Raquel Byrnes (14 page)

“That is why we need to speak,” Josif said. “Not really, but…”

“Then, later,” Simon said and yawned. “Take me to the house.”

“We must talk soon, Fratele,” Josif said, but complied. They puttered up the main road and the roof of Shadow Bay Hall came into view above the trees. “Simon—”

“Josif, please,” Simon interjected. “You and I will speak at the cottage later. I have news.”

Josif nodded once, the frustration on his face evident.

Simon knew he should make time now, but the fatigue of the last few days weighed heavily, and he got off the cart when they stopped.

“Tonight, then, Simon?” Josif asked.

“Tonight,” Simon said wearily and waved him off.

Trudging up the walkway to the house, he heard Lala’s voice near the garden. He found them sitting in the gazebo. Rosetta was a vision in a pale yellow dress. It set off her golden hair. Lala sat perched on Rosetta’s lap, both of them wearing large flowered hats and drinking tea with their pinkies up.

“Daddy,” Lala squealed and leapt into his arms, and he lifted her, chuckling as she tried to set the hat on his head.

“I don’t think it fits me, love,” he said, his gaze sliding to Rosetta.

Her cheeks flushed pink as she stood to greet him, and it quickened his pulse.

“You’re back,” she said with a nervous smile.

“Did you miss me?” He knew he was teasing her, but the rise of heat to her face was too much to resist. Perhaps she had.

“I—I,” she stammered. Recovering she pulled a chain from beneath her dress and held up the magnifying lens. “I wanted to thank you for this. It’s beautiful.”

Lala squirmed in his arms, and he let her down. She dashed off; digging in his sack for the prize he always brought.

“Is it what I thought? Do you use it for your studies?” Simon asked Rosetta.

“Yes,” She pulled it over her head and offered it to him. “The glass is remarkably preserved.”

He took it, the warmth of her still on it as he held it in his hand. Aware of her gaze, he looked through it. Her scent, sweet flowers, floated up, and he breathed it in.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I do, but it’s too much, Simon. I can’t…” Her face changed, fell with uncertainty.

Simon took her hand, placed the lens in her palm, and wrapped her fingers around the gift. He brushed his lips across her knuckles, her skin soft and warm. Something tumbled in his chest as she held his gaze.

“You keep it,” he rasped, unable to hide her effect on him. “I won’t take it back.”

Slipping her hand from his, Rosetta bit her lip but nodded. “Then, thank you, Simon.”

He studied her face, and a desperate hope rose. At once fragile and incredibly strong, the tangle of contradictions in her glance snared him, and he found it hard not to tell her everything and hope that she would stay. He knew what she’d endured for truth. What she was willing to risk. Maybe…

“Rosetta,” he began. The headache slammed into him without warning. A thunderclap of pain hit him, blurring his vision. Holding a hand to his head, he squinted. The sunlight overwhelmed. “I—I have to go,” he muttered.

He turned and strode for the house before she could answer. Pushing through the door, he closed himself in the library. Frustration boiled. More and more frequently, headaches kept him up at night and threw him to the floor with bouts of nausea. He yanked the heavy curtains across the windows, shrouding the room in darkness.

Staggering to the chair, he steadied himself with a hand on the fireplace mantel, panting against the pain.

Outside, he heard Lala’s delighted laugh. She’d found the snow globe he’d brought her.

Sinking into the chair, he held his head in his hands. “Not now, please, not now.”

Rosetta’s voice floated from outside, and he squeezed his eyes shut, pushing the pain back. He gripped the chair, afraid that when he looked, he would be in a strange place hours from now.

An out of place sound pricked at his ears.

Simon opened his eyes.

16

Davenport’s dinner balanced on a tray in one hand, I pushed through his bedroom door and frowned at the dark room. I set down the tray and strode to the windows, yanking back the curtains.

“Stop doing that,” Davenport complained, his hand shielding his eyes. “I want them closed.”

“It’s stuffy in here,” I said and unlatched the window. “You need some fresh air.”

“I need some more sleep,” he grumbled and slapped at the comforter tangled around his middle.

“How about we get Dr. Fliven out here.”

“He would have to take the ferry, and the dock is still closed for repairs. Only small craft are able to enter at the moment.”

“Well, he could fly in, couldn’t he?”

