I stilled her eager hands. “It’s nothing, Lucy. I’m so relieved to see you that you could have broken a hundred teacups and knocked me over in the same swoop and I’d still be glad it’s you here in the hall.”
Her body relaxed, shoulders slumping. “God almighty knew what he was about when he gave me to a mistress such as yourself. No one else would have stood me.”
“You’re a dear girl.” I gave her a quick squeeze. “Now, you must help me slip out.”
“They’re looking for you downstairs, miss.” Worry returned to her white face. “And there’s more. Margaret sent the kitchen maid out to Haymarket to buy for the house and the people are talking in the market. The butcher and the milliner and . . . well, everybody. They’re all cross that you aren’t paying their notes, and they aim to do something about it. There was talk of marching up to the castle and demanding—”
“Tell them I’ve gone out, Lucy. I’m not at home to receive visitors.”
Her worry multiplied across her plain features. “But you are home, miss.”
And the front door would be properly guarded by the butler. The constable’s groom would be in the courtyard, blocking an exit from the timber walkway, so my options were few. Noises sounded farther down the hall until it felt as if an army invaded from all sides. I leaned backward until I hit the wall and forced away the panic. My only help lay beyond the castle. I had to find Dr. Caine. I pulled myself up into the open window and looked down, judging the distance to the moonlit blue-green grass one story below. “Then I shall have to go out.”
Before the whimpering girl could dissuade me, I leaned forward and tumbled out the window, watching the neatly shaped bushes below as I neared them. For a horrible second my mind felt suspended in the air, wondering if I was about to break my legs.
26
Pruning is the vintner’s mark of hope upon a plant, for one only spends time pruning a vine he believes will be effective.
—Notebook of a viticulturist
Donegan Vance sat before his piles of pound notes and coins that had never looked so meager. He had hoped to nearly double the amount while at Trevelyan, but remaining any longer would cost him too much.
He raked a tense hand through his hair in the dim cottage that was to have been his final home away from home. How could he return to Carin Green after all those promises and the months away . . . bringing only this? He’d forever be mailing little bits of funds without ever accumulating enough to rescue the land. Frustrated, he slammed his fist on the table, rattling the coins. What a foolish man he was, thinking he could be a hero. He was anything but.
A small cry jerked him from his thoughts. “Ginny?” In a flash he bounded to the window and squinted into the dark yard. A creepy stillness hung about the garden made blue in the moonlight and he frowned. Whipping his cloak off the hook and throwing it around his shoulders, he marched out into the night and looked about. He froze when he spotted movement at the base of the castle. Moving forward with guarded strides, he watched the bushes bordering the hall block. A slender figure arose from the darkened greenery, her arms lifting to brush off debris.
He paused and watched, knowing who had dropped into his quiet evening. Turning this way and that, Tressa climbed out of the bush and limped toward the garden. What on earth had brought her out here at this hour? And into a bush, no less.
She hurried away from the castle and into the fringes of the dark woods, distress evident in her posture.
The weight descended again onto his shoulders until it anchored him to the spot, but he frowned. Why wouldn’t this bothersome prodding go away? He’d done plenty to help her already, and received nothing but rejection in return. What is it you’re asking me to do, God? I cannot erase her father’s secrets or tell her where the fortune is hidden. She will not let me be more to her than a mere acquaintance, so what exactly are you asking of me? Her refusal stung yet again.
After only a moment of prideful hesitation, he pushed aside his feelings and strode toward her, approaching quietly from behind. “Being alone is overrated, I believe.”
She wrapped her arms more tightly about herself but did not turn. “Not for me.”
“It sounds like you’re surrounding yourself with the wrong people.”
She turned slowly to face him, and cast those bright, dewy eyes of emerald green toward him. “They’re the only ones I have.”
