Diamonds and Dreams (18 page)

He was so close, she could feel the warmth
of his body. Looking up at him, she saw that softness in his eyes
again. How it captivated her. Oh, if only it would last and not
disappear like good things usually did. “Saber,” she whispered.

“Your hair,” he told her, reaching out to
push his finger into the hollow of a ringlet. “You brushed it.”

She was completely enchanted. “Yes. I—Thank
you for letting me borrow the brush.”

“But it’s yours.”

“Mine?” She could find no words to express
her astonishment. She’d never owned anything so beautiful in her
life. “But—I can’t—”

“Does it work as well as a wooden one?”

She nodded. “It’s a lot purtier, though. But
I...it must have cost a lot of money, and I don’t really—It’s too
nice—Well, you—Saber, you spent your allowance on it, and I don’t
think it’s right for me to accept—”

“My allowance?”

“The money Addison gives you. He said he’d
been helpin’ you financially. You didn’t have to spend it on the
brush, Saber. What if you need it sometime?”

He smiled. The Duke of Ravenhurst on an
allowance?

The thought was highly humorous. “Would you
like me to return it and try to get my money back?”

Familiar disappointment swallowed her.
“I—Yes, I guess maybe you should.” She made a mental note to brush
her hair at every opportunity she got before he returned it. It
would be the last time she’d ever have the chance to hold and use
something so lovely.

Saber reached for her shoulders, drawing her
to him. He felt her tremble in his arms. Bending low, he smiled
into the nest of silky curls on top of her head. “I want you to
have it. It’s my gift to you, Goldie. Goldie...” He straightened,
looking down at her. He’d been going to call her by her whole name,
and realized he didn’t know what it was. “How very odd. We’ve been
together for two weeks, and I’ve never thought to ask you your full
name. How utterly strange. What is your name?”

“Mae,” she whispered, still dwelling on the
fact that he’d really and truly given her the brush. “Goldie
Mae.”

Saber’s arms dropped from around her; he
stared at her with wide eyes. “Mae.” The name made him think of
fresh gingerbread. Of a big, warm kitchen and the stout, merry
woman who ran it. The same woman who’d made those delicious eggs
when he’d failed to bring her the duck.

Delia. Delia Mae. He hadn’t seen her in
twenty years, but remembered her as if he’d seen her five minutes
ago. How he’d loved her gingerbread. And her stomach. It was like a
big, fat pillow, and he used to push his face into it, enjoying its
berth, its softness and the sweet smells of good food clinging to
her apron. And he liked climbing into her lap. He’d lay his head on
her ample bosom, and she’d tell him stories. Recollections of the
things she’d done in her life. Tales about her ancestors and bits
of what she knew about the few remaining relatives she still
had.

Her family in America.

Delia Mae. Goldie Mae. He sat back down, ran
his fingers through his hair, and smiled disbelievingly. The world
wasn’t such a big place after all, he decided.

Goldie saw he was grinning at her as if he
knew a secret. “Saber, you gonna share your secret, or make me
guess?” she asked, tapping her chin with her finger.

He realized the time had come to tell Goldie
who he was. This was the perfect opportunity. He’d explain
everything, then ask for news of Delia. “Goldie, there’s something
I have to tell you. Sit down here with me.”

His voice, like the light touch of a
feather, brushed across each of her emotions, bringing them to
life, making her shiver with sweet yearning. Her gaze never leaving
his, she took a chair next to him.

Saber reached for her hand and held it
between his own. He wondered how to begin and decided to be
forthright. “Goldie,” he said softly, “I...”

While waiting for him to finish, she
detected the aroma of the baking pie. “Great day Miss Agnes, the
pie!” She flew to the oven, grabbed a cloth, and snatched out the
dessert. “Well, look at that. It’s not even brown yet, and here I
thought the thing was gonna come out lookin’ like something Big and
the devil made together. I guess I lost my sense of time. I do that
sometimes, y’know.” Smiling, she slid the pie back into the
oven.

“Goldie, please let me tell—”

“One time Uncle Asa told me I was a good
cook,” she said proudly, sashaying back to the table. “I think it’s
one of those things people inherit. My Aunt Delia was a cook. She
worked up at that Ravenhurst mansion for years. I must have
inherited her talent in the kitchen. ‘Course, inherited talent can
always be improved, Saber. It’ll take me a long time to become as
good a cook as Aunt Delia probably was.”

