Sadie’s eyes begged for Sam to let go of her backpack. But she had too many to take off so quickly. “When I thought for sure I was going to die after I hit the moose, I prayed. Do you suppose God hears the prayers of the desperate even when the desperate have ignored him for years on end?”
Sadie’s tears spilled. “I’m sure of it. God musta been pleased that you finally called to Him. He has so much to tell you, but you’ve gotta be willing to listen.” She wiped her eyes on a table napkin. “This whole mess with that Styles person will work its way out. You wait and see. Sooner or later, you’ve got to start trusting God again. Time you took those backpacks off for good.”
By now, the sun had claimed the morning sky. Bright red stripes ripped through the blue of promise. Sadie stared out the window. “Red sky at morning—”
18
Sadie’s words echoed in Sam’s ears as she careened her way along the mountainous path toward Dawn’s Hope wishing she had the willpower to cancel this ridiculous agreement. She owed Jonathan Gladstone nothing as long as she didn’t see the property, no contract, nothing binding, not so much as a handshake. Then why this compulsion? Something about Mirror Lake possessed her, wooed her like a lover’s whisper through Jonathan’s brushstrokes, bonded her to a land seen only through fantasy.
She pulled into the arched driveway at the foot of the mansion. She quickly scanned the area and noticed a van and a truck lined on a cement pad. Maybe that’s where she should have parked. A wide trail led from the pad towards the back of the mansion. Should she take that walk way or ring the front door? Was she a servant or an honored guest? In the distance she saw a three-compartment barn, she assumed to be an eighteenth century manger, with slanted roofs and open feeding troughs, but no livestock…empty and deserted…like the huge house, a hint of a once thriving era. She felt like Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. Would Jonathan Gladstone prove to be her Rochester?
She opted to leave Lucille II in the circular drive in the event she needed to make a fast exit. Hesitating near the wide, cemented steps, she surveyed the full height of the building—five stories, if the top counted as one, a narrow portion, like the top of a tiered cake. An exterior railing encircled the utmost heights, possibly a widow’s walk.
Her head ached from arching back so far. She heaved her shoulders, took a deep breath, then rang the doorbell, resisting the urge to peer through the narrow glass panels that hugged the sides of the broad mahogany door.
She expected a typical valet from a classic novel, a Mr. Jeeves type perhaps—or television’s rotund butler, Mr. Belvedere, or, more in keeping with the surroundings, The Addams Familys’s Lurch. Instead, she peered into the somber, coconut eyes of Jonathan Gladstone, his hair roughly corralled into a mannish ponytail. “You’re late,” he said, “I thought attorneys were punctual.”
Confrontation riled her, urged her to turn and leave. She thought she’d come to be of help, not be accused. “I try to be. The drive took a little longer than I anticipated.”
Jonathan motioned for Sam to come in. “We can talk in my den. That’s where the papers are. Then I’ll take you to the lake if you still want to see it.” He turned and led the way, and Sam followed. So much with the small talk, not even an inquiry to her welfare. Some aristocrat he turned out to be.
The décor intrigued her—a mingling of grotesque modernization and old world gauche. Modern electric lights illuminated Louis XVI settees while iron-clad jousting suits and tall padded chairs lined the halls, a garishness resembling a B-rated horror flick.
He breezed down the corridor past an open door, but she managed a quick survey of what must have been a parlor or sitting room, complete with a Steinway grand piano, roped off like a museum exhibit. She gasped when Jonathan opened the door to the den, containing a turn-of-the-century library, heavy cherry shelves from the floor to the ceiling filled with every imaginable literary work. A pair of enormous leather chairs sat in front of a marble fireplace. Sam half expected to see the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, standing by it, smoking a pipe, scolding her with his admonition: elementary, my dear Miss Knowles.
With the exception of metallic file cabinets, this den probably had seen little change since former Gladstones used it, four times the size of Aaron’s office, larger than the book room of Arlington Library. If the spiral staircase was an indicator, the den birthed at least one other story, or perhaps led to the master bedroom.
