She snatched up her skirts and marched for the door, seemingly forgetting how thrilled she was to see her sweet younger son. “You are all so very difficult.” She’d only just disappeared through the door when her head popped back past the doorway, bearing a happy smile. “Aidan, how long shall you be here? I’d like to have a welcome home dinner in your honor.”
“Only a day, I’m afraid. And I was here a scant three weeks ago, so it hardly bears celebrating.”
“Everything bears celebrating, Aidan. You know that.”
She left them with that cheerful truth, while they both stared in silence at the empty door. As often as not, this was how she left any room.
“Well, then,” Edward said a full ten seconds after her footsteps finally faded. “What are you doing back so soon?”
Aidan poured himself another glass and collapsed into a chair. “I was told there was an emergency.”
“That’s never brought you home before.”
He tipped his glass in acknowledgment. “Right. I need to retrieve something I left behind.”
“Surely you could’ve just sent a note.”
“Mm.” He left it at that as they both sipped their whisky.
“Did your business in Hull go well, then?”
Aidan was aware, as he always was, that his relationship with his family had dwindled to polite and guarded conversation. It wasn’t the way he wanted it. Somehow it had just happened. He’d been so angry that first year. At himself and his family and the whole damn world. And instead of dissipating, the anger had merely buried itself more deeply over time, like a badger digging in. He’d used it as a barricade to keep everyone at a distance, but what of times like this, when he needed someone near?
He missed Edward, he realized. He missed the unspoken friendship of a brother.
“You can’t tell Mother,” he said quietly.
“Tell her what?” Edward asked, his head tipped back to rest against the chair.
“What I’m about to tell you.”
Edward’s eyes opened slowly and he raised his head to meet Aidan’s gaze. “What is it?”
The moment he had his brother’s attention, Aidan wished it gone. It was too much. He dropped his eyes and looked into his glass as if it were the one with the secret. “She’s not dead,” he murmured.
“Who’s not dead?”
“Katie.”
A dull thud punctuated the word. Edward’s glass had slipped from his hand and landed on the carpet. “Pardon?”
“Katie’s alive.”
“But . . . I don’t understand.”
“Ha.” Aidan’s smile was drawn. “Neither do I, but there it is.”
“She survived the shipwreck?”
Aidan finally found the courage to meet Edward’s gaze. Not the courage, actually, but the ever-present anger. “There was no shipwreck. She was packed off to India to marry a rich farmer, and she arrived quite safely. The shipwreck was a ruse.”
Edward looked as stricken as Aidan felt. “But why?”
“I’ve no idea. She claims she knew nothing of the tale. Perhaps it was only that I kept returning to her home, demanding to see her, and had to be swatted away like a pesky fly. Perhaps it was meant to hide the shame of her family selling her to a farmer with no name and hoards of money.”
His brother leaned forward, eyes growing wider. “Wait a minute. You’ve seen her?”
“In the flesh. She’s running a coffee shop in Kingston-upon-Hull.”
“Katie Tremont? Running a coffee shop? That makes no sense.”
“No,” Aidan said. “No, it doesn’t. And she’s not Katie Tremont anymore. She’s Mrs. Kate Hamilton.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.”
Of course. As if any of it made any sense. “I must ask you to keep this in your confidence. Her family has no idea she’s returned to England.”
“Aidan . . .” Edward’s voice had gone ragged at the edges, as if his throat was too tight. “If it weren’t you telling me this, I wouldn’t believe a word. Why has she not told her family?”
Aidan shrugged. “Her father died last year.” He felt no emotion as he spoke the words. He’d hated the man for a long time, but now he didn’t even feel triumphant.
“Yes, but her mother! And her brother is the earl now.”
“I have no idea why, Edward. She asked me not to resurrect her, and I agreed.”
“Jesus Christ,” Edward breathed. “Katie Tremont. Will you . . . ? What will you . . . ?”
“She’s married. Her husband is still in India, but she’s married.”
“I see.”
But of course, Edward could not see any more than Aidan could see. It was a ridiculous farce. Or a tragedy. A poorly written play, whichever it was.
Edward retrieved his fallen glass and took Aidan’s as well. He refilled them both before collapsing back into his chair. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I had to tell someone. And you . . .” He tipped back the whisky and swallowed it all in two long gulps. His throat burned, but so did his eyes. “I wanted to tell you.”
“I’m glad.”
Aidan cleared his throat, dislodging any trace of emotion that might linger there. “Are my old trunks still in the attic?”
“I believe so.”
“Good. I need to go through them.” He pushed up from the chair, aware that his brain wobbled a bit with the movement.
“You’re retrieving something for Katie?”
“I am.”
“Aidan.”
Aidan set the glass down carefully on the table, not happy with the warning in his brother’s voice. “Yes?”
“She’s married. You said so yourself.”
“And?”
Edward set his own glass down hard. “Only you would treat that so casually.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You know damn well what it means. But Katie Tremont is not just some jaded, bored wife. She is the woman you used to love. And she’s the woman who never once contacted you in the past decade.”
“I’m well aware of that. You needn’t fear for my heart, brother. It’s no longer tender. I’ve spent years banging it against other women’s backs, as you kindly point out.”
