Chapter 5

Beau had been given four hours to pack whatever belongings he required and return directly to Everwell Manor. Unlike his father’s house, which was heavy with dark wood and a sense of self-importance that imposed itself on those who crossed its threshold, Everwell Manor was bright and welcoming. He breathed in the scent of lemon oil from freshly polished wood, mixed with smells from the kitchen and the fresh summer breeze carried up from the Northwest Arm.

In the morning he would head out of town and go into hiding with Miss Murray as some kind of…nanny.

Miss. Murray.

Christ.

His sleeping quarters were humble—a room normally was saved for unannounced women who needed an urgent refuge from a violent partner. It was small but comfortable, and even though the evening was warm, a gentle breeze from the window refreshed the room. A small bouquet of flowers—none except lily of the valley that he could name—sat in a pretty little vase next to the washstand. Everything at Everwell seemed somehow at home, even if none of it quite made sense to Beau. Then again, he’d never really felt at home after his mother passed. Funny how that just occurred to him.

Beau pulled the coverlet up to his chin, trying to get comfortable. The eccentricity of the place spoke for itself. The relationship between Miss Everwell, a white woman whose manners and accent marked her as a member of the British Upper Class, and Mrs. Gilman, whose brown skin and hair tied neatly and wrapped in an elaborate scarf, would have been the source of no end of gossip. He had not been there ten minutes before he comprehended that the nature of their relationship was not, as one might be tempted to guess, based on the general treatment of black people as an underclass, a pairing of employer and servant. A very quick study of their body language and manner suggested to Beau something even more remarkable. They weren’t just equals. They were partners in life.

And then there was Miss Murray herself, who’d returned to the house after his arrival, her face ruddy, strands of hair glued to her skin with a slick of sweat at her hair line. She had a pair of canes in her hand because, according to Rimple Jones, she’d just returned from her training ring, where she had been practicing some type of martial art. Given their meeting in the garden, Beau couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he found himself on the wrong side of those canes.

And he always seemed to be on the wrong side. What had happened to that woman he’d met in the bookstore? The wide-eyed beauty who spoke with such passion about poetry and handled that volume with such reverence that might have made him yearn to trade places with a book?

There was no time to linger on that now. As Beau’s head hit the pillow that night—a pillow that was, like the rest of him, at Everwell Manor rather than his uncle’s mansion two miles east—he realized he’d spent far too long in the plodding world of business. Generally, “planning” took several days of meetings with a small army of managers, their secretaries, and if done right, at least three bottles of good Scotch.

He tossed and turned, conscious of every squeak of the bed frame underneath him. Rest was pointless when his thoughts ran in a thousand different directions. It didn’t help that he’d spent far too much of the day reading and re-reading the nearly cover-to-cover stories in the Halifax Chronicle, filled with the accounts of Beau’s so-called friends and colleagues who were only too happy to proclaim that Beau’s fractured relationship with his father must have induced him at last to murder. Aunt Vee promised to send a note to Jessica, in the hopes of getting a better picture of what was happening. He could only hope his sister had faith in him.

After what felt like hours, Beau tossed off his covers, lit a candle, then fumbled for his pocket watch. It was barely three in the morning. He’d been given a nightshirt and robe—slightly out of fashion but, Beau couldn’t help but notice, impeccably tailored. They’d belonged to the former owner of this room who, once upon a time, had been the butler to the matriarchs of this strange place.

He opened the door, conscious of every step. No doubt Miss Murray was a few feet away in her own bed, lounging like a lioness—confident, strong, and yet somehow capable of terrifying anyone she felt was a risk. He should be happy, he supposed, that he was to be the object of her protection. Beau half expected to wake her and found himself curiously disappointed when he’d made it to the bottom of the stairs without her notice.

Beau went to the library. Surely there was a volume on the shelves that would either induce sleep or indulge his imagination enough he would forget his troubles until morning. Either was preferable to staring into the darkness waiting for the morning and the flight to the mysterious refuge that, until yesterday, was merely a bit of land he’d hoped to dispose of as quickly as possible and pocket the reward.

Once he arrived at The Grove, the old Redden homestead, perhaps he could form a true value of the property so he could demand a better price. He’d always had a gift for assessing the true value of something—a business deal, a piece of machinery, or real estate. He might be there for a fortnight at the very least, and with nothing to distract him from his troubles, he would turn his mind to what he was good at: making money.

A faint shimmer of light danced on the floor under the half-closed door of the library. He paused, wondering if one of his hostesses were up. No doubt it was Miss Murray, waiting to glower at him from a corner of the room.

“Hello.”

