Chapter 13

Maddy laid out a simple supper while Mr. da Silva washed up. She was still rattled by the events of the afternoon. Hearing Nelson’s voice had nearly paralyzed her with a terror she’d thought she’d outrun. It wasn’t until the cart had pulled away that she’d even noticed Mr. da Silva’s hand on hers. But it had managed to comfort her in a way she hadn’t expected. She’d still been furious at him, a byproduct of her own fears that she dare not share. His apology was surprising yet heartfelt. Still, the biggest surprise of the day had come when she’d been introduced to Daniel’s father, Hollis.

If she’d brushed off the idea that Daniel Chandler and Beau da Silva seemed to have the same smile, she could not so easily dismiss the fact that Mr. da Silva and Hollis Chandler not only had the same smile, but the same eyes. No wonder Annie Chandler had been taking the measure of Mr. da Silva the moment she’d laid eyes on him.

She had a thousand questions… and most she was afraid to ask. Beau da Silva was none of her business—except for their official business, of course. There seemed little time to waste in answering Dominic’s questions about his brother-in-law and other senior members of the Silver Lumber Company, but after meeting the elder Mr. Chandler, that urgency had been swept aside, replaced by more pressing questions.

“You’ve created a feast,” Mr. da Silva said, standing at the door and wearing a fresh shirt and vest. His hair was swept haphazardly back, as if he’d just run his fingers through it. “I’m starving. Thank you.”

“We can thank Annie,” she said as they sat down to a feast of cold chicken, fresh potatoes, and tender new peas.

He loaded up a plate for her and a second one for himself while Maddy poured two glasses of raspberry shrub. Quiet descended, as if both of them understood that starting a conversation might lead down several rather uncomfortable paths.

“I guess you are stuck with me for a little while longer,” he began. Maddy couldn’t help but notice that Mr. da Silva’s normal humour had left him. Indeed, he sounded almost apologetic.

“I guess I am,” she said, then took a drink of the bright red shrub, sneaking a look at him from over the rim of her cup. His brightness had dimmed, and she felt strangely compelled to try to bring some of it back. She would miss her birthday, which was in three days. But that meant she had to stay here, in this magical stone cottage with a kitchen garden ready to be brought back to life. That alone would be a consolation. And then there was Mr. da Silva. “But Mr. Chandler—Hollis that is—mentioned to me there is a berry patch, down past the barn. That might be something to occupy me.”

His lips finally edged up into a bit of a smile, which, given how angry she’d been in the wagon this afternoon, shouldn’t have made her as happy as it did.

“I’m glad you’re not disappointed,” he said, and the way he looked at her, he seemed to mean it. Beau da Silva seemed to mean everything he said—at least when it came to her.

“Are you?” she asked.

“I’ll be happy not to have my character questioned,” he said, digging his fork into the heaping pile of boiled new potatoes. “And the threat of hanging gone. But there are far worse ways to spend my time.” He smiled but there was a cloud behind his eyes. “Dominic wants to know about Jessica and Neil.”

“Perhaps that can wait until tomorrow,” she replied, surprising herself. “I think we can both agree today has been full of twists and turns.”

“More than a few,” he said, giving his head a shake. He sat back in his chair and settled his fork on his plate. “On the other hand, one decision was made for me today.”

“What is that?” Maddy asked.

“The offer from George’s College,” he replied. “I’m not going to sell. At least not through Taylor.”

“You’re not?” she blurted out, inwardly wincing the eagerness. Whether or not he sold The Grove had nothing to do with her. But she was inexplicably happy at his decision.

He shook his head, then picked up his fork again. “I wonder if he—Taylor that is—is pressuring the Chandlers to sell their farm,” he said. “I’m worried that if I sell, it would put extra pressure on the Chandlers. Another reason not to have that Taylor fellow was to profit from this place.”

Maddy’s stomach clenched at the mention of Nelson Taylor. It drove away her appetite, and she found herself picking at her food.

“Why would you be worried about the Chandlers?” she asked. “You’ve told me more than once you’re a selfish man.”

“I have,” he said, scooping another forkful of supper into his mouth. If Maddy didn’t know better, she’d have guessed he was trying to avoid the conversation.

“Except you’re not.”

He looked at her as if she’d suddenly declared it to be winter and that pigs were flying by. He paused, grabbing his glass and taking a sip of his drink.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she continued. “You are many things, Beau da Silva, but you are not selfish.”

He set down the glass and sat back in his chair, his brow carefully arched. “And what things am I?”

“You’re rich,” she said, holding up a finger as she prepared to count his attributes one by one.