Jonathan stepped into the back of the room, grabbed a manila folder and then sat on the chair nearest the fireplace, leaving Sam in limbo. Since no invitation to sit seemed forthcoming, Sam claimed the chair across from Jonathan, slid her purse from her shoulders and took out a notebook. “What can I do for you, Mr. Gladstone?”
“Please. My name is Jonathan. Mister seems artificial.” He raised his head, meeting her gaze. If what seemed a petrified frown cracked, even a glimmer, he might actually be attractive—if he were the least bit civil…or shaven.
A half-open door in the back part of the den caught her attention. From her vantage point, she saw a cobbled path leading to what, at one time, might have been a greenhouse. But given the supply of canvases, paints and easels, she assumed this was the artist’s lair, the studio of his genius.
Jonathan reached forward and handed her a manila folder. “This is a copy of my father’s will.” Then he straddled his long legs and stroked his scraggly beard as she perused the document.
She had taken a course or two in civil law, however, estates and wills were not her forte. “I’m sorry, Jonathan, but I’m a criminal lawyer, perhaps you’d do better hiring someone with more expertise in civil matters.”
“My father might’ve been a hard man, but I suppose he did what he thought best for the estate. If Elliott had lived…” Jonathan’s face paled, his jaw tightened; pain etched across his face like a taut canvas. “I know you did some research on me at the library. Zack told me when he stopped by before school this morning.”
“I’m sorry if I’m prying—”
Jonathan raised his hand. “I expected as much. Let me see if I can put this will business in concise terms without rehashing my miserable existence.”
“If it’s too uncomfortable—”
Jonathan uncrossed his legs and put his hands over his knees, his eyes crusted with unimaginable heartache. Yet, honesty dwelled in them. “Hear me out. If you’re going to help me, you need to understand my perspective. In a nutshell, Dawn’s Hope was founded in 1765 by my ancestor, Emmanuel Gladstone. He obtained a vast tract of land from King George as a reward for his service in The French and Indian War. When he turned patriot during The Revolutionary War he parceled the land, establishing Haven in 1794, a year before his death. According to his journals, Emmanuel hoped his direct descendents would inhabit what was left of the estate in the English tradition, awarded to the oldest surviving male child. In accord with Emmanuel’s wishes, Dawn’s Hope has been inherited by a direct male descendent since that time.”
“But the Rule Against Perpetuities—”
“Lord Gladstone was well aware of the British law, predicting the new world would adopt it. He understood he could not force his will upon a generation not yet born. Emmanuel, however, was an imposing figure in his day, heralded as a hero in the eyes of Haven. Every direct descendent complied with Emmanuel’s wishes—”
“Except you?”
“Yes.”
So this Rochester was a rebel. Sam fanned the brief—all ten pages of stipulations. “I figured more than wanderlust stood between you and your father.”
“Every Gladstone heir before me has served the public in some capacity: senators, ambassadors—all men of influence. Henry Gladstone was a Supreme Court Justice. The women were activists, too, like Muriel Arlington. She labored for equal rights for women and blacks, an early abolitionist.”
“Impressive lineage.”
Jonathan moved forward, his gaze towards the floor. “Not one Gladstone heir ever pursued the arts. Although, my great-
great grandfather married an actress against family practice, and some of Father’s wives were less than socialites.”
A smile erupted, proof he did not suffer from a muscular disorder, a smile broad enough to expose his teeth, nice teeth—even, white.
“My father knew from the time I was twelve I could not be cast into the Gladstone mold. I will give him credit. He didn’t try to force me down a path I’d fight to avoid. Instead he lured me…enticed me with Angelica.”
“Your wife?”
“She was a distant relative on my mother’s side who visited Dawn’s Hope every summer. As I look back, I see how my father fostered our fondness, for she loved Dawn’s Hope more than even he did.”
Jonathan stood and paced. “Since Elliott was a direct descendant, Father registered the will the day Elliott was born. Father died three weeks later, unaware of Elliott’s rare condition.”
“What provision was made in the event Elliott predeceased you?”