“Aidan—” Edward started, but Aidan shook his head.
“It is only the truth.” He was out the door and headed for the stairway before his brother could stop him.
He cursed as he bounded up the stairs, briefly sorry he’d said one word about Katie. He wasn’t stupid. He knew they were both changed. But that was why he wasn’t afraid. She was married. There was no chance at a tender, innocent reunion. There was no chance he’d tumble into love again and beg her to marry him. She was someone’s wife. And if she was an unhappy wife, well what woman wasn’t? He had some experience in unhappy wives, after all.
After Katie’s supposed death, the women of the ton had taken an uncomfortably avid interest in his return to the social scene, and that was before he’d even made his fortune. Young women, especially, suddenly began treating him like a rare treasure that had been plunked down in their midst. He’d finally solved the mystery of his appeal weeks later when one of his lovers had made a confession—all her friends were half in love with him, taken with a rumor that he was grieving the death of a secret lover. That was why they wanted him: because he’d lost Katie.
He’d been coldly furious at the time, sick that Katie’s death had become titillation for the ton, and yet he hadn’t stopped. He’d used the bodies of those women to forget for a few moments, and so he’d used her death as well. As that realization had sunk into his bones, he’d only become more dissolute.
The guilt and the drink had nearly killed him. And then a cousin in France had proposed a partnership. He’d needed an English contact, and Aidan had needed . . . what? To prove himself? Certainly the idea of making a fortune had appealed to his sense of revenge. Kate’s father had rejected Aidan’s suit because he’d had no means to support a wif
e. Or her family, in retrospect.
So he’d gone to France, drawn by a desire to show Kate’s father up and, if truth be told, by the idea of drowning his sorrows in Frenchwomen for a time. Eventually, he’d found that he could drown his sorrows in business, as well. That deal had saved him. But not his soul. Not his conscience.
After a time, it hadn’t been Katie he’d grieved for, but the man he’d meant to be. He’d betrayed himself with his actions.
When he reached the fourth floor, Aidan was happy for the dimness. It helped alleviate the sudden stark fear that Kate would find out what kind of man he’d become. But no. No, her own desire for privacy would protect his secrets. And who would ever tell her?
He lit the lantern that hung on a nail on the wall, then opened the door to the attic stairs. Once he reached the warm, dusty black of the attic itself, he turned up the wick on the lamp. Narrow trails snaked through the boxes and crates, leaving little room to maneuver. Thankfully, he found his chests stacked near the door, as if they had awaited him all this time.
The top chest contained nothing but old clothes as far as he could tell. When he lifted the lid of the bottom one though, he found what he’d been looking for. Nestled among the books and papers lay a large wooden box, carved with his initials. He hesitated a moment, watching the box with a wary look, as if it might lash out and injure him. He’d purposefully packed it away to remove the temptation of revisiting his memories of her. Blowing out a long breath that sent dust motes dancing wildly, he took the box from its coffin, set it on a crate, and opened the lid.
It was all there, the pitiful leavings of his secret time with Kate. Twelve letters—lavender paper covered with her looping script. A tiny white lace handkerchief that had once smelled tormentingly of her perfume. A pressed flower she had included with a note. And there, underneath it all, the thing he’d come here for.
The heavy gold pocket watch had been her grandfather’s, she’d told him as she pressed it into his hand. She’d given it to Aidan as a pledge of love, bidding him hold it for her until their marriage. He still remembered the way his fingers had shaken as they closed around it. They’d just made love for the first time, both of them nervous and overwhelmed with emotion as they gave their innocence to each other.
Jesus, they’d been fools. Certain, as only young people can be, that the world would genuflect before their love. Only a month later they’d been shouting at each other in frustration, helpless in the face of her father’s refusal.
And then she’d been gone.
Every day for a year Aidan had carried this damned watch over his heart until he’d finally grown so disgusted with his own grief that he’d packed everything away in this box and never looked at it again. Until now.
Slipping the watch into his breast pocket, feeling the familiar weight settle against his chest, Aidan made his way out of the attic with a grim smile. He now had the perfect excuse to see Kate again, whether she wanted him to return or not.
Chapter 10
“My husband will be arriving soon enough,” Kate said past clenched teeth, turning her back on Gulliver Wilson to resume dusting the coffee bins.
“It’s inappropriate for you to remain alone so long,” he grumbled.
Kate let her mouth fall open with shock at his impudence, though in truth she wasn’t shocked at all. “Really, Mr. Wilson, you are being utterly inappropriate. It is hardly your place to question the actions of my husband, sir.”
He cleared his throat. “Perhaps Englishmen raised in the Orient don’t understand the correct care of a lady, madam.”
“Perhaps you don’t understand that you’re behaving outrageously! I’ll bid you good evening, sir.”
The blasted man actually stayed where he was. She glanced past her shoulder to find him frowning down at her. He was a bully, and he wanted her to be cowed by him, but she refused to comply. A whole minute ticked past before he nodded and made his way to the door.
