Chapter 23

If Beau had been in Saint John, he would have been tempted to drink himself into oblivion. Between the intoxication and the blinding headache for days afterward, he would have had some kind of reprieve from the hollow pain in his chest. As it was, he spent a restless night, drifting in and out of sleep, wondering how on earth he could have allowed himself, once again, to find himself in need of approval from a person who would never give it to him.

Of course, unlike Frank, Madeline Murray had never demanded anything of him.

At least he hadn’t gone and told her he loved her. It was one thing to be a fool, and it was another to be a fool in love. She’d known that heartache once, and never recovered. She’d once been sweet-talked in a way that he now understood had damaged her in a way that still bled into that heart of hers—a heart she kept armoured, lest it be damaged again.

Beau would never wish a man dead, but he could not find it in his heart to be sad about Malcolm Ferguson. He’d treated Madeline so poorly that he’d robbed every man after him of even a chance at her trust and affection. Not that he thought Madeline had anything to do with his death, of course. He had not seen a single indication of the sort of temper that would inspire a person to inflict such grievous injury on another.

He lingered in bed, coward that he was, as he heard her rise. He couldn’t face her yet, and he sensed from the cautious way her bedroom door opened this morning that she’d had a similar trepidation. Best not to spoil her morning by inflicting himself on her first thing. He waited until he heard the door below swing open, then rose.

He dressed, then went downstairs and brought the fire back to life to heat water for coffee and a shave. Even yesterday, he’d been considering installing a modern stove. It was 1876 after all, not 1776. Now he had no idea what to do with The Grove. Maybe he would sell it after all. Not to George’s College, of course, but there had to be someone who might want the property. He would still come to visit the Chandlers—they were family. But even as he stood in the dining room, gazing out the window, he didn’t know if he could bear being here without Madeline. Just out the window was the kitchen garden, which was remarkably tidy given what it was when they arrived. Even he could make out some of the plants now—chives, sitting in thick clumps topped with purple flowers, next to taller plants with blowsy leaves and star shaped tops he recognized as dill.

Christ. Maybe getting back into the boardrooms of Silver Lumber would be for the best. He’d always used the business as a distraction. After last night, he would need it more than ever.

Movement caught his attention, snagging away his self-pity. Teddy Chandler was bounding up path toward the door where only last night, Beau had had his heart properly broken.

“Good morning,” Beau said, greeting Teddy with a forced smile. “You’re remarkably spry after a late night.”

Teddy’s eyes narrowed before realization dawned at Beau’s joke. His young face broke into the same benign expression that every youth gave every adult who’d thought they were being clever.

“Yes sir,” he said, then paused, then looked at Beau with a curious expression. “Can I call you Uncle now?”

“I suppose you can,” Beau said. “Can I ask why you’re knocking on my door at this ungodly hour of the morning?”

Teddy gave Beau a look of utter confusion. “It’s not ungodly. It’s nearly ten o’clock. It’s not even early.”

Not willing to debate the relative merits of birds and their breakfast habits with a grown up that should be extolling such virtues, Beau was about to change the subject when Teddy reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope.

“This came this morning,” he said. “Dad said I should bring it right away.”

Beau’s heart lurched as he recognized the stamp from the telegraph office and directions to deliver it straight to the Chandler farm. He let out a low breath and accepted the envelope.

“Thank you.”

Teddy nodded and was about to leave when Beau called out. “Have you seen Miss Murray?”

“She’s in the barn,” he replied. “Hitting a big sack really hard.”

Beau smiled in spite of himself. Teddy continued on his way, while Beau turned his attention to the envelope, wondering if he should get Madeline before he opened it. While she’d made her feelings toward him quite plain, her future would also be shaped by whatever news Dominic brought. Pushing his discomfort aside, he started toward the barn when he caught sight of Madeline running toward the house.

“I saw Teddy running with a note in his hand.” Her skin glowed from her exertions, and she gestured to the note in Beau’s hand. “Did you open it?”

She was dressed in a loose-fitting pair of trousers and a simple blouse over her corset. In her hands was the box of knives he’d first discovered packed away with her books.

“Are you playing at pirate today?” he asked, taking in her figure, which, without the draping of skirts and petticoats, was a cruel reminder of the bodily pleasures they’d shared.

“My fighting clothes,” she said, giving him a shrug. “A lot was said yesterday. I needed to think.”

Despite her attempt at nonchalance, he could tell her armour was back in place. Now, it was protecting both of them.

He tore open the envelope and pulled out the note. As expected, it was from Dominic Ashe.

Good news. Case resolved. Secured confession from new suspect. Bad news. Neil Sweet confessed. Your information was helpful.

There was more—Dominic was asking Beau to meet him in Saint John as soon as possible—but he found himself re-reading that first line over and over. Beau didn’t realize his hand was shaking until he felt Madeline’s hand steady his.

“May I see?”

Wordlessly he gave it to her, then sat down on the bench before his feet gave out.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Good news and bad news.”

