A Rumored Fortune

by Joanna Davidson Politano

  “It’s far more than a lifetime of wages for some.” I forced my voice to remain calm. “If others can be happy with so little, I’d imagine we will do fine.”

  She turned her focus to me and tipped her head with a tender smile. “How young you are, to be so noble, so impractical. When you’ve lived as much of life as I have, you’ll realize that money acquires more than belongings.”

  “What do you mean? What else can mere money possibly be used for?”

  “Security.” She reached out and cupped my face in her cold hands. “A woman with money will always have someone to love her. I want that for me, and even more so for the dear daughter who’s always looked out for me. If there’s one thing I could leave you with, it would be a vast fortune and the wisdom to use it well. For by it, all else in your life comes to be.”

  I moved my face away, my heart sinking again at our painfully blatant differences. “We’ll not have much left to dangle before hapless men after we’ve repaid our debts and—”

  “No.” She stiffened. “We will leave this wretched place and its debts behind us. This fortune should be enough to at least afford us that privilege. I want to forget Josiah Harlowe and my entire life here.”

  I rose, turning away. Her indirect condemnation of him stirred up and magnified the chaotic thoughts I currently had concerning the man. “How can you hate him so? All he ever did was adore you.”

  She rose to stand beside me, slim and regal in the tower of her great castle. “That is the one thing I wish he had not done.” She released a trembling sigh. “It wracked me with guilt and shame every time he lifted those mournful eyes to me, begging me to love him.”

  “Then why couldn’t you? So much might have been different.”

  She dipped her face away from my anger, quiet for several moments. “I’d already bestowed every drop of love I had to give when I was seventeen. A man with a brilliantly beautiful smile and seven brothers and sisters to feed. He was a fisherman on the wharf, and I the only remaining child of aging parents who wished to see me wed into security. I could not deny them what they requested, especially with my brother Roger dead, so I married a wealthy husband. I grew to resent the man I slept beside every night, yet truly his only crime was that he was not David.”

  I watched this woman as she unfolded herself in surprising layers to me, peeling back the discontent and apathy to reveal something vivid and real. “And now? Do you regret pushing Father away?”

  She exhaled, dropping her shoulders. “I regret everything about the way our life turned out.” Turning her shining eyes upon me, she smiled and slid her fingers along my back to embrace me tenderly. “Except you, the sunshine I do not deserve in my life.”

  I squeezed her hand and rested my head on her shoulder. My dear, delicate little mother. With a glance back toward the trunk, something caught my attention. “Mother, look.” Tucked in the fabric lining was a folded paper.

  She picked it out and unfolded it, scanning with hungry eyes. “His will. He left his fortune, in excess of 50,000 pounds, to both of us.”

  She looked at me, then back to the meager amount of money in the trunk that was certainly less than the willed amount. “What are the chances the rest of the money is around this castle somewhere? Surely there’s an explanation for this.”

  When we opened the door and beckoned two of our servants to carry the now-closed chest to the study, the crowd waiting on the landing below came alive. A path opened for John and the houseboy as they descended the narrow stairs with the trunk and reached the landing. Mother ran to Dr. Caine and leaned close to tell him what we’d found.

  As the men passed the bevy of servants, a familiar little figure burst from the back of the crowd with a cry of utter despair. “That’s my uncle’s trunk. Leave it be! It isn’t yours.”

  The flame-haired urchin flew across the landing and leaped toward the box, but one of the stable boys caught her up in his arms and swung her away. Limbs flailing, she struggled and grunted, planting a solid knee into the poor boy’s abdomen, but he refused to release her. He whispered firmly to her as the space filled with mutters and shuffling.

  Then the girl’s wild eyes landed on me. “You’ll help, won’t you? Tell them this box isn’t theirs.” When the boy released her, she sprinted to me and collided with my legs, throwing her desperate arms about me. “Don’t let them take it. It isn’t theirs, truly it isn’t.”

  I pulled her away and knelt to look into her narrow little face. “It belongs to the Harlowe family. Perhaps you’ve mistaken it for another.”

  Chin jutted, she smeared a sleeve across her angry face wet with tears. “No I haven’t. I’m that sure. I’ve seen it only this morning when I stopped to visit me uncle. It was right in the middle of his table and I counted the money with him. Said that now we could go home. I don’t care what that old piece of paper says. The money belongs to him. To us.”

  Breathless, speechless, I simply stared at the girl.

  “You believe me, I know you do. You’re a good sort, miss.”

  I grasped her by the arms and asked the question I loathed to voice. “Who is your uncle?”

  “Donegan Vance, miss. He told me that the box belonged to him since he found it, and he never tells a lie.”

  At least he didn’t take it all.

  That was the thought pouring over my aching heart as I stood at the window in the long corridor of the hall block, tracing the lead crisscrosses with my fingertip. Servants had fanned out over the property to search for him, and soon we’d know for certain. Footsteps popped behind me and I turned to see Dr. Caine approaching, hat in his hands with a posture of apology. “Is everything all right?”

  The simple words squeezed my heart, answering every desire I’d ever had for a father. The concern wrinkling his brow made his dear face even more so.

