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No Shadow (Prodigal Sons of Cane)

Page 6

by Clemens, S. N.


  She’d never so much as slanted him a flirtatious look—much less come on to him—which was a new enough experience for Andrew to be disorienting. But last night after dinner, when he’d walked her down from Melissa’s suite, she’d said goodbye to him with the most radiant smile. It had transformed her face, like she was lit from within. The expression had taken his breath away, and he’d stood for a long time staring after her, even after she’d driven away.

  Nothing about his interest in Helen Walton made sense, but Andrew was having harder and harder a time convincing himself that he wasn’t interested.

  Thinking of Helen led inevitably to thoughts of the manuscript of Shadow Past—the one that meant so much to his beloved grandmother and her memories of the man she had loved long ago. Deciding it would be best for his sense of purpose and composure to take care of the matter as quickly as possible, Andrew called Thomas up to ask about the status of the potential purchase. Thomas explained that the sale was held up since the manuscript was still being appraised, but he hoped to entertain offers by next week.

  Feeling encouraged by this news of a possible conclusion, Andrew asked him if there were any other papers or items connected to Geneva Bale or the manuscript in Ezra Harrison’s possessions.

  “Not that I know of,” Thomas said. “But I haven’t gone through everything. There are still some unsorted old papers in the attic I need to get at.”

  Intrigued, Andrew asked, “Would it be all right if I look through them some time? I’d be interested in purchasing anything connected to Bale or the family history during that time period.”

  His grandmother told stories of old, romantic letters that her beau had read to her—written to Geneva Bale around the time she’d written Shadow Past—and Andrew wondered if they were still in Harrison’s possession.

  Thomas hesitated only briefly. Then agreed it would be fine. They arranged for Andrew to come by the house that evening, since Thomas was working there all day.

  Andrew was pleased when he hung up the phone, relieved to have something concrete to do. He doubted he’d be fortunate enough to find those old letters—surely someone would have recognized their worth before now—but it couldn’t hurt to check.

  Once the manuscript issue was resolved for good, maybe he could get Helen out of his mind.

  Content with his plan, he was able to concentrate on work for the rest of the afternoon. Then he had a quick dinner with Melissa and headed over to the Harrison house.

  The first thing he noticed was a blue, midsized sedan parked on the street. With a kick in his chest, he wondered what Helen was doing here.

  Andrew found her with Thomas on the side porch. They were laughing and drinking lemonade, and Andrew experienced an unexpected stab of jealousy at how friendly the two of them looked. That radiant smile she’d given him last night was the most Andrew had ever received from her.

  “Hi there,” Thomas said, getting out of his rocking chair. “I thought it only fair to ask Helen over to look through the papers too, since the library’s an interested party. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Andrew was taken aback. His bone-deep competitive instinct was immediately triggered at what he took as a threat to his claim on the manuscript. But, at the same time, he was really glad to see Helen.

  She smiled at him shyly. “Hi, Andrew. You’re very polite not to say anything—even if you do mind my being here.”

  He was a little unsettled by how well she seemed to know him, even after just a week. Of course, they’d been raised together, and she’d been a clever, observant little girl. Maybe she knew him better than he thought.

  She was dressed more casually today than he’d ever seen her—in jeans and a delicate eyelet top. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail instead of being pulled up like it normally was. And she was wearing little wire-framed glasses. She looked comfortable and relaxed.

  And very pretty.

  “Of course, I don’t mind,” he said with an answering smile. “It’s nice to see you.”

  Helen went to pour him a glass of lemonade, and she appeared so at home here he felt a sharp jolt of curiosity about her relationship with Thomas.

  Surely he would know by now if they were dating. He certainly didn’t want to be entertaining thoughts about a woman who was dating someone else. As far as he could tell, there was nothing obvious between them but friendship, but he’d caught Thomas looking at her sometimes with an expression that hinted he wanted more.

  Helen seemed completely unconscious of Thomas’s interest.

  At her suggestion, they all went inside and then upstairs with their lemonade.

  “It’s a mess,” Thomas warned on the narrow stairs. “And I can’t promise it will be clean or free of creepy crawlies.”

  “It will be fine,” Helen assured him, smiling as they entered the attic.

  Andrew scanned the large attic—filled with overflowing boxes, musty trunks, and random items like old window air-conditioning units and ironing boards.

  “I have no idea why he kept some of this stuff,” Thomas said, staring at a torn Asian screen.

  “Oh, but some of it is wonderful,” Helen countered in a breathless voice. She leaned over and pulled a skirt out of an opened trunk. The skirt was long, ruffled, and looked to be a hundred years old.

  Andrew caught a look of hungry delight in her eyes as she shook the garment out.

  “Most of it’s junk,” Thomas said blandly. “You can have that if you want.”

  Helen was tempted—Andrew could tell. He could picture her in that skirt. But she said, “Oh, no, I couldn’t. You need to sort all this out and find out what has real value.” With a quirk of her lips, she added, “But if you have a yard sale, I’ll definitely be there before anyone else.”

  Thomas pointed them toward a corner with three large boxes of old papers. “They’re not in any order, and some of them aren’t old enough for you to be interested in. You’ll have to look through everything.”

