Chapter 8

The unnamable awareness that had been humming in Beau’s veins since he’d first sat in the carriage with Miss Murray had finally subsided by the time he’d hopped out of the Chandlers’ wagon. But the moment she’d begrudgingly accepted his hand, it had flared anew, running through his blood like a fine brandy. The touch had been brief, and she’d briefly locked eyes with him out of what he suspected was politeness. As she walked away, an echo of longing prickled under his skin.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Beau turned his attention to the property that only a few days ago he’d been so eager to sell. His mother had grown up here, and, according to his aunt, eager to flee as soon as she’d been able. Beau could see why. This modest but sturdy building, built by the grandfather he never knew, stood watch over a flock of sheep and little else. His memories of his mother were few, but she seemed to thrive on company, on dazzling everyone in the room. Here, she’d only had her family and some farm animals to keep her company.

Still, the country was pretty enough. The gentle rolling hills and mature trees were certainly inviting, if one liked that sort of thing. Liked the quiet. And it was so quiet. Not that Saint John was a metropolis on the scale of New York or even Toronto, but there was always something to catch his attention. Perhaps he was more like his mother than his father had given him credit for… and credit was something Frank had given Beau precious little of.

He hauled the luggage from the back of the buggy, distracted by the notion that his knees might buckle under the weight of the trunk he’d watched Miss Murray handle at Everwell with little strain. He’d never been one for ridiculous notions of manliness, but if pressed, he would have noted a small blow to his ego.

“What on earth did you pack?” he asked Miss Murray, gripping the leather handles. “Cannon balls?”

“Books,” she said.

“All of them?”

Miss Murray rolled her eyes then approached, clearly ready to give her assistance.

“I am being babysat by a woman, Miss Murray” he said, pulling the trunk out of her reach just as she went to grab the sturdy leather strap. “Allow me to salvage some of my masculine pride.”

Whatever the strain to his knees or his back, the hint of a smile that seemed to pull at her mouth lessened the pain.

He heaved the trunk to the faded red door, when it magically opened. He was greeted by a woman of modest height, her Mi’kmaq heritage evident in her dark brown eyes, black hair, and straight nose. She greeted Daniel Chandler with a warmth he returned, welcomed Miss Murray with a gracious smile, then regarded Beau with undisguised curiosity.

“You’re Emily Redden’s son,” she said simply.

Her greeting took Beau off guard. The only two people who ever spoke of his mother were his father and his aunt. To hear it from a stranger left Beau with a curious sense of loss—as if there was an entire part of him he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

She beckoned them inside and led him to a small parlour. He lowered the trunk to the floor, then turned to face her. They stood in silence, and Beau had the sense she was taking the measure of him. He brushed it off as mere curiosity at having her days upended by this unusual request of his aunt’s.

He outstretched his hand, eager to end the examination. “Beau da Silva.”

“Annie Chandler,” she replied, accepting his greeting. “Here to take a first and last look at the farm before you sell it?”

Beau kept his smile in place, but there was no mistaking her disapproval at Beau’s plans.

“It might not be his last,” Daniel Chandler said, appearing from behind his wife, his eyebrow raised in that way a man does when he’s too polite to outright say what’s on his mind. “Nelson Taylor might be afraid to offer it now. Mr. da Silva here nearly took his head clean off his shoulders.”

Beau blinked, taken off guard by the name. Nelson Taylor was the estate agent for George’s College, an expensive private school in Windsor that had styled itself on the elite private schools like Eton, or Deerfield Academy in the U.S. Only a week ago, Beau had traded correspondence with Taylor about the details of a possible sale of The Grove.

For her part, Miss Murray, who’d been quiet, even by her standards, went unexpectedly ashen at the mention of the man’s name. The moment their eyes met, she looked away. Clearly the encounter had left her more hurt than she’d initially let on. Despite her brusqueness, she’d clearly been injured by Taylor’s callousness.

“Mr. Taylor is a miserable man on a good day,” Annie said, giving Beau a second look. “I’m sorry he was the first one you met when you got off the train.”

“You’re not the only one,” Beau replied. Not that he had time to think about the sale now, but there was no chance in hell he would do business through Nelson Taylor. He’d speak to the Board of Governors himself about the sale if he had to.

“I’ll show you the rooms, then leave you to get settled,” Annie said. “There still is some work to do, but we made up the beds, so you’ll have someplace comfortable to sleep.”

Miss Murray asked about fetching water, the condition of the hearth, and half a dozen more practical questions. Annie answered them all, leading them downstairs to the lower floor which had a dining room, kitchen, dairy room, and another room that might have been a study.