  I gave a wan smile. “I suppose. We found the fortune, after all.”

  “And lost something more, it seems, in the process.”

  Donegan. I bit my lip and pressed back the hurt that rose at the thought of him. “It’s just that I was beginning to . . .” My voice trailed off as I stopped myself from voicing the thought that I hadn’t even acknowledged to myself yet. “I was beginning to think better of him,” I finished lamely. “There must be some reason, some noble cause that made him take much of the fortune when he found it.”

  He stepped closer and laid a hand on my arm. “Miss Harlowe, it is strictly to your credit that you see good in everyone, but it’s also to your detriment. I hate to speak ill of anyone, but I cannot bear to see him take anything more from you.”

  “But what sort of thief steals only a portion and then returns the rest?”

  “The sort who hopes to cover his tracks. He left you a calculated amount that would lead you to believe you’d found the fortune so he could escape with the bulk of it.”

  Calculated amount? The log books. Donegan had been looking through the accounts earlier, trying to decide exactly how much to leave us when he took the rest. And that’s why he was uninterested in my newest clue—he’d already found the fortune.

  Doubt still tugged at the fringes of my hurt. “He did ask for 10 percent in return for helping me search. Then I suppose there were his wages for working. Maybe he took what we owed the vineyard staff as well. He has his own ideas of what is right and fair. He likely felt justified in the amount he took.”

  Hesitation played across Dr. Caine’s aged features until he finally spoke. “Miss Harlowe, I hoped I wouldn’t have to tell you this, but it seems you won’t be convinced any other way.”

  My body tensed against the stone sill.

  “He’s what’s known as a traveling con man. Not exactly dishonest, but cunning and underhanded. He swoops in with promises to save a dying crop and he often does, but he nearly scalps the owner in the process. Desperate landowners are, of course, willing to pay his high fees for his expertise, and he takes full advantage of that. Believe me, money was his only reason for spending any
time at Trevelyan Castle.”

  His words echoed in my memory as I recalled what the man had said himself about his goals here. “He’s admitted that from the first day, Doctor. He may have been selfish, but he’s always been honest.”

  He looked down and cleared his throat. “There’s one more thing. I happened to be at the Prescott estate more than once recently, and I saw something I never should have. I had been to see about Prescott’s elderly aunt and . . .”

  “Doctor, what are you saying?”

  “It was Donegan Vance who set you up, Miss Harlowe. I was only waiting until I absolutely must to say what I knew. It was Vance who led Prescott to believe you had started the fire, he who sent him the threatening letter supposedly signed by you.”

  “No! He wouldn’t do that. I’m positive he wouldn’t. If you had seen what I’d seen of him, you’d know it isn’t possible.”

  “Everything you saw was merely to charm you, to reach your heart. He knows what moves you. I’ve been investigating him ever since that night at Prescott’s, and I’m certain of all of this. The man has a desperate need of money because of some large debts he’s incurred, and now he’s traveling the country and scalping landowners in desperate positions. He planned all along for you to lead him to the treasure and then get you out of the way by framing you. I have reason to believe he also is the one who—”

  “Started the fire.” I finished it quietly, looking at the dull gray stones of the windowsill. That would have happened the night we’d begun working together, just after I’d given him one of Father’s notebooks. What might he have found there that he’d concealed from me? Maybe he’d even altered the notes as he translated to keep certain facts to himself. With every sentence from the doctor’s mouth, new possibilities unfurled themselves in light of what I now knew.

  “I urge you to verify everything with the constable. The note threatening Prescott was delivered by a freckled little urchin in a green cap who called himself Smithy.”

  I didn’t need to verify anything, for immediately my mind recalled that terrible interview in our drawing room in which the constable had mentioned a boy named Smithy. Dr. Caine spoke the truth.

  He laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Everyone is flawed, Miss Harlowe. But you must learn to determine which flaws are acceptable and which are dangerous.”

  The truth momentarily crushed everything colorful and full of light in my soul, darkening it like Trevelyan. I forced out one final statement. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Suddenly I understood how people became hermits. They were not overly negative about humanity—simply realistic. I closed my eyes as hot tears built up behind my lids.

  He squeezed my shoulder and hesitated, then turned and walked down the hall into the shadows. I remained in that window alcove watching him go, as thoughts of utter desolation whirled through my mind.

  “John, will you find Mr. Vance for me, please?”

  The old groom gave a single nod and hurried away. Then, with a deep breath, I rose and went to do the only thing I could do. In my bedchamber I pulled the pins from my hair to let it spill down over my back and climbed up to my perch near the ceiling, selecting a brush. One dip in the yellow canister and I began painting, my heart again floating into prayer. God seemed to want to be a father to me, yet there must be something I was missing, something more I must do. Things seemed to get worse instead of better as time progressed, and he still did nothing to right the matter.

  God. God, this is a tangled mess. Why oh why are you allowing this to happen? What purpose could you have for taking every person, everything dear, away from me?

  Color swirled and spread across the white of the plaster ceiling, long strokes drawing my focus and calming my mind. Then, as if the simple act of painting had brought me back to my childhood of informal intimacy with God, I spilled out my thoughts to him, matching the easy, free-form strokes of my hand. My heart unfurled in natural conversation as I worked. I expressed without speaking aloud my fear of the future, my utter discouragement at unfolding events. It wasn’t pretty and eloquent as prayers should be, but it was raw and honest and real.

