by Anita Higman
Drawn to its lovely innocence in the midst of so much darkness, I reached into the chest and took out the toy, turning it over in my hand.
My revelry was interrupted by Wyatt’s voice. “How’s it going down there?”
Stuffing the sailboat into my jacket pocket, I said, “Good. Just gimme a second.”
I put the flashlight down and got behind the chest, being careful with my injured ankle. Then I pushed the chest so it sat beneath the hole in the ceiling. Thankfully, it was fairly light.
Wyatt—who was lying on his belly with his arms already extended toward me—gave me a thumb’s up. “Great. Now get on it and give me your hands.”
“Are you really going to be able to pull me up?”
He smiled. “Have a little faith.”
I shrugged. “Okay, here goes.” I got up onto the chest, swaying a bit, and reached up and grasped Wyatt’s wrists, my hands clammy against his skin. He squeezed my wrists tight and said, “Ready?”
“Yes.”
Then he pulled, with greater strength than I predicted, grunting as he raised me to the upper level. Our faces inches apart and our breathing ragged, I grabbed the edge of the floor with one of my hands, the rough splinters piercing my palm.
With one last burst of effort, Wyatt pulled my entire body out of the hole. We lay there for a moment, ribcages heaving. As I sat up, I looked over at Wyatt and noticed that there was a small tear in the fabric of his shirt around the upper chest. Beneath the cloth, a red stain was slowly widening.
“Oh no. You’re bleeding. How did that happen?” I asked.
Rising to a squat, he felt the cut gingerly with his fingertips. He made a “huh” sound, like he was just now noticing he was hurt. “It’s not too bad. I guess some splinters got me.”
“Really? It looks deep.”
“Don’t get all Florence Nightingale on me now. I’m fine. Promise.”
I sighed. “Okay. Hey, thanks for helping me. Really.”
Shrugging it off, he said, “No problem.”
“What was that place?” I nodded toward the dark hole.
“They’re the catacombs that run under the abbey. I haven’t been able to get in for years. Ever since Ivan blocked the only entrance.”
“Well, we just made our own entrance.”
“Yeah. Although I don’t think Ivan will be very fond of it.” Wyatt stood and helped me up.
“Why would Ivan need a secret passageway?”
Wyatt held out his arm to support my limping walk and we continued down the passage, giving the hole a wide berth. “Use your imagination.”
“That’s not a very satisfactory answer.” Being so near Wyatt, I could smell him. The scent wasn’t like soap or deodorant or anything store bought. It was just him.
“Yeah, well, you’d better get used to having unanswered questions.”
“By the way, I saw some pretty freaky markings on the walls down there.”
Wyatt glanced at me, interest sparking in his eyes. “Really?”
I described what I’d seen, minus the sailboat still hidden in my pocket.
“I might have to find a way down there and check it out.” There was a feverish intensity in his voice that I hadn’t heard before.
“Well, just be careful if you do. You wouldn’t want to get trapped down there,” I said, shivering.
After a few minutes of walking, we reached another panel in the left wall. The passage continued on, curving out of sight. I’d definitely have to explore more later.
Wyatt flicked a switch beside the exit to the douse the lights and then he cracked open the panel to the boardroom. Seeing that it was empty, we emerged into the yawning room. After being in such a small space for so long, the boardroom’s ceilings seemed as high as the sky.
Finally, after passing through another hallway and the foyer, we left Belrose through the main entrance’s massive arched doors. Wyatt pointed to the guest house a short distance away. “There you are, milady. Safely delivered to your destination.”
“You call that safe?” I gestured to the blood on his shirt and my swollen ankle.
Wyatt grimaced. “I guess not. Can I make it up to you? Give you a piggyback ride to the door perhaps?”
I laughed despite myself. “No thanks, I’m fine.”
“Okay. I’ll make amends some other way.” Wearing that smug smile, he turned and headed back to the abbey.
Smiling, I hobbled down the walkway to the guest house, ready for a bag of ice on my ankle and a quiet moment to digest all that had just happened. A hidden love letter to a mystery woman. A secret passage. Catacombs. I still couldn’t wrap my mind around it.
