“Then your father fell in love.” Rowan looked at Elizabeth with a sad smile on his face. “Back then, your father was a poet, given to a poet’s temperament. It’s not an insult to say that love came easily to him. His heart was enormous. He loved everyone in his orbit fiercely, even me, despite my shortcomings.”
Rowan had to be talking about someone else. The father Elizabeth knew loved sensibly, in modest doses at appropriate times. She could only recall three occasions when he’d actually said he loved her out loud: when she’d fallen off her bike at age nine and broken her arm, moments after her mother died, and when she’d graduated from high school with honors. The tearful bedside admission after her mother had passed was particularly vivid, because he’d embraced her as he’d said it, which made it seem like he meant it. In that moment she’d hoped that the dam between them had finally broken open, only to discover that losing her mother, Felicity, their common thread, had bricked it up tighter.
The heavy conversation roused Major from his bed, as if he were a therapy dog clocking in. He stretched his old bones, wandered over to Rowan, and settled down beside him with his head across the top of Rowan’s feet. Rowan leaned down to scratch him absent-mindedly. It was like Major was a different dog, monitoring the vibe in the room and adjusting his behavior appropriately. For a moment Elizabeth questioned what she thought she knew about him.
“Clive had fallen head over heels for a beautiful young lady, and for a time it seemed as though he was winning. He was a teaching assistant at a small school in Headsford, getting ready for his professional skills tests to become a teacher. He had his true love. He was happy.” Rowan paused and took a deep breath. “I, on the other hand, was not. Our father thought my painting was aimless. He didn’t approve of it, so he pushed me to start a real career, and I tried to find a fit. But I was miserable. I coveted Clive’s happiness, and I reacted to it in the way that I always had any time I thought he was close to beating me.” Rowan looked down at his hands. “I set out to topple him. And what did I set my sights on? His true love. I didn’t intend to do more than make her realize that she had fallen for the lesser of the Barnes boys, then move on to the next girl. That alone is reason to hate me, Bess.”
“No, of course not. It was a long time ago,” Elizabeth answered. She refrained from saying more, hungry for more details about the stranger Rowan was describing.
“What I didn’t expect when I set out to win her was that my thoughtless little conquest would lead me to the great love of my life.”
Rowan reached for Trudy’s hand and brought it to his lips.
“That’s sweet. How did you two meet?” Elizabeth asked.
Neither one said a word for a few moments, and the silence felt strange given that they were telling a part of the ancient story that had a happy ending. Trudy finally spoke. “Bess . . . I was your father’s first love.”
It took Elizabeth a minute to process everything. “Rowan, you . . . stole my father’s girlfriend . . . and it was you, Trudy?”
Trudy adjusted her shawl and leaned toward Elizabeth. “Now, this is why I wanted to be a part of this conversation. You need to hear my side of the story, so that you understand exactly what happened.”
Trudy sat silently for a moment, as if steeling herself for what she needed to say.
“Your father and I weren’t a couple. I loved your father, so very much, but my love for him was based in friendship. I never had romantic feelings for him, and I never led him to believe that I did. But your father could find sunshine in a puddle. He believed that our love was equal, and that made it so for him. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make him understand that we were nothing more than dear friends. I knew that his feelings for me surpassed mine for him, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I didn’t love him that way. So we continued to see one another, me keeping my distance and your father always striving to cross it.” She stared off and smiled, as if watching something play out in front of her. “We went to a dance once. The Harvest Dance. I wanted to enjoy it with my girlfriends but I could feel that the night was important to him, that he had something to prove to everyone. So I danced with him.” She paused and looked at Rowan. “And then I danced with Rowan, and the moment he took me in his arms, I knew that I never wanted to dance with anyone else.”
“That night . . .” Rowan trailed off.
“That night”—Trudy made an angry face at him—“Rowan spent half his time pretending I was the most interesting woman he’d ever met, and the other half flirting with every other girl there.”
