“Pounds?” He coughs.
“Collectors would go mad for it because it would be one of a kind. Covington never—never—painted women.”
“So it might bring in evenmorethan twel-twel—”
“Auctioned at Sotheby’s, it might go for upward of thirty thousand, if it was well-advertised. It’s impossible to say, because such a painting does not exist. It would be that rare.” He folds the paper back over Merryn’s arresting face and shoves it across the counter. “So rare it’s virtually impossible. I’m sorry, lad, but I cannot purchase this on speculation. Someone has forged his signature, I’m afraid.”
At three and forty, it has been yearssince anyone called himlad.“It’s his. I know it.” His chest tightens. His legs ache to carry him out of here, but he thinks of Helen, her voice laced with cheer…and weariness. No one else would hear it, but he can. She’s struggling, and only he can alleviate it.
“Well, then,Mr. William. Have it authenticated, and we’ll have a conversation.”
He trembles, twisting dirty fingers in his shirt hem. “How much? For the au-au-au—”
“One hundred pounds, perhaps. Or more. You’ll have to go to Truro or even London.”
And what if it’s a fraud after all?
William exhales all his hopes and bundles the paper around the painting. Fishmongers do not possess one hundred pounds.
Tucking the piece beneath his arm, William ducks out, shoulders hunched against the thick sea breeze.
All the way back to the station, heart skittering, William tries not to see remnants of the war. But then he spots a gaunt man still in his tattered uniform, with the empty sleeve pinned to his back. The image stamps itself upon his mind and William’s muscles twitch and jerk. As the train roars into the station ahead, he turns and sets off at a run, into the wind coming off the sea.I cannot. Cannot bear to be trapped in that fool train.
His left leg screams with pain, but he accepts it. Pain is healthy. Mile after mile, his frantic energy eats up hills and sheep fields, rocky crevices and narrow streets, until he reaches the end of the world.
And there, perched on the edge of reality, is Dunn Cottage, tucked into the side of the cliff. It isn’t lonely, this ancient cottage. It’s only hidden away, reserved for those who’d dare to trek down the treacherously rocky cliffs to reach it. But once you approach, once you climb those ten stone steps and endure the sea spray and part the ivy hanging over the door, Dunn Cottage welcomes you as a quiet sanctuary, an accepting embrace of stone and timber.
He pauses just inside and allows peace to wrap around him, dulling the roar of waves. He smiles at the leaky slate roof and low-slung ceilings, the rough-hewn mantel framed in oak as thick as his torso, with childish carvings gentling the left side.The rough, ancient craftsmanship of the place is sufficiently crude that he feels at home here.
But a quick flash of the man’s expression concerning the inherited cottage jolts his calm. He didn’t know any Anwen Dunn, nor had he ever heard of the cottage before receiving the solicitor’s letter.
He shakes off the sense of wrongness and settles the portrait back on the mantel, meeting Merryn’s eyes. “Well, now. It seems we’re to be companions a while longer.” He doffs his cap. “I rather like having you here. Would have liked to have pound notes in my pocket, though.”
Maybe it’s a sign. He isn’t meant to return to his Helen after all. That ache in his middle hardens.
But he was socertain.“Covington did paint you, didn’t he?” The ethereal folds of the dress with bright white highlights were painted with a fan brush and oils, just like the foamy waves portrayed in Covington’s gallery collection. Her face, though—it shows every detail of her personality, hints at the secret story she was likely too reserved to share with anyone.
What’s odd is that he canhearher voice—low and rich like mahogany, direct like her gaze, but weighted with heartache and troubles. Have they met before? How clearly he can hear her as he studies her porcelain face, wishing she might speak with him now.
So many questions he has for this Merryn—such as,why did Covington paint you? Whatever became of you?
And why do you look so lost?
He shifts his weight, arguing with himself, then goes to fetch the box he’d promised himself he’d never open. He found it walled up with the painting, thick with dust and cobwebs, and dared not intrude upon the box’s private stories. Yet he cannot be haunted by that woman’s watching eyes without knowing who she is.
And why he, of all people, now owns her cottage.
The stone walls morph from solid refuge…to an oddly sinister trap closing around him.
His hands aren’t trembling anymore as he grabs the rusted pry bar and jams it between the box and lid. He’s forgotten how strong he used to be. With a quick snap, the lid pops open and half-folded papers spill out onto the floor, along with a bound journal. He gathers up everything like pound notes in a treasure chest and sifts through brittle papers that feel too sacred for his worn hands. He washes up in the basin, pats his hands dry, and then sits cross-legged before the box and begins to read.
Sabine’s men have found me, although I’ve managed to give them the slip—for now, at least. She is ruthless, but she has underestimated me and my love for that boy.
He skims through the other entries, eager for any trace of Covington’s name, for his own name, but there are none. The entries are numbered, so he locates the latest one—thirty-seven. This will be the ending of her story. Dried flower petals are plastered to the top of the page.
Honeysuckle.
They lined a window box of a flat in the city, where I was both happy and restless.
