18
The missive was short. Find it.
Adria crumpled the telegram in her hand and dropped a coin onto the extended palm of the messenger who had carried the telegram miles from the nearby town. Her father’s words were clear and undisguised, even though anyone else reading the two words wouldn’t understand the brevity of them. They threatened her freedom, her physical well-being, and her mental state, which was no less fragile than two months ago when she’d decided meeting God face-to-face was a far more tolerable outcome than seeing her earthly father one more time.
For some reason, God had spared her. For obvious reasons, her father had not.
Adria shut the arched door of Foxglove Manor with a firm thud.
“Who was that?” Lula appeared out of nowhere, and Adria yelped, crunching the telegram further in her fist.
Adria collected herself. “It was a messenger. He had a telegram for me.”
“Oh?” Lula’s brows rose in the undisguised curiosity of a teenage girl.
“From my family,” she said to appease the girl while images of her father’s stern visage floated through her mind, followed by the echo of her sister Margot’s superior aura. She always stood behind their father. She was his favorite, his eldest, and she shared his vicious ability to bid farewell to one’s conscience and engage in the suffering of others.
Lula was waiting as though she expected Adria to continue. When Adria didn’t, she lifted her duster, feathers shaking out some of the dust, and said, “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.”
Adria let the girl go on her way, even though she caught Lula’s look over her shoulder as she fluffed the feathers across the hall tree. Of course, they didn’t receive visitors at Foxglove Manor on a frequent basis. It was little wonder Lula was curious.
Ducking her head, Adria skirted Lula and her furtive glances and hurried up the stairs toward her room. She uncrumpled the telegram as she went, her thumb brushing the ominous two words.
Find it.
Find it.
It was like the peal of an alarm bell repeating itself over and over again. She’d never forget the moment he’d flipped a gold coin in her face and stated rather viciously that there were more where that came from. Smuggled northward by looters from the South and then taken by her father—a loyal Unionist, but truthfully, more loyal to himself. That her father believed Mr. St. John was responsible for its whereabouts, was obvious. Gold. Confederate treasure. It made Adria feel like a pirate’s first mate answering the man’s barking orders on pain of death.
What was it her father had said?
“Given St. John’s own lack of integrity, he’s too greedy to have pilfered the treasure or to have smuggled it away into Canada like everything else he touches.”
That statement alone had indicated the gold was here—at Foxglove Manor—waiting for Adria to uncover. And then what? Contact her father, of course, but hide it from Mrs. St. John? Or perhaps the woman knew of it. She might hold the answers, and the placement of a simple, straightforward question was all that was required. Adria feared the switch that had left bruises on her legs. Not to mention, she’d never heard of anyone willingly giving up a treasure trove of gold—even if one hated and despised what it stood for—the South and its political ambitions and other morbid sins that should have been instinctually detestable to any man. But apparently had not been, could not be forced, and would potentially never be.
Gold.
War.
Adria considered Mr. Crayne and his scars. Recalled her father’s words about Mr. St. John and smuggling and—
“Oompf!” The deep voice matched the force with which her head plowed into his chest. This time clothed in a fresh white shirt and fully buttoned. There was no naked skin to make her blush, but she did anyway.
Adria was stumbling back when Mr. Crayne’s hand steadied her. She stared at him, incredulous. He was on the second floor. He’d not been on the second floor since she’d arrived. His eyes were red but clearer than the previous night. He’d slicked his black hair back, damp from being washed, which revealed a broad forehead and a vein that spanned it. She imagined it protruded when he was extremely angry. Adria made a note not to anger him beyond what she already had.
His gaze penetrated her. “Reading and walking is a definite recipe for an accident.”
Adria crumbled her father’s telegram in her hand.
Mr. Crayne offered no apology for the night before. They stood at an impasse in the same hallway where Mrs. St. John had taken a switch to the backs of her legs, staring at each other. He studied her as if curious to find out more about her. She knew her expression was that of a woman wishing to flee, yet something about the man kept her standing in the same spot he had steadied her. Almost as if he had pounded nails through her shoes to keep her there.
“Must we stand here all day or shall I pass?” Mr. Crayne was gruff, but there was a bit of humor in his voice.
Adria could only answer honestly, and it wasn’t until the words were out of her mouth that she realized he might interpret them as sassy rather than compliant. “I’m quite small. I’m sure you can find your way around me.”
Mr. Crayne rose to her challenge, but he didn’t bother to step out and away from her. His chest brushed her arm as he slipped past. Pausing, he looked down at her. “I see no reason to be holed up in that blasted turret. Particularly now that you’re aware of my existence. Perhaps you came to rescue me?”
Adria blinked.
He smiled. When he did so, it transformed his dark features into a much more pleasant version of himself. “No? Hmm. Well, I do wonder why you’ve come to Foxglove. No one comes here because they wish to.”
Adria didn’t answer. She couldn’t rightly admit she had tried to meet the dear Lord in person. Nor was she about to spread the truth of her treasure hunt to anyone other than herself.
Mr. Crayne must have read something in her eyes. His narrowed and he quirked an eyebrow. “Be careful, Alexandria. Foxglove hides many secrets that aren’t soothing to a woman’s palate.”
Adria nodded obediently.
His ominous words both irritated her and frightened her. Mr. Crayne eyed her for a long moment before moving toward the stairs leading to the first floor.
Adria hesitated, then whirled around to face him. “Why did you call me Lucy?”
He froze but continued to look away from her toward the other end of the hallway.
