Chapter Seven
“Eisley, darling, I’m so happy to finally meet you in person.” Lizzie Worthing wrapped her slender arms around Eisley’s shoulders and pulled her into a hug. “Is all that red hair natural, luv?”
Eisley repressed a laugh and peered over Lizzie’s shoulder at Eleanor, who only shook her head with a ‘you gotta love her’ smile.
“Every last bit of it.”
Lizzie stepped back, hands steadied on Eisley’s arms, caramel eyes brightened. “Simply lovely. If I’d had children, I’d have wished for one with red hair. It’s so unique.” She fluttered her fingers towards the chairs. “I hope you’ve come with an appetite for adventure.”
Eisley kinked a brow. “Are you baiting me?”
Lizzie’s tilted lips continued Eisley’s playful banter. “Hook, line, and sinker.”
“She’s always been the daring sort, Eisley dear,” Eleanor said, the closeness of the two ladies almost palpable. “She’s pulled me into many an adventure.”
An immediate kinship linked her to Lizzie Worthing, and since they were forty-fifth cousins, or something like that, it was perfectly natural. She was the British equivalent of her baby sister Sophie, plus about thirty years. Glowing golden eyes, dreamy expressions, all housed within a mind wandering from reality to fantasy and framed within a head of sun-kissed hair.
“I must admit I am invigorated by a good scheme.”
Eleanor’s gaze fastened on her friend. “I believe you’ve involved Daniel in your most recent plot, haven’t you, my friend? With a match or two?”
An undercurrent passed between the ladies, a message Eisley was a little afraid to ask about.
Lizzie’s eyes widened in response. She cleared her throat and stared past Eleanor in the doorway. “Speaking of your darling, where is Daniel today?”
“He felt a bit ill this morning, so he’s lying in. Wes will collect Eisley in a few hours.” Eleanor quirked a mischievous grin. “I’ll leave the two of you to your discoveries.”
Lizzie’s eyes darted from Eleanor’s face to Eisley’s with enough excitement to send them all on a search for the Lost Ark. “Precisely. Discoveries, and the hope for more discoveries. Uncle Joseph will not be disappointed.”
The house was enormous. Lizzie spent an entire hour giving her a tour and sprinkling in tidbits of history. Impossibly large rooms with ten-foot, twelve-foot, and sometimes taller ceilings lined with ornate crown molding and windows reaching to the floor. Reminiscent of all those lovely Regency movies Eisley watched after the kids were in bed, the house inspired a posture switch. Tall and straight.
With every new room, each centuries-old portrait she passed, questions about her mysterious ancestor singed deeper. Had Julia walked these halls? Which of the bedrooms had been hers? How did she manage to escape the same fate as other Protestants of the time? When and how did she meet her mysterious husband? Uncle Joe waited on the other side of the Atlantic for the truth, and she needed to know the end of this story too. She wanted to solve this. Prove she wouldn’t fail at something else.
“Now I bring you to the pinnacle of my discoveries.” Lizzie bounced up the narrow stairway like a woman half her age, leaving a chuckle in the air. “I only discovered it three days ago, hidden away behind centuries of rubbish in the attic.”
Lizzie was a kindred spirit. From their first contact on an ancestry website, they’d developed a sweet relationship of shared stories and interests in their British-American histories. Chatting with her every week took out the awkwardness of a first meeting, since it seemed to be a simple extension of their six-month-long conversation.
Lizzie pushed open a tiny door at the top of the attic stairs, its old hinges squeaking in protest. “No one’s investigated this place for years. Who can say how long these old trunks and boxes collected dust before you alerted me to our family mystery? I even found letters exchanged during the English Civil War.” She tossed a look over her shoulder before she disappeared into the pitch darkness of the attic space.
Eisley stopped in mid-climb, hand braced against the wall. English Civil War? Wasn’t that in the sixteen hundreds? She crept the rest of the way up the stairs and bent to peek into the dimly lit corridor. The doorway forced her to hunch like a bell ringer and the view sent her imagination reeling into a Nancy Drew book. Chests, bookshelves, papers, and boxes stacked on either side of a curved attic space, barely allowing a thin path through the gray light. Dust swirled in the faint glow of a desk lamp placed on the floor in the middle of the room where Lizzie stood, hand to the hip of her petite tailored pants.
