Chapter 9

A marathon of chores dominated the days immediately after Beau and Miss Murray’s arrival at The Grove. While the Chandlers had done them the blessing of airing out the mattresses which, by some miracle, had not become home to several generations of mice, Beau and Miss Murray’s hasty arrival at a house mostly unoccupied for the past twenty years did not give the caretakers time to get the place entirely in order. The chimneys needed a thorough cleaning, and the rest of the place was in dire need of a good wipe down. While Beau prided himself on his physical fitness, he’d gone about it in the way of his upper class peers—rowing, boxing and other sports condoned as appropriate for a man of his stature. It was a life, he realized, his grandparents, who were by all accounts simple, hardworking people, might have found suspect in the extreme.

Still, Beau could not help but marvel at the overall state of the cottage. When he’d first been told about The Grove, he wondered if he’d inherited a well thought of, but not well taken care of, shack in the woods. But every part of it was built to last. The walls might need washing and perhaps a new coat of paint, but the roof was intact and the windows watertight.

The work inside was enough to keep both he and Miss Murray so busy neither of them had time to breathe, and provided Beau temporary relief from his worries with the law. Occasionally Daniel and Teddy would come by to check on their progress and offer a hand, which they both accepted. Despite Miss Murray’s wariness about the Chandlers, the task at hand was so monumental that she relented in her protest about their presence. Daniel seemed a good, honest man, and Beau found himself looking forward to chatting with both him and his son, Teddy. They wanted nothing from him. There were no angles they were trying to exploit. After years in boardrooms and clubs shaking hands with people who looked at him only as an opportunity to profit—an activity Beau himself participated in and excelled at—it was shocking how novel it was to be with people who expected nothing from him.

Beau was scrubbing down the walls in a room that once upon a time might have been the room his mother shared with Aunt Veronica. It had a beautiful view to the back of the property, where the Chandlers’ sheep were happily grazing amongst the lush pastures. It was odd to think of her and Aunt Veronica living here. Both women had a penchant for finer things and they certainly both rose to social heights that made a place like The Grove seem like an entirely different world.

“Good morning.”

Beau looked up from his labours to see Annie Chandler standing in the doorway, a basket in her hands.

“I thought you might need more eggs,” she continued, looking over at Miss Murray. Miss Murray was in the bedroom across the hall, scrubbing down walls, all the while watching their neighbour with barely veiled suspicion.

“She seems somewhat protective of you,” Annie said, her face bright with amusement.

“I suppose she is,” he said. Only because she was paid to be so. Which was fine. Beau certainly didn’t need mothering. He was a grown man. But the idea that someone might in fact be invested in him for reasons that had nothing to do with his wealth, or his name, or what connections he might be able to leverage was a tantalizing one. “Miss Murray is an excellent housekeeper. Very dedicated to ensuring the walls are clean.”

Annie looked between the two, then turned to Beau. “Are you here because of the murder?”

Beau swallowed, the heat prickling up the back of his neck, before turning his attention back to Annie. “You know about that?”

Annie laughed. “We go to town once a week this time of year. Your face is on the post office wall.”

“Is that why you’ve been watching him?”

Miss Murray’s voice pulled his attention away. The rag she’d been using was in her hands, which were red from the water. She stood just outside the door, looking absolutely thunderous.

“Don’t you worry, Miss Murray,” Anne said. “Your man is safe here.”

Miss Murray’s eyes widened at the statement, and then she let out a laugh.

“He’s not my man. I’m here to keep him out of trouble,” she replied, giving Annie Chandler an appraising glance. “Is he in trouble, staying here?”

Annie Chandler was not bothered by the edge in Miss Murray’s voice. Instead, Annie turned to her and smiled.

“Once upon a time, The Everwell Society helped out a friend of mine who was in a bad way,” Annie said. “I couldn’t imagine they would risk what they do to protect a rich white man who supposedly killed another one unless they had a good reason.”

Miss Murray just nodded, her gaze straying to Beau. It was a strange experience, having two women discuss his character as if he wasn’t even in the room. But he learned something else. The Everwell Society did have a reputation, beyond the one his aunt wanted to dismiss. It was not the Turnbull name, the da Silva wealth, or even the Redden connection that allowed Annie Chandler to help Beau.

