A Rumored Fortune

by Joanna Davidson Politano

  The driver cleared his throat. “Dr. Caine, if you would be kind enough to take the ladies on to the inn, I’ll warn off other drivers and see what can be done about rescuing the horses.” Then he stepped close to me. “I’m afraid the carriage and belongings may be lost. I cannot manage both the baggage and the horses, miss.”

  “Save the horses, let the rest go.”

  Mother clutched my arm at these words. “My trunk! We must fetch it. Oh Tressa, I cannot leave it down there.”

  “Mother, we can’t possibly climb down that rock face. They are just things, and not worth the risk.”

  She gripped my hands in her gloved ones, squeezing with the force of her frantic words. “They’re all I have left. The only part of him.”

  “Mother, what are you talking about?”

  “The beads from India. I’ve nothing else from my brother, and I shall never see him again.” Great tears poured down her face.

  “You brought those beads? What possessed you to do such a thing?”

  With shoulders trembling, she looked at the ground and leaned on me. “He told me when he sent them home forty years ago that I wasn’t to hide them away. That he wanted me to wear them whenever I could. No other jewelry is so precious to me.”

  My eyes slid closed in helplessness as I wrapped an arm around her delicate frame and turned her away from the cliffs, picturing my own little opal ring. I said nothing, for there was nothing to say. Any promises made would be empty ones, and words of comfort would fall short. Together we trudged up the hill, Mother’s weary body leaning heavily on mine. She’d been crushed when her brother Roger, father to Neville, had been killed abroad in service to the queen. Watching her lose the last remnant of his affection toward her brought back the wretched memory of those days of grief, as if she’d lost him again.

  The groom came panting up behind us, and I released Mother into Dr. Caine’s care and fell back to see what he wanted. He spoke in a low voice. “Someone has tampered with the carriage, miss. That was not a mere accident. I just thought you should know.”

  I shuddered as I nodded, and forced my mind to remain on moving forward. I channeled every ounce of strength toward not thinking about who had done such a thing or about our four sleek horses still tethered to the carriage on that horrible winding road.

  We did not arrive at the inn until we’d traveled twice the estimated distance, and by then we couldn’t even see the carriage behind us. The three-story stone building with three chimneys and half a dozen gables sat atop a small hill, welcoming and full of life. I remained with Mother while Dr. Caine journeyed toward the inn to inquire about overnight lodgings. The sun had begun to descend, lighting the decrepit pile of fishermen’s homes below us with a soft orange and pink glow. Storm clouds rolled over the dying light of day.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid.” The doctor approached with a posture of apology hunching his frame. “They’ve no room for us, and they suggested we journey back or toward home immediately. It does look like rain.”

  I looked to the doctor, pleading for him to offer a solution. “Haven’t they a small back room they can spare us? Anything?”

  He only shook his head. “Nothing but cider and tea and well wishes.”

  When rain began to drip from cloudy skies, we stumbled into the crudely appointed serving room for lack of any better plan. I sighed under the invisible weight resting on my shoulders as we settled at one of the thick wooden tables, wondering what should be done when nothing really could be done.

  Mother spoke up to the woman serving our drinks. “I need to hire a man to fetch my trunk. Can you send someone around?”

  “Aye, someone’ll go after it, if you truly want them to. Be warned they’ll be helping themselves to a large fee from its contents for their trouble.” She cackled heartily.

  “My beads.” Mother gripped my arm. “My necklaces from Roger. I can’t bear the idea of them down the cliff like rubbish.”

  I shared a glance with Dr. Caine and avoided voicing the response uppermost in my mind: better your beads than us.

  Practical and somewhat crude, the lower level where we sat began to fill with plainly dressed working-class patrons. The place was somewhere between the elegance to which we were accustomed and the fishing shanties lining the beach below.

  “We close up in a matter of hours. You’d best find lodging for the night.” The server spoke plainly but firmly.

  Mother looked to me with wide eyes of desperation that begged me to fix the situation. I glanced about for an answer. Would they forcibly eject us if we lay down upon the benches along the wall?

