by Anita Higman
And then there was the matter of the toy sailboat bearing his name. The fact that it was in the catacombs didn’t necessarily mean that Ivan had ever been imprisoned in that cell. The chest could have been put down there for storage. But still…there was the nagging what if. If Ivan had been the one to make those disturbing inscriptions on the walls—perhaps as a trapped, helpless child—what kind of man would emerge from an experience so traumatic and scarring? Surely any person who had undergone that kind of terror would need serious psychological help.
But I did know one thing. Before I told Mom about my discoveries, I needed to find out more. No use in worrying her for no reason. She had never dealt well with anxiety.
After the last of dinner had been cleared away, except for coffees, Ivan took a small black velvet box out of his jacket pocket and leaned toward Mom, an almost boyish eagerness crossing his face. This must be the locket that Wyatt had gotten out of the chest of drawers, although the box wasn’t quite the right shape to hold it.
Taking Mom’s hand, Ivan said, “Since I gave your daughter a gift, it seems only proper that I should give my bride something as well.” He placed the box in her palm. “Here, I hope you like it.”
Mom seemed to melt in her chair, her eyes shining. “Oh thank you Ivan. You shouldn’t have.”
The effect Ivan had on my mom was plain as day. While I wanted to be happy that she was able to make Bambi eyes at a man after all the grief she’d been through, the scene scared me a bit. She’d fallen so fast. And I prayed that it wasn’t into some kind of trap.
Cracking open the box, Mom gasped and pulled out a cameo brooch, ringed in gold. “Oh look, Anne. Isn’t it beautiful?” She held it up for me to see.
I nodded, forcing my lips into a smile. Yes, it was beautiful.
But it wasn’t the locket. That scoundrel Wyatt lied to me.
Mom unhooked the pin. “I’m going to see how it looks.” As she pushed it through the fabric of her blouse, the sharp point snagged the delicate skin of her finger. She winced. “Oh dear, it seems I’ve pricked myself.” Blood—bright against her fair skin—began to pool and spill out of the cut.
Knowing that even small scrapes could draw a lot of blood because of Mom’s hemophilia, I turned to Ivan. “We need a bandage.”
Ivan sat rooted to his chair, his eyes glistening as he stared at Mom, mesmerized. He seemed to be in some strange trance.
Surely Ivan knew about Mom’s ailment. I cleared my throat. “Mr. Helsburg, she needs a bandage. Now…please,” my voice gaining some intensity.
Ivan blinked and returned to himself. “Yes, of course.” Walking over to the servant’s entrance, he opened the door and called, “Wyatt. Get some rubbing alcohol and a bandage. Quickly.” Returning to his chair, he comforted Mom with a few gentle words as she attempted to stem the flow of blood.
A few moments later, Wyatt came into the room, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, cotton swabs, and a bandage in his hands. Surprisingly, he cleaned Mom’s cut himself and carefully bound up her finger, all with a practiced finesse. I was grateful for that, although he was still a thieving, lying scoundrel.
After Mom thanked him, Wyatt started to pick up the first aid supplies. I couldn’t keep myself from speaking up. “Thanks for the help, Wyatt. It seems that the brooch Mr. Helsburg gave my mom is a wee bit sharp.” I looked Wyatt in the eyes and gave my chin a defiant little jerk.
If he was attempting to be smug, it wasn’t showing in his face. “Oh…yes. Those things can be rather pointy.” He began to retreat, eyes to the ground.
Mom waved her bandaged finger between the two of us. “Wait, have you two met?”
“Yes,” I spat. Anger at being tricked and toyed with made me feel reckless. “I met him today rummaging through a chest of drawers in one of the rooms. And I happen to know that—”
Wyatt’s voice overpowered mine as he interjected. “That I am soon to be family to you both. After all, I am Master Helsburg’s stepson.”
Chapter Nine
Dauphine
Igiggled at Wyatt’s obvious joke. My laughter sounded silvery and girlish—I was still a little lightheaded from the sight of my blood. If Wyatt’s comment was any indication, Ivan must allow his employees to be themselves, which showed another fine facet of his personality. And the young man certainly had a sense of humor. Wyatt would make a good friend for my Anne.