  “No problem,” Helen said cheerfully, sitting down on a conveniently placed trunk. Andrew pulled up another trunk beside her and scooted one of the boxes in front of them.

  When they were settled, Thomas said, “Since I’m up here, maybe I’ll start looking through some of this other junk to see what it all is. Unless you need me to help.”

  “Oh no! Please don’t let us take up anymore of your time,” Helen said.

  “I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for anyway.” Andrew wondered what Helen was looking for or if she was just here so he wouldn’t get a step ahead. He wasn’t sure what option he’d prefer.

  Helen looked as excited as a little girl as she pulled a pile of papers out of the box. “I’m looking for anything connected to Bale,” she said, speaking ostensibly to Thomas although Andrew saw her dart him a quick look. She started flipping through the pages on her lap, pausing at a couple but not for very long. “Birth records, wedding records, old letters, pages of manuscripts. Anything of the right time period might be of interest.”

  Andrew grabbed his own pile and turned the pages as he disregarded each document. Helen’s list was the same as the items he himself would be interested in.

  Thomas asked a polite question about Geneva Bale, which was all it took to get Helen going on what was obviously one of her favorite topics.

  Most of the information Andrew already knew. Geneva Bale was an early nineteenth century author who’d written novels along the lines of Jane Austen—romances set in upper-middle class society with a strong satiric streak regarding social manners and behavior. While she’d been lost to scholarship until recently, her polished prose and excellent eye for character gave her strong literary merit. Like Austen, Bale had avoided a lot of the controversial social and political issues of her day. Her reticence about issues like early feminism and slavery probably explained why she hadn’t received as much critical attention as her contemporaries, but Helen was sure the scholarly world was finally catching on to what a find Bale actually was.<
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  “She didn’t originally publish under her own name,” Helen said, speaking loudly so Thomas could hear her in the far corner of the attic. “She published as ‘A Lady of Virginia.’ It’s only on her original handwritten manuscripts that she wrote her name.”

  “Interesting,” Thomas said, although Andrew wasn’t sure he truly expected quite so much information.

  “Have you read any of her novels?” Helen asked, turning to Andrew.

  He wondered if her question was a genuine one or a subtle way to confront him. “Just Blessed Heart. It was the only one I could find in print.”

  “Yeah. There haven’t been any current paperback editions of her novels yet. I hope there will be soon. What did you think of it?”

  Put on the spot, Andrew told her the truth. “Not my kind of reading. Too much talk of dances and suitors and dowries.”

  Helen sniffed disdainfully. Her expression asked a silent question which Andrew read as wondering why he wanted the manuscript if he didn’t like reading Bale’s work, but she didn’t actually voice it.

  “Cane College has an incredible collection of Bale artifacts,” Helen said, pitching her voice so that Thomas could hear as she continued rifling through the old papers. “We have the handwritten manuscripts of her two other novels, Blessed Heart and Noon Light. We have dozens of letters she wrote to some important literary figures of the time, including William Wordsworth. We, of course, have first editions of each of her books. We have an original sketch drawn of her. We even have some of her clothing and the writing desk she used.”

  Andrew frowned as the list continued. He intuitively understood why Helen was saying all of this. She was trying to make it clear that the library was the most appropriate place for the manuscript—to convince either him or Thomas.

  “There are very few historical figures where all of the artifacts are in one collection,” he said, his voice a little cool. “One can hardly expect to get everything.” He’d been making his way through his own stack of papers, but there was nothing relevant. Most of it was far too late to be of interest.

  Helen gave him a narrow-eyed look, her chin sticking out slightly. “Well, that’s all the more reason for us to try to get everything we can on Bale. To make it accessible to the scholars who are starting to do important work on her.”

  This time, her words were an obvious challenge. Growing annoyed, Andrew answered it. “You have no idea whether I’d be willing to make the manuscript accessible to scholars or not.”

  “That’s the point. A private collector can do whatever he wants. He can destroy it if he wants to.”

  “Do you really think someone would pay a substantial price for a manuscript and then just destroy it?”

  Helen’s cheeks had flushed, and a few strands of her hair had escaped her ponytail. Impatiently, she pushed them away. “You’re intentionally missing my point. I’m not saying it’s likely. I’m just proving there are no safeguards on a private collector, nothing to demand the manuscript be kept safe and accessible.”

  “Whereas all libraries, of course, can guarantee its absolute safety.” There was an edge now to his voice, as Andrew grew more and more exasperated with the woman’s obstinacy.

  “At least libraries try to do what’s best for literary history, instead of hoarding manuscripts away as invest—“ She cut herself off abruptly and stared down at the sheathe of papers in her lap. She was clearly fuming, but trying to control herself.

  He knew how she felt. He couldn’t understand why she insisted on believing the worst of him and his intentions and wouldn’t even allow the possibility that he had the manuscript’s best interests in mind.

  When she’d smiled at him last night, he’d thought she was growing to like him. At least a little. And it was like a kick in the gut that she was now back at his throat again.

