I watched from the window as the doctor left, thankful for his sudden entrance into our lives. At least I had help with the medical aspect of matters. After speaking to the parlor maid and the houseboy about remaining ready to fetch Dr. Caine the minute I requested it, I returned to Mother, who seemed quite recovered.
She turned her sharp gaze on me. “Has that terrible Mr. Prescott left? I should tell Amos to never admit him again.”
“You should have cast him out the second he said that vile word. Why ever would a man as wealthy as Father have debt? We must be wary of fortune hunters every minute now.”
Mother fanned herself and closed her eyes. “You know your father and his many quirks. Perhaps he made such an agreement so he could have the pound notes in his hands, to amass an obscene amount of money and bury it in a hole in the ground like a dog with his bone.”
“You cannot truly believe this debt is real.”
“The documents are real enough, and stamped with your father’s wretched signet ring.”
I glanced toward the papers he’d left on the desk, my mind fanning out in possible explanations. “We should speak to someone about Father’s investments. We may need to withdraw from them.”
At the sound of carriage wheels rattling over the drawbridge, Mother’s eyes opened, snapping with intrigue, which struck sudden fear in me. “Maybe we won’t need to. It seems my plan is beginning.”
“Mother, what exactly have you done?”
“I’m protecting my child. No matter your age, I am compelled to see you’re not left destitute if the fortune does not exist.”
“It exists, Mother. I’m sure of it. There must be another explanation for that wretched debt.” I crossed to part the sheer curtains and watch a fine black coach draw up to the front. It looked slightly familiar, but my memory refused to match a name with the vehicle. Still, the sight of it brought an unnameable anxiety to my heart. Movement inside showed a man’s black coat and hat moving about as the owner prepared to exit.
All at once, I knew whose carriage had arrived. I gasped when I saw the once-beloved face in the window. “Oh Mother, why? How could you?”
Her hands twisted anxiously in her lap. “There are no investments, Daughter. No bank accounts, no assets to sell. No debts to be called in or crops ready to sell. There isn’t even a will.”
“But this? Is this truly necessary?”
Her quick voice carried on, skimming along like a hummingbird lighting on flowers. “We shall be penniless if we lose this estate. We must take any chance to save what we can.”
“This is a chance?” Determination to find that fortune poured through me, for it would save me from much more than poverty.
“And in the meantime we must recognize we only have one asset now, besides the property itself.”
With a deep sigh I watched Andrew James Carrington III unfold his long legs from the coach and brush off his coat as he’d done so many times in our courtship. “And what asset is that, Mother?”
She studied me with a purposeful look. “You.”
5
Bad weather can only harm the vineyard if one is unprepared for it, which is completely unnecessary. One can always count on bad weather, just not on its exact timing.
—Notebook of a viticulturist
I dealt with Andrew’s arrival in the most logical way I knew how—by looking as stunning as humanly possible. As I pointed out my dark blue muslin and lace gown to my lady’s maid, I recalled the smudged taupe-colored dress I’d worn when Andrew had rejected me years ago. I directed Lucy to pile my hair in meticulous sweeps and curls as I remembered the windblown wreck my hair had been that last painful time I’d seen him.
This day would be entirely different than that fated one I could never erase from memory.
“What a vision you are, Miss Tressa.” Margaret spoke from behind me, her face appearing in the mirror as Lucy stepped back to survey her work. “I can hardly believe you’re the same girl I opened the door to, all soggy and dirty you were. Now look at you.” She tilted her head fondly and touched a gold pin in my upswept hair. “Why, you could be Josiah Harlowe’s legendary fortune yourself, a glowing pearl with strands of polished copper for hair.”
My lady’s maid, Lucy, swept the pins littering my dressing table into their tin. “All those treasure hunters came too early and missed the finest gem of the house.”
“Treasure hunters have been here?”