“Come on, then. You traveled across an ocean for this.” Lizzie snatched a small box from a bookshelf and plopped onto a blanket draped across the old floor. “I had no idea who Julia Ramsden was until your uncle contacted me—had never heard mention of her name—and now I’ve discovered all sorts of intrigues and treasures.”
“Should we find a place with better lighting?” Eisley lowered herself onto the blanket beside Lizzie.
Lizzie’s grin curled with an impish tweak. “It’s all about atmosphere, luv. The first time you see this, it must be here, where I uncovered it.” She placed the box between them and leaned close, the air prickling with as much anticipation as Eisley’s thumping heart. “With your help, we’re certain to find out even more.” Lizzie unhooked the latch to the tin box and kept her eyes fastened on Eisley as she lifted the lid.
“What is it?” Eisley whispered, staring down at the papers tied with red ribbon.
Lizzie kinked a brow. “Letters.”
“Letters? From the English Civil War?”
“Even better. And there’s more.” She pushed the papers to the side and fingered a small, round object which looked like a…
“A picture?”
“Miniature,” Lizzie corrected, her hand palming the treasure like a priceless vase. “And in oil so it lasts much longer than other forms of paint.” She opened her fist. Inside rested a faint painting of a young woman.
Eisley dared not breathe. It couldn’t be, could it?
“Eisley Honora Barrett, meet our ancestor, Julia Ramsden.”
Eisley’s fingertips trembled as she reached toward the golden frame. Impossible. How on earth could a portrait survive almost five hundred years? Her eyes burned, but not from the swirling dust in the room. “How?”
Lizzie’s grin softened with understanding. “Well-packaged, is all I can say. I’m certain we have brilliant people in our family history who thought about such things.” Her brows gave another wiggle. “And there are three more trunks I’ve not investigated yet, as well as another room attached to the back of the attic. I have high hopes for more answers.”
Eisley cradled the miniature in her hand and examined the face staring back at her. Ebony locks framed the pale face of a young woman who looked barely sixteen. Her eyes, so blue they appeared purple, knocked a chill from the mid-sixteenth century all the way to Eisley’s skin. She was beautiful, but those indigo eyes held sorrow—a weight of grief beyond her youth. Her pink lips turned downward, her chin out, as if she was fulfilling a duty. “How can you know it’s her?”
“The letters.” Lizzie gestured toward the papers in the box. “One is torn with no signature, but the other is a simple missive from her father regarding the painting of a portrait for her fiancé, Edward Larrimer.”
“But they didn’t marry—or at least that’s what the family story says.” Eisley slid her thumb across the glass cover of the miniature, unable to pull her gaze away.
“Precisely, but we’re to discover whom she did marry.”
“Her eyes remind me of my mom’s and my sister Julia’s—the same interesting blue.” Eisley’s voice barely warbled above a breath, as the face of the woman in her family’s stories materialized out of the past. “She’s beautiful, but her expression is ....” Eisley looked up.
“Sad.” Lizzie finished.
“Because of the broken engagement?”
“Or her f
ather’s harshness. His short missive speaks of a forceful personality. No endearments. No requests. Only demands and orders.”
Eisley reluctantly handed the miniature back, her gaze riveted to the pages in the box. Surely Lizzie wouldn’t just dangle those letters in front of her. Kindred spirits did not leave kindred spirits hanging.
Lizzie placed the painting back in the box and snapped the lid closed. “I’m having dinner with Richard Larrimer this evening. As you know, we Brits remain in our family homes for centuries, and Richard is no exception. We’ve corresponded through email for the past month and he wishes to meet to discuss our little investigation, but I’m ever hopeful he’ll fall madly in love with me.” Lizzie sent a flirtatious wiggle through her shoulders. “He’s scandalously wealthy, I understand, and if he doesn’t propose marriage, I’ll return with further information about Edward Larrimer.”
