nineteen

If I should happen to fall in love, the outcome of such a plight depends, like any big fall, on who is there to catch me.

~A scientist’s observations on love

My words . . . they’re still wrong, Aunt Maisie.

Because they’re yours.

I clambered up the crumbling rock slope as the sun crested the next morning, the household behind me still abed, and braced myself against the wind. It was time to have one more private conversation about that letter, before I said another regrettable word.

I should have realized what had upset Celeste. Or at least, I should have kept quiet until I did. That letter had been shaking up the household ever since it had been unleashed here, and now it seemed to have somehow landed with her.

When Celeste had finally told me about her secret admirer, quoting lines I recognized from the letter, I’d forced myself to swallow the truth that was ripe and ready on the edge of my tongue. “It likely isn’t what it seems, Celeste,” was all I’d said in the moment. After our last conversation, I would not say more until I’d first talked it over with the One of infinite wisdom.

Now, stepping into the center of the ruins, those massive old stone walls became a barrier from the wind, creating a small square of quiet in the big loud world. There I knelt and rested my soul before God. I sank into his presence, offering up my raw worries and hope as the sun warmed the back of my neck.

The air of Crestwicke had felt even thicker lately with the longing for authentic love, the silent pain of disappointment in dashed hopes. I’d come to uncover a single broken love story and encountered a house full of brokenness and unsettled hearts longing for a safe place to land.

Time elapsed with the muffled crash of waves below. Finally my legs grew stiff, my skin chilled with moisture. With a sigh I rose, filling my lungs with fresh air and looking over the bracken-laden cliffs that all spoke in vivid color of their Creator. Flowers gave a fresh powdery scent to the air. Drenched in God Almighty was exactly how my heart felt then, seeing traces of him everywhere, beating a steady rhythm of strength for whatever came next.

I made my way down the path and across the misty yard, but the sound of my name from a familiar voice arrested me.

Gabe stood framed in the stable doorway. “I have something for you.” Something in his demeanor had changed, but I couldn’t place what it was. He was more watchful of me, his gaze burrowing through all the layers, and I looked away, neck warm. Perhaps the aura of Crestwicke had invaded me too.

The aroma of horses and fresh hay greeted me, drawing me in, inviting me to stay. Just as Gabe’s smiling eyes did while he guided me, enticing me to follow him, and I was glad I did. Around a corner I caught a glimpse of the most majestic, wild-eyed creature I’d ever seen, circling the square enclosure and tossing her head. Around she paced, as if she’d find an exit and dart to safety. The wild white-gray horse stopped to stare back at us from the far end of her enclosure, eyes wide and glassy with fear, then spun into her circle again, tossing her wavy mane. Even disheveled and jittery from head to flanks, she was magnificent.

“Oh, Gabe.”

When the horse stopped again, Gabe entered the enclosure, arm out, and approached with steady steps. His gaze was fixed and gentle, his very aura permeating the space and calming the beast’s frayed edges. Thawing my heart. It was beautiful to witness their interaction. Gabe was tall and steady as granite, his nature just as solid.

He looked my way. “Give her any name you like, Willa. She isn’t broken yet, but she’s yours.”

My heart lurched. “You . . . bought me a horse?”

He gave the slightest shake of his head, and the horse flinched, ears back and head high. “Brought her in last night from the beach. She has a nasty gash on her hind leg that’ll be infected if she’s left on her own.” One more step and she jerked back, prancing in a circle again. “I patched her up, and she’s here to heal.” Gabe exited and came to stand beside me.

“How, pray, did you patch her up?”

Another shrug, arms folded on the fence as he leaned over to watch her. “A few stitches. They should hold.”

The horse stepped closer, neck out toward Gabe as if she couldn’t keep away, despite her fear. Looking at this rock of a man who exuded a magnetic gentleness, I couldn’t help but understand. What was this enchantment he wielded over all wild creatures?

The horse inched close to Gabe again, ears back, and I held my breath for their contact. She sniffed in a few times and huffed out, jerking away and circling again. Our eyes met and I recognized myself once again in the creature. My heart pounded as I took in the flared gray nostrils, quivering flesh, mane still wild with the wind and freedom she’d so recently had, and something within me trembled. “I can’t do it, Gabe. I cannot keep her. Beautiful as she is, she’s a wild animal. She’d be miserable. She’d make you miserable.”

“Right, then.” He eyed me, and I wondered if he glimpsed the deeper thoughts on my face. “Just until she’s healed. Would that suit?”

