After retiring early, Maddy spent most of the night re-reading her favourite passages in Sense and Sensibility and trying to put Beau da Silva out of her head. Then, deciding reading Jane Austen might not have been the best antidote for her current state of mind, she set down her book and rearranged her clothes hanging in the small wardrobe. While she was refolding her stockings, she found a small bit of paper shoved at the back of the lower drawer. It was a fragment of a note—a poem actually, and one she recognized: The Passionate Shepherd to His Love, by Christopher Marlowe. The initials H.C. were scrawled at the bottom. Setting the paper aside, she returned to her task, until boredom finally induced her to rest.
The following morning, Maddy woke to a bright blue sky, birdsong, and a rolling green landscape that had grown even more lush, if such a thing was even possible. She rose early and went to the kitchen, hoping to avoid Mr. da Silva without appearing as if she was trying to, and soon discovered that she had failed.
“Good morning,” he said, walking into the kitchen, reaching for the pot of coffee she had just brewed. “How’s your headache?”
There was no innuendo, no awkwardness on his part. Was he taking pity on her, or genuinely unaware of the embarrassment she had found herself in yesterday? Both were awful, but if she had to choose, she’d rather the latter.
“Better,” she replied, determined to go about her day as if she hadn’t spent the entirety of last evening in her room nursing the mortification in her chest.
“Did you take a sleeping powder?” he asked. “I knocked on your door, but you didn’t answer.”
“I did,” she lied. She’d heard him knock on her door late last night. “I fell asleep not long after I crawled in bed. I must have really needed the sleep.” What she’d really needed was for Rimple Jones to build some sort of contraption that would enable her to go back in time and keep herself from trying to kiss Beau da Silva. The fact he’d gone and checked on her may have made it worse. Or was it better? She couldn’t be certain and why was she suddenly concerned about it?
He poured a generous dollop of cream into his coffee cup. He took a tentative sip, then went to the window looked out over back garden.
“That pergola along the side of the house needs to be repaired,” he said. “There must be a mill around somewhere, don’t you think?”
Maddy blinked. “You don’t mean to do it yourself?”
“Believe it or not, I actually like doing things for myself,” he said, a hint of discontent in his otherwise cheerful demeanour. “This is my property. Maybe I want to invest in it.”
“I thought you wanted to sell it,” she said. Sell it to Nelson Taylor, she added silently.
“I’m entitled to change my mind.” he said, as if the opportunity to make a small fortune, or spend one, was nothing to him. “Besides, if I can show its potential, I could make far more out of it.”
Something deep inside Maddy bristled at his offhand comment. Of course that was it. The money. People with money were always about that. Just like her parents. Every new dress, new pair of shoes, every new diet tonic, every new contraption to pull in her belly, all for the express goal of fixing Maddy to ensure that Patrick Murray got the best family connections for his investment in his daughter.
“You can’t go to the mill,” she replied. “The entire point of this is that you stay hidden.”
“I’ll ask Daniel Chandler to take me—I’ll pay him for his trouble.” He rubbed his hand across his jaw, emphasizing the stubble he hadn’t yet shaved. “Besides, people are not going to be expecting to see me here, and not without a starched collar.”
Even more casually attired, without the pomade that had kept his golden-brown hair styled in the way of fashionable gentlemen, he somehow looked as dashing as ever.
“Ask Daniel to get the wood for you.” she said. “You are not going to get carted off in a sack back to Saint John.”
Unwilling to listen to him argue the point, she took her coffee cup and walked to the back door and opened it, where it seemed like the kitchen garden, tangled and overgrown as it was, was waiting for her. Expectant. Dill and thyme were still evident, along with great swaths of mint. She breathed in sweet smells of grass, sweet peas and clover, which soothed her in a way few other things did. Being here was not entirely bad.
Before she knew what she was doing, she was bent over, pulling at this plant and that. Just exploring, she told herself.
Was it just exploring when she’d gone to the little garden shed and pulled out the hoe so she could cut through some of the weeds? Of course it was, she decided. After all, it was in her best interest—and certainly Mr. da Silva’s—to know where there was potential for danger, and if she discovered a host of little clay pots and gardening implements, it was a happy coincidence indeed. On her return, she saw Mr. da Silva, standing in the garden, surveying her progress. He wore a straw hat he must have found in the cottage somewhere. It suited him.
“I thought you were going to bother the Chandlers,” she called out, “and leave me in peace.”
“He’s already done that,” came the reply, but not with Beau da Silva’s voice.
Maddy gave a start. Perhaps she needed new glasses after all, because it was Daniel Chandler, not Beau da Silva, giving her a broad smile. A familiar one. It was the second time she’d been struck by this odd sense of familiarity about a man she’d just met.
“Apologies,” she said, approaching him. “For both my manners and for Mr. da Silva.”
As the distance closed, it was not difficult to note the similarities. Daniel Chandler was perhaps an inch or two shorter, his build a bit broader, and hair far more wheat coloured, but there was something in his eyes and his smile that was remarkable in his similarity. Even the way he rested his hands on his hips.
“Not at all,” he said. “I’m sure Annie is happy for the solitude, and I need some new fence posts.”
“Is the mill far?” she asked.
“Just outside of town. We’ll be a few hours. Plenty of time for you to make some progress,” he said. “My father and I were keeping this up, but we’ve been busy this year helping our daughter set up house near the shore.”
“Did Mrs. Turnbull ask you?” Maddy asked. “It seems like a lot of work, especially if it isn’t getting used.”