“All part of the plan. I couldn’t seem too interested, after all. As far as my brother was concerned you were spoken for.”
“It worked,” Trudy said. “By our second dance I wanted his full attention for the rest of the night, but he was still charming his way around the room, making eyes at all the other girls. But I could tell he liked me, and the other girls were just for show. He never stopped watching me. So I did something terrible. I stomped over to your father and pulled him back out on the dance floor. I waited until I knew Rowan was watching, and I kissed your father, right in front of everyone. It was a quick kiss, as if he were a brother, but it was enough.”
“I wanted to rush out and punch Clive in the jaw when I saw it,” Rowan said.
“I never should have done it, knowing the depth of your father’s feelings for me. I used him to get to Rowan. And it worked. Rowan never left my side after that.” She sighed and shook her head. “We were so young and thoughtless then.”
It was hard for Elizabeth to visualize the ancient people sitting before her embroiled in passion plays, particularly with her stoic father at the center of it all.
“We hid our relationship for as long as we could, sneaking off whenever possible,” Trudy said. “We knew we wanted to be married, but we didn’t know how to break it to your father. I think he recognized that I was pulling away from him even more, but he never gave up on me.”
“You mean, he never stopped loving you,” Rowan corrected.
“No, he didn’t.” Trudy stared at Elizabeth, searching her face for judgment.
Elizabeth tried to process the old hurts presented to her, and the man her father had once been.
“So that’s why my father left?” she asked. “He found out about you and ran away?”
“No, not exactly,” Rowan replied. “He had an opportunity with a small school in Boston, which he’d been debating, but when he found out about us I think he felt as if he had no other choice, so he left. Even our parents supported my relationship with Trudy.”
The scope of what her father had dealt with as a young man started to dawn on Elizabeth. To be the black sheep of the family no matter what he did, to feel as if no one was on his side, and then to discover that he’d been betrayed by the two people he’d loved the most. Who could survive it unscathed? But it didn’t seem like enough to cut off contact for life. Wouldn’t all have healed eventually, especially when he fell in love with her mother?
“Do you have any questions?” Rowan asked. He and Trudy were still holding hands.
“He never came back? Ever?”
Rowan shook his head.
“Did you ever visit him in the States?”
“We tried, trust me, we tried,” Rowan answered. “We sent letters and invited ourselves countless times.” He shrugged.
“How did you find out about . . . me?” She hated to turn the conversation to herself, but she wanted to know.
Rowan smiled. “Your mum, sweet Felicity. Her loyalty was to your father, of course, but she mailed a birth announcement that I’m sure she didn’t tell Clive about. There was a tiny photo of you in it. We were thrilled to get it.”
Trudy dabbed at the corner of her eye with her sleeve, then cleared her throat. “I knitted a beautiful blanket for you. The softest cotton in a delicious oatmeal color with four different kin
ds of cables shot through it. The most challenging cables I’d ever made. I wonder if they gave it to you . . .”
Elizabeth thought of the many boxes she’d helped her father pack after her mother died. There was one filled with old bedspreads and blankets. Could her baby blanket have been among them?
“It’s a shame that his stubbornness prevented me from meeting the rest of my family. I mean, I could’ve known my grandparents, right?”
“No, your grandfather died a year after your father left,” Rowan said quickly. “And your grandmother a year after that, so no.”
“But I could’ve gotten to know the two of you sooner,” Elizabeth said quietly.
Rowan’s eyes filled with tears. “We did miss so much, and I regret it every day. We blame ourselves. It’s our fault. But you’re finally here, and we can begin to make up for it.”
Elizabeth felt something move within her. Sympathy for the people sitting across from her, and unbelievably, for her father. He was a product of the ancient hurts he didn’t have the strength to get past. It didn’t excuse the way he’d treated her, but it helped to explain some of it.