  When each of us had drained two mugs of cider, no solution had occurred to me. Rain dripped off the rotting eaves of the place, and all I could do was beg God for help. Make a way when there seems to be no way, God.

  More time passed in which we silently waited for brilliance to strike.

  The proprietor approached as closing time neared. “It seems it’s time to leave, my lady.”

  “Where do you propose we go?” I straightened, preparing for a debate.

  “Home, I suspect. Your carriage be out front blocking me whole entrance.”

  I jumped up and ran to the doorway, grabbing the white frame, and took in a magnificent sight. There stood our sleek carriage with four perfectly aligned horses, simply waiting to carry us home. I uttered a small cry and ran to touch it. The battered side attested to its recent misadventure, but everything on the underside, from the wheel to the axle, appeared perfectly positioned and firm. I stood before the rescued vehicle and closed my eyes, turning my face heavenward. Thank you, Lord. Thank you.

  The rest of the party joined me and soon we were all packed inside and ready to depart. “Mother, who brought our carriage around from the road? Did they tell you?”

  She pursed her lips with a smile around the answer that obviously delighted her. “It was Andrew. He found no one willing to repair it, so he fixed it himself in the barn. Isn’t it perfect? His Tressa is in trouble and he comes to her rescue. He’s loved you all these years.” She laid a hand on my knee across from her. “No one is perfect, you know. You can’t expect to find anyone who is.”

  Biting my lip, I tried to rearrange my thoughts and final decisions regarding the man. It would not have surprised me to see him throw a bit of money at the problem and hire someone to repair it, but to climb on the ground and fix it himself? This was an unexpected turn. Perhaps he’d seen it as yet another puzzle to solve—or an apology for his cowardice last night.

  “He got the horses to pull it up the hill all himself. The woman said he was simply covered in mud, head to boots. All for you, Tressa dear.”

  I met her gaze and spoke honestly. “I don’t know how to return to loving him, Mother. He crushed all that when he left, and I cannot put the pieces back together again.”

  Her lovely eyes softened as she leaned toward me. “My dear Tressa. It’s a man’s task to love and a woman’s task to accept it. Loving a man more than he loves you will only drive him to annoyance and resentment, but a marriage can be built on a man adoring a woman who remains just out of reach. He’ll never cease trying to earn your affections, and believe me, with the right man that sort of life is not terrible.”

  Doubt filtered her words as they fell on my ears, for last night had made me aware of a vast wealth of passion waiting to be released upon the man I would marry someday, and I could not imagine merely doling it out in little drops for someone to chase. After a lifetime of bottling such passion, it would likely explode in utter chaos if it had no release.

  Yet the thought of restoring the relationship whose loss had caused such pain enticed me. Perhaps it would repair what was broken and allow me to live as a whole and healthy person.

  As the carriage lurched forward, I hung out the window for a final glance back. Perhaps the sight of Andrew covered in mud for my sake would ease my heart toward him. But a stream of light from the stables fell upon a different figure perched atop a proud stall
ion, black cloak flapping over muddy clothes that clung to his body. There in the shadows, Donegan Vance watched our little company depart as the wind whipped his dark curls over his masculine face. My heart somersaulted through all manner of confusion.

  I breathed deeply of the moist air, then settled back into my springy seat. “Mother, who told you about Andrew repairing the carriage?”

  “Why, the proprietor, of course. She said a handsome man from our party who was traveling separately was responsible. He must have completed his business matters speedily and come to seek you out. Can you imagine? All that he did for us, after the way you ignored him last night.”

  I watched that darkly cloaked figure and his horse until we rounded a corner and they were out of sight, and somehow it was fitting. More so than if I’d seen Andrew there watching from the shadows. “No, Mother. I can’t imagine.”

  23

  A relationship between a vineyard and its vintner is one of long-term commitment, for a vintner must loyally tend his plants for three entire years before he has a single harvest to reward his efforts.