She sat down beside him, and he drank in the steadiness of her presence.

“I feel badly for your stepfather,” Madeline said. “This must have been a horrible betrayal.”

Memories of countless family dinners came into sharp focus, where Frank and Neil had sat deep in conversation, laughing together, while Beau seemed a distant observer. Beau had often joked about Neil being the favourite son.

He rubbed his face with his hands. “I want this to be a mistake.”

The job was over.

Beau, consumed by the news he’d hoped for and the news that had clearly rocked him, was lost to his own torrent of thoughts, leaving Maddy to her own.

He probably hadn’t needed her at all—the only real threat he’d faced had come from Nelson, and he’d managed that quite well on his own. She’d tell Phillipa that there had been little need for her to be a part of this job, and she might has well stayed in Everwell and looked after her blighted roses.

Funny how there was no sense of victory in that.

The beautiful evening they had spent together, the offer he had made—and her rejection of it—had evaporated into thin air. Maybe she would have regrets later. Blessedly, there was too much else to do.

He would go back to Saint John, be with his sister, and take on the company. And she would go back to Everwell, her library, and her roses.

Maddy should have been satisfied with that. She’d spent the morning lost in the flurry of her training, working through a torrent of emotion she wasn’t sure she wanted to feel. Beau had made her the centre of his world, and she, too late, realized she was becoming accustomed to it. Becoming soft.

Every moment she sat beside him, that softness allowed regret to seep under her skin, pulling her down. She had to fight it.

“You go see the Chandlers,” she said, getting to her feet. “Let them know they no longer have a wanted murderer as a son and brother. I’ll start packing. We can be on the first train home.”

Her declaration seemed to startle him. She quelled the impulse to comfort him with a hand on his cheek, and as he rose and walked away, without looking back, she was struck by the sense of longing—and hurt. What had happened to her? The case was solved, and she could only hope that Veronica Turnbull would see her part of the bargain through. It was the only reason she’d come. Everwell would be compensated, she’d have her greenhouse, and Beau would be nothing but a memory.

It should be right. But after years of scraping by on enough, she found herself doing something she once thought impossible—dreaming of a life beyond Everwell. A life of her own.

And maybe, a life with Beau.

The cool water she’d drawn to wash herself helped shake her out of this maelstrom of feelings, if only momentarily. She pulled on her traveling dress and packed up the rest of her clothes. Selfishly, she thought about going back to the keyhole garden and picking out her favourite plant, taking a cutting or two she could take home with her. A souvenir. It wasn’t fair that a garden like that would go unloved for so long. Because she would have loved it.

Instead, she retrieved one of her trunks and took it to the parlour. One by one, she started packing her books. As the volumes of poetry, gardens, and most especially, her beloved novels were pulled off the shelves, her mind turned to the green recipe book downstairs. What a wonderful book to add to her library. All of that knowledge, the experiments with plants and that horrible recipe for forcing mustard greens that Rimple would be fascinated by, shouldn’t be sitting forgotten on a shelf for another twenty years. It deserved a good home.

She’d been so tempted to take it and tuck it away, as she had so many other books she’d found sitting unloved in dusty libraries owned by rich men who collected them as they collected so many other things—merely for owning them, not for the loving of it. Of course, that wasn’t entirely fair, and the memory of Beau’s excitement as they’d looked through it that first day he’d found it brought a smile to her lips.

It would stay.

Besides, having a reminder of that moment—the moment she’d nearly made an idiot of herself and kissed him—was not something she’d want in her library. There were fantasies, and then there were fantasies, and the latter would be far too painful.

Packing her books was not difficult, especially since she’d carefully arranged her small collection by subject, then by author. And though Beau did help himself to her small collection, he had always managed to put them back exactly how she’d arranged them. As she started packing up her poetry books, she found a volume on roses nested amongst them, as if it had been haphazardly placed there. She frowned as she pulled the book off the shelf and opened the cover. Her fingers grazed over the inscription—to my dear Madeline, on the occasion of her 16th birthday. With love from your grandmother Geraldine Murray.

It was the one thing she’d taken from home when she ran away. Her grandmother had given it to her—the one person growing up who seemed to understand her. Normally she kept it in her bedroom, somehow the volume being even too precious to keep in the library. Of course she had taken it with her. She went nowhere without it.

She set it in the chest along with all the other books. Before long, the shelves were bare, just the way they’d been when she’d arrived. And yet, Maddy couldn’t help but feel they were a little sadder now—like the empty way the front parlour at Everwell felt after they’d taken down the Christmas tree.

Her heart squeezed again. Why had Beau asked her to imagine a life here? Dreams were for other people—the nicer people, the prettier ones, the ones whom people simply seemed to like. Maybe he had meant Maddy to have the cottage, which in the light of day, without the heady rush of moonlight and possibly one too many glasses of Annie’s dandelion wine, was a patently ridiculous offer. This was his mother’s childhood home. He had once planned to sell it, sight unseen. And now he had family living next door, and a company to run and a sister whose life had been destroyed not once, but twice. He would forget her soon enough.