Beau started, caught off guard by an unfamiliar voice that belonged to someone far younger than any of the women he’d met thus far. Obscured by shadow, Beau could make out the figure of a young child, no more than ten. She had dark brown hair and golden-brown skin.

“You’re up late, aren’t you?” Beau asked.

“Very late,” she agreed, not particularly bothered by the observation. “So are you.”

“That I am,” he said. “Do you need help?”

She shook her head. “Miss Murray said I could come here anytime I couldn’t sleep.”

“You’re not afraid of the dark?” he asked, genuinely curious. When he was that age, he’d been terrified of the dark. An overactive imagination, his father had said. If he was to be a man, he had to learn to conquer those fears. The dark he had managed. Failing his father was another matter.

“Not particularly,” she said. “My name is Lucy.”

“Hello Lucy. My name is Beau,” he said, unsure about whether he should leave the child in peace. “I couldn’t sleep either.” He held his candle up to the shelves. “Are there any books you recommend?”

“I’m reading this book of fairy tales right now,” she said.

“Do you like it?”

The girl shrugged. “Some I like. Most I don’t.”

“Why is that?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Most of them are little white girls with yellow hair. They are all poor, and very meek, and very beautiful,” she said. “And many of the princes are very, very stupid.”

Something in Beau’s heart twisted as he considered this girl with her big brown eyes, curly brown hair, and warm dark skin.

“You could write your own fairy tale,” Beau said. “And make smarter princes. Or none at all, if it suits you.”

Her eyes narrowed, and it seemed to Beau that she was appraising him with a guile beyond her tender years. “I’ve tried, but the words in my head go faster than my hands.”

Beau held up his hands, wiggling his fingers.

“Luckily for you, I can write quickly.” He pointed at the desk. “I bet there is some ink and paper. We could start right now. You tell it to me, and I’ll write it down.”

Maddy sat on the stairs, her heart slamming against her chest. She’d been lying in bed, awake since Lucy had crept down the stairs into the library. The child had always been a restless sleeper, and since an accident that had nearly claimed her life the year before, it had only gotten worse. Maddy had allowed her to use the library, teaching her how to light the lamp so she could read. Some mornings, she’d wake early to find Lucy asleep on the settee, a book still in her hands.

She never slept when Lucy went downstairs. Not soundly, anyway. While it was unlikely that any harm would come to the child safe within the bounds of Everwell, the chance was not zero. So she remained awake.

Besides, Beau da Silva was here. She was hyperaware of his presence, which she attributed to the same compulsion she had with Lucy. It was Maddy’s job to keep everyone safe, and she made sure she did it. So, when the telltale click of the door latch from Foster’s room broke the silence, Maddy was on her feet. She wasn’t light footed like Gemma, but she knew every squeak on those steps and how to avoid them, even though she was at least eighty pounds heavier.

She paused on the steps, allowing the darkness to envelope her, and listened. While she was not expecting anything untoward, she knew that some of the children who’d come into their care could not be alone in a room with a man without reliving a past trauma. Lucy, however, was not one of them.

Indeed, there seemed to be a natural affinity between the two as they discussed their favourite books. She was at once transfixed by their easy camaraderie, and yet strangely envious of it. Maddy had never found being with others easy. She always appreciated Gemma’s quiet, and Rimple’s capacity to carry on a conversation without her, while making Maddy seem effortlessly a part of it.

She couldn’t catch all the conversation from her perch on the stairs, and the moment she saw Beau’s form move toward her desk, she gripped the railing, prepared to run down the stairs and pull him away. The light from his taper shed just enough light for her to make out what he was doing… which was taking dictation from Lucy.

She found herself relaxing as she watched them, her head resting on the banister, staring off into the distance while snippets of quiet conversation wafted up the stairs. Before long, she found herself nodding off.

The sensation of a hand on her shoulder caught her off guard. She opened her eyes, an old instinct flaring inside her and she grabbed at her shoulder before springing to her feet.

“Good morning.”

Maddy’s eyes blinked as she focused on Phillipa Hartley, standing two steps above in her dressing gown. Maddy rubbed her hands over her eyes and stretched the kink out of her neck.

“What time is it?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

“About half past five,” came the reply. “Still early.”

In the summer, six o’clock was the hour when the house started to wake and get ready for the day, but the morning light had already cast a warm glow over the house. A quick check of the bedroom doors confirmed that aside from Phillipa’s and Maddy’s, the occupants were still asleep.

“How long have you been up?” Phillipa asked in hushed tones.

“Lucy had another restless night,” Maddy said.

“I see,” Phillipa said. “I assume she didn’t go back to bed?”