He looked toward the house, toward the people who deserved naught but a distant thought from this girl who loved so deeply and fully, then back to her. The stark pain he saw beaming out from behind her placid face overwhelmed and shoved aside all traces of his simmering hurt. “That is never the case.” He uttered the words with all the feeling he dared not bare in any other way.
She turned fully toward him then, with a glimmer of a smile. “Thank you.”
A sense of protectiveness blanketed him, and a desire to help and fix. How easy it would be to reach out and pull her close, to embrace her as he had once before. How perfectly they had fit.
When she turned her smile up at him, it crumbled every desire of his to leave this place, even though he must. As heart-wrenching as it was to be around her, to see her all the time, she had become the warm sunshine over his life and he found he needed a large dose of her every day. There in her presence, with her glowing face looking up at him, he ached for her. He cleared his throat. “What has driven you out here, Miss Harlowe?”
She dropped her gaze. “The constable is at the house to conduct interviews. I have been thrown to the wolves.”
“Surely you know the truth will clear your name eventually.”
“And then there are the dying vineyards, the unpaid workers, and the angry creditors. And . . .” Her voice trailed off as tears wet her eyes and she turned away.
“And?” He pressed the soft word into the air between them.
“And it all matters little anyway when Father isn’t coming. He isn’t ever coming. He’s either dead or glad to be rid of us. I shouldn’t have hoped . . .” She moved away from him to hide her tears and stumbled.
Donegan moved to catch her and she fell against him, immediately pushing back. He dropped his arms to his sides. “You do have an ally, you know. Are we not still friends?”
After a moment of silent hesitation, she wilted into him. Donegan’s arms stiffened to keep from embracing her, for everything would unravel if he did. It seemed natural, almost necessary, to lift his arms and wrap them around her, but one tiny indulgence and he wouldn’t be able to stop. And in this state, she might not either. So there they stood, the weeping girl leaning against his chest, her enamored yet rejected suitor holding her up like an oak.
Finally she spoke. “I can only take so much pruning,” she whispered. “Why is God doing this to me? He’s . . . he’s pruning the very life out of me.”
“No, he’s bringing you to life. It takes a harsh summer to yield abundance in the vineyards. Perhaps this is your summer.”
She pulled back to look up at him. “What am I to do then? How do I endure it?”
“When you feel you’re dying in the heat of summer, all a branch needs to do is to hold on.” He gripped her elbows and looked into her eyes to convey the importance of the truth he now uttered, for it was all he could offer her. “Cling with all its might to the vine. That’s all, simply hold on.”
In response she squeezed his hand, and the touch pulsated through him. It was not an exciting embrace of passion, but the deep and lasting kind that connected two individuals at a profound level. What Donegan feared was that the connection would, for him at least, be permanent. The urge to reach his arms around her and anchor her close nearly overwhelmed him, so he stiffened against her touch and she stepped back, hurt flashing in her eyes.
He hurried to cover the action with an explanation. “No man knows how to properly handle tears.”
A smile broke across her face before she dipped it away in embarrassment. “How foolish I am, crying before my field manager. I take your friendship fo
r granted.”
He grinned. “It’s nice to see the little bird without her airs at times.”
She giggled and sat on the floor of the forest, rubbing her ankle. “You’ve an uncanny way of changing the atmosphere with your words, for better or worse.”
He shrugged, grateful for the lightness entering their encounter. “I try.” His boots shuffled in the dried pine needles underfoot as he too lowered himself to sit beside her. “So do you plan to finish that sentence?”
“Which one?”
“The one about your father coming back. It almost seems as if you don’t think he’s truly dead. Have you reason to believe it?”
She dropped her gaze, loose hair falling like a curtain across the side of her face. “Not a very good one, I’m afraid. It’s just that, when my lady’s maid told me they never found his body, it happened directly after an odd occurrence.” She drew her knees to her chest, refusing to look at him, and again he felt he was on the cusp of hearing something very real and unexpected and lovely.