The moment the door closed behind him, Kate stood straight and twisted her hands into her apron. Mr. Wilson was too suspicious. What if he decided to “helpfully” track her husband down and ask when he planned to join Kate in England? It was too soon for this. If it was discovered that Mr. Hamilton didn’t exist, her business would be ruined. But that sort of information would take months to ferret out. Years even. And no one would connect her to David Gallow. More importantly, no one would connect her to David’s death or the horrible threats of his son.
Her stomach ached at the thought. Not for the first time, she almost wished she’d stayed in Ceylon long enough to know the outcome of that night. But she’d had no choice. She’d promised David she’d never reveal the truth, and so she’d had to run.
The letter hidden beneath the countertop was another worry buzzing around her head like a hornet, but she wouldn’t rush over to it and hold it in trembling hands like some helpless young girl. Instead, she finished her dusting like the responsible business owner she was, then she stowed away her rags and duster and sat calmly down at her stool.
The letter had arrived from London two weeks before. She’d taken it out every day to stare it down as if it were a snake. A Mr. Dalworth claimed to be writing as a representative of a very important planter in Ceylon. He’d heard of Hamilton Coffees and wanted to discuss a deal with the shop owner personally, perhaps saving all interested parties a good deal of money in the process.
Mr. Dalworth did not name the planter. Kate felt suspicious of that, yet she could understand the reasoning. The planter would not wish to anger his current broker. Still, it made her nervous. What made her even more nervous was that Mr. Dalworth would be personally traveling to Hull this week.
Why?
Kate glared down at the letter for the hundredth time. Mr. Dalworth’s client wished to know Mr. Hamilton’s background and reputation. If only Mr. Hamilton actually existed, it would be simple information to provide.
This was exactly the type of deal that could help her business flourish. Exactly the purpose behind all her scheming. She knew the product, after all. She knew it from the moment the woody sprouts pushed from black soil. She knew when the beans must be picked to hold the greatest flavor. And most importantly, she knew which plantations took more care than others. Which owner demanded his workers pick the most beans, and which owners taught workers to pick the best.
But no one would believe a woman could know so much, which was exactly why she’d invented a husband upon her return to England. Just for a little while, then she’d lay him to rest. It wasn’t such an awful lie, surely. Her real husband was dead, and she deserved to make something good of her years on Ceylon.
But an inquiry from an anonymous planter in Ceylon? A coincidence or a trap?
Kate took a deep breath and looked around her shop. This life she had built. This good and right thing she’d carved for herself out of darkness. A year ago, she would have lowered her head and curled her arms around herself, afraid to take a chance. But now she thought . . . now she thought she would rather go down kicking and screaming, mad with fury. If it was a trap, she would fall into it and wait for the chance to attack the man who’d laid it.
She carefully folded the letter, zipping her finger over the creases to seal them tight. Then she slipped the letter back under the counter and dusted her hands. And now her workday was over, and a sizzle of anticipation traced through her body.
She slipped the latch and rushed to the back room, her boots raising a happy riot against the wood floor. Purposefully ignoring the kitchen and the two burnt dinner pots that awaited her attention, she grabbed her hooded cloak from a nail on the wall and pushed open the alley door. The air that greeted her when she stepped outside was startlingly crisp.
Kate paused for just a moment to inhale the delicious coldness, ignoring the various alley odors that lingered about. The warm spell had finally broken, and the weather she’d been waiting for had arrived.
Rushing down the alley, she eyed the sky above hopefully. Flat
gray clouds hung still over her head like great, floating promises. She wound her way through the lanes until she reached the strolling park, then veered away from the ancient willow, choosing a bench on the opposite side of the lawn. There was no sense in reminding herself of Aidan.
The wind sent brown leaves skittering over the grass as she sat down and gazed across the park. It all thrilled her—the dry sound of the dead leaves, the hard bite of the air, the wind’s cruel caress as it snuck into the folds of her cloak.
The grocer, Mr. Johansen, had predicted it would snow before sunset. She was ready.
Sitting as still as the stones that made up the bench beneath her, Kate waited and thought of nothing, refusing to allow even a hint of an idea or memory to form in her mind. She simply closed her eyes and breathed.
She’d discovered over the course of her time abroad that heat was a fortress, a prison. It oppressed the body and the mind, suffocated the soul. The cold was liberating. She suspected that, if she wished, she could rise up and fly away on a stir of the wind.
A tiny pinprick struck her cheek. Then another.
A fan of bittersweet euphoria swept through her body. Eyes still closed, she turned her face up to the sky and felt a dozen more snowflakes land on her skin. Her mouth stretched into a wide, unfettered grin and a sobbing laugh escaped her.
Seconds later, her face now wet with melted snow, she opened her eyes to see flakes floating, dancing, blowing through the air. A weight lifted from her heart at the sight. It was silly, she knew. She’d been back in England for months now, but for the first time, she felt she’d returned.
She’d wondered sometimes, particularly since Aidan’s departure, whether she really belonged in England. She felt so changed, so foreign. It had even occurred to her that she’d died on that island and this was some sort of death dream. But sitting here in the cold, watching the dim light of the hidden sun grow dimmer, she knew she was home. A few hot tears mixed with the dampness on her cold cheeks as darkness finally fell over the park.
It's Always Been You Page 6