But she didn’t want to dwell on it, so like every conflict she faced, Elizabeth put the story away. Better to move on than focus on an unhappy past she couldn’t change.
chapter ten
Elizabeth spent the day before the party shadowing Trudy as she herded and bossed everyone from the chair delivery people to the event planner herself. There were moments when Elizabeth doubted the team would finish, but by seven o’clock the next day the Barnes property was completely transformed. The already picturesque grounds became a magazine-spread-worthy dream of twinkly firefly lights, lush flower globes hung from fat pink silk ribbons, and acres of pale yellow linen-draped tables and chairs ripe for witty repartee. Elizabeth peeked out her window and spied chefs in white toques bickering at a grill hidden behind a wall of climbing roses. The aroma of something mouthwatering wafted through the open window, causing her stomach to growl in anticipation. She spotted well-dressed photographers snapping away as waiters straightened silverware and polished crystal.
She hated being early to any event, but as a houseguest of the host she had no choice. Elizabeth looked at herself in the mirror a final time and was pleased with her last-minute outfit. Harriet was right, the combination of the gray swirling skirt and frothy fascinator did approximate what mist might look like, if it could be captured and worn.
She snapped a half-dozen photographs of herself in the mirror and mulled over what hashtags to use. Rowan’s art world connections would open her up to an entirely new community of followers. And Cecelia would see her living her best life, surrounded by beautiful, exciting people. Perfect. Or it would be, once she could walk back to Fargrove and steal Wi-Fi from the coffee shop owned by the world’s grumpiest redhead.
Elizabeth opened her bedroom door and jumped when she saw Major waiting outside her room, not sure why he had opted to stand guard at the post. He sat leaning against the wall, looking dapper in a tiny wool top hat and bow tie. Elizabeth pulled her phone from the decorative belt at her waist and took a photo of Major. It turned out blurry and off-center, and she cursed her nervous hands for blowing what would’ve been an adorable shot, dog lover or not.
“Hi there, Major. Hello there,” Elizabeth said in what she hoped was a soothing voice. She had no idea what his sentry post outside her door meant. Was he ramping up his campaign of terror now that Trudy was busy with the party? Would she be able to fight him off before his claws ripped through the delicate tulle on her skirt? Major walked toward her as if reading her thoughts, and she braced herself against the wall for impact. She wasn’t going to call for help this time.
He turned in a tight circle in front of her, so close that his shoulder brushed her calf, then sat down next to her and stared up at her face, his tail thumping the ground. He scooted closer to her, so that his body rested against her leg.
“Okay, okaaaay,” Elizabeth said, more to calm herself than Major. “I just need to get by you. Everything is fine, just stay right there.”
She stepped away slowly, but Major put his paw on top of her foot and she froze. He snorted, then sneezed, which made the top hat he was wearing fall over his eyes. He swung his head from side to side trying to dislodge it.
“Someone should fix that for you,” Elizabeth said, wishing that Trudy would appear and right the hat. The narrow hallway was empty, but a thrum echoed up from the first floor. Major pawed at his face but couldn’t get the hat off.
“I guess I have to do it.” Major stopped flailing as if he could understand what she’d said, and Elizabeth reached down to him tentatively, realizing that she was about to touch the dog for the first time since she’d arrived. Her hands shook as she fixed the hat, unsure if her touch might trigger him in some way. It was a delicate maneuver, forcing her to pull at the elastic under his chin, just centimeters from his tooth-filled mouth, and slowly move the hat from over his eyes to the top of his head. Major sat still, even when she accidentally pulled the soft fur beneath his chin. Once the hat was perched on his head again, Major slapped his paw on top of her hand, then drew it toward his chest.
“You want me to pet you? Okay, I think I can do that.” She placed her fingertips in the fur on his chest and moved them rhythmically for a few seconds. Major leaned into the petting, which made her realize that she was doing it right.
“Are we good?” she asked as she moved her hand away from him. “Truce?”
Major dipped his shoulders down so that his elbows touched the ground and yipped at her, then danced in a circle and disappeared down the hall. It felt like an invitation to follow, so she did.