“It was a quiet moment in the house when I was thinking of how everything with Father was over now, that I’d never get a chance to see him again. Yet it seemed . . .” She hedged her words and looked about. “It seemed as if . . . that is, I had a strong impression that it wasn’t over just yet. So when Lucy came in then and told me that his body had not been found, it was easy to jump to the idea that this was perhaps not the final chapter of his story. Then I found his hat in the vineyard one night, and my silly imagination took over.”
He tensed at the mention of Harlowe’s forgotten hat he’d swiped too late from the field, but forced his face to remain unchanged. “And now?”
Her jaw twitched. “Now I am allowing myself to accept that he’s gone. Either he is dead or he chose to leave.” She lifted her head with a wan smile. “At least I can always trust you, Mr. Vance. With everything that is confusing about this place, your bluntness offers a rare bit of honesty that’s quite refreshing.”
He gulped hard, the fire of his secret burning in his gut like a trapped flame.
“If you’ll excuse me, I should make my way home.” She rose and moved toward the house with ginger footsteps, pain hindering her movements.
He sprang up and touched her arm. “You’ve turned your ankle. You’d best let me look.”
“No, nothing as serious as that. It’s fine, truly.” She took one more limping step and he scooped her up in his arms.
“It wasn’t a question.” The tenacity with which she clung to her dignity might just drive him mad. He settled her gently on the fallen pine needles of the forest floor and took hold of one foot, surprised to find it without shoes. He pulled the bare foot toward him despite her gentle reluctance, until he’d exposed the scarred and torn sole. “What sort of adventures have you been having?”
She pinched her lips, then released them into a small smile. “It seems those little bushes are surprisingly unsympathetic.”
He lifted his eyebrows as he continued his inspection. He whipped off his scarf and dipped it into a tiny rivulet nearby and continued, cleaning the dirt of the woods from her skin. “Did you expect sympathy from them?”
“Apparently, for when I found myself at the height of trouble, I leaped into them.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Probably shouldn’t have done that.”
Peaceful silence ensued for a moment. The noises of nighttime swelled to a pleasant echo around the empty woods.
She watched him work over her feet, face downcast. Levity once again darkened its pure contours. Her voice came out whisper-soft. “It isn’t easy for me to let you do this.”
“I know.”
Silence enveloped them again as he smoothed the wet scarf over her feet, removing dirt and a little blood from the scrapes. He maintained a focused mind and gentle movements along her injuries, walking the narrow line of offering a gentle touch yet keeping himself closed off. Regardless, he relished in the simple encounter that seemed somehow sacred.
“I almost wish I could sleep out here tonight.” Her whispered words lifted him from his thoughts. “Anything to keep from returning home.”
He hesitated, then gave way to an impetuous notion. “Then why not at least put it off a bit longer?” He blotted her feet dry and moved back. “I’ve an idea, if you care to trust me.”
“What sort of idea?”
He stood and brushed the debris of the forest from the knees of his trousers. “I call it my bad-day remedy. Treatment for a heartsick soul. That’s all I’ll tell you until you agree to do it.”
She smiled up at him from the ground where her skirts spread around her like a billowing flower. “Mr. Vance, I accept your adventure.”
“Wait here. I’ll fetch Gypsy.” He sprinted toward the stables and readied his stallion, who pranced in anticipation. He stopped long enough to retrieve a certain burlap sack from his cottage before leaping astride his horse and turning toward the girl who waited for him in the woods.
Perhaps this was foolish, including her in this, but he could hardly refuse to rescue her from her sorrow when the only one standing to be hurt was himself. That rationalization drove him on as his horse’s hooves pounded the forest floor toward her. He leaned back to rein in his mount near her.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Hard candy and brittle.” He tucked it into the saddlebag.
She smiled. “What a curious remedy. I’m certain no chemist would prescribe such a lovely medicine.”
“This isn’t the cure. Besides, the sweets aren’t for you.”