“In droves, miss. Never have we had so many goodwill calls from neighbors and vendors and even strangers who never had a reason to care about Trevelyan before. The most brazen of them simply poked about the grounds on their own.”
“Lucy, hush.” Margaret brushed the girl aside. “You must learn when to button your mouth.”
“Tonight’s visitor is certainly no treasure hunter, at least.” Mother swept into the room and hovered behind me, scrutinizing my face in the mirror as she might analyze the finer points of a gown she was selecting.
Lucy leaped out of Mother’s way and the tin of hairpins tumbled from her hands, crashing and plinking across the floor.
Mother pressed her fingertips to her temples, then forced a smile toward the girl scrambling across the floor to retrieve the pins. “Be sure to do something about her face, Lucy. All that color from the sun will only remind Andrew of her oddities.”
I couldn’t help but wish to return to childhood, when my barefoot-running, outdoors-loving, energetic oddities were considered at least marginally appropriate.
With a delicate squeeze to my shoulders, Mother turned and swept out the door. Heaving a sigh, I looked at the blemished, rosy face of our housekeeper in the mirror, and the sweet tenderness there transformed it into a thing of maternal beauty. “Margaret, do you find me odd? Andrew must be coming because of the fortune, for it seems to be my one redeeming attribute.”
“That wealthy man has all the treasure he needs, save one special pearl, which he hasn’t plucked yet.” She winked in the mirror and gave a final pat to the lingering stray hairs.
I spun on my stool to face the kindly woman I’d known all my life. “Margaret, what do you think of this scheme Mother’s concocted?”
She pinched her lips, then took a breath. “I always say, those who marry for money earn it. And Andrew Carrington has nothing to offer you but money, I’m afraid. Now out you go, off to dazzle that poor man before you send him packing.” She gave a tender pinch to my arm as I rose and glided toward the door.
I descended in gleaming black kid boots, idly wondering if my blue gown was dark enough to be considered mourning attire until the dressmaker could ready something in black. Perhaps I should have my maid dye one of my muslins. Before the thought had finished, I immediately smote it down. What did it matter if my clothes were one shade off? Father’s death had already painted my heart an ashy gray. I would surely be mourning inside more than anyone.
“Clarissa, won’t you see where my lovely daughter has hidden herself?” Mother’s voice floated out from the drawing room.
With a deep, refreshing breath, I opened the doors and stood framed there, a live portrait created in tandem with my maid to convey both the lovely femininity and hints of indifferent elegance I wished to display to this man who had scorned me. There he stood, that trim figure against the unlit fireplace, one arm leaning on the ivory mantel as he spoke to Mother in the dulcet tones that I could not quite remove from my memory.
“Welcome, Mr. Carrington.” The words came out in one steady breath.
Andrew turned, his eyes taking in all of me in one brief, breathless moment. I held my breath and waited. His face softened and I saw my appearance mirrored in his glow of appreciation. He strode to me and took both my hands. I shuddered to touch them so casually, these hands that had been in so many of my waking dreams in our time abroad. I had gone through the hard work of forgetting him, and all those years of effort unraveled the instant he said my name.
“Tressa.”
I focused on his w
ave of dark blond hair to avoid meeting the eyes that spoke volumes. How could one possibly grow more handsome with age?
A quiet smile lit his face and he lowered his voice. “I see you have not completely relinquished your feelings for me.”
I dropped my gaze to his chest to hide my traitorous emotions, but that too was a mistake. For there, tucked just inside his suit, was the red silk cravat I’d given him years ago. The one he said he’d wear whenever he missed me desperately. How long after that moment had he stood in Trevelyan’s courtyard and broken my heart? A week, perhaps.
I kept my voice low so only he would hear. “A woman can never be fully indifferent to the man she was to marry.”
Mother swept toward us, her eyes alight with pleasure as her soft voice brushed my ears. “Andrew has come to help us through this dreadful ordeal. Isn’t that wonderful, Daughter?”