I glanced his way with a smile. “I suppose that’ll do.”

“While she’s here, you might as well come and spend time with her, get her used to the idea that humans aren’t terrible. It’ll make it easier for me to treat her wounds.” More time here? More of these stables and this man, working his charm on all things wild?

“You’ve never had trouble earning the trust of a horse.”

He considered me. “Thought she’d be good for you too. Give you something to do besides caring for a rather demanding patient.” I blinked, and he shrugged. “No harm in admitting the truth now and again.”

“I’m beginning to think your mother isn’t so terrible.”

Something beautiful swelled in his expression, glowing from every plane of his face. “After winning her over, a mere horse should be no trouble.”

I turned back to the creature still hovering in the corner. “I shall make it my special mission to love the fear right out of this horse. You see if I don’t.”

“I have no doubt. Your impact is felt wherever you go.”

I sighed as the horse skittered about the stall. “For better or worse.”

Just like his horses. “Be patient with her, no? It’ll take time, but she’ll be worth it. I promise.” A hint of a smile tugged his lips. “The best ones always are.”

I dropped my gaze. “The horse or the patient?”

“Have your pick.”

“I thought we were freeing this horse once she healed.” I turned and placed a hand on the gate, watching the caged thing.

“Perhaps.” He stepped up behind me, placing his hand beside mine. “Don’t be surprised if she decides to stay. Funny thing about scars is that when they heal, they rebuild around whatever they’re touching. You very well might be stuck with her.”

I smiled. “I suppose I could live with that.”

We stared at one another, that horse and I, her breath puffing quick and short through those flared nostrils. How I longed to smooth my hand along that velvety gray muzzle and up into her mane. I laid my cheek on my folded arms. “There, now. We’re to be friends, you and I. Perhaps someday you’ll let me ride you. What if I promise to go bareback? Yes, I think that would suit you. Besides, you’re far too pretty to be covered up with a saddle. What do you say, shall we make a go of it?”

She jerked her head, then danced back and forth across the farthest part of the stall, neck arching and tangled mane feathering out behind her. Keeping my eyes on her, I stepped up onto the bottom rail of the gate and held out my hand, palm up. What lovely, wild eyes she had, and I could see the fear sparkling in their depths. Back and forth she went, trying to make sense of me.

Then she darted forward and nipped. I jolted back with a cry and laughed, stumbling off the gate. I turned to Gabe to share the moment with him and found him watching me with deliberate interest, as if he were evaluating something. His look sobered me, and I stood in the quiet stable staring back at him, trying desperately to read what I saw there. He did not let me. Long lashes dropped and guarded his secrets.

I forced a smile into the heavy silence. “Thank you, Gabe. She’s perfect. For however long she lets me keep her.”

“I’m betting on forever.” His voice rumbled from his chest as he lifted his gaze again.

I looked down, unsure what to say.

“I was thinking Luna for her name. After the French word for—”

“Moon.” I lifted a smile to him. “Yes, it’s perfect. She’s like a lovely moonbeam, lighting up this dark stable as she shoots across the sky.” I faced the skittish horse. “All right then . . . Luna.”

“You’ll be perfect for each other.”

“Yes, perfect.” I turned to him as he tossed a bridle over his shoulder, my heart still full of letters and broken hearts and solemn vows. “Gabe, why does your mother separate so many couples?”

He didn’t flinch at the randomness of my question, but instead lifted an armload of leather bridles and things from a chair, continuing his work. “She has a keen eye, and she isn’t blinded by a cloud of feelings. She can see things better than the people in the midst of their infatuation. She practically saved Celeste’s life years ago.”

Poor Celeste. “That’s all it was with her Frenchman—infatuation? She still bears the scars of that break, you know.”

“She might bear a lot more if she’d gone forward with him. The truth is, he enjoyed the company of ladies a great deal. Or rather, the company of a great deal of ladies. Maybe he’d have settled on Celeste for life, maybe not.”

“So she was protecting her.”

“Burke has a good woman because of her, even if they’ve managed to muck it up a bit, and me . . .” His jaw jutted to the side. “Well, Caroline would mean the fulfillment of a great many dreams for me, and she’s kind and beautiful. My mother may be prickly as a pincushion, but she knows the desires of her children and seeks to fill them in whatever way seems logical.”

Yet from where I sat, she’d done nothing but form business alliances and tie everyone into knots. No one ever knew how it would be until a person was in it, it seemed, all freedom signed away.