It was because of Everwell.

“I didn’t kill my father,” Beau said.

A smile quirked at the side of Annie’s mouth. “No, I don’t think you did.”

Beau had little time to dwell on the curious expression, or the confidence in which she’d offered her opinion about his innocence. Daniel and Teddy bounded up the stairs, the entire Chandler family apparently determined to help get the place in order. With Annie’s help, Miss Murray had boiled water for laundry while Beau and Daniel, with Teddy’s help, created a makeshift line to hang clothes.

As the five ate supper together in the early evening, a potent mix of contentment and yearning settled on Beau as he looked out the window at a small line of shirts and linens catching on the breeze. That night, when he lay in bed with freshly laundered sheets under him, it occurred to Beau that he’d never given clean bed linen a second thought in the entirety of his life. They’d always just been there. Growing up in Saint John’s most exclusive neighbourhood had inoculated him against many of the petty hardships of his fellow men. Hardships that Miss Murray and the ladies at Everwell knew well and did their best to lessen for those who’d sought their aid. He drifted off, wondering if any of the students at George’s college would appreciate the effort it took to allow them to fall asleep under sheets that smelled like a summer afternoon.

Birdsong roused Beau from a restless sleep. Gentle morning light bloomed under the curtains, framing the windows. Once upon a time, he’d have been coming home at this hour after an evening of merry making with friends or a pretty widow looking for his company. Both activities had provided distraction from the hollowness of a life built on one business conquest after another. But he was closer to forty than thirty, and now those vapid pleasures only served to remind him of the absences in his life. Last night at supper, he’d witnessed the deep connection between Daniel and Annie, who seemed to have entire conversations with one other without exchanging a word. Or the way they took joy, and occasionally exasperation, in Teddy’s exuberance. It opened up something inside him that, alone in the dark with only his thoughts for company, he’d found himself wrestling with. It was an undeniable yearning for something he couldn’t name and definitely should not have wanted. Christ, he had a business empire at his fingers—one he’d helped build. He’d given the better part of his adult life to it in the vague hope to earn his father’s respect, if not love.

And now Frank was dead, and Beau didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

Movement from the other side of the door pushed aside the ball of uncomfortable thoughts. Miss Murray must be awake. The image of her rising from bed, her wild red hair falling in a tangle of unruly curls down her back and over her shoulders, managed to drive away any thoughts about his father, the business or the Chandlers. Throwing off the covers, he shook off the morning chill, then refreshed himself with a splash of lukewarm water he’d poured into the washbasin from a nearby jug. He pulled on a pair of trousers and a clean shirt, not bothering with a collar. As he fumbled around for a clean pair of socks and boots, he made a mental a list of today’s chores and tried not to linger on the fact there was a gorgeous redheaded banshee in the room across the hall.

He pulled open the door to find Miss Murray standing on the other side of it, only slightly disappointed that her hair was already pulled up, though it did provide the distinct advantage of displaying the lovely curve of her neck and the exact place he imagined putting his lips to taste that beautiful skin.

“You’re up early,” she said without ceremony, and Beau couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or surprised by his appearance.

“And you, I am sorry to say, are completely dressed,” he said, unable to help himself. “What time do you have to rise in the morning to get all that hair into place? Or are you some faerie queen, and you coax some supernatural force to do it for you?”

Her lips twisted into some nameless expression, and Beau wondered if he had utterly befuddled her, which was entirely more satisfying than appropriate. But considering she was somehow befuddling him, it was only fair.

“Of course, you wouldn’t have to coax them, would you? They’d just want to.”

She blinked then, and Beau realized he’d said that last thought out loud.

A flush of pink rose in her cheeks, and she turned away and marched down the stairs, breaking the spell she’d somehow put over him.

Beau stood at the top of the stairs, watching her disappear out of the corner of his eye, and feeling suddenly poorer for the fact she was gone from his sight. Ridiculous. He didn’t want her approval, did he? He’d spent a lifetime trying to earn the approval of his father and failed. Years of trying to prove to Frank he was smart enough, sharp enough, charming enough to be the man his father had wanted him to be.

Beau had somehow never been enough.

A crash from below interrupted his thoughts. He bounded down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Madeline Murray was crouched down and gathering up a heap of broken crockery.