She sat back down, put her elbow on the
table, and rested her head in her hand. “I was so excited about
meetin’ her, Saber. The whole way over here to England I thought
about her. But when we got to Hallensham...she wasn’t there. Her
cottage was empty.”

Saber’s heart crashed into his ribs. “What?
Where did she go?”

Goldie felt a tear slip down her cheek.
“Heaven.”

Saber scowled fiercely. “Heaven? What do you
mean—
heaven
?” he yelled. “She
died
?” He rose, looming
above her while waiting for her answer.

Goldie looked up at him. “Why are you
hollerin’ at me? I didn’t kill her.”

“She’s dead?” he demanded again.

“Isn’t that the only way she could have
gotten to heaven? Saber, why—”

“How did she die? When?”

Goldie felt very confused at Saber’s
shouting. “Saber, why are you yellin’ at me?”

Her question did nothing at all to dispel
his shock, but it did make him realize how bewildered Goldie was
over his unseemly behavior. Delia. Gone. Grief clawed at his
throat, strangling him. Turning, he walked slowly to the fireplace.
While he stared into the flames, his heart summoned every image of
Delia it sheltered. He saw her clearly. He remembered. His little
hand in her big one. Her moist kisses on his cheeks. Her soft arms
around him. Aching, he made fists, watching them whiten and
tremble.

Why hadn’t he been informed of her death?
Surely his estate manager knew of her passing. Why hadn’t Hutchins
sent word to him?

“Saber?”

Goldie’s sweet voice flowed through his
bitter thoughts. “I’m sorry,” he managed to tell her.

At his words of condolence, another tear
trickled down Goldie’s cheek. Saber hadn’t even known her aunt, and
yet he felt sorrow over her death. His compassion touched her
heart. She joined him at the hearth. “Thank you.”

His fingers uncurled, slowly seeking hers.
When they found them, he held her hand for a long moment before
bringing it to his mouth and kissing it. He felt a special affinity
with her. Goldie mourned because she’d never had the chance to love
Delia. He mourned because he had. “Tell me,” he begged. “Tell me
about Delia.”

She saw such sadness in his eyes. His
sympathy was likewise echoed in his voice. He was asking her to
share her sadness with him. The thought warmed her far more than
the blazes in the fireplace. “When I first got to Hallensham,” she
began quietly, “the only thing I could learn was that she’d died a
month earlier and that the preacher was the one who found her. No
one knew much more than that. Later, I discovered her diaries. They
were hidden up in the rafters of the ceilin’. She—”

“Diaries? The diaries you’ve been talking
about belonged to her?” God, he thought. He’d been unaware that
Delia could read and write.

Goldie nodded and found comfort in his
continued and genuine concern. “I found a bunch of little books up
in her ceilin’. Each one is full from cover to cover. They’re
small, and so is Aunt Delia’s handwritin’, so it takes a long time
to read ’em. And a lot of the pages are ruined by water, like I
already told you one time. You can’t read those pages at all. I’ve
skimmed through some of ’em, but I haven’t had time to get to ’em
all.

“Anyway, Aunt Delia wrote a lot about the
folks and goings-on in Hallensham and at Ravenhurst. Everything’s
dated, so it’s like readin’ her life story. There’s a whole lot
about Duke Marion. She wrote of happy things until his parents
died. Then her entries got sad. She wrote about havin’ to sell some
of her possessions. Her mama’s lace shawl. Her daddy’s watch. She
sold her cow. Traded her little gold brooch for blankets. She sold
some other stuff, too, but that part’s messed up, and I can’t read
it. She started writin’ about bein’ hungry and cold. Things got
worse as she got older. In her very last entry she wrote that she
hadn’t eaten in three days. She died the next day.”

“She had nothing to eat?” Saber was
astounded and appalled.

“That’s what she wrote. She was old, Saber.
And what with goin’ for three days without food— There are some
good people in Hallensham, and I’m sure if they’d known how much
she was suffering, they’d have helped. Could be her pride made her
sell some of her things in another town so no one in Hallensham
would know? She died of age and hunger. It’s the only thing I can
think of.”

