Chapter 12

After retiring early, Maddy spent most of the night re-reading her favourite passages in Sense and Sensibility and trying to put Beau da Silva out of her head. Then, deciding reading Jane Austen might not have been the best antidote for her current state of mind, she set down her book and rearranged her clothes hanging in the small wardrobe. While she was refolding her stockings, she found a small bit of paper shoved at the back of the lower drawer. It was a fragment of a note—a poem actually, and one she recognized: The Passionate Shepherd to His Love, by Christopher Marlowe. The initials H.C. were scrawled at the bottom. Setting the paper aside, she returned to her task, until boredom finally induced her to rest.

The following morning, Maddy woke to a bright blue sky, birdsong, and a rolling green landscape that had grown even more lush, if such a thing was even possible. She rose early and went to the kitchen, hoping to avoid Mr. da Silva without appearing as if she was trying to, and soon discovered that she had failed.

“Good morning,” he said, walking into the kitchen, reaching for the pot of coffee she had just brewed. “How’s your headache?”

There was no innuendo, no awkwardness on his part. Was he taking pity on her, or genuinely unaware of the embarrassment she had found herself in yesterday? Both were awful, but if she had to choose, she’d rather the latter.

“Better,” she replied, determined to go about her day as if she hadn’t spent the entirety of last evening in her room nursing the mortification in her chest.

“Did you take a sleeping powder?” he asked. “I knocked on your door, but you didn’t answer.”

“I did,” she lied. She’d heard him knock on her door late last night. “I fell asleep not long after I crawled in bed. I must have really needed the sleep.” What she’d really needed was for Rimple Jones to build some sort of contraption that would enable her to go back in time and keep herself from trying to kiss Beau da Silva. The fact he’d gone and checked on her may have made it worse. Or was it better? She couldn’t be certain and why was she suddenly concerned about it?

He poured a generous dollop of cream into his coffee cup. He took a tentative sip, then went to the window looked out over back garden.

“That pergola along the side of the house needs to be repaired,” he said. “There must be a mill around somewhere, don’t you think?”

Maddy blinked. “You don’t mean to do it yourself?”

“Believe it or not, I actually like doing things for myself,” he said, a hint of discontent in his otherwise cheerful demeanour. “This is my property. Maybe I want to invest in it.”

“I thought you wanted to sell it,” she said. Sell it to Nelson Taylor, she added silently.

“I’m entitled to change my mind.” he said, as if the opportunity to make a small fortune, or spend one, was nothing to him. “Besides, if I can show its potential, I could make far more out of it.”

Something deep inside Maddy bristled at his offhand comment. Of course that was it. The money. People with money were always about that. Just like her parents. Every new dress, new pair of shoes, every new diet tonic, every new contraption to pull in her belly, all for the express goal of fixing Maddy to ensure that Patrick Murray got the best family connections for his investment in his daughter.

“You can’t go to the mill,” she replied. “The entire point of this is that you stay hidden.”

“I’ll ask Daniel Chandler to take me—I’ll pay him for his trouble.” He rubbed his hand across his jaw, emphasizing the stubble he hadn’t yet shaved. “Besides, people are not going to be expecting to see me here, and not without a starched collar.”

Even more casually attired, without the pomade that had kept his golden-brown hair styled in the way of fashionable gentlemen, he somehow looked as dashing as ever.

“Ask Daniel to get the wood for you.” she said. “You are not going to get carted off in a sack back to Saint John.”

Unwilling to listen to him argue the point, she took her coffee cup and walked to the back door and opened it, where it seemed like the kitchen garden, tangled and overgrown as it was, was waiting for her. Expectant. Dill and thyme were still evident, along with great swaths of mint. She breathed in sweet smells of grass, sweet peas and clover, which soothed her in a way few other things did. Being here was not entirely bad.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was bent over, pulling at this plant and that. Just exploring, she told herself.

Was it just exploring when she’d gone to the little garden shed and pulled out the hoe so she could cut through some of the weeds? Of course it was, she decided. After all, it was in her best interest—and certainly Mr. da Silva’s—to know where there was potential for danger, and if she discovered a host of little clay pots and gardening implements, it was a happy coincidence indeed. On her return, she saw Mr. da Silva, standing in the garden, surveying her progress. He wore a straw hat he must have found in the cottage somewhere. It suited him.

“I thought you were going to bother the Chandlers,” she called out, “and leave me in peace.”

“He’s already done that,” came the reply, but not with Beau da Silva’s voice.

Maddy gave a start. Perhaps she needed new glasses after all, because it was Daniel Chandler, not Beau da Silva, giving her a broad smile. A familiar one. It was the second time she’d been struck by this odd sense of familiarity about a man she’d just met.

