5
Bad weather can only harm the vineyard if one is unprepared for it, which is completely unnecessary. One can always count on bad weather, just not on its exact timing.
—Notebook of a viticulturist
I dealt with Andrew’s arrival in the most logical way I knew how—by looking as stunning as humanly possible. As I pointed out my dark blue muslin and lace gown to my lady’s maid, I recalled the smudged taupe-colored dress I’d worn when Andrew had rejected me years ago. I directed Lucy to pile my hair in meticulous sweeps and curls as I remembered the windblown wreck my hair had been that last painful time I’d seen him.
This day would be entirely different than that fated one I could never erase from memory.
“What a vision you are, Miss Tressa.” Margaret spoke from behind me, her face appearing in the mirror as Lucy stepped back to survey her work. “I can hardly believe you’re the same girl I opened the door to, all soggy and dirty you were. Now look at you.” She tilted her head fondly and touched a gold pin in my upswept hair. “Why, you could be Josiah Harlowe’s legendary fortune yourself, a glowing pearl with strands of polished copper for hair.”
My lady’s maid, Lucy, swept the pins littering my dressing table into their tin. “All those treasure hunters came too early and missed the finest gem of the house.”
“Treasure hunters have been here?”
“In droves, miss. Never have we had so many goodwill calls from neighbors and vendors and even strangers who never had a reason to care about Trevelyan before. The most brazen of them simply poked about the grounds on their own.”
“Lucy, hush.” Margaret brushed the girl aside. “You must learn when to button your mouth.”
“Tonight’s visitor is certainly no treasure hunter, at least.” Mother swept into the room and hovered behind me, scrutinizing my face in the mirror as she might analyze the finer points of a gown she was selecting.
Lucy leaped out of Mother’s way and the tin of hairpins tumbled from her hands, crashing and plinking across the floor.
Mother pressed her fingertips to her temples, then forced a smile toward the girl scrambling across the floor to retrieve the pins. “Be sure to do something about her face, Lucy. All that color from the sun will only remind Andrew of her oddities.”
I couldn’t help but wish to return to childhood, when my barefoot-running, outdoors-loving, energetic oddities were considered at least marginally appropriate.
With a delicate squeeze to my shoulders, Mother turned and swept out the door. Heaving a sigh, I looked at the blemished, rosy face of our housekeeper in the mirror, and the sweet tenderness there transformed it into a thing of maternal beauty. “Margaret, do you find me odd? Andrew must be coming because of the fortune, for it seems to be my one redeeming attribute.”
“That wealthy man has all the treasure he needs, save one special pearl, which he hasn’t plucked yet.” She winked in the mirror and gave a final pat to the lingering stray hairs.
I spun on my stool to face the kindly woman I’d known all my life. “Margaret, what do you think of this scheme Mother’s concocted?”
She pinched her lips, then took a breath. “I always say, those who marry for money earn it. And Andrew Carrington has nothing to offer you but money, I’m afraid. Now out you go, off to dazzle that poor man before you send him packing.” She gave a tender pinch to my arm as I rose and glided toward the door.
I descended in gleaming black kid boots, idly wondering if my blue gown was dark enough to be considered mourning attire until the dressmaker could ready something in black. Perhaps I should have my maid dye one of my muslins. Before the thought had finished, I immediately smote it down. What did it matter if my clothes were one shade off? Father’s death had already painted my heart an ashy gray. I would surely be mourning inside more than anyone.
“Clarissa, won’t you see where my lovely daughter has hidden herself?” Mother’s voice floated out from the drawing room.
With a deep, refreshing breath, I opened the doors and stood framed there, a live portrait created in tandem with my maid to convey both the lovely femininity and hints of indifferent elegance I wished to display to this man who had scorned me. There he stood, that trim figure against the unlit fireplace, one arm leaning on the ivory mantel as he spoke to Mother in the dulcet tones that I could not quite remove from my memory.
“Welcome, Mr. Carrington.” The words came out in one steady breath.
Andrew turned, his eyes taking in all of me in one brief, breathless moment. I held my breath and waited. His face softened and I saw my appearance mirrored in his glow of appreciation. He strode to me and took both my hands. I shuddered to touch them so casually, these hands that had been in so many of my waking dreams in our time abroad. I had gone through the hard work of forgetting him, and all those years of effort unraveled the instant he said my name.
“Tressa.”
I focused on his wave of dark blond hair to avoid meeting the eyes that spoke volumes. How could one possibly grow more handsome with age?
A quiet smile lit his face and he lowered his voice. “I see you have not completely relinquished your feelings for me.”
I dropped my gaze to his chest to hide my traitorous emotions, but that too was a mistake. For there, tucked just inside his suit, was the red silk cravat I’d given him years ago. The one he said he’d wear whenever he missed me desperately. How long after that moment had he stood in Trevelyan’s courtyard and broken my heart? A week, perhaps.