“Unlikely. Dr. Fliven is afraid of planes. He’ll only chance a fiery death if there’s an emergency. Which there isn’t,” Davenport said. “And that is beside the point. I don’t want that quack poking and prodding me again. I just need some peace and quiet.”

“How about some dinner?”

He eyed the tray and then glanced at me.

“Will it encourage you to be on your way?”

“It might.” I smiled and dangled the linen napkin in front of me. “Mrs. Tuttle was extremely irritated that I asked for steak instead of your usual chicken breast. She rolled her eyes at
the very idea
.”

Davenport harrumphed and held out his hands. I set him up with his dinner and sat on the chair next to his bed. He looked haggard and weak, and it worried me. Flipping to the bookmark, I read a little of the book we’d started before.

“Mr. Hale, did you hear any noises the other night? Like someone walking around, maybe groaning?”

“Groaning? No.” He raised a brow. “Tuttle tells me
you’re
fond of roaming the halls, though.”

“Well, that is just it. I was trying to locate the sounds.” I remembered Simon’s explanation. “Do you think it was O’Shay?”

“Goodness, no,” Davenport chuckled. “He sleeps in his cabin near the pond. Hasn’t stayed here in years. Refuses to, in fact.”

“Oh.” Why would Simon say that, then? Was he mistaken or was Davenport?

“This house has a lot of places for trouble to slip in, Ms. Ryan,” Davenport said.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, suddenly wary. “What do you mean?”

“My own windows wake me with the wind howling through or the shutters coming loose and banging.” He nodded to the window. “Generations old, this old house could use some care.”

“That’s probably what it was, then,” I said and tried to believe my own words.

“Take care not to wander into trouble, Ms. Ryan.” He caught my gaze with his, and I wondered if he meant more than an accidental trip down the stairs.

“I will be careful.”

“Ms. Ryan, I need you to get a book for me in the village. It’s coming in the mail, and I believe the mail plane is due soon.”

The thought of going back to the village set my stomach tumbling. Memories of Nalla’s words made me frown.

“Can’t we ask O’Shay—”

“No, I don’t want to bother him,” Davenport interrupted, his face angry. “He’s got enough to do with the storm damage.”

“Yes, OK,” I said and forced a smile. “I’ll do it. I have to go into the village for some things, anyway. Would you like to come? The walk might—”

“No, no, the weather makes my old bones ache.” He pushed his dinner plate away and threw back his covers. “I’m going to the library for a bit of tea.”

“That’s great, Mr. Hale.” I reached to help him, but he brushed my hand away.

“No, Ms. Ryan,” Davenport said and grabbed his cane. He wobbled in his robe and slippers. “I mean to go under my own steam and sit in my own chair.”

The set of his jaw told me there was to be no further discussion.

In the library, we sat in the wingback chairs facing a fire I’d built. Happy with my own ability to start a good blaze, I watched the dancing flames flicker shadows on the walls and books.

Davenport sipped his tea, and I joined him despite my distaste for it. The same one that Simon drank, it swirled in my cup, letting the loose leaves form Rorschach shapes on the surface. Davenport remained silent, lost in thought.

As he started to nod off, I made sure he was asleep before taking his cup and sitting back down. I decided to let him sleep. There was something calming about the crackle of the wood in the fire and the wind outside.

Pulling the chain around my neck, I dangled the botany lens in front of my eyes looking at the prism of colors the firelight made on the rug. Seeing Simon today, the sight of him walking up the path out of the blue, threw me, and I was sure he’d seen it on my face. The image of him with the sun behind him and the feel of his gaze holding me as he neared unnerved me; I couldn’t catch my breath. I’d made such a mess of things.

Remembering my impulse to touch his face the other night, I’d drawn him close only to let fear push him away. What was wrong with me? How could he have such a hold over me already? Was what I felt real, or was my response to Simon a knee-jerk reaction to my jilting? Or being abandoned by all whom I loved?

I paced in front of the fireplace twirling the lens on its chain as I tried to push the memories of that terrible day out of my head. To be led out of the rear of the church in shame was one thing, but to have my heartbreak spoken of and written about hurt even more.