“Apologies,” she said, approaching him. “For both my manners and for Mr. da Silva.”

As the distance closed, it was not difficult to note the similarities. Daniel Chandler was perhaps an inch or two shorter, his build a bit broader, and hair far more wheat coloured, but there was something in his eyes and his smile that was remarkable in his similarity. Even the way he rested his hands on his hips.

“Not at all,” he said. “I’m sure Annie is happy for the solitude, and I need some new fence posts.”

“Is the mill far?” she asked.

“Just outside of town. We’ll be a few hours. Plenty of time for you to make some progress,” he said. “My father and I were keeping this up, but we’ve been busy this year helping our daughter set up house near the shore.”

“Did Mrs. Turnbull ask you?” Maddy asked. “It seems like a lot of work, especially if it isn’t getting used.”

Mr. Chandler shook his head. “My father used to help out the elder Reddens quite a bit. They had no sons, and they treated him quite well. We’ve always kept it going, and used what we could out of it.”

“We found one of their books in the attic. They grew some remarkable plants.”

“The soil here is very good,” he said. “My father learned a lot from them.”

“And your father is still living?” she said. They hadn’t seen any indication of the elder Mr. Chandler.

“He is,” Daniel answered. “He’s getting on but still a very active man. He was visiting my daughter up in Avonford. She was married last year, and he misses her. He should be back in a few days. He’d be very happy, I think, to know someone like you was here to tend to it.”

Maddy inexplicably brightened at the thought of meeting the elder Mr. Chandler. Anyone who shared an interest in gardens or books was generally good company, and someone who might have particular knowledge of plants was especially welcome. If he was anywhere near as affable as his son, he should be quite pleasant company. And maybe there was something she could learn she could take back to Everwell.

A pang of something—something so unfamiliar and potentially troublesome that she found herself putting a hand to her chest—distracted her. It wasn’t strong enough to be regret, but rather a sense of missing…but what? Was it Everwell? Of course she missed home, but this was something more. New. It was missing…this.

Maddy straightened, as if the idea was so utterly impossible it threatened to toss her off balance. The Everwell Society saved her. She owed Phillipa, Lady Em, and Tilda her life. She’d always been safe there and kept them safe in return. Whatever this sensation was, she had to rid herself of it.

Before she could contemplate it further, Mr. da Silva approached with Teddy at his side, jumping around with the twitchy energy of a fourteen year old. With his straw hat and simple trousers, white shirt, and vest, Mr. da Silva looked very much like he belonged at The Grove. Like he’d always been a part of it.

“Careful Daniel,” Mr. da Silva called out. “If you touch the plants, she might toss you over her shoulder.”

Maddy smiled in spite of herself, even as a look of curiosity crinkled the skin at the corners of Daniel’s eyes.

“He once plucked a rose from my garden without my permission,” she said to Daniel by way of explanation.

“Which apparently was against the rules. I didn’t know there were rules about gardens,” Mr. da Silva said. He cocked an eyebrow, that familiar sly grin coming back that Maddy was coming to adore. Well, not adore. Adore would suggest she liked him. But she did like that smile. She liked it a lot.

“There are rules about touching people’s things without permission,” Maddy said, quietly ignoring the fact that she had in fact broken that rule herself more times than she cared to admit. But only books. Books that were unloved and unappreciated. “And there are many, many rules about gardens.”

Mr. da Silva was looking at her again in that way of his, like he was smiling at her, and yet there was something deeper under his shiny smile. A wanting. It couldn’t be possible, or course.

“We should get moving,” Mr. Chandler said, “if you want to get a head start on your pergola. We’ll be the rest of the morning to get to the mill and back. We can probably get started on it this afternoon.”

“You’re not going,” Maddy said, crossing her arms. “We discussed this. Daniel was going to fetch the wood.”

“My dear Miss Murray, you will find I am a stubborn man as well as a selfish one,” he replied. “I’m going with him.”

“Fine,” Maddy said, shaking her head. “I’m coming.”

Despite Madeline Murray’s fears, the trip to the nearby mill in St. Croix proved uneventful. Even with the danger of rutted roads from the wet weather, the Chandler’s sturdy cart and sure-footed horses made good time. And if anyone recognized Beau from a public notice, there was no evidence of suspicion. Indeed, one of the men assumed he was a relation of Daniel’s, and Beau decided to allow that impression to remain. Better to be known as a distant cousin of a local farmer than an absent landowner who also happened to be wanted for the murder of his father. For her part, Miss Murray watched from her perch in the carriage, studying every face with the same appraising look he’d imagined a lioness might give to any intruders threatening her brood.