Then my heart did an unnatural thump when I realized something.
No one else saw the mirth in the situation but me.
Anne turned to Wyatt, her fingers closing into a fist. “Are you really trying to cover up one lie by telling another?” She jerked her hand forward in a nervous gesture, overturning the crystal demitasse of coffee. The liquid spread into an ugly brown stain on the pristine fabric.
“Calm down, Anne.” Wyatt said. “I’m telling the truth.” He began sopping up the coffee-soaked tablecloth with a wad of linen napkins.
“The truth,” I whispered these words but they sounded far away, as if someone else had uttered them. “That can’t be true. Ivan has never been married.” I tried to keep the lightness in my voice, but it faded away the second I saw the cloud of sorrow that settled on Ivan’s features. My fiancé had gone as pale as the moon. “Ivan? Why don’t you say something?”
Ivan pushed his coffee away. “Because what Wyatt says, my darling…is true. I was married seven years ago, but now I am a widower.”
I leaned forward barely breathing. “But you never told me. I thought—”
“I know. But please, let me tell you my story.” Ivan shot Wyatt a heavy look. “But in private, young Wyatt, if you don’t mind.”
Wyatt scowled but left the room with no argument.
“I’m staying for this…if you don’t mind,” Anne’s words sliced through the thick air.
“Yes, that’s fine,” Ivan said. “I want you to hear this too.”
“Okay.” Anne shifted in her chair but didn’t look over at me and my bewildered expression.
While I waited for Ivan to elucidate on this rather shocking announcement, I clasped my wounded finger. The bleeding had finally stopped, but it throbbed as if the whole of my heart was inside my finger.
Ivan twisted the napkin in his hand until I thought it might tear. “I had planned to tell you tonight, my dearest. But I see that I need to tell you my unhappy story now.”
“Unhappy?” And from Ivan’s expression, I knew it would be. Change was coming to our relationship. Sad stories from a person’s history always did that. Oh, how I wish I could be anywhere but here right now. Perhaps drifting through the immense gardens, plucking posies. Munching on a jam covered biscuit in the kitchen. Reading a good novel. Anything but the news that I could see was going to change things between us.
Ivan cleared his throat. “Her name was Celeste. She was only my wife for three and a half brief weeks. It ended in such a tragedy no one speaks of it in this house.”
“Oh, I see.” I nodded, feeling such a tug of war inside—hoping he would continue and yet wishing he would say no more on the subject.
“Celeste was kind and good and had a gentle spirit much like yours. But we all have devils that we wrestle with, even those who are tender in heart. Celeste’s particular torment was depression. No matter how right we were for each other, she just couldn’t shake off a sense of impending doom. When we first met, all Celeste suffered with was just a bit of artistic melancholy…as all artists get from time to time. That is what she was, an artist, you see. A brilliant one, in fact. Her pieces still hang in one of the galleries here.”
“I hope you will show them to me.”
“I will. Someday soon. I promise. Anyway, after Celeste and I were wed, I could see that she was…I guess you could call it…closing in on herself. The gloom in her mind was like a shadow, consuming her. I didn’t know how to reach her. She became riddled with strange paranoias. I even brought in a doctor to counsel her, but it did no good. Celeste began to spend more and more time roaming t
he catacombs. She claimed she liked to paint down there in those dark rooms. But the light was terrible, and I know how important light is to an artist. Eventually, Celeste began to sleep down there too, until one day, she was found…” Ivan stopped, his face awash with despair.
“Ivan, you don’t have to talk about it anymore if it’s too hard. I mean it. Please.”
Ivan held up his hand. “No, maybe this is best. I need to share my grief with someone. I’ve held it in for so long. Maybe the burden has been too great.”
I sent him a smile. “What is the old saying about a burden shared is half the weight? Or something like that.”
Ivan sighed heavily. “Yes. There’s truth in that.”