Dread dropped like a stone in Maddy’s stomach. There was a second staircase, originally build to be used by servants, near the kitchen that led upstairs, and continued right on to the third floor, where the children slept. Lucy and Beau could have returned to their respective rooms for the evening, without passing Maddy on the stairs.

Maddy rose, then padded down the stairs, stopping at the entrance to the library. On the settee was Lucy, curled up in her usual position, a coverlet pulled up over her, looking contented. Relief flooded through Maddy, relaxing the tension in her shoulders, when the sound of a gentle snore came from a corner to her right. There, sprawled in a chair, long legs stretched out, was Beau da Silva.

His mouth was half open, the sole hint of normalcy on an otherwise perfect form. A single lock of his chestnut brown hair fell across his forehead, and there was the distinct shadow of a beard on his chin, which somehow managed to make him look more appealing. Underneath his robe—which Maddie recognized as Foster’s—he was wearing one of Foster’s old nightshirts and thankfully, he’d had the presence of mind to throw on his trousers. But his feet were bare, and there was a generous amount of exposed skin at his neck where the nightshirt gaped open.

He was, even with his mouth hanging open and snoring to wake the dead, beautiful.

How Lucy even managed to sleep with that racket was something of a miracle.

“Well now,” Phillipa said behind her in a low voice, so warm Maddy could practically here the smile in it. “I’d say our new client has made himself quite at home.”

Maddy managed to drag her attention away from Mr. da Silva to her desk, where he’d been writing. Sitting in her chair. Using her pens. She sighed, trying to excise some of the nervous energy from her bones. She would need an hour in the carriage house with her fighting canes just to siphon this storm out of her.

She spun on her heel and stalked off to the kitchen. It was early, she was tired, and needed coffee to think straight. Or even to be civil. Phillipa followed, and in the way she had of knowing what Maddy needed, got the fire going in the stove while Maddy filled the kettle.

“Won’t he wonder why I’m going to guard him, Phillipa? Won’t he ask uncomfortable questions?”

“Maddy, my fierce warrior,” Phillipa said, reaching up to Maddy and gently cradling her face in her hands. “I know you just want to lock everything up tight and let nothing in. I wouldn’t be suggesting any of this if I didn’t think you could do it. Besides, Dominic’s been talking to Ben Miller at the Chronicle. He might uncover some valuable leads that will help bring this to an end sooner than later.”

At the mention of Benjamin Miller, Maddy started. The man had his nose in much of the city’s underground comings and goings over the years, and seemed unafraid to report on even the most sordid news that might tarnish the otherwise sterling reputations of the city’s elite. He’d even come to Everwell a few years ago, to do a piece for the paper.

Maddy crossed her arms. “With respect, Phillipa, the more people we involve, the greater the threat. Miller doesn’t know about us.”

“Dominic’s consulting business is fronting the case. He can very publicly consult anyone without even a hint of involvement of Everwell, aside from the tangential issue of being married to Elouise,” Phillipa continued. “Our primary job here is to keep Mr. da Silva safe until the real killer can be found, or at least until it can be proven unequivocally that he can’t be guilty.”

“And if we can’t?”

“Then we will have done what we can,” Phillipa said. “We work hard, but we are not magicians. Sometimes the jobs don’t work out.”

There was Phillipa’s never-failing pragmatism. The women of Everwell had managed to conjure the impossible more times than Maddy could count. It was a mix of preparation, hard work, and sometimes, dumb luck. And while they’d never been caught, and their secret seemed to remain secure, there were times when they hadn’t managed to get the ending for the client that they’d hoped. But they had to try. Those rumours had to be quelled. They were too close to the truth. A truth that could harm Everwell so deeply, it may never recover.

She had a debt to Everwell she would gladly spend her entire life repaying. This job was just another instalment.

After few fortifying sips of coffee, Maddy was in a far better mood. She was still upset that Mr. da Silva had left her ink bottle open, but at least now she didn’t want to dump the remainder of it over his head.

“Good morning Miss Murray, Mrs. Hartley.”

Lucy’s salutation grabbed both adults by surprise. She stood in the doorway, clutching a small sheaf of papers.

“Good morning Lucy,” Phillipa said, greeting the child with her customary warmth. “What do you have there?”

“I wrote a story!” she said, bounding into the kitchen, her small body vibrating with excitement.

“You did?” Phillipa asked, casting an eye to Maddy. “When?”

“Last night. It’s not quite done. I might like to change a few pieces yet,” Lucy replied. “If it’s good enough, I might ask Mrs. Ashe if we can use it for this year’s play.”

Lucy held up the pages to Phillipa, who examined the pages. “Did you write this?”

“I talked, and Mr. da Silva wrote it down. That way I could just think about my story,” she said.