“We should take the opportunity to check the telegraph office,” Beau said, after the wood was loaded. “We already have the horses out, and it would spare us the extra trip. The messages are all going to be addressed to the Chandlers, so no one would be the wiser. Would it be worth the risk, do you think? After all, we might get good news, and you can be back to Everwell sooner.”

Miss Murray blinked, staring at Beau as if he had sprouted an extra head, neither of which contained a lick of sense.

“It’s too risky,” she said, looking between Daniel and Beau. “If you get spotted in his wagon, they may not come for you in the middle of town, but they’ll know exactly where to find you. And if they’re motivated enough to come looking for you, they might not give a care who gets in their way.”

Damn this woman and her good sense. Beau glanced over at Daniel. The very last thing he wanted to do is bring the Chandlers into his mess any more than was necessary.

“What if I ask about a canvas tarp?” Daniel offered. “I saw a few lying around the mill. They might be willing to part with one, and you could settle underneath it. Between that and the lumber, no one should think twice about it.”

“Are you certain?” Beau asked.

Daniel pursed his lips slightly and shrugged. “I think it would work.”

Both men looked to Miss Murray, who crossed her arms and surveyed the wagon.

“Let’s give it a try.”

Daniel went to the mill foreman and returned with large piece of canvas, and tossed it on the back of the wagon. Beau climbed up the back, scrambling over the lumber, taking the tarp with him. Even with the wide brim of her straw hat shading her face, there was a tension cutting across her brow that Beau felt determined to dislodge. He wanted to believe she was truly concerned for his wellbeing beyond the mere transactional nature of their relationship.

They made their way into town. Since the rail lines had been laid down, the coaches from Halifax had almost entirely disappeared, passengers choosing the faster, more comfortable journey to Windsor by train. As they approached, Beau sat down on the bed of the wagon between the stacks of lumber and prepared to pull the tarp over himself, when to his surprise, Miss Murray settled beside him, then helped him pull the canvas over them. The warm-sweet smell of the linseed-treated canvas filled his nose and with the sun overhead, cast a dark orangey glow over them. Crowded under the tarp, they were forced to sit next to each other, Miss Murray’s arm and hip pressed into his, the fullness of her skirts spilling over onto his trousers. The weight of them felt strangely comforting.

The rumble of the cartwheels and the steady clopping of horses came to a stop.

“We’re here,” Daniel said. “I won’t be long.”

Neither of them dared speak, even to whisper. While there was little chance they would be heard over the general noise of the busy town streets, it was not zero. Miss Murray sat next to him, her posture as stiff as a coiled spring.

Time stretched as they waited. Between the two of them, and the heat of the afternoon sun, it was growing uncomfortably warm under the tarp. Beau started bouncing his knee as he began to grow impatient. It was an old habit that he’d mostly rid himself of—an unfortunate tell, Frank used to say, that could let competitors know he was nervous.

Before a memory of Frank berating him for that habit had fully formed, a firm hand landed on his knee. Madeline Murray fixed him with a stare, her lips forming the most perfect ‘no’, without breathing a word.

“Master Chandler,” came a voice nearby. Very nearby. “Is your father about?”

Beau stilled and Miss Murray, who’d turned to silently admonish him, was still looking in his direction, not daring to move.

“He’s just gone to the telegraph office,” Teddy answered, with the detached politeness of a young boy answering an adult.

“I have a letter for him and seeing you here saves me the penny to mail it,” the voice said. Beau strained to recognize it, because he had heard it before. “See that he gets it, will you?”

“Yes sir,” Teddy answered.

“Mr. Taylor.” Daniel’s voice entered the conversation. Like his son, Daniel was polite, but the warmth Beau had become accustomed to was notably absent. “Can I help you?”

Mr. Taylor. Nelson Taylor. Beau recognized the voice.

“Just saving myself the postage to send you a letter,” Mr. Taylor said, his voice laced with that brightness that Beau himself had employed when he was trying to disarm someone he wished to make a deal with. “I haven’t heard from you since we spoke a few weeks ago. I wanted to ensure it was in writing, to let you know it is a serious offer.”

“I appreciate that,” Daniel said. The cart lurched slightly. Daniel must have hopped into the driver’s seat.

“Doing some work around the property I see,” Mr. Taylor continued.

Mr. Taylor was only a few feet from where Beau and Miss Murray were hiding. So close, Beau was certain that if he breathed, it would be noticed. It was hot under the canvas now, and beads of sweat ran down the side of his face. It was all he could do not to scratch his nose. For her part, Miss Murray’s hand was still on his leg, but her grip had tightened, digging into him as if she was holding on for dear life. Save for her stillness, she gave no sign of fear, or panic. But there was something about that stillness that prompted an unexpected flare of emotion—that same anger that had caused him to lash out at this same Mr. Taylor, who’d insulted Miss Murray when they first arrived.