I kept my voice low so only he would hear. “A woman can never be fully indifferent to the man she was to marry.”
Mother swept toward us, her eyes alight with pleasure as her soft voice brushed my ears. “Andrew has come to help us through this dreadful ordeal. Isn’t that wonderful, Daughter?”
Andrew smiled and turned back to me. “Mother and Father are in Paris so I’ve been at the London house alone. I simply had to come when your mother sent word. I took the first train here. And now I shall remain until you . . . until my presence is no longer required.”
His voice, warm and familiar, wrapped itself around me like a pleasant memory. I must keep up my defenses until he’s gone, my mind demanded. But with each passing second in his presence, I found my resolve melting and my feet slipping from their firm foundation.
The sound of echoing footsteps in the hall broke the tension, and I gladly looked away toward the door to await the new arrival, backing into the shadows to observe.
“We have more callers.” Mother’s airy voice seemed to smile at the notion as she moved toward the door, for she dearly loved visitors.
But it was not that sort of guest we found entering from the hall. The stranger who had deemed himself manager of the vineyards filled the doorway, looking over the room with a slight downturn of his dark eyebrows. I watched from the shadowed fringes of the room as he addressed Mother.
“I’ve come to offer my condolences to the lady of the house on the loss of its master.” Standing there in all his rugged informality and heavy boots, Donegan Vance contrasted sharply with the delicate chintz and flower patterns of the room. Despite the roughness of his trade that clung to him, he exuded a compelling presence that made it impossible for anyone to ignore him.
Mother studied him without a blink. “Have we been introduced?”
“Not yet.” He strode forward and took her hand for a moment, then released it. “Donegan Vance, new manager of the vineyard.”
“But did you not enter through the front door?”
“I had been looking over the vegetation around that side of the castle. The front entrance was the closest.”
“Naturally.” Stunned and bright-eyed, Mother allowed her gaze to rove over the man before her. Not a single spark of welcome lit her face.
“Your late husband engaged me to help him with his vineyard before his passing.”
She paused to consider. “I see.”
“I’d like to discuss wages and negotiate a down payment before I begin—a small percentage of good faith money.”
The corners of her mouth tipped down. “This is quite irregular. I’ve never paid my staff before they’ve worked.”
“But you have neglected to pay them altogether at times, from what I’ve heard, and you will find that I am not as accommodating.” His boots were planted on our lovely white rug.
A vague dread settled over me as I watched the conversation play out from the far corner of the room beside Andrew. Father, not paying the workers? He’d never do such a thing. Lacking as he was in warmth and affection, he had always been impeccably fair to a fault, even to the lowliest laborer. Yet this validated Prescott’s claims of Father’s loan. Unless they were both lying . . .
“What’s he talking about?” Andrew whispered in my ear.
I flashed him a look that said later.
Mr. Vance continued. “You will also need to pay your field hands what is owed them.”
Mother lifted her chin. “I’m afraid we haven’t organized the household finances yet.”
Or found them.
“They should be paid for their work.”
“Of course.” Mother’s gracious voice fell from her mouth like a silky waterfall. “They deserve every farthing promised them, but there may be a delay.”
The man frowned. “How long?”
“Two months will be sufficient, I’m sure.” But she wasn’t, of course. How could she be? “They’ll only have to wait a little while.”
“Wonderful. They’ll simply wait a few months to eat as well.”
Mother’s eyelashes fluttered as she absorbed the shock of his directness. The man had the bearing of a feudal lord, one who elicited obedience from an entire village simply because they knew their fate rested on his whim.
“Now, I’d like to discuss a plan to—”
“You’ll have to take this up with my daughter.” Mother swept her arms gracefully in my direction, easily passing the argument along while she retained a shred of dignity before this man she obviously did not know how to answer. “I’m afraid I know very little about the vineyards, and she’s better suited to managing the grounds.”
He turned to me then, his passionate face framed by a square jaw, and I stepped out of the shadows toward him. Shock flamed across his features at the sight of me, darkening his eyes, but he recovered and extended his hand.
A smile flicked about my face despite my efforts to pinch it back. I spoke in a low voice only he could hear. “At your service, one scrawny little bird.” I lifted my hand gracefully to meet his. “With airs.”
The look of shock that paled his tan face then was wholly satisfying and enjoyable to witness. His eyes snapped with something—irritation, or maybe the restrained desire to debate me, yet he accepted my hand for a brief moment like a civilized man. Either way, I had risen to the top of this situation and I enjoyed my view from there.
He stepped back and spoke again to Mother. “I shall follow your daughter’s lead, then. I look forward to seeing her out in the vineyards with us as we work.”
She straightened. “She’ll do no such thing. We aren’t as common as that, Mr. Vance. She will merely see to the paperwork and any questions you have.”