She rose on unsteady feet, leaning against the tree. In one smooth movement he lifted her up into a sidesaddle position behind him, and the horse danced in place.
Again the slender arms slipped around him and he tensed. Yes, this had been a terrible idea. He closed his eyes for a moment and squeezed the reins before jerking his heels into Gypsy’s sides. They surged forward through the undergrowth that whipped at the horse’s flanks and down the winding road to the village. If this girl was as much like him as he believed her to be, this would help her tremendously. And at the moment, that was all the reason he needed.
Gypsy clopped down the main street of Welporth before silent homes minutes later, but the girl’s hold did not lessen. Directing the horse to the first house, he dropped large handfuls of sweets into a strip of cloth and tied it into a small bundle. He lobbed it onto the doorstep of the darkened home with a whish through the silent night, then urged his horse back to the road.
Down the row of simple homes they continued until the burlap sack was emptied and the sweets lay in bundles at the foot of each silent home.
“Where on earth did you get all those sweets?”
“Made them.”
“You?”
“It’s easy enough if you have the time to devote to watching it. There’s little skill involved besides bringing it to exactly the right temperature. It may not be as magnificent as the sweets in the apothecary, especially without real sugar, but it’s nearly free, with natural ingredients found about the woods.”
“Yet you praise my artistry.”
He turned to smile at his passenger, the saddle creaking below him. “Impressed?”
“Very.” But the glow of her eyes expressed more than her single word.
He rotated forward again and clenched his jaw, mentally jamming down the hope that warred with reality in his chest. He had moved forward once and been stopped by her slender little hand almost immediately. If anything were to come of this, he must wait on her move.
Even if he waited forever.
“I almost hate to return home, even after delaying it so pleasurably.”
“Good, because we aren’t finished.” He leaned forward and his horse responded, trotting toward the end of the street where the market square lay. In the center stood a rickety clock tower with an ancient gong, likely a relic from its medieval days. He led Gypsy up beside the gong and lifted the mallet from the stand.
Turning once again, he handed the instrument to the girl who watched him with delight glowing on her face. “Would you do the honors?”
Pinching back a smirk, she accepted the mallet, leaned back, and struck the gong. Instantly he grabbed the mallet and dropped it back onto its pegs as the noise splashed through the empty air. With a powerful jerk of his arm, Donegan spun his horse to the left and dug his heels into the animal’s sides. Gypsy leaped forward and sped away from the little line of homes as doors and windows flew open. Exclamations of delight soon followed and the girl behind him giggled and flung herself against his back.
Together they charged up a side street behind the village homes and up toward Trevelyan, Gypsy’s powerful hooves pounding the packed earth. Up they climbed until the horse was heaving for breath and Donegan tugged the reins to slow the poor animal.
“Wouldn’t it have been simpler to quietly knock on the doors before running?”
He turned and threw her a wicked grin. “Yes, but not nearly as much fun.”
Her laugh warmed his heart and his enjoyment of the mission multiplied to the clouds. If only this could be his entire life instead of one brief evening, his happiness would be complete.
Urging the horse on at a slower pace, they finished the climb through the trees to the great castle that was, as he must remember, the home of the girl behind him. Drawing his horse into the shadows of the massive structure, he dismounted and lifted her down as well, reluctant to release her. “What color am I?”
She blinked. “Color?”
“You said if that cousin of yours was a color she’d be blue. What would I be?”
Those emerald eyes flashed over him, giving the question serious thought. “Black.”
“Am I truly as dull as that?”
“Black is deceptive, you see. It appears to be colorless, but it’s the most colorful hue there is. For you see, black is a mix of many things.”
He steeled himself against the charm of her reply, but her sweet voice curled into his mind and planted her words there. He lowered his gaze. “I’d carry you all the way to your bedchamber to save your injured feet, but I believe that if anyone saw it, my chivalry would cause you more harm than good.”
A Rumored Fortune Page 23