  —Notebook of a viticulturist

  Just a few more steps. Donegan repeated that lie to himself several times on the trek up the darkened tower stairs. He hoisted his massive burden so it sat straighter on his shoulder, but the metal edges still bit into his flesh. A new respect for the servants of Trevelyan Castle surfaced as he slid the battered blue steamer trunk off himself and dropped it with a bang before the proper door. A deep breath filled his nostrils with the acrid smell of extinguished candles along the hall. At least the climb down would be without encumbrances.

  Stretching his abused shoulder muscles, he thought of his quiet cottage with the inviting bed awaiting him. With one final rub, he descended the winding staircase. Finally, he could have a solid night’s sleep. Then he would decide what must be done. Miss Harlowe now rejected the protection he’d been hired to provide, yet she obviously needed his help. And in truth, he wanted to give it.

  Yet with each passing day, especially with the daily reminder of Ginny, Donegan’s awareness of the need back home grew. It had been weeks and he’d not seen a single farthing of the promised fortune—nor had anyone, for that matter. He simply couldn’t afford to remain so long without pay, to be at the mercy of a rich man’s whims. Donegan sensed that, in the end, he’d likely leave without the money he sorely needed.

  Unless he was the one to find Harlowe’s fortune.

  The temptation to make off with it tickled his mind, and he played out the idea. He needn’t take it all, but only the ridiculously generous sum he’d been promised, which was enough to right the debts of his past. He could mount his horse with Ginny and ride away from this place for good, heading straight for Carin Green. There he could lavish upon the wronged people everything they needed and many of their wants too. Oh, to see those people blessed in such a way, all through his hand. Perhaps that would soothe the ache of guilt in his soul.

  Maybe it would even be enough to erase from his memory the day he’d failed them all. It had seemed like a wise investment, that ship going to India. Captain Wright had made half a dozen treks between India and England, bringing back obscene amounts of wealth to his investors, and Donegan had decided to become one of them. Of course, that was the voyage that had ended in a tragic wreck at sea—and on land to those waiting for his goods.

  Never a man to do things halfheartedly, Donegan had invested nearly everything his family owned, including the equity in their land. The decision had cost his family, but so too did it cost the people living and working on their property. It had spiraled down from there with the typhoid outbreak and the closing of the bank holding his money. Landlocked and unattractive to outside buyers, the little village crumbled around his feet until he had run for help. Many months it had taken him, but this was to have been his last stop. Until he’d ruined everything.

  That kiss never should have happened.

  As he descended the narrow curve of stairs, he glimpsed movement out the window, far into the vineyard. A tall, darkly clothed figure moved about, sweeping down the rows like a ghost. Tensing for a moment to study the intruder, Donegan bounded down the remaining steps and burst out the side door. The family hadn’t returned yet, and no one else would wander the fields this way.

  Sprinting across the cool, dark gardens, he hurdled over a row of shrubs and slowed as he approached the vineyards. Moving closer, he studied the man until he was positive of his identity. Donegan exhaled and approached the vineyard’s owner from behind, observing his tender affection toward the grape clusters. Perhaps after their last talk he’d returned home to set things right and the great lie would be over. “You’ve changed your mind.”

  Old Harlowe spun, whipping his cloak behind him. “How dare you sneak up on me that way.”

  “Better me than someone else. Imagine the chaos it would create in your castle to suddenly find its owner risen from the dead, especially for those so hoping to benefit greatly from your passing. What are you doing here?”

  “I had to see how the vineyard fared. There’s no opinion I trust so much as my own eyes.” He crouched down in the soil and dug in, rubbing it between his fingers beside his lantern, then he tested the joints of several grafts. “I knew the moon would be minimal tonight so I took a chance. Especially after I heard nothing from you for a few days.” He rose and stared into Donegan’s face, brushing dirt off his hands. “Tell me, Mr. Vance. How are you caring for the things I’ve entrusted to you?”