Saber stepped away from her, staring at her
without seeing her. Delia...hungry? But
why
? He’d been
having a substantial amount of money given to her ever since he
left the estate as a boy!

His confusion and disbelief mounted.
“Goldie, what is your cottage in Hallensham like?”

She sighed. “Same as all the others. I love
the cottage and hope it can be my home forever and ever, but I’m
tellin’ you the truth, if Uncle Asa and I don’t get enough money to
fix it, it’s gonna fall down on us while we’re sleepin’. The roof
leaks, and there are so many holes in the walls, I’m sure Aunt
Delia was cold clear down to her bones in the winter. I’m—I’m sorta
used to livin’ in places like that, but Aunt Delia—I—As old as she
was, it’s...not easy for me to think of her livin’ like that. I
wish I could have helped her in some way. But I was in America, and
I didn’t know. I just didn’t know.”

Saber had been in England, and he hadn’t
known either. He felt sickened with regret and bewilderment.
Why
had Delia been poverty-stricken? There was absolutely no
reason for her destitution. With the money he’d provided her, she
should have been living comfortably! She should have—

A sudden and terrible thought stabbed
through his confusion. His eyes narrowed. The longer he dwelled on
his suspicion, the more sense it made. Fury exploded inside him,
and it was only with intense determination that he managed to keep
it from his voice. “Goldie, I—I’m very sorry. About your Aunt
Delia. About the supper. But you see...I can’t eat it. I’ve just
remembered something I need to discuss with Addison. It won’t wait.
I’ll send in Winston, Kenneth, David, and Big. Please enjoy supper’
without Addison and me. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He stormed from the room, leaving her no
time to question him. It took him only seconds to reach the front
door. He took the steps leading to the courtyard three at a time
and headed for the barn. He had to find Addison.

As he ran toward the stables, he thought of
the one possible reason for Delia’s hunger, her poverty. If that
reason turned out to be true, the man responsible was going to
pay.

Pay dearly.

* * *

Saber tossed down another whiskey, pitched
the glass into the fireplace, and charged to his office window.
Snatching the drapes aside, he stared intently at the darkness
outside. Out there somewhere was Dane Hutchins. Breathing the same
air Delia had. Walking on the same earth.

Was he now living on Delia’s money?

Hutchins was alive. Delia was dead. Saber
had never felt such anger. “Dane Hutchins,” he growled. “What other
answer is there? I swear to you, Addison, when I get my hands on
him, I’m—”

“But you have no proof.” Addison continued
to pace the floor. “It could very well be that Delia gave the money
away.”

“Tell me in all truth that you believe
that.”

“No, I don’t believe it at all. But the
authorities will see it as a possibility; therefore you must see it
that way, too. Without proof, you cannot—”

“I can do anything I damn well want to do!”
Gulping in a ragged breath, Saber laid his hot forehead on the cool
windowpane, closing his eyes. Images of Delia filled his tortured
mind.

If only he could see her one more time.
Grief, fury, guilt...they all fought for a place inside him. He
couldn’t control them; and as they battled, he thought of their
cause. It was love. Love was at fault for every agony he’d ever
known. If he hadn’t loved Delia, her death would not be eating away
at his heart right now.

“Don’t you
ever
again suggest I go
back to Ravenhurst,” he commanded. “I lost three loved ones there,
and tonight I have learned there is a fourth to add to the grisly
list. Those lands...they grow naught but tragedy, Addison, and
nothing will
ever
induce me to set foot upon them again. No
circumstance, no person.”

Wisely, Addison remained silent, patiently
waiting for Saber to speak again.

Saber took another deep, shuddering breath.
“Goldie says that for the past twenty years, Delia’s diary entries
are of nothing but sorrows. She didn’t even have
blankets
,
Addison!”

“Saber—”

“William Doyle,” Saber seethed. “My man of
business. He’s been making periodic trips to Ravenhurst for years.
When he returns to London, he gives me detailed accounts about
everything happening on the estate. Why didn’t he ever say anything
about Delia’s situation?”

“Perhaps he didn’t realize she was so
important to you.”

“But it’s not just Delia,” Saber countered.
“From what Goldie said, I gather all my tenants’ houses are in sad
condition. Doyle’s not blind. He’s
seen
that with his own
eyes, and yet he never said a word about it to me.”