I met eyes with Anne, but only for a second. She seemed occupied with Ivan now, studying him with such intensity it unsettled me. Except for the distinct tick, tick, ticking of the clock on the wall, we sat in silence for a while.
While we waited for Ivan to gather the rest of his story, one of the candles on the table sputtered out, sending up a thin wisp of smoke. The shadows around the room deepened, even though only a tiny light had been extinguished. I couldn’t help but wonder if his wife wouldn’t have been so depressed if there had been fewer closed drapes in the house and more light fixtures. The abbey always seemed to be shrouded in a slight gloom, even in mid-day.
Ivan stared at the portrait of the black-haired woman on the wall. I had assumed it was a painting of one of his distant relatives, but now I knew it was his late wife, Celeste. She was quite lovely. On closer inspection, though, behind her beauty, there was indeed a glimmer of unhappiness. Or was it fear? Yes, that was it. But why? Even with the house’s shadowy corners, what did she have to fear in such a beautiful place as Belrose Abbey?
As Ivan stared at the painting, he seemed far away—unreachable—even to me. That thought troubled me, but I knew it was silly. No matter how close a couple was, there would always be secrets of the heart that could never be shared. Even I hadn’t told Ivan everything about my life.
Suddenly Ivan continued, “Miss Easton found Celeste in the catacombs. Dead. She’d taken her own life. I won’t go into the unwholesome details. It’s unnecessary. But it was such a terrible grief to me that I no longer talk about it. No one in the house is to speak of it anymore. In fact, I strictly forbid—”
“How many other things will you forbid us to do?” Anne asked, her tone crackling the air.
“Anne!” Mortified, I asked, “What do you mean by saying that? Ivan has shared something heartbreaking just now. I’m sure he just means that he would rather not bring up such a painful topic. And we’ll honor that. Right?”
Anne hesitated.
My daughter was high-spirited at times, but never rude. So, what was going on?
For one long moment, something passed between Anne and Ivan. Something I couldn’t decipher. “Anne?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Helsburg,” Anne blurted out. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I don’t know why I said that. It just popped out. Maybe it’s because all this news is pretty…shocking.” She gave me a breeching look. “Right?”
“Yes, of course it was. It is. A shock.” Leaning toward Ivan, I said, “But I do understand why you didn’t tell me at first. And I know in your own good time, as you mentioned, you would have told me.”
“Yes, I would have. I had planned to…” Then Ivan crushed his napkin over his face and wept. When his tears turned into sobs, I rushed over to him, lacing my arms around him. “Oh, my darling. I’m so sorry.”
As I pulled away, Ivan wiped his face with the napkin. “I’m all right now.”
“Okay.”
“There is one more thing I want you to know. About Wyatt. I have treated him as I would my own son by teaching him the value of hard work. It’s nothing less than what my mother did for me. I’ve even taught Wyatt some of the inner workings of my business, to prepare him for the world. I was determined to do the right thing and give him a place to stay as long as he wanted, even though we aren’t related by blood. I would never want you to think I wouldn’t do the right thing.”
“Of course you’ve done the right thing.” I made little rubbing circles on his back with my fingers. “I would never think otherwise of you.”
Ivan took my hand and with the touch of a potter holding a delicate vase, he lifted my hand to his lips and brushed it with a kiss. Then he looked into my eyes with the most imploring expression I’d ever seen. He must have felt such sorrow and loneliness, having loved his wife. Poor, dear, man. That sensation of loss I knew well, all the way to my soul. In spite of his lapse in not telling me the truth of his past, I felt an even closer connection to Ivan at that moment.
But as I left Ivan’s side to return to my chair, an uneasy sensation niggled at me. It was seeing his tidy appearance. Even though Ivan had sobbed heavily, his eyes weren’t rimmed in red. Nor was the napkin he’d cleaned his face with damp in any way.
Chapter Ten
Anne
When dinner finally ended, Ivan offered to take me and Mom on a moonlit stroll through the vast gardens. He’d certainly recovered quickly from the dispensing of gruesome news, the shedding of tears, and the verbal tussle we’d had. In fact, it seemed like something else to add to my list of concerns. I politely declined the leisurely walk, saying they should probably have some alone time together. Which was partly true.