  When I climbed down the ladder, doubt still tinged the edges of my mind concerning God and his plans, but my mind was calmer. My frustration had shrunk, but it solidified into a hardness in my chest toward Donegan that screamed for resolution. I only allowed myself a moment before the mirror as I re-pinned my hair, and then I flew down the stairs.

  I hadn’t any idea in my head of what came next, of what I believed, but I couldn’t sit idle. The old half of me argued that Donegan was not capable of such deception or of hurting me. The new, mature half begrudgingly acknowledged that I knew what had happened to the rest of the money.

  Now I had to prove it to myself.

  As dusk blanketed Trevelyan in red and orange hues of the fading day, John the groom approached me at the base of the stairs. “I’ve found Mr. Vance, miss. He was in town all day, and he’s just stabled his horse.”

  With a nod of thanks, I ran to meet the man and happened upon him sneaking about the kitchen. A white cloth lay spread on the rough table as he piled all manner of food onto it. When he’d finished, he tied the corners and gathered it in his arms.

  So, he was planning a midnight escape. Where had he stashed the fortune?

  As I hid in silence on the other side of the wall, he strode toward the door and slipped out into the evening. His form disappeared into the gardens and I moved to the window and watched him walk past his cottage and continue down the hill. As long as he didn’t know I’d seen him, perhaps he’d lead me to the fortune. I grabbed a wrap near the door and flew on swift feet after him.

  Past the vineyards he strode toward the beach. As I stood at the peak of the hill, I heard the swish of his strides through the water. I hurried down the path to watch him climb into a little boat and shove off with one mighty thrust of his boot into the sand.

  I stood in the cover of the trees near the beach and watched his craft glide through the water, his arms pulling the oars over and over to carry him to some unknown destination. When his vessel angled into a little cave in the distance and disappeared into its depths, I frowned and clambered into my own craft to follow.

  Curious, intrigued, I pushed off and drifted toward the rocks, slowing my craft to make the turn into the cave that had swallowed Donegan’s boat moments earlier. Only seconds of floating through the dark cavern revealed light ahead. Soon I passed out the other end and found another vast expanse of the channel, utterly hidden from Trevelyan. I searched for Donegan’s boat on the open water, but it had disappeared. Cool mist hovered over the water and the silence sent momentary sparks of fear up my arms. After all, I hadn’t told anyone where I was going.

  Rowing with long strokes and scanning the reddening horizon, I spotted a dark line in the distance. I steered toward it and forged ahead. I came closer and drew in a breath—for there before me, a small island languished in the channel, shrouded in foliage. As I coasted closer, Donegan’s boat became evident on the beach. Forcing my oar down into the mud and seaweed when I drew near, I maneuvered the helm of my boat toward the shore a little ways down from his until it sliced a narrow path into the sand and held there. I lifted my skirts and stepped out onto a wet ground and glanced around at this bit of land I’d never seen before. Fear and cold wind swirled around me. Donegan’s boat lay on its side on the banks, and farther up, another craft hid in the rushes. He was meeting someone. I quickly tugged my boat into the brush so it remained out of sight.

  Hurrying along on tiptoes, lured forward with anticipation, I sailed through the cool woods past giant trees and whispering noises. Moist wind whipped hair across my face, tickling my skin. I brushed it back with firm hands as I slowed at the end of the path, and it was like drawing aside a curtain to reveal the last thing I’d expected. A set of stone steps wound up to a cottage built into the side of a hill.

  I crouched in the bushes as my heart raced, my rapid breath making m
e dizzy. I hardly knew what to do. After long minutes of silence, Donegan burst out the door of the cottage and strode down the stone steps to the path, crunching past me over twigs and leaves. So this is where he’d hidden it.

  As the sound of his footfalls faded into the deep woods, I sprang up and took the steps two at a time until I stood on the porch of the little cottage and looked into the dirty windows where a lamp glowed in some distant corner of the place. As I worked up courage, I inched closer to the window and peered in. A tidy little room lay beyond, sparse and crude and empty. Yet someone stayed here, that much was obvious. I moved stealthily back down the steps in search of another window, but in the dark I collided with the solid body of a bear-man.

  “Tressa. What are you doing here?”

  With a strangled cry, I jumped back and tumbled over loose rocks, sprawling across the walkway. Then I lifted my gaze to the shadowed man who had appeared from nowhere like a ghost, and breathed out a single word that contained all the shock and awe spiraling through me. “Father.”

  29

  In the world of viticulture a cut means growth and a wound leads to long-term health, because through the wounds and cuts flow life.

  —Notebook of a viticulturist

  Bundled in a stiff wool blanket as if I’d come through some traumatic storm, I cuddled into the only cushioned chair in the cottage’s open main room and tried to still my pounding heart as I looked at the man I had tried to grieve. I kept staring, as if my eyes couldn’t fully absorb what I saw before me. Even though I had hoped for this, part of me had never believed it was true until this very moment.