  Donegan averted his gaze, muscles tense as he remembered that breathtaking, terrible moment on the balcony. When the weight of guilt rolled over his aching frame, he sighed and relented to what he knew he must do. “I must confess something to you. And then I believe I must leave Trevelyan.”

  Harlowe’s thick fingers disappeared into the wiry hair framing his jaw and traveled back through his hair. “All right, then.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve severed any trust I earned with your daughter. I stepped too close and was promptly shoved backward.”

  His bushy eyebrows arched and he dropped his hands. “Too close, you say? What have you done?” The words came out as a controlled growl.

  Shifting his weight, hesitating for several breaths, Donegan forced out the three simple words he now loathed. “I kissed her.”

  Slowly Harlowe’s brow relaxed and the man’s face melted into a placid expression. “I do hope she kissed you back.”

  Shock jolted through Donegan’s muscles. He stared at his employer.

  “Well, she can be a little finicky in her tastes. She thought Carrington a worthwhile man, of all people.” He turned to lift another clump of leaves and inspect more grape clusters buried within. “Unless you did not mean those impassioned words you spoke in my cabin when we last met. For truly it seemed you wouldn’t be adverse to the idea of marrying her.”

  Donegan frowned. It seemed that rather than convincing the man of his daughter’s value, he had only succeeded in conveying that Donegan made a promising suitor to take her off his hands. “If you wish to unload your daughter on some man, I’m sure there are plenty willing to relieve you of an heiress.”

  Harlowe frowned and plucked a little weed flower that had sprung up among the vines and twirled it, lifting solemn eyes to Donegan. “I was not hoping to push my daughter off on you, Mr. Vance.” He lifted Donegan’s hand and placed the tiny white flower in his palm. “Merely entrusting her to you.”

  He relaxed at this admission. “You care for her more than you let on, don’t you?”

  The old man considered this. “Like a butterfly I admired from afar but dared not touch. Too many times I’ve regretted drawing close to people, and I never thought to hope . . . yet she’s different than most, it seems. She’s a rare creature.”

  “And you wish her to marry a penniless vineyard manager?”

  “Only one who recognizes the true loveliness of a thing has the ability to nourish that beauty into its full potential. Penniless
or wealthy, you’re the only one I’ve ever thought worthy of her.”

  “Unfortunately I don’t believe Miss Harlowe agrees with you.” He relaxed his hand, rolling the little blossom across the lines of his palm with his curled fingers. “All she sees is our differences, and she’s right.” He pictured the joined shadows of the genteel Miss Harlowe and her gentleman, and the little paper with her admonishing verse.

  Harlowe studied him for a long moment, then bent over the branches that twined around the guide wire. “What a miracle grafting is. I take a branch from one type of plant over here, and attach it to a seemingly unrelated vine here, and somehow, if the bond is strong enough, they grow together into a new plant.”

  In response, Donegan pushed on the joint with his thumb and it bent easily, threatening to snap apart. “Some grafts simply don’t take.”

  “I put much effort into choosing which plants to combine to make new breeds, because they each have something the other needs.” He ran a finger over the joint. “Splices are always weak at first because they are foreign to each other, but all any graft needs is something powerful holding it together . . . and time.” He gave one nod. “Now, come help me count.” He lifted long curling shoots and touched each cluster.

  Without anything intelligent to say, Donegan simply followed behind the aged vinedresser in the dark night, breathing in the steamy air and watching him look over his crops.

  Time. That’s all that was required for a weak connection to bond. Well, that and something holding it together. When it came to Tressa and himself, nothing short of God’s own hand would be strong enough to bind two such different plants.

  When a distant rumbling perked Donegan’s ears, he laid a hand on his employer’s arm. “They’re returning. You should go.”

  Harlowe straightened like a deer in lamplight, watching his family’s carriage approach through the woods and thunder over the drawbridge. With a grunt, he hunched over and flew like a wraith through the dark rows. Donegan remained in place and stared down at the little white flower lying tenderly on his rough palm. He wrapped his fingers around it protectively without crushing it as the courtyard filled with lantern light and voices.