“Undeniably,” he shrugged, his lips turning up in a smug grin.

Maddy lifted another finger. “And cocksure.”

“Of course.”

“But you’re also hardworking,” she said, “And you are concerned about others.”

“I thought you were going to tell me I’m handsome,” he said, gesturing toward her hand. “That would make a perfect five.”

“Did you recall my comment about being cocksure?” she said, hiding her smile as behind a long sip of her shrub.

“I don’t want the Chandlers to lose their property,” he said.

“They aren’t your concern,” she said. “Or they weren’t until now. What’s changed?”

“They are good people,” he said, suddenly fixated on pushing the peas around on his plate. “And I don’t need this property. They need their farm.”

They continued eating in a comfortable silence. She’d pushed enough.

“Hollis Chandler seems like a nice man,” he said, just when Maddy thought the conversation had come to an end.

“He does,” she said. “He probably knows this property better than anyone.”

“He knew my mother,” Mr. da Silva said, almost abruptly, as if his thoughts were forming as he spoke. “He had the same dreamy look about him when he spoke about her that Frank used to. Frank called her his Helen of Troy. A face that would launch a thousand ships.” He gave his head a little shake, as he found a bit of humour in a memory. “If anyone could turn Frank da Silva into a romantic fool, it was my mother, apparently. Maybe Hollis Chandler was the same.”

Beau da Silva could turn her into a romantic fool, Maddy thought. Was he a Willoughby, or a Colonel Brandon? At one time she would have written him off as the first. But she was no longer a romantic fool.

Romantic fool.

The memory of that scrap of a poem she’d found in her room rushed back.

Then live with me and be my love.

H. C.

Almost on impulse, Maddy rose. “I have something to show you. And before you say anything, I know I shouldn’t be doing this because it’s none of my business.”

She rose and ran upstairs, returning with a piece of paper.

“I found this the other day, and I set it aside. I didn’t know what it was at the time. But I think—I think Hollis wrote this to your mother.”

Gently, she unfolded the paper, brittle with age, and placed it in front of Beau.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May-morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

- H. C.

Beau as he seemed to retreat into himself as he stared at the page. It was so unlike him that it she wondered if showing him that note was the right thing to do. She was here to protect him, after all.

She fought the urge to wrap him in a comforting embrace and absorb some of the confusion he was feeling. To protect him. But protecting him from the truth seemed like cruelty.

Instead, she took her seat and returned the simple gesture he’d offered her this afternoon.

“Beau?” she said at last, lightly placing her hand on his. She didn’t know if he would rebuff the gesture, but he did not stiffen at her touch.

At last he looked up at her, and she caught the now-familiar look of self-deprecation. She expected some kind of joke, a deflection from whatever storm he was trying to calm. Instead, he grabbed onto her hand, holding it as if he were holding onto the gunwale of a boat to keep himself from falling overboard. She should have been self-conscious about her hands, which were rough from days of cleaning and gardening. But he didn’t seem to mind. And she didn’t mind the way a river of warmth ran down her spine to her core.

“You called me by name,” he said. “You must really be feeling sorry for me.”

She shrugged, resisting the urge to reach up and smooth the lines of worry from his brow.

“It’s short and I’m not a woman of many words. Why use four syllables when one will do?”

Beau stared as he held the delicate piece of paper with his fingers. Hollis Chandler hadn’t just known Emily Redden.

He’d loved her.

A thousand uncomfortable thoughts prickled under his skin. The odd way Annie had greeted him when they’d first arrived. The foreman who had mistaken Beau for Daniel’s relation. The haunting sense of knowing Beau had experienced when he’d shaken Hollis’s hand. The curious answer Annie had given him when he protested his innocence in killing Frank da Silva.

I didn’t kill my father.

No, I don’t think you did.

In a moment, that knowing rushed at him like a train, slamming into chest, forcing him to lower the paper to the table. Annie was right. Even if he had pulled the trigger at Frank da Silva, Beau couldn’t have killed his father.

His father was alive, and living next door.

A gentle breeze wafted in the room, picking up the delicate lace curtains they’d found packed away in the attic a few days ago. It brought with it the sweet smell of the meadow and wildflowers and carried away the haggard breath he’d let go.

“Why don’t I wash up,” she said softly, “and then we’ll go for a nice walk. It might help.”

They sat there, Beau holding onto her, idly running his thumb over her knuckles.

“How about we both wash up,” he said, letting go of her hand, which brought a pang of something like absence, which was ridiculous because she was still right there beside him. “And then maybe we can go find this berry patch.”