Jonathan sneered. “If Elliott had lived, Father arranged for Angelica and I both to receive a generous stipend from the estate, providing we continued to reside here, Angelica’s to continue if I died before her. If Elliott died before either one of us, the stipends would continue as long as we resided at Dawn’s Hope. In a nutshell, I can live here, but I can never own it. When I die, the property is to be donated to the town of Haven as a museum and nature center.”
Jonathan’s father must have had pulp where his heart should have been. “If you don’t want to contest the will, what do you think I can do for you?”
Jonathan’s face turned scarlet as he grasped the chair handles. “I want off this place. Let the town have it for all I care, the allowance be hanged. I don’t need the money. The revenues from my landscapes are more than sufficient.”
Abe always said that a person’s vehemence often indicated hidden desires. Could Jonathan’s sarcasm indicate he didn’t want to lose Dawn’s Hope? He wanted her advice, and she’d provide it. “You don’t have to go to that extreme. You could hire a caretaker and meet the residency requirement with periodic visits as long as you lived here for one day more than half a year.”
Jonathan glared—his stare accusatory. “I’m not an idiot, Sam. That’s where you come in. I need a lease agreement drawn up so I don’t violate the terms of the will.”
His raspy comments irritated like a dripping faucet. To shut it off meant to dig deeper, find the cause of his ambiguity, energy Sam had neither the inclination nor the time to expend. She hitched her weight and re-crossed her ankles. “I suppose I could manage that for you. Where would you go?”
“Paris.”
“Why Paris?”
“Personal reasons—reasons you don’t need to know to handle a simple lease agreement.”
Did his well of rudeness have no bottom? She’d have to suffer it if she wanted to see the lake. She held up the manila folder. “May I keep this for a few days?”
Jonathan nodded. “The bank has the official record. Aaron has a copy, too.”
She tucked the brief into her purse.
“You came as you promised, and I promised a tour. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Forecast is calling for rain. We might get wet.”
“I won’t melt.”
“Can you drive an ATV?”
“ATV?”
“All-terrain vehicle. Don’t they have those in Manhattan?”
She talked to his back as he raced out of the den, down the hall, and to the main foyer. “I know what an ATV is…no, I’ve never driven one…can’t be too difficult to manage…can they?”
“I’ll show you out, then bring the Max II around front. It has a passenger compartment and is good on water, in case you want to go on the lake.”
She’d imagined an idyllic stroll down a flower–strewn path into the woods, not a ride on an ATV that could swim. Maybe she should rethink her curiosity, let Aaron handle Jonathan’s business. A lease agreement wouldn’t be that much of a conflict of interest.
Jonathan led her through another maze of corridors, grabbing a jacket off a rack in a room. A hint of hyacinths filled the room. Another hallucination? Zack said the property was loaded with beds. Maybe Jonathan flung his coat into one while he sketched.
Jonathan continued his parade, ending at the door leading to the circular drive. She wondered if she’d ever be able to find her way around, or if she were left alone in a place like this, would she die trapped in a maze of rooms and corridors?
“Wait here by the steps.” Jonathan disappeared along the cobbled path from the parking lot behind the house. Sam walked to her car. Opening the trunk, she threw in her purse. Should she wear her expensive blazer in the woods? She hadn’t dressed for hiking, and the morning chill had given way to slightly warmer temperatures. She took it off and placed it by her purse, then shut the trunk with authority as Jonathan pulled up in a green jeep that resembled a row-boat.
“It’s cold by the lake, you know,” Jonathan said, his tone like a scolding parent. “You might wish you had that blazer on.” He sat tall on the monstrosity, regal in a woodsy sort of way.
“I’ll be fine.” She climbed into the Max II’s passenger seat, scanning the mansion one more time.
Jonathan had described Lord Gladstone as an imposing man, but Sam wondered—did Emmanuel crave opulence or was the grandeur the pursuit of his descendants? If matters in Manhattan weren’t so pressing, she would enjoy deeper study of this legendary family, to learn why a nobleman spurned his bequeathed aristocracy to side with rebels, and how a man who had been dead for over two-hundred years still controlled an empire.