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the toy sailboat. It was beautifully crafted and intricate in its detail. It looked as though it could set sail at that very moment. I brought it closer to my face, inspecting the tiny portholes, the figurehead, and the helm. There were small, black markings on the inner side of one of the sails. Curious, I angled the ship so the sun would shine on the wording. The name that the letters formed stopped me cold.
IVAN
Chapter Seven
Dauphine
I saw Anne fidget in her black dress as she gave me one of her looks. “I don’t mind so much once in a while, but I hope we don’t have to dress up for dinner all the time.” She looked uncomfortable and itchy like she did when she was five and covered with poison ivy.
I suppressed a grin. “I have no idea.” I looked away from the full-length mirror, since I had grown to hate staring at my pale reflection. “I’m sorry we don’t have much in the way of fancy clothes. You know money has been thin ever since the funeral. And I’m afraid that’s my fault.”
“It’s okay, Mom. You haven’t felt well enough to work.”
My precious Anne was too good to me. Mist stung my eyes as I fingered the fragile material on my violet dress. “I guess I’ll have to keep my hands right in front of my dress like this, since that’s where I mended that bad tear.”
Anne sat on the edge of my bed, being careful with her hurt ankle. She’d told me earlier that she’d tripped on the lip of some sort of rabbit hole on the grounds. Thankfully the swelling was going down. Pulling at a loose thread on her dress, Anne said, “Ivan doesn’t really care if we’re kind of shabby…does he?”
“He doesn’t seem to notice those kinds of things. And really, that is to his credit. Most men with his wealth might be bothered by the fact that we arrived looking like a couple of Raggedy Annes.” I gave my hair a few strokes with a brush from the vanity table—a brush that appeared to be encrusted with rubies. “But none of this feels like mine. I wonder even after I marry Ivan, if any of this will ever feel like mine.”
“Why do you say that?” Anne swept her hair up into a bun.
“Oh, I’m just rambling. But it was something my father used to say. You don’t own what you don’t earn.” I shook off the blues, sat next to Anne on the bed, and dropped a kiss on her head. “Enough dreary talk for now, little love. I have a surprise. Ivan stopped by earlier to drop a gift off for you. He wanted you to have it before dinnertime.”
“Really? What is it?”
“I don’t know.” I went over to the armoire, pulled out the box, and handed it to Anne. “Ivan was very secretive about it.”
“Secretive, huh?” Anne tugged on the scarlet ribbon adorning the gold box and let the trimming fall to the floor. She removed the lid, pushed away a veil of white tissue, and peered inside.
I clasped my hands together, hoping that whatever Ivan had given her would bring a smile to my daughter’s face. And perhaps be the beginnings of a bond between her and Ivan. “What is it?”
“A novel. A really old one.” She ran her fingertips over the cover.
I peered over her shoulder at the dark green book that had a title gilded in gold. “The Romance of the Forest. Didn’t you say that was your favorite novel?”
“Yeah, it is. Wonder how Ivan…uh, I mean Mr. Helsburg, could have kn
own that. Did you tell him?”
“I remember telling him a lot about you but never that particular thing.”
“Wonder how he found out then,” Anne said.
“Hmm. Don’t know. Ivan has a unique way about him. When he starts to care about people, he likes to know every little thing about them.”
“Really?” Anne gazed at me, a look I’d not seen before. “Is that cool or just a little bit creepy?”
“Oh, Anne. That’s not spooky. Come on now. I really do think you’ve been influenced by all those gothic novels you’ve read.”
“Maybe.” Anne kicked at one of her Converse shoes, which she’d tossed on the floor. She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it, her lips pursing. She seemed to be having an inner struggle.
“Is there something on your mind?” Maybe all this change was too much for her.
Anne met my eyes and she seemed right on the verge of telling me something. But then she looked away and shook her head, sighing. “Nah.” She lifted the book. “So, you think his attention to detail is an endearing quality, huh?”