After the dishes were done, the two stepped out into a beautiful summer evening. The sun was still bright, but shadows started to stretch across the landscape. They walked in amicable silence for a while, the sound of crickets filling the air, Miss Murray’s presence the only balm for the torrent of Beau’s unsettled emotion.

“Are you going to talk to him?” she asked at last.

Him. There was no need for more. There was only one person on his mind.

“I don’t even know what I’d say,” he said, letting out a bitter laugh. “I’ve rarely been at a loss for words.”

“I saw the way he looked at you,” she replied. “I think he knows. Or perhaps he wonders, at the very least.”

Beau shook his head. “I don’t know much about how my parents met, but I do know my mother had gone to Halifax to visit Aunt Veronica, met Frank, and they were married shortly after.”

“Do you think your—" Miss Murray paused, clearly looking for the right word.

“Frank?” Beau answered, sparing her the trouble. “I think so. I think he always knew. I mean, it all sort of makes sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“I never seemed to be enough for him,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, he never laid a hand on me. Not in anger. But not in love, either. Especially not after my mother passed. I gave up trying get any real affection from the man…”

“Is that why you call him by his given name?” she asked.

Beau shrugged. “I called him Father when I was younger, but as I grew up it just didn’t seem to fit our relationship. He didn’t seem to mind. Maybe we both knew somehow that it was the right thing.”

“Do you miss him?”

He shrugged, then dragged his hands through his hair. “You know the crazy thing is, I sort of do. He was a bastard, but he taught me a lot about the business. He expected me to take it over. Even if he did know, he never begrudged me that. And I know the man well enough to know he didn’t give a hot damn about appearances. He would have cut me out of the will entirely if he didn’t think I’d earned it.”

“If he gave you his entire company, I have to say you earned it,” she said, giving him a smile that was somehow kind without being condescending. “And maybe he loved you in his own way.”

“For a woman of few words, you seem to pick all the right ones,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I read a lot of words,” she said. “I am the school’s librarian after all.”

Her lips turned up in a smile that Beau couldn’t help but return. Every time she graced him with a bit of humour, he felt like he’d discovered something precious about her.

Serenaded by the chirping of crickets and the trilling of sparrows, they paused at a small bench just outside a small, fenced area that housed the berry patch, surrounded by the stillness that Beau had spent his adult life running from. It had been part of the reason he’d decided to sell The Grove. Sitting with the quiet only served to remind him how alone he’d been. He wasn’t miraculously cured of that, but still, it was much more tolerable with Madeline Murray beside him. And through the cow path was a man who was quite possibly his father. A man who had tended a berry patch his grandparents created for years, perhaps out of some kind of devotion to them, or the woman he’d once loved.

Beau wanted to laugh at the irony. Here he was, the scion of a family who’d built a fortune cutting down forests, standing amongst the labour of a man who seemed to take genuine joy from teasing more berries from the soil.

“I have no idea how to feel,” he said at last.

“Your world has just been turned upside down,” she said. “You get to feel however you want.”

There was a certainty in her words he found both comforting and intriguing. Of course, Madeline Murray wasn’t a young child. She was a woman who’d no doubt had her fair share of experience with the world, both good and bad.

“I feel like I want to get drunk,” he said.

“You never know with Tilda. She might have packed a bottle of whisky in case of emergencies,” she said, then brightened. “Of course, Daniel and Hollis will be here first thing, so you might want to treat it like a minor emergency.”

Daniel. Beau had spent the entire day with his brother. And his nephew. Christ, he was going to swoon and it had nothing to do with the way a lock of Madeline’s hair kissed the curve of her neck. He wanted to reach out and take her hand, pull her close, and feel the lush curves of her body against his. The last time he’d come close to kissing her, she’d pulled away.

“I really need that drink,” he said.

“Do you know what might be better than whisky?”

Was this some trick question? Beau knew perfectly well what was better than whisky for pushing aside a host of inconvenient feelings, and it largely involved him worshipping Madeline Murray’s body and losing himself in what he was certain were the most perfect of breasts.

Of course, he knew better than to suggest it. And clearly whatever she had on her mind wasn’t sex.

“I have not spent enough time with women to learn the trick of reading their minds,” he said. “You’ll have to help me.”

“I suspect you’ve spent plenty of time with many women,” she said with a stiffness that he hoped might be a carefully contrived mask for something close to envy. “Come with me.”

She led him to the barn, taking a moment to strike a match and light one of the lanterns hanging up inside. Until he’d arrived here, he hadn’t spent much time in barns, but this had clearly been well taken care of, smelling like old timbers and fresh hay. It was big enough to shelter a few large animals, and no doubt the Chandlers had used it over the years to store extra equipment.