Without thinking, he laid his hands on hers. She did not pull away.

“There’s always work to be done,” Daniel said, with the same polite tone as his son. “I should be getting on now.”

“Of course,” Mr. Taylor said. “I hope we’ll be in touch.”

To Beau’s relief, the horses started moving, and the cart heaved forward again. He and Miss Murray stayed still, under the thick protection of the tarp. They stayed as they were until Daniel called out.

“It should be safe now,” he said. “You can pull that off your heads.”

Beau didn’t need another invitation. With his free hand he pulled the tarp off, squinting from the sudden brightness. Miss Murray pulled her hand away, wiping the errant strands of hair that stuck to her face from the heat. Her expression was equal points relief and indignation.

“Never again. Do you hear me?” she said under her breath. “You do not move from The Grove until I get a letter from Dominic or Everwell telling me they have arrested someone else. You may get to run that empire of yours when this is over, but you will never get to do that if you can’t listen to me.”

The fierceness of her tone that left Beau fighting his instincts reply with a joke or some rapier sharp comment to deflect her criticism. But her panic, laced through those harsh words, deterred him.

“Was that who I think it was?” Beau ask, awkwardly turning himself toward Daniel.

Daniel gave a quick nod. “The very same.”

Beau sucked in a quick breath. He’d been right then. Nelson Taylor, the man he’d been. corresponding with since his decision to sell The Grove. The man who’d insulted Madeline Murray.

“What does he want with you?” he asked, even though it wasn’t his business. He shouldn’t feel obligated to the Chandlers—a week ago he hadn’t even known they existed. But given everything they’d done for him of late, never mind the years spent keeping an eye on the otherwise abandoned property for his aunt, he felt a sense of responsibility for bringing a man like Nelson Taylor into their sphere. And while he really didn’t know the man, Beau had learned everything he needed to about his character the day he so casually stomped on Madeline Murray’s dignity.

Beau’s answer was silence, and he wondered if Daniel had heard. He was about to ask the question a second time when Teddy reached down and put two envelopes in his hand.

“You’re a popular man,” Daniel called out, “and not in a way I think you want to be. Your face was all over that office. If I hear one more off-hand comment about me being a long-lost relation of a murderer, they might see my face on a poster.”

Miss Murray had commented early upon their arrival that the two men bore a resemblance, but neither of them saw it. Beau looked up at Teddy.

“Do you think we look alike?”

Teddy shrugged in that way young people did when they didn’t want to get involved in adult conversations. “You don’t look that different.”

Beau was about to turn his attention to the telegrams, which had been addressed to Daniel to aid in their subterfuge, but Miss Murray had already snatched them from his hand. Without ceremony she’d ripped open the one from Dominic Ashe. Even before he had the chance to ask, he heard the sigh of disappointment rush from her lips. Without looking at him, she handed it over.

The message was short and written in an agreed upon code that, to the uninformed, read more like a farm report than a murder investigation. It took a moment for Beau to decode it, but the meaning was clear: he was still a wanted man. There was a request for information on a few members of the board, as well as his sister and brother-in-law.

While the news was frustrating, it was unexpectedly tempered by his need to remain at The Grove. While he’d been utterly entranced with Miss Murray from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, the attraction had been physical. Over the past days, an undeniable tension wound between them. And while Beau wasn’t entirely certain the attraction was mutual, he’d caught the way she’d looked at him when she believed his attention was elsewhere.

But beyond his body’s desire for hers, something else had started to become evident. He liked spending time with her. She had a quick mind, a fierce sense of the world, and a romantic soul that intrigued him. And he found himself not yet ready to let that go.

It was selfish, he realized, but selfishness came as naturally to Beau as negotiating a troublesome business deal. For her part, Madeline Murray looked straight ahead, watching the trees rush by, her thoughts gone to a place Beau knew he could not reach. No doubt she was back in Everwell, with her friends and her garden. A place she loved.

And Christ, how he envied that. He could buy Everwell a hundred times over, but he couldn’t have what she had. No wonder she wanted to go. No wonder he didn’t. And wherever he eventually landed, he would be without her.

Because he would have to go. There was nothing about his life—not the money, the glittering parties, or even the travel to even bigger places with more money and more parties—she would find irresistible. There was only him, and he was certain he wasn’t enough. He had never been enough.