She’d dodged my question, but hopefully she’d tell me her worries soon. Answering her query, I said, “Yes, I do find the quality endearing.” A quality that unfortunately my dear Edgar had never possessed. But not wanting Anne to think less of her father, I let it go.
Anne took a whiff of the book. “Smells kind of musty.” She opened the novel to the first page. “No way. I mean it. No way.”
“What is it?”
“It’s signed by the author. Look.”
“Ann Radcliffe.”
“Mom, this was written like in the 1700s. If this signature is real, this book is worth a fortune.” Anne’s eyes went round. “What did you say Ivan did for a living?”
I took a closer look at the book. “A large potion of Ivan’s wealth came from a very well-to-do great great grandfather, but Ivan also said he’d made his own fortune in investments.”
“Man, he must travel in some pretty rich circles.”
“Maybe, but he has a modest, down-to-earth side too, which is probably why I met him in an old-fashioned diner.” I tossed my hair over my shoulders. “A diner with vinyl tablecloths no less.”
“Yeah, you got a real pedestrian kind of guy, Mom.” Anne shook her head, then laughed.
I threw on a velvety shawl, since the halls of Belrose seemed drafty. “So do you love your gift?”
“I love it. It’s amazing.” She cradled it in her arm like the treasure it was.
“Good. We’d better hurry. We don’t want to be late for dinner.”
Anne slipped on her black flats, holding my arm for support. “That’s right. We wouldn’t want Miss Easton to come and get us. She might drag us down to the dungeon and string us up on some instrument of torture.”
Laughing, we left the guest house and headed to the abbey. The last of the sun and a row of lantern lights bathed us in a golden glow as we walked along the path. Beautiful.
Miss Easton was waiting for us outside the doors. Well, that took some of the beauty out of the moment, but I would hope for the best.
When the woman saw us approaching, she snapped her pocket watch shut and sniffed, as if she were disappointed that we were on time and couldn’t give us a scolding.
“Come along,” she said, her lips drawing together like a tight rosebud.
As she led us through the abbey to the dining room, I was struck by how different everything looked at night. The lit sconces on the walls gave a honey hue to the hallway, but the light could only reach its fingers so far. Shadows pooled in every corner and along the ceilings. I held Anne tighter as I helped her hobble along. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be walking through the abbey much at night.
Despite Anne’s little limp, Miss Easton didn’t slow her pace, her stride stretching her long, black skirt to its limit. We arrived at the dining room. A long mahogany table stretched along the length of the room, covered with every kind of finery. Once again, the opulence left me speechless. The table could easily seat twenty five, maybe thirty. I knew Ivan was intent on displaying for us all the wonders of Belrose, but I would have preferred something more intimate for dinner.
Miss Easton gestured toward the head of the table where three places were set. “Dinner will be served when Master Helsburg arrives.” And with that, she swept from the room, her mass of keys jangling with every footstep.
Anne and I seated ourselves across from each other in the straight-backed chairs, leaving the head for Ivan. She slouched, squirming in the rigid, unyielding chair. Hanging above a gleaming cabinet filled with polished glasses, there was an oil painting of a beautiful woman with a mass of thick black curls spilling over her shoulders, her skin as creamy as a porcelain cameo. But the most striking part was her eyes—a pale ice blue.
“Good thing we don’t have to sit at opposite ends of the table.” Anne said. “We’d have to shout to hear each other. It seems a little silly to have dinner in here when it’s just the three of us, don’t you think?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Ivan is only trying to give us a grand welcome. Make sure to thank him for the book.”
“I will.”
Pulling my shawl closer, I said, “It’s strange that Ivan is late. Usually he’s very prompt.”
For another ten minutes, we sat and watched the minute hand crawl on a platter-sized clock on the wall. Just as Anne was showing me how to fold my napkin into a swan, Ivan marched into the room, straightening his jacket and hair.