She hung the lantern on a nail overhead, and Beau noticed a large canvas sack stuffed full of straw, hanging from a chain in the ceiling.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked, poking at the makeshift punching bag. He’d seen plenty of these—some in posh gentleman’s gyms, and others in dark corners where bare-knuckled men beat themselves silly for the betting spoils of the audience, rich and poor.

“It’s not quite the real thing,” she said, running her hands over the rough fabric, the surface jagged from the edges of straw trying to poke through. “But it will do in a pinch.”

He was tempted to walk away and return to the house in search of the whisky that he hoped to hell would somehow be hiding in a corner. But there was a glint in her eye—an invitation—that made him want to appease her.

He curled his fingers into a fist and threw a halfhearted punch at the makeshift punching bag. It barely moved.

“It’s a good thing I’m here,” she said. “If anyone was determined to grab you, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“I don’t want to hit it so hard I’ll throw you off your feet,” he challenged. It had been years, but he used to box. He knew his way around a ring. And then he remembered Madeline Murray had come with him because she was supposed to handle any threats of physical violence coming Beau’s way. He remembered the knives. The books on martial arts. And her off-hand remark about having to ensure the safety of the women at Everwell from anyone who presented a threat.

Her lips turned up into a daring smile. “You won’t.”

He obliged her, this time with a right upper cut and a left hook. The bag moved haphazardly, like his form.

“Again,” she repeated. “And don’t worry about your form so much. This isn’t a boxing ring. The opponent is inside you. Just let it out.”

Beau focused on punching the bag. With each strike, he imagined the life he’d known. The man who’d raised him, now dead. The family next door who might very well be his. How everything he understood about himself might no longer be true. After endless strikes at the bag, he paused, his breath heavy, his heart pounding.

“Frank loved Neil—my brother-in-law,” Beau said between ragged breaths. If there was little Beau could do right in Frank’s eyes, there seemed to be nothing Neil could do wrong.

“But he didn’t raise Neil,” she said, throwing him a linen towel to wipe the sweat from his brow. “And he didn’t will him control of the company, did he?”

Beau mused on that. It was always assumed that Beau would take ownership of the company but Neil’s keen business sense and his gift for numbers, as well as his devotion to Beau’s sister, all but secured him a key position at Silver Lumber. Beau had always assumed that Frank gave the company to Beau because he was his son.

But he might have assumed wrong.

“Did Neil suspect, do you think?”

“Do you mean about me not being Frank’s son?” Beau shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“But you’re not sure,” she prodded. “Could there have been rumours? You said he and Frank were close. Would he have ever betrayed that in confidence?”

Beau blinked, stunned by the implication she was making. He couldn’t imagine Frank betraying that fact to anyone. But that didn’t mean Neil couldn’t have had his suspicions.

“If they were as close as you say, maybe he discovered the truth,” she said. “Just because people are your relations doesn’t make them naturally better or more inclined to love you,” she said. “Sometimes they can be the ones who will hurt you most.”

There was something—a subtle little catch in her voice. And maybe he misheard it, his own tattered emotion billowing like a ripped sail in a stiff wind. But it caught his attention. He turned to her, her red hair being gently tugged this way and that by the sweet evening breeze, the sun, starting it’s slow descent, lighting up her face and heightening the fiery glow of her hair. She seemed at once strong, yet brittle. Like she was speaking from behind the dull ache of an old wound. The idea that anyone might have hurt Madeline Murray tightened something primal in his chest. His mind went immediately to Nelson Taylor who’d insulted her that day on the platform. The people he’d been so eager to sell this place to. The people who just offered him even more money than he’d originally asked.

And the people who would no doubt make an unequally ungenerous offer to the Chandlers.

And how did he know that?

Because he might have done the same thing. It made good business sense. Making money was what a da Silva did.

But he wasn’t sure he was a da Silva anymore.

Beau raked a hand through his hair. Neil had the ear of the upper levels of Silver Lumber. He could have very easily convinced them to put the price on Beau’s head if it was the company he wanted. Through Jessica, he’d have it if Beau was out of the way. And Neil knew about Beau’s pistol. They’d been together when he bought it.

“I want to be wrong about this,” he said. “For my sister’s sake, if nothing else.”

“Maybe you are, but we need to get this information to Dominic,” she said. “It will give him something to go on.”

“It will kill Jess if he’s guilty,” he said.

“Your sister is probably stronger than you think,” she said, looking in him the eye with a flash of defiance. “She’s lost her father. She doesn’t need to lose her brother, too.”