Miss. Murray.
Christ.
His sleeping quarters were humble—a room normally was saved for unannounced women who needed an urgent refuge from a violent partner. It was small but comfortable, and even though the evening was warm, a gentle breeze from the window refreshed the room. A small bouquet of flowers—none except lily of the valley that he could name—sat in a pretty little vase next to the washstand. Everything at Everwell seemed somehow at home, even if none of it quite made sense to Beau. Then again, he’d never really felt at home after his mother passed. Funny how that just occurred to him.
Beau pulled the coverlet up to his chin, trying to get comfortable. The eccentricity of the place spoke for itself. The relationship between Miss Everwell, a white woman whose manners and accent marked her as a member of the British Upper Class, and Mrs. Gilman, whose brown skin and hair tied neatly and wrapped in an elaborate scarf, would have been the source of no end of gossip. He had not been there ten minutes before he comprehended that the nature of their relationship was not, as one might be tempted to guess, based on the general treatment of black people as an underclass, a pairing of employer and servant. A very quick study of their body language and manner suggested to Beau something even more remarkable. They weren’t just equals. They were partners in life.
And then there was Miss Murray herself, who’d returned to the house after his arrival, her face ruddy, strands of hair glued to her skin with a slick of sweat at her hair line. She had a pair of canes in her hand because, according to Rimple Jones, she’d just returned from her training ring, where she had been practicing some type of martial art. Given their meeting in the garden, Beau couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he found himself on the wrong side of those canes.
And he always seemed to be on the wrong side. What had happened to that woman he’d met in the bookstore? The wide-eyed beauty who spoke with such passion about poetry and handled that volume with such reverence that might have made him yearn to trade places with a book?
There was no time to linger on that now. As Beau’s head hit the pillow that night—a pillow that was, like the rest of him, at Everwell Manor rather than his uncle’s mansion two miles east—he realized he’d spent far too long in the plodding world of business. Generally, “planning” took several days of meetings with a small army of managers, their secretaries, and if done right, at least three bottles of good Scotch.
He tossed and turned, conscious of every squeak of the bed frame underneath him. Rest was pointless when his thoughts ran in a thousand different directions. It didn’t help that he’d spent far too much of the day reading and re-reading the nearly cover-to-cover stories in the Halifax Chronicle, filled with the accounts of Beau’s so-called friends and colleagues who were only too happy to proclaim that Beau’s fractured relationship with his father must have induced him at last to murder. Aunt Vee promised to send a note to Jessica, in the hopes of getting a better picture of what was happening. He could only hope his sister had faith in him.
After what felt like hours, Beau tossed off his covers, lit a candle, then fumbled for his pocket watch. It was barely three in the morning. He’d been given a nightshirt and robe—slightly out of fashion but, Beau couldn’t help but notice, impeccably tailored. They’d belonged to the former owner of this room who, once upon a time, had been the butler to the matriarchs of this strange place.
He opened the door, conscious of every step. No doubt Miss Murray was a few feet away in her own bed, lounging like a lioness—confident, strong, and yet somehow capable of terrifying anyone she felt was a risk. He should be happy, he supposed, that he was to be the object of her protection. Beau half expected to wake her and found himself curiously disappointed when he’d made it to the bottom of the stairs without her notice.
Beau went to the library. Surely there was a volume on the shelves that would either induce sleep or indulge his imagination enough he would forget his troubles until morning. Either was preferable to staring into the darkness waiting for the morning and the flight to the mysterious refuge that, until yesterday, was merely a bit of land he’d hoped to dispose of as quickly as possible and pocket the reward.
Once he arrived at The Grove, the old Redden homestead, perhaps he could form a true value of the property so he could demand a better price. He’d always had a gift for assessing the true value of something—a business deal, a piece of machinery, or real estate. He might be there for a fortnight at the very least, and with nothing to distract him from his troubles, he would turn his mind to what he was good at: making money.
A faint shimmer of light danced on the floor under the half-closed door of the library. He paused, wondering if one of his hostesses were up. No doubt it was Miss Murray, waiting to glower at him from a corner of the room.
“Hello.”
Beau started, caught off guard by an unfamiliar voice that belonged to someone far younger than any of the women he’d met thus far. Obscured by shadow, Beau could make out the figure of a young child, no more than ten. She had dark brown hair and golden-brown skin.
“You’re up late, aren’t you?” Beau asked.
“Very late,” she agreed, not particularly bothered by the observation. “So are you.”
“That I am,” he said. “Do you need help?”
She shook her head. “Miss Murray said I could come here anytime I couldn’t sleep.”
“You’re not afraid of the dark?” he asked, genuinely curious. When he was that age, he’d been terrified of the dark. An overactive imagination, his father had said. If he was to be a man, he had to learn to conquer those fears. The dark he had managed. Failing his father was another matter.
“Not particularly,” she said. “My name is Lucy.”
“Hello Lucy. My name is Beau,” he said, unsure about whether he should leave the child in peace. “I couldn’t sleep either.” He held his candle up to the shelves. “Are there any books you recommend?”
“I’m reading this book of fairy tales right now,” she said.
“Do you like it?”
The girl shrugged. “Some I like. Most I don’t.”
“Why is that?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“Most of them are little white girls with yellow hair. They are all poor, and very meek, and very beautiful,” she said. “And many of the princes are very, very stupid.”
Something in Beau’s heart twisted as he considered this girl with her big brown eyes, curly brown hair, and warm dark skin.
“You could write your own fairy tale,” Beau said. “And make smarter princes. Or none at all, if it suits you.”
Her eyes narrowed, and it seemed to Beau that she was appraising him with a guile beyond her tender years. “I’ve tried, but the words in my head go faster than my hands.”