“Please excuse me ladies. Earlier I heard a disturbance somewhere within the abbey and it had to be taken care of.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Yes. I believe it was one of my staff, sneaking about where they shouldn’t be. Once I’ve found the responsible party, they will be dealt with. While I’m speaking of it, I would ask you both to be careful in the…less frequented parts of the abbey. Sometimes the floorboards can be unstable. I don’t want either of you to come to any harm.” Ivan tilted his head, mouth grim. “In fact, I would prefer if you stayed to the main hallway and the rooms adjoining. No need to go looking for trouble.” He gestured toward a small cart by the wall piled with little white towels. “Would the both of you care for a moist towelette for your hands before dinner?”
I rose. “I’d love one.” I glanced at Anne as she stood and clutched the chair for support. “No need to get up, dear. I’ll get you one.”
Ivan noticed her frailty immediately, his eyes sharpening. “Anne, have you injured yourself?” The words themselves were solicitous and kind. But his tone was laced with something…suspicion. And maybe a spark of anger. So unlike him.
Anne froze by her chair, her face ghost white.
Chapter Eight
Anne
It was the first time Ivan had ever really looked at me. Or at least it felt like the first time.
And it made my words stick in my throat.
I swallowed hard. “Um, I just twisted my ankle a bit. Fell in a rabbit hole.” My pathetic lie faded to a whisper on my lips. Would he see through me and guess the truth? At least if he did, maybe then he wouldn’t blame one of his staff for the flooring I’d destroyed—if that was even the disturbance he was talking about. Although I’d hate to start out on the wrong foot with Ivan before he even married Mom.
As an afterthought, I blurted, “Oh and thank you for the book by the way. It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten.” That at least was true.
The sharp edge in Ivan’s gaze softened and he tried on a smile, although it flickered like a weak candle. “Ah yes. The Radcliffe. I thought you’d enjoy it.” He pointed at my chair. “Please sit. You shouldn’t be standing on that ankle. And I shall have one of the grounds keepers fill in the hole. Perhaps you can point it out to them tomorrow.” There was a note of skepticism in his voice.
“Uh, sure.” No wonder I’d never formed a habit of lying. I already felt neck deep. I guess I’d be digging a rabbit-sized hole later.
When we were all seated, Ivan rang a small silver bell and a door in the corner opened almost immediately, as if the server had been waiting there, ear pressed to the wood. A string of waiters in black jackets poured out, carrying trays of what looked like the first course. Some kind of soup. I started when I saw Wyatt at the end of the line of servants. He looked older in his formal clothes and his unruly curls had been combed back.
As the servers offered us our soup, Wyatt filled our glasses with sparkling water. When he came around to me, I smiled up at him. But he didn’t even meet my eyes. Weird. Maybe he wasn’t allowed to be friendly when he served us.
All of the formality suddenly felt incredibly stifling, like an overly starched shirt. I picked up my goblet and gave my water a good slurp, just to shatter some of the icy pretense chilling the room. Mom gave me a quizzical look and when I glanced at Wyatt, I thought I could see a smirk fighting to be free.
After the soup was served we began to eat. No grace was said like Mom did at home. And not so much as a, “Wow, this looks good.” I sipped at my soup. It was cold, but I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut about it. Weren’t some soups served cold? No sense in coming off like a total bumpkin.
The evening progressed quietly, broken by occasional small talk about the upcoming wedding, the brush of servants, and the soft clanking of utensils against fine china. Since Mom and I had never eaten or seen any of the dishes before, Ivan enlightened us, course by course. Vichyssoise, toasted Brioche with crème fraiche and caviar, a goat cheese and pistachio salad, braised duck legs with figs, and chocolate liqueur soufflés for dessert. I was happy to see Mom eating most of her food, even some of the weirder stuff.
Throughout dinner, I watched Ivan closely, reading into his reactions and expressions. I especially looked for signs of a latent temper. My dad may not have known about the different types of caviar, but he had always been a patient man. And I knew that’s what Mom needed.
I also kept thinking about the old love note hidden in Ivan’s office. Obviously it meant something to him since he’d kept it. Who was Celeste? An old girlfriend? Fiancée? If he’d been married before, surely Mom would have told me. But was Ivan still carrying a torch for this woman—reusing old speeches he’d once poured out to her on the page?