Andrew smiled and turned back to me. “Mother and Father are in Paris so I’ve been at the London house alone. I simply had to come when your mother sent word. I took the first train here. And now I shall remain until you . . . until my presence is no longer required.”
His voice, warm and familiar, wrapped itself around me like a pleasant memory. I must keep up my defenses until he’s gone, my mind demanded. But with each passing second in his presence, I found my resolve melting and my feet slipping from their firm foundation.
The sound of echoing footsteps in the hall broke the tension, and I gladly looked away toward the door to await the new arrival, backing into the shadows to observe.
“We have more callers.” Mother’s airy voice seemed to smile at the notion as she moved toward the door, for she dearly loved visitors.
But it was not that sort of guest we found entering from the hall. The stranger who had deemed himself manager of the vineyards filled the doorway, looking over the room with a slight downturn of his dark eyebrows. I watched from the shadowed fringes of the room as he addressed Mother.
“I’ve come to offer my condolences to the lady of the house on the loss of its master.” Standing there in all his rugged informality and heavy boots, Donegan Vance contrasted sharply with the delicate chintz and flower patterns of the room. Despite the roughness of his trade that clung to him, he exuded a compelling presence that made it impossible for anyone to ignore him.
Mother studied him without a blink. “Have we been introduced?”
“Not yet.” He strode forward and took her hand for a moment, then released it. “Donegan Vance, new manager of the vineyard.”
“But did you not enter through the front door?”
“I had been looking over the vegetation around that side of the castle. The front entrance was the closest.”
“Naturally.” Stunned and bright-eyed, Mother allowed her gaze to rove over the man before her. Not a single spark of welcome lit her face.
“Your late husband engaged me to help him with his vineyard before his passing.”
She paused to consider. “I see.”
“I’d like to discuss wages and negotiate a down payment before I begin—a small percentage of good faith money.”
The corners of her mouth tipped down. “This is quite irregular. I’ve never paid my staff before they’ve worked.”
“But you have neglected to pay them altogether at times, from what I’ve heard, and you will find that I am not as accommodating.” His boots were planted on our lovely white rug.
A vague dread settled over me as I watched the conversation play out from the far corner of the room beside Andrew. Father, not paying the workers? He’d never do such a thing. Lacking as he was in warmth and affection, he had always been impeccably fair to a fault, even to the lowliest laborer. Yet this validated Prescott’s claims of Father’s loan. Unless they were both lying . . .
“What’s he talking about?” Andrew whispered in my ear.
I flashed him a look that said later.
Mr. Vance continued. “You will also need to pay your field hands what is owed them.”
Mother lifted her chin. “I’m afraid we haven’t organized the household finances yet.”
Or found them.
“They should be paid for their work.”
“Of course.” Mother’s gracious voice fell from her mouth like a silky waterfall. “They deserve every farthing promised them, but there may be a delay.”
The man frowned. “How long?”
“Two months will be sufficient, I’m sure.” But she wasn’t, of course. How could she be? “They’ll only have to wait a little while.”
“Wonderful. They’ll simply wait a few months to eat as well.”
Mother’s eyelashes fluttered as she absorbed the shock of his directness. The man had the bearing of a feudal lord, one who elicited obedience from an entire village simply because they knew their fate rested on his whim.
“Now, I’d like to discuss a plan to—”
“You’ll have to take this up with my daughter.” Mother swept her arms gracefully in my direction, easily passing the argument along while she retained a shred of dignity before this man she obviously did not know how to answer. “I’m afraid I know very little about the vineyards, and she’s better suited to managing the grounds.”
He turned to me then, his passionate face framed by a square jaw, and I stepped out of the shadows toward him. Shock flamed across his features at the sight of me, darkening his eyes, but he recovered and extended his hand.
A smile flicked about my face despite my efforts to pinch it back. I spoke in a low voice only he could hear. “At your service, one scrawny little bird.” I lifted my hand gracefully to meet his. “With airs.”