It had to be a trick of the moonlight.

By the time Beau arrived at the Chandlers, Hollis and Daniel had already hitched up the horses. They must have sensed the news, but even they were surprised at the betrayal of Beau’s brother-in-law.

“I’m sorry to be leaving this way,” Beau said. “I came here in a storm, and I seem to be leaving in one.”

“That can’t be helped,” his brother said, and Beau’s heart squeezed at the idea that Daniel was his brother. “We can take care of it.”

“I’ll pay you for your trouble,” he said.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Hollis said, putting his hand on Beau’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’re my son. Give me the chance to help you, to make up for all the times I couldn’t.”

Beau swallowed back his emotions, which were far too close to the bone.

“I’m not sure when, but I’ll be back, for a visit at least. Maybe I’ll bring Jessica to visit. She could probably use the peace and quiet.” Or not, Beau thought. Jessica was her mother’s daughter. A socialite.

“Teddy and I will go help Maddy,” Annie said. “She must be sad to leave.”

“I think she’s eager to get back to Everwell,” he said, so matter-of-factly it sounded harsh to his ears. “She’s packing now.”

“And what about you?” Hollis asked, his older eyes narrowing, as if he had a thousand things he wanted to say but had decided to hold his tongue.

Beau paused, choking back an unexpected pang of emotion. Christ, when did he turn into such a blubberer? Frank only valued two emotions—anger and tenacity. Tears were for women and weak men. But here were two men standing in front of him, their bodies hard and lean from working the land, and both of them seemed to have no fear of their own soft hearts.

“I just found a family I didn’t know I had.” And the glimpse of a future he never could have imagined. “I’m sorry to go.”

“I’m always going to be here for you,” Hollis said, then pulled Beau in for an embrace. Beau drank in the affection, allowing it to feed him, bringing some lightness and some strength to his heart, which seemed to be torn in a thousand horrible directions. “But right now, you have to take care of your family. So let’s go get that done.”

Beau unwillingly broke the embrace. There was work to do—a sister to console, a trial to endure, and a company to manage. Beau had always known the company would be his. It had been a fate he’d accepted, even though he didn’t want it, which was selfish in the extreme. He was being gifted a massive machinery for making money and he wanted to just walk away from it like a spoiled child with too many beautiful toys. But he was equally certain that if he wanted to turn his attention to something else he could, and those doors would be open for him the moment he chose to do it.

He had risked nothing to have everything. Madeline’s words washed up on his skin like a January freezing rain. … The world is happy to open whatever door you choose to walk through. It doesn’t work that way for me.

If only he could show her that he would open every door and fight off every obstacle so she didn’t have to.

They all piled into the cart and headed back to The Grove. On the way, he thanked Annie again for the absolutely beautiful evening she’d put on for Madeline. An evening worthy of her loveliness. Annie had waved it off, as if it was nothing, even though he knew perfectly well it had not been. Beau was struck once again by this need, so urgent it felt like it was going to burst out of him—to show her how appreciative he was. When he returned, he would talk to Daniel about it and find a way to recognize her in a manner Annie might truly appreciate.

By the time they had arrived, the front door was open, and there were already two travel trunks sitting by the front step. Madeline had wasted no time. There hadn’t been much to pack—he’d arrived with so little, and most of it had been hardly the wardrobe of a man who would spend his time mending pergolas and cleaning out attics and scrubbing floors. But he’d liked the work just the same—and as he packed away his best twill pants which now had a few little holes that Madeline had mended, something in his heart flashed and hardened into resolve. Somehow, he would find a way back here. In fact, he emptied out the very small chest of drawers but left his favourite pair of socks as a token.

Madeline moved about with the same efficiency she’d displayed from the moment they’d started this journey. He wanted to make some kind of conversation with her, something to lighten the mood, but she was content in her silence, and he didn’t have the heart to impose on it. Both of them seemed to be in a kind of mourning.

There was no time to think about it now. He had to return to Halifax briefly to ensure, as Dominic asked, that Madeline was safely delivered to Everwell, before departing almost immediately for Saint John. There, he would hug his sister and somehow refrain from tearing Neil into pieces. After two hours of scrambling, they were in the cart, trundling down the winding lane, past the canopy of maples, their leaves lazy in the midday sun. The cart bounced them around, and all of them were quiet. He caught Madeline looking up at the house, a subtle swallow in her throat and a flush on her freckled cheeks.

She looked at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He wanted to reach out for her, take her hand, comfort her. But even as their gazes locked, she stiffened before turning away. It stung, a reminder him of all those times he’d been with Frank, who’d held back his approval like a carrot on a string, always pulling it out of reach.

He pushed the thought away and turned his attention to the road. Frank was dead, and Neil had killed him. The past, and the mess of the present, had to be dealt with before Beau could even begin to dream about his future.