Soon afterward, I walked back to the house, staring up at it with a deep gratitude for my spinsterhood. There existed in me a dull, general ache for the love story I didn’t have, for a lasting home for my heart, but that discomfort seemed far better than giving up my future and living through a marriage like those at Crestwicke. Not a single pairing outside of my sainted parents’ marriage was better than flying across the beach, mane fluttering and an ocean of possibilities before me.

Days later, a storm rattled the very bones of Crestwicke Manor, slicing the sky with light followed by ominous rolling thunder that vibrated through the timbers. I sat curled into Golda’s sitting room window to study, drawn there in spite of the moist air stealing through the casement. Golda sat at her desk, writing. Rain swelled the clouds, threatening to fall but not making good as of yet. Just like the night Rose and Grayson were married.

I hadn’t been able to get that story from my head, for the sadness of it remained heavy in my heart. Had she felt clammy, standing there in the rain-pregnant air with her best gown, praying she could wed Grayson before they were caught?

I forced my attention onto the text on my lap, an abstract from Dr. Henry Currey on his “pavilion principle,” which is what I’d finally decided on for Father’s new clinic design. Basic and logical, it allowed for ventilation of every part of the building and kept contagions from becoming cooped up with the patients. It had proved wildly successful in France already.

Each strike of lightning jerked my attention back to the window, every rumble sent a shiver through me. Then one sharp crack split the peace, and I dropped my book with a cry. Below a stable door banged. A horse’s frantic neigh echoed. Wood splintered, and I strained to see the stables.

Golda’s voice made me jump. “Go and see what that’s about, will you?”

“Oh yes, of course.” I flung aside my wrap and hurried down the hall, planting my face in the leaded glass window at the end of the hall. Then I saw her—that familiar white-gray creature bucking wildly, tangling her legs in the broken corral fence. Another pop and the animal tore into the open field, stumbling on her lame leg.

I spun to bolt outside, but a gentle hand on my arm stopped me. I nearly fell backward in my shock, as if touched by a specter.

“No need to panic.” Another flash of lightning illuminated Aunt Maisie, who must have come down the hall for the same reason. “Just wait here.”

“But that horse is horribly injured.” As thunder rumbled in the background, images of that sleek body tumbling over jagged cliffs ripped through my mind. “I’ve got to find her. I need a lantern, and rope. And a groom, and—”

Her gnarled hand clamped onto my shoulder. “You need nothing but to stay right here, out of the way.”

“But—”

“Look.” Her raspy voice arrested my attention as she lifted one crooked finger to the window. Another horse tore out of the stables, a cloaked rider clinging to its neck.

“Gabe.” I breathed his name in relief and touched the rippled glass.

I waited for their return, watching my breath steam the window, counting endless seconds. Then they crested the far hill, both horses side by side with Gabe tall and able on his. Lightning crackled as they came down the hill, the white horse favoring her injured leg but no longer fighting. In fact, she seemed eager for the shelter as they reached the stable, head bowed as they stopped under the eaves.

She’d begun to make her peace with us lately, to hesitantly take an apple from me, a calming stroke from Gabe, and it had solidified my heart toward her, filled it with protectiveness. Gabe loosened the rope around her neck and smoothed his hand down to her shoulder. She threw her head back when thunder rumbled, giving little bucks, then she visibly eased under Gabe’s soothing touch.

“Belonging to Gabe Gresham is not the worst thing that’s happened to that wild horse.” Aunt Maisie’s voice was faint and thoughtful.

My heart squeezed, watching Gabe coax the horses back to the stable. She’d given up her freedom, but she had someone to go after her in a storm. My heart stretched in many directions, tainted with longing.

Yet not everyone’s story ended that way. Few did, in fact. Images of Rose and Grayson in that Gretna Green stable flashed before me with each lightning bolt. “Oh, Aunt Maisie, how can you possibly want me to fan those desires into flames when they only consume a person and leave her so broken and alone.”

“If that’s how it leaves her, then she hasn’t finished the search.”

“But if a person is already married . . .” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Aunt Maisie, why did Grayson abandon her?”

She straightened. “We haven’t finished the story yet, have we? Besides, it was his family who forced the annulment.”

“That means he still had to stand before the church and claim the marriage was never valid, retract his vows as if they were nothing more than a mistake. What good is it to belong to someone if they can suddenly decide you no longer do?” I pushed the words out, and my heart retracted, as if it had just released something important from its very core. I stared at the cold fear exposed in me. Everyone left, whether they meant to or not. So many married couples remained present in body, but their heart had long since departed the union. Even Mother had left Father, in a way, and a gaping hole had grown in her absence. How could I bear it? How could anyone?