The look of shock that paled his tan face then was wholly satisfying and enjoyable to witness. His eyes snapped with something—irritation, or maybe the restrained desire to debate me, yet he accepted my hand for a brief moment like a civilized man. Either way, I had risen to the top of this situation and I enjoyed my view from there.
He stepped back and spoke again to Mother. “I shall follow your daughter’s lead, then. I look forward to seeing her out in the vineyards with us as we work.”
She straightened. “She’ll do no such thing. We aren’t as common as that, Mr. Vance. She will merely see to the paperwork and any questions you have.”
I stepped forward and laid a hand on her arm. “I’ll be happy to take part, Mother. It is an art form, really, balancing the perfect conditions and careful pruning to bring about the best grape, and you know how dearly I love art.”
The stranger’s gaze snapped to me, evaluating me with a glint of keen approval, but he spoke not a word. He offered a smile and a subtle kinship passed between us.
“Very well, if you wish. But Mr. Vance, I must request that you limit your access to the service entrance. It’s more convenient from the vineyards.” The polite order rang with warning.
I looked to the man before me to see if he’d received it, but his stony expression revealed little of the thoughts that passed below the surface.
“Mr. Vance,” I said, “I hope it is agreeable to discuss payment in the coming weeks. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement that suits you.”
“As long as that arrangement involves money transferring from your hand to those of your vineyard staff.”
“We’ll address the details later.” Excusing myself, I made a graceful exit with the intent of retreating to my chambers, but Andrew followed close behind. I forced myself to stop and acknowledge his presence when we reached the hall where sunlight filtered through the tall windows.
“Tressa. Is it true, what they’ve said? About the hidden fortune?” Anticipation flicked in the depths of his eyes as if he’d been presented with a puzzle, a chase, that he couldn’t resist.
His words deflated me immediately. “Oh Andrew. Is that why you’ve come?”
Regret flashed over his face. “Of course not. Forgive me for such a poor opening to the conversation I was too nervous to begin. What I should have had the courage to say is . .
.” He glanced down at his polished boots, then back up to me. “I hope we may renew our friendship.”
“Do you?” I looked over his fresh, clean-shaven face and forced the barely substantial walls to once again be erected between us.
“Isn’t it what you want?” He swept up my hands in his eager ones. “Because if it isn’t, if you’ve changed your mind . . .”
I withdrew my hands, and as the image of him on that final day, apologetic, pitying, dominated my thoughts. “No, I believe you changed my mind when you chose to end our courtship.”
His face crumpled in regret. “Surely you know that isn’t true. I was forced to do it. They would have disinherited me.”
“You still chose to comply, did you not?” I spoke those words with all the pent-up sadness that had clouded those dark days. His parents had even sold their country estate near Trevelyan to keep us from happening upon one another, all because our name did not go back to ten generations of nobility. Father was part of the new wealth of England, his lowly heritage a millstone upon my marriage prospects.
“You’re right, as always, Tressa. It took the death of your father for me to see what a coward I was. I should have pressed Father to reconsider, for I would be able to protect you now.”
“I’m not suddenly rendered helpless, Andrew. I need no more protection now than I did before.”
He inhaled deeply, a look of utter desolation crossing his features. “What I mean is, I should not have given up so easily before.” His lowered voice wove through me, shaking my calm. “I can promise you, I won’t make that mistake again.” And with those words, he strode deeper into my home and climbed the stairs to the room where he would be staying indefinitely.
Disappearing to my bedchamber afforded me a chance to both quiet my mind and awaken my creative spirit. Desperately wishing to bathe my hurting soul in the lovely colors outside my window and capture them for the bleak days ahead, I pulled a rough handmade box from under my bed and flipped open the lid. My lovely bottles of color, the raw materials of my art, lay waiting for my eager fingers. “Hello, old friends.”
A Rumored Fortune Page 4