“I figured you’d be hungry so there’s some hodge podge,” Mrs. Chandler said as she brought them into the dining room. It was a bright room that, while modest in size, had a sort of faded elegance and an excellent view he found appealing. On the small table there was a pitcher of raspberry shrub, bread, bowls, and a large terrine.

All the while, he felt Annie Chandler’s appraisal. He was long accustomed to having the eye of everyone in the room, something he normally appreciated. But this was different. Did she know about the charges against him and was too polite or afraid to mention them? Was she merely curious about the long-lost connection to this house reappearing after so long? Or, most likely, was she not pleased with the thought of having her life up ended by the sale of the property?

“Thank you,” Miss Murray said, her manner one of detached politeness. “That’s very kind.”

“There’s a pump in the kitchen, and the water is potable,” Daniel said. “We’ll be just next door. Teddy will be by tomorrow to see if you need anything.”

The Chandlers left, and Beau, famished, walked to the small feast prepared for them. He pulled off the lid of the green-and-white porcelain terrine and stirred the contents, bringing colourful chunks of young carrots, peas, green beans, and new potatoes to the surface as the rich smells of butter and cream reached his nose. It reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in hours.

“Neither business nor adventure can happen on an empty stomach,” he said, ladling the hodge podge to his bowl. “Come, Miss Murray, so we do not leave Mrs. Chandler’s efforts wasted. Unless you think she is trying to poison us.”

He said that last bit as a bit of a throwaway remark, but when he looked over to Miss Murray, he wondered if she was, in fact, entertaining that very notion.

“I don’t know,” she answered, her gaze still fixed on some point out the window. “She was looking at you just a little too closely for my liking.”

“No need for jealousy,” he tsked, before helping himself to a long drink of tangy shrub. “It’s entirely unnecessary, I assure you.”

She turned her head, her eyes narrowed, clearly irritated with him.

“She was staring at you.”

He shrugged. “Look at this face. I can’t help it.”

“That face is in half a dozen newspapers between Saint John, Moncton, and Halifax,” she said, clearly unimpressed with his attempt at humour. “You gave everyone within fifty feet of us a reason to gawk in town.”

Beau blinked. “He insulted you.”

“Yes, he did. But they were just words, and no one else heard them.”

The lack of emotion with which she answered took him aback. Why was she so indignant?

“I did.”

“You are not my protector, Mr. da Silva,” she said. “Quite the opposite. And if you’re not careful, which you apparently have no interest in being, that face will be attached to a man hanging from the gallows.”

Silence fell like a stone between them, leaving a heaviness in the room. Sarcasm and humour had been weapons he’d used in equal measure as a shield—and occasionally as a rapier— to his father’s unending disapproval. After one of Frank’s usual tirades, Beau would cut him off with a jibe or a bad joke, and then leave the elder da Silva and his cloud of insults for drinks with his friends in his club, or a rendezvous with one of the local society widows.

But here, with Madeline Murray standing silent and goddess-like, laying out the stark reality Beau now found himself in, his deflection fell flat. Whether she was aware or not of his internal struggle, he wasn’t certain.

“If you don’t think for a moment I do not appreciate how serious this is, I can assure you, I do,” he said. “But I am not prepared to unload my anger on Mrs. Chandler. No doubt they are simply curious—and perhaps a little suspicious—about a person encroaching on property they’ve probably used as their own for some time. We are the interlopers here, Miss Murray, not them.”

Miss Murray crossed her arms. “Too many people will sell their soul, or someone else’s, if given the opportunity and the right inducement.”

There was something about the way she’d said it that struck Beau as more than simple paranoia. And of course, he knew that to be absolutely true in the business world. Still, he found it difficult to automatically think the worst of people unless, like Nelson Taylor, they’d proved themselves to be.

He ladled some of the hodge podge into a second bowl and beckoned for her to sit. “Have you always gone through the world thinking everyone is a threat?”

“No. And that was my mistake,” she said.

Something in Beau’s chest twisted at the idea of a Madeline Murray who, once upon a time, went through the world with an open, trusting heart. A heart that had been clearly damaged so badly that she would look upon a genuine offer of hospitality with suspicion. It inexplicably saddened and angered him. Perhaps his misplaced concern was merely a way to keep his own worries at bay. Miss Murray was right. He’d noticed Annie Chandler’s attention, and it had made him uneasy. She seemed to be studying his face, of all things. And it wasn’t because she found him attractive, measuring his character. He’d brushed off the sensation as merely an overactive imagination, but apparently he wasn’t the only one.