“This is quite good, Lucy,” Phillipa said. Maddy looked over the pages Lucy laid in front of her. It was a fantastical story about a girl and a fox. She suspected Mr. da Silva may have, in some places, employed some editorial license to smooth the prose, but it was clear he took the job seriously.

Phillipa handed the pages back to Lucy. “Why don’t you take it to your room, and over tea we’ll look at it together with Mrs. Ashe?”

“I will,” the girl said, then bounded out of the room and up the stairs.

She turned away and disappeared up the back stairs.

“Well,” Phillipa said. “It seems our Mr. da Silva is not only a buyer of expensive books, but a scribe as well.”

Our Mr. da Silva. Maddy wanted to brush off the moniker. He’d arrived a little more than twelve hours ago. He was nothing more than a beautiful interloper. A ruiner of pens.

And a willing scribe to a budding storyteller.

Maddy fought her own urge to soften at that last descriptor.

“I’ll go and rouse him,” Phillipa said, interrupting Maddy’s thoughts. “He might like a cup of coffee after a night in that chair.”

“I’ll do it,” Maddy said, almost before she knew what she was saying. Phillipa, famous for her unflinching demeanour under the most trying of circumstances, arched a brow.

“He’s in my library unattended,” Maddy grumbled, satisfied with the perfectly rational explanation for her rather irrational response. “He’s no doubt already ruined one of my pens. I don’t want him doing any more damage.”

She picked up the small tray Phillipa had assembled with the coffee, a small sugar bowl, and some cream from the icebox and let out a low breath before marching across the hall.

The snoring had stopped and Mr. da Silva was out of his chair and at her desk. Again.

“What are you doing?” she asked, gripping the handles of the small tray.

“Good morning.” He looked up and flashed her a smile that was probably meant to disarm her. Instead, it flared something deep inside. A phantom pain, from a time when a man had used just such a smile to win her heart, only to sacrifice it to sate his desire for a piece of her family’s wealth. Of course, Mr. da Silva didn’t know that. No one did.

She stood still, the way she did with the students when they were getting rowdy. Sometimes silence was more effective than words. It was a trick she’d learned from her mother, of all people. Her mother had wielded silence with the same sharp precision she’d used her words.

“Do you always use that smile of yours to beg for forgiveness instead of permission?” she asked at last.

He shrugged. “I can’t help it if it works much of the time. What’s a few pieces of paper?”

“To a man who runs the largest lumber company in the northeast, I suppose nothing,” she said. “Our circumstances are a little more dear.”

He set down the pen, genuinely chastened. “My apologies, Miss Murray. I’m a little out of sorts. I’m not used to being so dependent on other people.”

“I brought you some coffee,” she replied. “You must have slept horribly in that chair.”

He rose and accepted it from her, but stood nearby, looking eye to eye. “Beats the gallows.”

“Before you send off any notes, check with Dominic,” she said. “If your whereabouts are traced here, you put Everwell at risk—and I can’t let that happen.”

“Of course not,” he said. “I have a contact in Boston, and I’ve asked him to send something to the company on my behalf. Throw them off my scent as it were. He owes me a favour.”

Maddy couldn’t disguise the surprise that must have come over her, because Mr. da Silva flashed that telltale smile.

“You didn’t think I’d be that smart,” he said.

Damn him for reading her mind. “You don’t know what I think.”

“I have a long history of people underestimating me, Miss Murray,” he said, and Maddy couldn’t help but wonder at the hint of bitterness that marred that otherwise cocky grin. “Though I might be a tad bit disappointed you have.”

Maddy swallowed the unexpected sting of his retort. The warmth of his body and the brushing of Foster’s silk robe against the wood of her desk as he rose captured her attention. He gave her a cursory glance, then walked to the door.

“I didn’t see the book,” he said, pausing just before he left. “Did you not like it after all?”

The book? Heat rose into Maddy’s cheeks even as she pushed away the sensation that he cared if she’d displayed the expensive poetry book.

It was already gone, delivered by Reg Knickle to Mrs. Cornish. According to Reg, Mrs. Cornish had been moved to tears upon its return.

It had been so hard to give it up. Maddy had loved it. Loved it the way she loved so many of the other books in her collection—they were filled with beautiful plates of flowers or pages of verse. Words she could lose herself in, if only for a little while. But there had been something even more particular about that one book, and Maddy would die a thousand deaths than admit to anyone, including herself, why it had been so hard to part with. He’d bought that book for her because he’d decided she’d deserved such a beautiful gift. Even if it was just to aggravate his aunt.

“It’s where it belongs,” she said at last, as much to herself as to him.

“By your bed, I hope,” he said, raising his eyebrows, a sly grin on his face as he walked out the door.