I stepped forward and laid a hand on her arm. “I’ll be happy to take part, Mother. It is an art form, really, balancing the perfect conditions and careful pruning to bring about the best grape, and you know how dearly I love art.”
The stranger’s gaze snapped to me, evaluating me with a glint of keen approval, but he spoke not a word. He offered a smile and a subtle kinship passed between us.
“Very well, if you wish. But Mr. Vance, I must request that you limit your access to the service entrance. It’s more convenient from the vineyards.” The polite order rang with warning.
I looked to the man before me to see if he’d received it, but his stony expression revealed little of the thoughts that passed below the surface.
“Mr. Vance,” I said, “I hope it is agreeable to discuss payment in the coming weeks. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement that suits you.”
“As long as that arrangement involves money transferring from your hand to those of your vineyard staff.”
“We’ll address the details later.” Excusing myself, I made a graceful exit with the intent of retreating to my chambers, but Andrew followed close behind. I forced myself to stop and acknowledge his presence when we reached the hall where sunlight filtered through the tall windows.
“Tressa. Is it true, what they’ve said? About the hidden fortune?” Anticipation flicked in the depths of his eyes as if he’d been presented with a puzzle, a chase, that he couldn’t resist.
His words deflated me immediately. “Oh Andrew. Is that why you’ve come?”
Regret flashed over his face. “Of course not. Forgive me for such a poor opening to the conversation I was too nervous to begin. What I should have had the courage to say is . . .” He glanced down at his polished boots, then back up to me. “I hope we may renew our friendship.”
“Do you?” I looked over his fresh, clean-shaven face and forced the barely substantial walls to once again be erected between us.
“Isn’t it what you want?” He swept up my hands in his eager ones. “Because if it isn’t, if you’ve changed your mind . . .”
I withdrew my hands, and as the image of him on that final day, apologetic, pitying, dominated my thoughts. “No, I believe you changed my mind when you chose to end our courtship.”
His face crumpled in regret. “Surely you know that isn’t true. I was forced to do it. They would have disinherited me.”
“You still chose to comply, did you not?” I spoke those words with all the pent-up sadness that had clouded those dark days. His parents had even sold their country estate near Trevelyan to keep us from happening upon one another, all because our name did not go back to ten generations of nobility. Father was part of the new wealth of England, his lowly heritage a millstone upon my marriage prospects.
“You’re right, as always, Tressa. It took the death of your father for me to see what a coward I was. I should have pressed Father to reconsider, for I would be able to protect you now.”
“I’m not suddenly rendered helpless, Andrew. I need no more protection now than I did before.”
He inhaled deeply, a look of utter desolation crossing his features. “What I mean is, I should not have given up so easily before.” His lowered voice wove through me, shaking my calm. “I can promise you, I won’t make that mistake again.” And with those words, he strode deeper into my home and climbed the stairs to the room where he would be staying indefinitely.
Disappearing to my bedchamber afforded me a chance to both quiet my mind and awaken my creative spirit. Desperately wishing to bathe my hurting soul in the lovely colors outside my window and capture them for the bleak days ahead, I pulled a rough handmade box from under my bed and flipped open the lid. My lovely bottles of color, the raw materials of my art, lay waiting for my eager fingers. “Hello, old friends.”
Glancing about my bedchamber, which was already covered top to bottom, including most of the furniture, with bursts of colorful flowers, curling vines and ivy, and rich green leaves I’d painted, I decided to begin a new design in one of the many unused rooms about Trevelyan. It had to be some space no one would frequent, for anyone who saw that I had painted on the walls would think me mad.
My wandering brought me down into the arched undercroft, which had served as a sort of tinker area for Father. Taking a quick turn about the empty space, fear prickled my skin and I wished I’d taken someone with me. The eerie silence seemed robust and alive rather than a simple absence of sound.
A tall metal shield draped in cobwebs depicting a coat of arms caught my eye where it sat angled in the shadows, just past the single shaft of light streaming in the slit of a window. Then my attention was drawn to the splendid vineyard tapestry that always left me in awe. It was truly beautiful, this rendering. The solid vine trunk rose up from the ground between two posts and out at the top into heavily leafed branches that twined along their guide wire. Heavy grape clusters hung from the leaf-filled branches and tendrils burst out between the foliage. The center of the thick trunk had been filled with an iridescent gold filament that shone even in the dim light of this space.
The vineyard’s secret scrolled along the top, always enflaming my curiosity, drawing me back to stare at this tapestry often over the years. Below it read, the abundance lies within. I’m not certain exactly when I’d decided this tapestry was a hint at the hiding spot for Father’s fortune, but it had always been that in my mind. Perhaps words like secret and abundance led me to this conclusion, or maybe it was simply the glowing gold of the vine’s trunk.