He tucked Dominic’s note away along with tangle of emotion it had brought, and turned his attention to the second. It was from Archie. A second offer had come from the board of George’s College, with a plea for urgency in the decision.

The fact the offer had gone to Halifax gave Beau some assurance. If the Board of Governors knew about the charges against Beau, which they must have by now, they were not particularly bothered by them, and they had no idea he was close by. Clearly, they were eager to buy, sweetening the pot by increasing the asking price by five percent. If that offer had come even the morning he’d arrived in Halifax, he would have signed it without hesitation. But everything had changed.

Had Daniel Chandler received a similar offer, Beau wondered? Was that the root of the conversation Mr. Taylor had with Daniel? The Chandler property bordered the same river, and while it was perhaps more visible from the road, was still graced by beautiful rolling hills and beautiful forests. Unease pricked on the edges of his thoughts.

Beau shoved the note back in the envelope, tucking in into his jacket pocket. Until Dominic uncovered the real killer—or at least proved beyond a shadow of a doubt Beau’s innocence—there was no hurry to sell the property or deal with Nelson Taylor.

It was nearly suppertime when they returned to the farm, and Beau’s shoulders sagged with relief as the cart turned up the secret road, snaking its way through the old forest. His chest rose with anticipation as the trees gave way to the view of the little stone house at the top of the hill. The cart slowed, the horses pulling a much heavier load, the clacking of the cartwheels drawing the attention of Annie. A second figure Beau didn’t recognize appeared in the door.

“Grampa!” Teddy yelled, waving at the man who took off his hat and waved it at the cart. “He’s back early.”

The cart came to a stop at last. Beau’s back and legs were cramped from the way he’d been sitting for the better part of the afternoon. Madeline Murray, however, was already on her feet, towering over him, her hand outstretched.

“If you’re going to toss me out of the wagon, I know I deserve it,” he said.

She looked down at him, one brow carefully arched. “If I break your neck, I won’t get my greenhouse.”

“Good to know my worth.” He took her hand and she helped pull him to his feet. He held onto her hand before she could try to let go of his grip.

“I’m sorry. I’ve done plenty of stupid things in my life,” he said, “but rarely thoughtless ones. It came from a misplaced desire to save some effort, and perhaps a delusion that this is one situation I cannot talk myself out of.”

She looked him up and down, taking the measure of him. When she nodded her acceptance, he blew out the breath he’d been holding.

She turned away and allowed Daniel to help her out of the wagon before Beau jumped down himself. Daniel was waving him over to the house.

“Come meet my father,” Daniel said, then turned to the man standing beside Annie.

Beau approached, catching the elder Chandler’s attention. He gave Beau the same appraising look that Annie had.

“You must be Emily’s young fella,” he said. “Hollis Chandler.”

Hollis Chandler was similar in build to Daniel, and at least twenty years his senior. His hair was grey, trimmed short, and his chin was covered with a tidy beard.

Beau took his hand and gave it a hearty shake, all the while trying to dispel this curious feeling of connection he had with a man he’d only just met. He wanted to brush it off as a long-standing familiarity with his mother, but it felt even deeper than that.

“It’s been a while since anyone called me young,” Beau said at last. “Beau da Silva.”

After what felt like a prolonged moment, the two men released their handshake.

“I was sorry to hear about your mother’s passing,” Hollis said, and there was a heaviness of real grief that crossed the elder Chandler’s brow as he spoke. “I knew her, when she was younger. Lovely girl.”

“Daniel said that you helped out here when you were younger,” Beau said. “I’d love to know more about that. About my grandparents, too.”

Hollis nodded, and it seemed to Beau he was taking a long time to speak. In his enthusiasm, Beau wondered if he’d asked too much of him.

“Happy to,” he said at last, his voice almost rough.

“We didn’t expect to see you back until Friday,” Daniel said. “How’s Jeannie?”

Hollis cleared his throat.

“Your girl’s doing just fine,” he said. “I was getting a bit homesick. Especially for this young fella here,” he continued, beaming as Teddy ran to him with a great bear hug that was lovingly returned. A pang of envy at the easy way of father, son, and grandson skittered across Beau’s insides. Frank da Silva had never been a particularly affectionate man, and Beau could hardly remember a time when his father had held his hand, never mind enveloping him in a hug. He’d viewed such affection as a sign of weakness. By the time he was Teddy’s age, a smile from Frank da Silva was the most he could hope for.

Soon the timbers were out of the cart in a tidy pile beside the fallen pergola and the Chandlers, including Hollis, had departed, disappearing out of sight down the winding wooded path. As they left, Beau found himself watching the Chandlers leave, as if there was something there, right in front of him, that he couldn’t see.