“I can feel the romance vibes blowing off you in torrents.”
“One never knows,” Lizzie steadied her grin. “I wager he’ll cock a snoot at me since I haven’t the posh pedigree his family possesses, but no matter.” She firmed her chin. “What is it you Americans say? A girl can dream.”
Eisley burst out laughing, with Lizzie’s contagious giggle joining in.
“Wes will be here to collect you soon. Take these with you this evening and peruse them for clues.” Lizzie pushed the box into Eisley’s hands. “The letter is written as if it’s giving off hints of some sort, but I can’t make it out.”
Eisley clutched the box with newfound respect for ring bearers. “You…you’ll let me take them?”
“They’re part of your family, as well.” A doorbell echoed in the distance. “Could that be Wesley already?” She twisted her wrist to peer at her watch. “Early?” She shrugged and started toward the door. “Father is undergoing an evaluation until tomorrow afternoon so we must see to as much as we can before his return. Could you come early tomorrow? Perhaps we could search through a few more trunks.”
Eisley clutched the box to her chest and rushed to catch up with Lizzie.
“The letter in the box is written in a familiar style to someone named Thomas. I wager he was a friend, a close friend, since the form is in no way romantic. It is a strange letter, and I think your extra set of eyes might be just the thing we need to uncover what it might mean.”
Eisley doubled her pace to keep up and managed not to stumble down another flight of stairs. Clues within the letter? A tingle shot from her toes to her nose. Could this adventure get any more breathtaking?
As if God was trying to prove a point, Wes met them in the entranceway, grin spreading to boast a dimple. The song “Someday My Prince Will Come” rose unbidden in her mind. Fantastic. Even her thoughts were treacherous.
“Wesley, dear. Good to see you.”
“Lizzie.” He leaned forward and placed a kiss to her cheek. “Lovely as usual.”
She gave his cheek a little pat. “You dear boy.” She sent a glance to Eisley. “Have you had the opportunity to become better acquainted with your parents' guest?”
Wes’s playful gaze found Eisley’s. Her throat tightened.
“Yes, I believe we are to become great friends.”
Lizzie’s attention volleyed between them and she seemed a bit happier than the simple conversation warranted. “Friends? Lovely. We can use as much help as we can muster to solve our mysterious family romance. Are you up for the challenge of a good romance?”
Eisley swung her attention to Lizzie, hoping genetic telepathy might advance her plea. Heat scorched her cheeks until she was pretty sure her freckles were smoking. Surely Lizzie didn’t realize the double entendre in her question.
Maybe Wes didn’t either.
“Help Eisley with romance?” The second dimple flickered into view. “What are friends for?”
***
Wes steered the car toward his parents’ cottage with Eisley nestled in the seat next to him. She’d spent four hours with Lizzie, only four, and he’d arrived at Lizzie’s half an hour early just to see her again. He’d promised himself and his mother to allow this possibility with Eisley to unfold with a gentle and patient hand, but he was already fumbling it.
She was a lovely temptation, almost as if God had handcrafted her for him. Who else could have come into his life and shocked his cynical nature with such an accurate dose of compassion and sincerity? He drew in a deep breath and offered a quick prayer for added patience. She needed time. He needed practice.
It was painfully right.
She squeezed the little box in her lap, her wealth of auburn hair pinned back from her face to show off her cheekbones. Her teeth skimmed over the bottom lip of her smile like a little girl with a secret. Hang it all, she was adorable.
“Eventful day?”
“You have no idea.” She squeaked out her excitement as if she’d been waiting for him to ask. “It’s an amazing mystery, Wes. And Lizzie thinks there’s even more to discover. She just needs some sleuthing help.”
He liked the sound of his name on her lips. “Does this mystery have anything to do with that little box you’re clenching like the ring of power?”
She giggled. “Okay, I’m a little excited.”
He lifted his brow and she hung her head in mock shame for half a second.
“A lot excited. It has a letter in it and a miniature of Julia Ramsden. Lizzie wonders if the letter holds some clues to more information, but she hasn’t figured it out yet.”