For now, I just wanted to hunt Wyatt down and make him feel sufficiently guilty for all the lies he told me today.
After Ivan and Mom left the dining room, I hobbled to the door—the one the waiters had used—and wrenched it open. A long corridor stretched before me, broken up by archways leading off to the right and left. Ivan’s warning to keep to the main hallway replayed in my head, but curiosity got the best of me and I stepped into the corridor. I’d start following that rule tomorrow.
Maybe.
I peeked through several arches, seeing a wine cellar, a storeroom, and an enclave filled with nothing but huge rinds of stinky cheeses. As I made my way down the corridor, the clanging of pots and pans drew me to a set of swinging double doors. Peering into the kitchen through a small square window, I saw Wyatt hanging his jacket in an armoire and mussing his slicked-back hair.
Suddenly feeling rash, I shoved both double doors open with all my strength, like a cowboy entering a saloon. Unfortunately, a portly man in a chef’s hat happened to walk by and the edge of the door caught him square in the side. Crying out in French, he fell sprawling on the floor—a massive, white-aproned heap.
I gasped. “Oh no! I’m so sorry.” I reached out to him, accidently putting weight on my weak ankle and before I knew it, I was toppling onto the poor chef’s belly, squashing more French expletives out of him.
As I rolled off him onto the cold tile floor, Wyatt rushed up to us, his expression an odd mixture of concern and mirth. “Are you okay?” He helped me to my feet and then knelt before the blubbering chef, who held the side of his face. “Ca va?” Wyatt asked the man, a hand on his beefy shoulder.
“No!” The large man struggled to his feet and spit out a long string of rapid fire French, his hands flailing as he stomped out of the kitchen, leaving me and Wyatt alone.
I gaped at Wyatt, my face beet red. “Do you know what he said?”
“Some of it. You’re better off not knowing.” Wyatt bit his lip to keep from grinning.
I covered my face with my hands and groaned. “My breakfast is totally going to get sneezed on.”
Wyatt perched on the edge of a nearby stool. “Nah. Franc loves to complain. And you’ve given him enough ammo for the next six months.”
Sighing heavily, I sat on a stool beside him. “I actually came down here to chew you out.”
He laughed. “But instead you got chewed out by an angry Frenchman.” Then his expression became serious. “Listen, I’m sorry I lied to you earlier. About the locket.”
“And you left out the fact that we’ll be related pretty soon.”
Wy
att held up a finger. “Barely related.” He looked down for a moment, swinging his foot. “I really do have an explanation about the locket. I just didn’t feel like telling the truth to a total stranger.” From his pocket, he pulled out the locket I’d seen him with earlier. He coiled the fine silver chain into the hollow of his palm and placed the locket on top, its heart-shaped face encrusted with a blood red ruby. He idly flipped the locket open—it was empty—and then clicked it shut, as if he’d been hoping to find something within. “It was my mother’s. Ivan gave it to her before they were married. And honestly, I was afraid he would try to give it to your mom before the wedding.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t have that.”
I nodded. “I don’t blame you. It must be hard—another family barging into your home and taking up Ivan’s time.”
His hand closed over the locket and he shoved it into his pocket. “This will never be my home. And I don’t care what Ivan does with his time.” Wyatt stood to leave, but I suddenly didn’t want the conversation to end.
“You were right to take the locket. I think Ivan might be reusing some of his old moves on my mom.”
Frowning, Wyatt said, “What do you mean?”
Taking a deep breath, I told him about the speech I’d heard Ivan give my mom out on the balcony and how it was identical to the letter he’d written to Celeste.
Wyatt’s eyes drilled into mine. “Normally I wouldn’t be this open with someone I just met, but since you’re about to be in the same boat as I was—” here he looked around the kitchen, even though it was deserted. He leaned in close to whisper, his mouth inches from my ear. “I don’t think my mother killed herself.”
Chapter Eleven
Anne
My pulse quickened. “What are you saying? That…she was murdered?” The last word came out as a hiss.