afraid I must insist upon it today.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out, milady. I love you enough to do your bidding any day of the week. Not just today.” He winked, adding a more tempered whisper: “Don’t keep me waiting too long?”

  A slight vulnerability dropped over his face, the kind that said the moments to come meant everything to him, and he wasn’t ashamed to say it.

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  He smiled in that dashingly quiet way of his, fluttering her midsection as he slipped out the door, then clicked it closed behind him. And Amelia was alone for the first time that day.

  The radio called it V-E Day—a victory over Europe.

  What might have been an inconsequential Wednesday in May turned into the biggest exhale the Allies had breathed in more than four years. And as the victory celebration kicked off, and Framlingham remembered the lost alongside the triumph that was the Nazis’ unconditional surrender across Europe on May 8, and surrender of the Channel Islands on this their wedding day, Amelia Woods stood in a bride’s room. Glowing. Relieved and heart full. Having struggled to buckle tiny gold straps on evil, toe-pinching heels with her American groom anchored at her side.

  The bouquet Liesel had gathered fo
r her leaned in the windowsill, one of her golden-yellow hair ribbons wrapped around marigold and camellia stems, sprigged with English violets and ropes of ivy in a homemade nosegay from the estate gardens. Amelia walked to it and gathered the blooms in her palms.

  It was then she noticed the spring scene through the leaded-glass window—the green grass, the bowers of fully leaved trees, and the gentle sway of a breeze rustling their color against a blue sky. And there, underneath it all, was a gravestone in the shadow of the afternoon, set off from the rest: Arthur Woods, Viscount of Huxley. Royal Air Force. Beloved husband. Died 14 April 1940.

  My love . . . Do you mind at all if I smile today?

  She whispered who he was: her first love. Not Viscount or His Lordship. Not pilot in the Royal Air Force. Not even Arthur, which was the name he’d so sweetly given as they gathered books and taxis whizzed by them in the middle of Victoria Street during that first meeting. But “my love.”

  The war was over, or would be soon.

  The children would be loaded on trains to London and Norwich. And Lakenheath . . . bound for wherever home was. Flocks of B-17s would fly off across the Atlantic and the flyboys back to their own nests, leaving the airfield silent and Framlingham Castle with only the ghost of humming engines in the sky. Parham Hill would lose its temporary tenants, the 390th officers all discharged back to life in a changed world. And the library would play host to the story of the man she’d lost, to the legacy that Amelia assured wouldn’t die with Arthur or Darly, or any of those who’d given their lives in the pursuit of freedom.

  Wyatt and she had agreed to close up the library once all the children had gone, keeping Arthur’s story safe and untouched, until a new owner would come along and discover a cabinet of books and Victoria’s beautiful visage and, maybe one day, would breathe new life into a cherished beekeeper’s cottage.