“It’s far more complicated than that, lass. You see, poor Grayson was forbidden from seeing his Rose. They even planned to have her arrested and sent to America. They didn’t want their son wasted on a little butcher shop girl, and their wishes had a nasty habit of becoming reality. They arranged for a servant to plant an heirloom necklace on the girl, but Grayson found out and bargained with them. Rather than having Rose forced to go overseas, where she’d be destitute, he would go himself. He’d join his father’s regiment if they promised to leave the girl alone. They agreed, and he was shipped out to the West Indies.”

“Did Rose follow him?”

She shook her head sadly. “She didn’t know what had become of him for a long time.”

“Didn’t she try to win him back?”

“Of course she did.” The old woman grimaced. “What kind of spineless heroine do you think she was? Every week for several months, Rose appeared at their doorstep, asking for Grayson. Every time, they sent her away. Then she came one last time and confessed, in all irony, that she actually was in possession of a priceless family heirloom from Grayson, but they didn’t believe her.”

“What did she do?”

“There was nothing for it but to return home, ruined and abandoned. No one would marry her after that, and truth be told, she didn’t wish to wed. Those years broke her. When her father found out what had happened, he kicked poor Rose out, calling her a disgrace and a great deal of other names not repeated by decent folk. The only man who thought well of her was Grayson, and he was off fighting for his queen.”

“Did he ever come home? Surely his parents would not stand between them forever, if they were truly in love.”

She offered a weak shrug, her faded eyes wandering into some unseen attic room of her mind. “I looked for him for a while, but no one knew where he was, or wouldn’t say. He’d been known all over Upton Currey for his charm and wealth, but suddenly no one spoke of him. It was as if he hadn’t existed, and there was nothing to be done about it.”

Emotion shimmered in me, absorbing the immensity of this story . . . and the shift in her narrative, that single word giving it all away: I. It wasn’t Clara’s story, or Gabe’s betrothed, but the bright-eyed sharp-witted grown-up young woman before me. She had been telling me her own story. Another listener might have missed the subtle slip, but my medical mind sorted through emotion daily to thread out facts.

Despair and hope mingled in my heart, swirling into a chaotic desperation to find that love note. I had to deliver it to her, even if she never saw its writer again. She had to know how he felt. If only I knew where it was! I fisted my hands, wishing they still held that elusive letter.

Aunt Maisie ran her crippled old hands along my arm and grabbed at my hand. Her skin was loose but smooth. “Don’t let this story cause you to give up, child. Keep looking, keep chasing that deep desire for real love. Cast aside every wrong one, and eventually . . . eventually you’ll find the real thing.”

I looked her full in the face, heart pounding. “Tell Rose, if you should see her, that it isn’t time for her to give up just yet either.”

Her gaze locked onto my face, searching for something of vital importance. “You’ve found her letter.”

“No, but it’s turned up again. It’s still here.”

She stilled. “Who?”

“Celeste.”

“Truly?”

“She believes she has an admirer now too. I’ve no idea how to break the truth to her—or to Essie. And somehow Clara Gresham is part of this.” What had Aunt Maisie said about Burke keeping tabs on his wife? A mess is what I’d created. Not a reunion, but a volatile mess. “Perhaps we should tell—”

“No.” She squeezed my hand with a stranglehold. “Whatever comes, you must not tell them anything. Not yet, anyway. Promise me you won’t.”

“Why ever not? They can’t go on believing—”

“What, that someone, somewhere truly loves them? Don’t you see? These words have a life beyond the page. They’ve taken flight in this house, moving where they will, seeping into the cracks of hearts. It’s woken something up in them, opened them to the possibility that love exists and they are the worthy recipients. And that is vital.”

Truth and compassion, always at war within my outspoken self. This time my strangled heart chose compassion . . . and silence. Not a lie, just silence. “How long?”

“Find that letter, and we’ll discuss what comes next.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about the path that missive seemed to be carving through the hard rock of Crestwicke’s walls. Even I had been captivated by the thing.

What makes the past so intriguing, anyway? Perhaps because understanding those stories that so enchant us, those ghostly echoes of long-ago mistakes and passions, means untangling the present and changing the future.

Which is what I intended to do. Armed now with the name of a town, I would find Grayson Aberdeen and see if, by some chance, he was unattached.