“What do you think you’ll find?”
“I don’t know, but who cares? How often does someone find a letter that dates back to the fifteen hundreds?”
“In England?”
She tilted her head in consideration. “Oh yeah, I forgot. Old in America is like newborn in England.”
“And the letter—what did it say?”
“I haven’t read it.” She jolted pencil-straight in her seat, her voice ratcheting up a few notes and gaze locking with his. “I haven’t read it?”
Wes stopped the car in the cottage drive, killing the engine and turning to face her. The glow of excitement sparkled in the hazel hues of her eyes.
Her slender fingers trembled as she opened the box and drew out a small miniature. “Julia Ramsden,” she whispered with reverence.
“She’s lovely.”
“Yeah.” She rubbed a finger over the glass of the miniature. “I wonder what she was like.”
She pulled a ribbon-wrapped bundle from the box and unraveled the yellow-tinged papers so carefully he thought she might never open them. “Okay.” She flattened the pages against her knee and peeked up at him. “Do you…um…want to hear what it says?”
The poor woman second-guessed everything about herself. Even his obvious interest. “I don’t think I can help you with your discovery of romance unless you give me some clues.”
She narrowed her eyes to study him. Would she pick up on the hint? Her lips unhinged in uncertainty, then she snapped her attention back to the letter. “Oh…well, to the letter.”
Thomas,
I am trapped and trust no one, save thee. Until my beloved can come to my rescue, I must persevere, God willing. I beseech my heart to arm against bitterness toward Edward. He chose the path of his convictions, as I have chosen mine. Father has secured plans for my departure on the morrow. The pain in his punishment is acute, and I must bear it. But how can I? I am to marry the man whose heart is as withered as his skin. Yet I cannot.
Father Martin has won the ear of my father. Pray for God’s guidance on my behalf, as my friend according to God’s word. My plight is known by Him and none other need know.
I will take my wine at half past ten and soar to the heights of memory, never to return. Thou wilt see me there, my friend, and we can fly together.
Footsteps on the hall….
“That’s it?” Eisley turned the page over and scanned its blank back for any further information, but the writing ended rather abruptly.
“Might I see
it?”
She offered him the letter, their fingertips brushing during the exchange. Every fiber of his skin attuned to her movements.
“So that must have been when she was under house arrest.”
Her bottom lip pouted as she thought, inviting another opportunity for his errant thoughts to consider a taste or nibble of those lips. Pull your mind from the gutter, Wes.
“And Lizzie seems to think that Thomas was a friend. Not the guy she ended up marrying.”
He read over the letter again. “Or the hideous fellow her father wanted her marry, it seems.”
She grimaced her opinion. “But this one letter already gives a lot of information. Father Martin is most likely the priest who discovered her secret distribution of the Scriptures, and possibly the same priest who tried to burn her at the stake. Maybe her father was trying to marry her off to the withered guy because her engagement to Edward didn’t work out.”
“Edward?”
“Edward Lattimer, Julia’s former fiancé.” Eisley stared at the letter. “He was Catholic and was persuaded by his family to dissolve the relationship, but surely he cared about her, right? My grandma says it must have been a love match, not a betrothal—or at least that’s the story in the family. I’d like to believe it was love, at least.”
Ah, the eternal optimist still lived—even if she wouldn’t admit it. He was relying on that good heart to see beyond the similarities his past held with her ex-husband’s. “Trials are a solid measurement for sincerity, are they not?”
“And endurance. I think a lot of people can have sincerity for the short haul but time weeds out the fakers. Throw in some trials, and it just speeds up the process.”
Worry lines formed in her brow, scars from mistreatment. It was unfathomable to imagine any man capable of wounding such a tenderhearted and honest woman. If God allowed him the opportunity to win her, he’d treat her carefully. His trials had taught him well to appreciate his treasures.
“This bit about the wine. It doesn’t fit, does it?” He offered her the letter, which she folded methodically and placed back in the box, lost in thought.
Just the Way You Are (A Pleasant Gap Romance Book 1) Page 10