The ground floor was buzzing with staff. Elizabeth wandered among them, feeling overdressed and silly amid the uniformed waiters, until a woman with a severe updo in a headset asked what she needed.
“Rowan? Trudy? Have you seen them?”
“He said something about the studio?” The woman tapped her waist and held her other hand up to the earpiece. “Copy that, I’m on my way.” She disappeared into the swirl of activity.
Elizabeth wandered down the lane toward the Operculum. She felt eyes on her back, and she half turned to find a photographer snapping photos of her. She knew she cut a lovely figure in the dress, and the lights from the setting sun and torches along the lane cast a no-filter-needed glow on her as she strolled. She pretended she didn’t see him and drifted over to the fence by the ladies’ barn, trying to look graceful even though the uneven pebbly lane made her wobble in her heels. The juxtaposition of her in her elegant dress interacting with the sheep deserved a stand-alone photo on whatever social media account he represented, so she pretended to have something in her pocket and called the sheep to her. He was far enough away that she didn’t have to stress about her makeup or hair, but close enough that she could repost the photo and her followers would know it was her.
Rosie and Blossom eyed her from the center of the field. As promised, they were both wearing tiny flower crowns, but they seemed more interested in removing them from each other’s heads than chatting with Elizabeth. One of them let out a burplike bleat. Still, she leaned over the fence prettily and stood on her tiptoes so that her leg muscles popped, hoping that the photographer was framing the moment in the way she was envisioning. She wanted to run her phone over to him and make him snap a few that she could post, but she knew it would ruin the fake spontaneity of the moment. She stepped up on the edge of the fence, lifting one leg straight back like a ballerina. She leaned farther over the fence for maximum drama. Farther, a little farther still until the top railing started to bite into her thigh. Rosie took a step in her direction and Elizabeth made an encouraging noise, so focused on realizing her picture-perfect moment that she couldn’t sense the ancient wood groaning against her weight. The railing shifted suddenly, and the smooth bottom of the pump on her supporting foot skidded her
forward. She windmilled her arms dramatically, trying to maintain her balance and nearly sending her over the top of the fence and into the muck. She grabbed on to the top railing right as her heel finally gave way, breaking off with a loud snap. She caught herself before her foot slipped all the way through the fence and stood still, trying to collect herself.
She couldn’t bear to look in the photographer’s direction.
A splinter on the beam had drawn a thick editor’s pen of blood along the side of her leg. The scrape was painful enough to make her want to punch something in retaliation. She surveyed her shoe. The heel was attached with just a sliver of muddy black satin, like a piece of connective tissue on a severed limb. The back of her foot was filthy with mud and whatever parasites lived in sheep habitat. She couldn’t decide if she should tiptoe to Rowan’s studio while still wearing the broken heel or take them off and surrender completely.
She finally peeked up the lane and saw the photographer retreating to the house. Of course he’d seen the entire thing, and the photos would be posted so she’d end up a punch line in the UK as well. She’d seen enough copies of the Daily Mail to envision the half-true headline: Barnes babe’s pert posterior on display as she falls headfirst into the muck.
Elizabeth sat on the edge of a large stone by the barn and removed what was left of her shoes in a huff. She had no other footwear that would work. Her boots would look ridiculous, plus she still had angry blisters from the dispersement. Flats or sneakers weren’t even a consideration. She was furious with herself. How could she possibly pose with Britain’s top tier while barefoot and bleeding? She’d look dumpy. All of the styled photos she’d imagined were ruined without shoes. She stormed over to Rowan’s studio and banged on the door.
“Enter.”
The track shrieked as she pulled it open. She stood in the doorway, shoes dangling from her hand and shoulders sloped. Rowan sat at his easel with a paintbrush clenched between his teeth, looking delighted with whatever he was working on. The smell of the barn, of ancient sun-warmed wood mixed with the familiar aroma of paint and pungent solvents, made her want to skip the party and hide in a corner.
Who Rescued Who Page 7