My father’s incarceration and my hand in it still a raging scandal, I shouldn’t have trusted what I saw in Michael’s face when he said he’d stand by me. His words were hollow, and I’d known it. I knew in my heart he wouldn’t show up, and I went ahead with it, anyway. Desperate to keep something, anything, of the life that had crashed down around my feet; I ignored what I knew in my soul the Lord was telling me. I did not have peace over my marriage to Michael.

Even though my spirit was unsettled, out of pride I didn’t want to follow the Lord’s leading, and I paid for it dearly.

Would I make the same mistake twice? My heart barely healing, I didn’t think it could take being ripped open again.

But it seemed like I couldn’t prevent it. My reaction to Simon had been so incredibly magnetic, he sent my pulse racing with just a look. But seeing him with Lavender, seeing the father that he was—loving, protective—I knew I was drawn to him for deeper reasons.

Especially when Josif told me Simon meant to fund the island’s repairs despite what the villagers thought and said about him. And when he’d kissed my hand, I felt my resolve to leave Shadow Bay Hall weaken.

Yet I hadn’t been mistaken in worrying. Despite his flirting words, he was bothered, his gorgeous face lined with fatigue. Something was wrong. He seemed ready to tell me…at least I thought he was before he left so suddenly.

The chain slipped from my fingers and sent the lens rolling across the rug. It slipped under the skirt of a corner table. When I reached in to retrieve it, I spied a photo album. My gaze went to Davenport. He hadn’t stirred.

Gold embossed dates on the spine of the album were for the last seven years. I ran my hand along the worn leather binding, remembering there were no pictures of Lavender’s mother anywhere in the house. Surely a peek would only help me understand Simon and his family better, right?

My skirt pooled around me, and I pulled the album into my lap. The cracked cover smelled like the horse tackle I’d used back home. Oiled with use. I turned the page and regretted it immediately.

Simon stood smiling, his arm around the waist of a gorgeous woman. Raven-haired with deep dark eyes, I thought for a moment it was Nalla from the apothecary. But it was Amanna. The handwriting under the photos said it was. The other day, at Echo Cliffs, Josif said Lavender was a gypsy, and I understood why now. Her riotous dark waves and high cheekbones matched her mother’s. Yet I saw Simon in her, too—the light eyes and full lips.

I paled in comparison to Simon’s first love. In coloring and, I imagined, vivaciousness. Every photo in the album had Amanna laughing, hugging, the center of his world. And then the last page tore my heart. Simon and Amanna on a picnic blanket, the camera angled from above as if held aloft. Their foreheads together and eyes closed in an intimate pose of shared love. Simon’s hand rested on her swollen belly, his wedding ring glinting in the sunlight.

I snapped the album shut, embarrassed at being jealous of a woman who’d tragically died, and unable to quell the longing for what she’d had. A love. A life. A child. Simon.

Davenport stirred, and I shoved the album back, hitting something. I heard the crackle of broken glass, and I lifted the table skirt. A large silver picture frame reflected the firelight.

I pulled it out, puzzled that someone would simply shove it underneath the table like that. The glass was badly cracked as if hit with something, the breaks spidering like a web. It was a photo of Lavender sitting on Amanna’s lap. Baffled, I went to replace it and saw a small wooden box underneath the table. I pulled it out and opened it. Filled with photographs, I picked up a handful and froze.

Every picture was of Amanna and every single one had the mouth scratched out. Worry pulled in my chest as I flipped through them. Image after image of Amanna was marred with a pen or simply ripped. But the last one stopped me cold. It was torn in half, and I held the pieces together with trembling hands. Simon sat with Lavender on his lap, a party hat on her head. The other piece showed Amanna sitting with a boy about Lavender’s age. His dark hair and pale eyes were a mirror image of Lavender’s. The caption sent chills crawling up my spine.

Lavender and Lucien on their fourth birthday.

Lavender’s friend, Lucien, wasn’t imaginary. He was her twin. I sat there stunned. And then I realized there weren’t any pictures of him anywhere in the house either, at least, not that I’d seen. The reason why dawned on me and sent me shaking.

He was dead, too.

“What is this?” I whispered, horrified. “Lord, what terrible thing has happened here?”

17

Thunder roared through the room, startling me awake. The empty teacup in my hands shattered on the floor. I sat ramrod still, disoriented until the smell of books and the glowing embers of the fireplace reminded me I was in the library. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked the minutes past three in the morning.