“Last night you called me Lucy,” Adria explained. “Who is she to you?”
Mr. Crayne turned. His expression was unreadable, whether carefully crafted to be so or because this Lucy was as uninteresting as he made her out to be, Adria wasn’t certain. “She’s no one, Alexandria.”
“A past love, perhaps?” Adria spoke before thinking. She bit her lip.
Mr. Crayne gave a shout of laughter. “Not even a little bit, my dear. In fact, I hope you are spared knowing Lucy.” Mr. Crayne straightened his shoulders and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his bloodshot eyes. “If you ever meet her, it will not be a good omen.”
Mrs. St. John pulled a needle with a long thread of silk through her embroidery. The silence between them was hardly companionship, and while Adria recognized this was, after all, her primary duty at Foxglove, she kept finding herself glancing at the door and out the window. For a glimpse of Mr. Crayne, she admitted to herself. He felt so familiar, so real. Yet he also felt dangerous and out of reach. A man who had shadowed her dreams like a hero who might swoop in one day to rescue her, only to find herself dismissing that image in place of the real Mr. Crayne. The drunk Mr. Crayne. The man who was unattractive, disturbing, and in truth, unacceptable. She chided herself for being even a little bit entranced by him. Most men, after all, were simply wicked at heart. Yet there was a hint toward gentleness in Mr. Crayne that told another potential story.
“My Theodora used to love to embroider.” Mrs. St. John’s voice broke into Adria’s musing. She glanced down at her own embroidery. It was crooked and uneven. She was not fond of it.
“Theodora would embroider the most beautiful of linens. Always with that horrible fox at her feet.”
Adria didn’t know how to reply.
Mrs. St. John continued. “When Theodora was little, she was fascinated by threads. Her favorite color was gold.” A shadow fluttered across the woman’s pinched face. “Ironic,” she mumbled.
Adria didn’t miss the inference, nor was she unaware of the way Mrs. St. John pressed her thin lips together as if commanding herself to be silent.
“Gold is a beautiful color,” Adria replied, feigning interest in her embroidery while stealing looks at the woman for clues, hints, or anything that might be of help.
“Yes,” Mrs. St. John agreed but said no more.
“And did Mr. St. John prefer that color as well?” Adria ventured. She was met with silence, and as it drew on, Adria dared to lift her head and meet Mrs. St. John’s sharp look.
“Why on earth would you ask that?” Mrs. St. John’s gray eyebrow winged sharply over her left eye.
“Because often a little girl idolizes her father,” Adria supplied quickly and without personal experience, recalling Mrs. St. John when pushed into temper. She didn’t see a switch, but Adria had no doubt the woman could find other tools with which to inflict physical pain.
Mrs. St. John eyed her for a second, then seemed to view Adria’s question as harmless. “Yes. My husband did fancy the color gold as well. He had me sew gold buttons onto his coats.” She pulled her needle through the material, adjusting her grip on her embroidery hoop. “My husband was a captain for the Union. It is difficult to fathom that twenty years have passed. So much has changed and yet . . . so little.”
“He was against slavery?” Adria admired him if for only that.
Mrs. St. John gave her a pointed look. “He was for success, Alexandria.”
Of course. Adria had often heard that from her father. Less so the concern for human lives and more so the concern for the proper political positioning.
“Not everything is about the slave,” Mrs. St. John murmured.
“And, obviously, not everyone values human life.” Mr. Crayne’s baritone flooded the room, silencing them both. He filled the doorway with his imposing figure. “Nor do all men remain faithful to a cause.”
Startled, Mrs. St. John poked her finger with her needle, and she immediately raised it to her lips to suck at the droplet of blood.
“I’ve no wish to debate with you,” Mrs. St. John muttered around her finger.
Mr. Crayne lifted his eyes to the portrait of Theodora, which hung on the wall behind Adria. He leveled his gaze there for a long moment but said nothing.
“You should be grateful.” Mrs. St. John’s cryptic comment caused Mr. Crayne to stiffen.
“Should I?” he countered.
Narrowing her eyes, Mrs. St. John lowered her hand and reached for a handkerchief to wrap about her sore finger. “You’re alive, aren’t you?”
“Am I?” Mr. Crayne’s response was so cryptic, Adria found herself holding her breath.
Mrs. St. John ogled him for a moment, then pointed at him with her index finger. “They could have done far worse to you.”
“Yes.” Mr. Crayne’s expression deepened. “They could have shot me instead of locking me in this godforsaken place like a madman.”
“You are a madman,” Mrs. St. John snapped.
“I am a prisoner.” Mr. Crayne’s voice rose. “I have been a prisoner for twenty years.”
“No one ever said you couldn’t leave Foxglove.” Mrs. St. John lifted her chin haughtily. There was a look on her face that made Adria wonder if Mrs. St. John hoped Mr. Crayne would leave.
He glanced again to the portrait and then dropped his gaze to Adria before addressing the benefactress who sat before them like a begrudging, bitter woman.
“We both know better.” Mr. Crayne’s mouth straightened into a tight line. “I will never be free of this place.”
“We all have our duties,” Mrs. St. John responded.
“And what is yours?” Mr. Crayne’s address to Adria made her tongue-tied. She stared at him. He lifted his eyes again to the portrait, then back to her. It was as if he were trying to tell her something but could not vocalize it.
“I have no duty,” Adria finally answered.
Mr. Crayne nodded. “Of course.” But it was more than obvious from his expression that he didn’t believe her in the slightest.