I stepped forward and traced the bold letters stitched across the bottom, and again I wondered at the name.
Father had been utterly fascinated by the grand family who had built Trevelyan centuries ago and worked against nature to bring about a vineyard in the part of England where one did not belong, yet he never wasted the few words spoken to us explaining the reason for his captivation. I turned away and pulled out a jar of deep red pigment, settling myself on a tall stool before the wall that would receive my touch of color. Somehow he felt he owed that family his fortune, but I never knew why exactly, for he’d died without finishing the story. Without finishing our story.
I closed my eyes against another wave of sorrow as images of Father played through my mind, and an odd notion swept over me as gently as the strokes of my brush: It isn’t over. It was as if two parts of me warred constantly. One hoped for the impossible, and the other accepted reality and resounded the truth of it incessantly. Of course it was over. I was merely in denial. Father was dead, and that fact placed a cap on that part of my life forever. I continued my work.
But that story isn’t over.
When the notion returned with gentle insistence, I wondered if these words were not of my own wishful thinking, but from God. I had drifted so far from the easy conversations of my lonely childhood in which he’d impressed various thoughts upon my heart. Had I mistaken this prompting? What could it mean?
Perhaps there was more to be uncovered about the story of Father’s life—or his death. Dr. Caine’s words about the Malvern legends niggled at my mind. When I’d finished, I cleaned my brushes and tucked away my jars, stepping back to look over my scripted painting of the word Malvern on the wall, and the doctor’s casual words swelled to an overwhelming dread. Death, sudden and early. It had happened again to the new master of Trevelyan. But it was merely a legend. A silly superstition. Yet the chill of this space settled on me invasively. I looked about the room so full of Malvern relics and suddenly fancied it haunted.
Fear and excitement swirled through me in this forgotten space and compelled my feet toward the door. Wind moaned long, low notes outside the castle walls, and I scampered up the narrow staircase and burst into the servant’s hall to catch my breath. Fortunately, the room stood empty. Most of the staff was busy repairing the dining room from the chaos of dinner. Setting my paints and brushes on the floor, I curled into my favorite deep windowsill that often held baked goods and closed my eyes, breathing deeply of night air.
Soft steps echoed around the corner and Lucy’s nervous face appeared in the shadows. At my tired smile, my lady’s maid entered. “Is something amiss?” Pity glistened in her eyes that went deeper than concern for the immediate moment. I’d rescued the girl once in her days as a chambermaid when Mother intended to dismiss her due to what she called chronic awkwardness. I insisted she become my lady’s maid, despite her lack of experience, for it was the only way to keep her. Ever since then, Lucy had been my devoted personal attendant, complete with enough characteristic blunders and missteps to keep me sufficiently amused.
“No, thank you, Lucy. I’ll be fine.” I closed my eyes and forced myself to relax. Then my eyes flitted open and I studied the girl as I remembered the odd bits of conversation I’d heard in the hall the night we’d returned. “Lucy, there is one thing you can do for me.”
“Yes, miss.” She clasped her hands behind her back and stepped forward, her little black boots swishing in the empty room. For all her flaws and mistakes, her lust for gossip made her a wonderful source of information.
“There’s more to this situation, isn’t there? About my father’s death, I mean.”
Her features froze, eyes wide. “Of course not. What more could there be?”
I leveled a look at her, boring through her façade until it cracked.
She dropped her eyes. “I suppose you’ll find out soon enough. It’s the way he died.”
“Go on.” I spun around and dangled my legs down from the sill.
“It wasn’t sickness that took him. It was the sea. The waves wrecked his boat against the rocks and he drowned.”
I gulped, forcing away the terrible image. Yet, drowning was no great rarity in a coastal town. “Did they find something unusual about him when he . . .”
She looked away awkwardly. “He hasn’t done it, miss. Leastwise, not yet.”
Hadn’t washed ashore? “You mean they never discovered him?”
She nodded, gaze still on the apron bunched in her hands. “I’ve no idea what you’ll do about the rites and services, miss. Nothing can be done until . . .”
I studied the girl, her frizzy curls framing her face, and thought of Father. I shuddered at the image of him drowning.
Yet I was breathless at the thought, the farfetched notion, of him secretly surviving. It isn’t over yet. As those words resounded in my heart, losing Trevelyan Castle became unthinkable, for it was the only place he’d return to if, in fact, he did return. It was not likely, and it only gave a shred of hope. But I found it was all I needed to feel immensely better and full of purpose.
“How do they know he drowned, then?”
“Amos said the fishermen saw him go out, and only his ruined boat came back. And why else would his boat come back empty?” She fidgeted. “I’m sorry, miss, that you cannot have the funeral yet. Really I am.”
I touched her arm and smiled, glowing inside. “It’s quite all right, Lucy. Truly.”