Jonathan spun the ATV around, handed her a helmet, then revved the engine while she put it on. Not quite the mountain man Justine wanted for Sam, yet, seated on his toy, he oozed a spirit of playfulness, a likeable rogue ready for adventure.
19
Warm raindrops turned into freezing pellets. Jonathan stopped the ATV where the paths that encircled the lake converged. Sam sat perched, a pitifully drenched, yet defiant, Raggedy Ann. He should offer to bring her back to the house, let her try again another day. Something told him she’d insist on enduring the downpour, forcing him to honor their agreement.
“There’s a cabin at the cliff where we can wait the rain out. It has a picture window on the lakeside. We’re almost there.”
She pulled at her water-logged slacks. “I suppose that would be the smart thing to do if you don’t mind. If the rain stops soon, could we try again?”
He grunted and bobbed a half-hearted agreement. He’d hoped to show her the lake, dump her off at her car, and resume his work on Angelica’s portrait. Now he’d have to spend the next hour or more in conversation. What could he possibly find in common with a citified red-head?
Jonathan pulled up as close to the cabin as he dared. “The Max II is too big to get to the cabin from this direction. We’ll have to walk from here. Give me your helmet.”
“Catch.” She tossed it.
He put the helmets into the hatch, then offered to help Sam down. Ignoring his hand, she jumped, teetering perilously toward the edge. He should have parked a little further away from the cliff but he wasn’t used to passengers and forgot they had to get out on the other side. He instinctively pulled her to safety.
“I’m quite capable of self-navigation, thank you very much.”
“Suit yourself, but be careful. There’re a lot of ruts around here. The terrain isn’t very level, and those sandals weren’t made for trail-blazing. Don’t you city folk own hiking boots?”
“For your information, these are the only shoes I can use at the moment. If I had another pair to wear, I would have. I wanted to see this lake. I’d have come barefoot if I had to.” She glared at him with marble eyes, a mixture of blue and green. No wonder Zack was smitten—wild eyes buried beneath mostly sensible attire, a caged feline begging to cut loose, a latent nature lover in glittered sandals.
“My apologies. Follow me.”
They strode side by side as he led her to the cabin. The treetops swayed to the wind’s symphony while Jonathan ducked underneath low-lying branches. When they reached the door, she stood to one side, backed away, ready to scurry like a distrustful rabbit.
“What? Are you afraid? Do you think I have less-than-honorable intentions? ”
She surrendered a faint smile. Good. Humor wasn’t one of his strong points. He’d hate to think he wasted his one joke a month on a surly sightseer. He opened the cottage door. “Not very roomy, but I have food, a stove, a bedroom, a sleep sofa, and a television. There’s a fireplace, too”
Sam stepped into the living room. “You don’t lock your door? Doesn’t anyone in Haven lock their doors? Isn’t it reckless to leave a cabin in the woods unattended like that? Might as well have a sign on your front lawn inviting intruders.”
Jonathan slammed the door; this would be one long day. “I leave the cabin unlocked for the fishermen. They always let me know if they’re using it overnight. Most of them bring their own food, but I keep staples on hand for when I paint here, and I do often enough. And I have a team of groundskeepers so it gets looked after, not that this is any of your concern.”
Sam searched him, first his eyes, then his lips, down to his hiking boots. “Guess I didn’t expect you to be so—”
“Civilized?”
“I meant open. You’re different than I expected.”
“Different than what? What did you expect?”
“Jeremiah Johnson.”
“Who?”
“Jeremiah Johnson. You know, the movie starring Robert Redford about a man who lived a secluded life in the mountains during the early 1800s. Hardly a word said in the whole movie.”
“Oh…that Jeremiah Johnson. Sorry to disappoint you, but as much as I love nature, I draw the line at wrestling grizzlies.”
She snickered. Another bulls-eye—two in one day. He was on a roll.
“The cabin looks comfortable, for fishermen, I guess.”
The Other Side of Darkness Page 13