  He needed the manuscript. He couldn’t let it go. And he’d obviously been wrong to hope that, once she got to know him, Helen would be willing to back down.

  ***

  Helen had been hoping that Andrew would back down.

  They’d ended the previous night on much better terms than before. As she’d left, the look in his eyes had held both warmth and a soft wistfulness she’d found unbearably appealing.

  She knew him to be an intelligent man who appreciated books and learning, and she’d thought he’d see reason regarding the manuscript if she could just make her case—show him Bale’s importance to literary scholarship and why the collection at Cane College was the only appropriate home for the manuscript.

  But he hadn’t backed down. Hadn’t been convinced. Instead, he’d challenged her with those level gray eyes and the stern set to his jaw.

  It felt like a kick in the gut.

  Andrew was a strong man with a strong will, and obviously he wouldn’t be easily turned from his purpose. It was all very frustrating.

  Helen was starting to like him, but she’d wanted the manuscript for so long.

  They searched the piles of old papers in silence for several minutes after the confrontation. They both looked over every stack, with an unspoken agreement that they wouldn’t keep anything they found to themselves.

  When Helen had calmed down, she said, because she wanted to change the subject and because she was really interested, “How is Melissa?”

  “Good,” he said, the tension on his face relaxing at the new topic. “She was really tired this morning, but she’s fine.”

  “It wasn’t too much for her, was it? I’d feel terrible if—“

  “No, no. She’s just not used to so much activity. She rested this morning and took the dog for a walk this afternoon—as far as the little guy could go.” Andrew’s mouth had softened into a slight smile, making him incredibly attractive.

  “She can take walks?” Helen hoped she wasn’t being too nosy.

  “Just on the grounds. She won’t leave them, and she’ll never go out if there’s anyone else around.”

  Helen put aside a pile of letters that were written at the beginning of the twentieth century. They were probably quite fascinating, but she couldn’t take the time to read them this evening.

  After she’d worked up the courage, she asked carefully, “If you don’t mind my asking, how long has she been this way?”

  Andrew didn’t look affronted by the question. Just matter-of-fact. “Ten years. Since she was fourteen.” They’d made it through one box, so he pushed it aside and pulled the second one closer.

  Helen spoke softly, since she suspected Andrew would prefer Thomas not overhear the personal conversation. “Do you know what triggered her…her condition?”

  He shook his head and lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck. He did that a lot, she noticed. His neck muscles were probably tight. He had too much stress in his life, and no one to really help him with it.

  The thought made her chest feel kind of heavy.

  “I have no idea. I wasn’t around then. I was twenty-five and already in D.C., but our mom had no clue what happened. It wasn’t all at once. Melissa became shyer than she’d been as a child. Then she got skittish in social situations. Then she became a definite homebody. And then she just wouldn’t leave the house. I’ve asked everyone who knew her back then, and I’ve begged her to tell me if there’s something that she’s never told anyone. She says there’s nothing. I just don’t know why this happened.”

  He closed his eyes as he stopped talking, and he looked so exhausted and burdened that Helen’s heart went out to him.

  She wondered if he’d intended to say as much as he had. She wondered who he had to confide in.

  “So when your mother died, you volunteered to take care of her?” Helen spoke delicately, not wanting to make him uncomfortable or close down the conversation.

  Andrew looked at her again and gave a half-shrug. “She trusts me. Geoff has such hard hours as a doctor, plus his own daughter he’s now raising alone. And Michael…”

  Helen wondered why he’d trailed off and whether th
e youngest Cane brother was another source of worry and stress for Andrew.

  “What else could I do?” he concluded, looking at a spot on the opposite wall.

  “Maybe,” Helen said, her voice textured with the surge of tenderness she was feeling, “But a lot of men wouldn’t have done it.”

  He looked over at her then, and their eyes met and lingered.

  His expression was almost aching.

  He needed someone, she realized. He’d been alone with his responsibilities for too long. He took such loving, committed care of Melissa and anyone else in his sphere of influence, but no one took care of him.

  He needed a church family for support and encouragement, and he needed a wife to love him.

  Recognizing the direction of her thoughts, Helen jerked her eyes away from their shared gaze.

  What was wrong with her? Andrew would be the most eligible man in any room he walked into. And she’d be the biggest fool on the planet if she let herself hope in that direction.

  Trying to rid herself of those dangerous thoughts, she concentrated instead on the old papers. She made quick work of the pile she was sorting, since most of them were centuries-old newspapers. If she’d had more time, they would have been fun to flip through, but they couldn’t take up too much of Thomas’s time.

  Standing up, she brushed herself off. Then noticed a smudge on her top and tried to rub it off. She should have dressed in grubbier clothes this evening, but she’d wanted to wear something pretty and flattering.

  She knew, although she didn’t want to admit it, that she’d chosen her outfit because Andrew would be here tonight. She’d worn her glasses instead of contacts as a last-ditch effort to convince herself she wasn’t dressing up for Andrew.

  She bent over to grab the last pile of papers from the second box.

  She had to reach down far and, as she was lifting the pile, she felt something skitter up her arm. Glancing down automatically, she saw a big spider crawling on her forearm.

 

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