“Maybe you should take a look for the swimming hole,” Daniel said as he climbed up into the wagon, joining the rest of the family. “It’s not far. If you follow that path and then go through the trees, you’ll find it soon enough.”
Beau nodded. “I’ll do that. Thank you for your help today. I owe you a supper, at least.”
“Ah, but Miss Murray would probably be cooking it,” Annie said with a mischievous grin, “and I think she deserves a bit of a rest, don’t you?”
Beau smiled at that. What did Miss Murray deserve? If he could, he would give her an entire library and a garden as large as she wanted. He could still recall the excitement when she was looking through the recipe book.
Something twigged in his memory.
“She does,” he said. “I think it’s her birthday soon.”
“Is it?” Annie said. “Well, I think that deserves a celebration, too.”
“I think it does.”
“Well, I will make a cake then. You can’t have a birthday without a cake,” she said. “We’ll keep it a surprise.”
“But only if she likes them,” Teddy pipped up. “Jeanine doesn’t like them.”
“You’re right,” Hollis said, then turned to Beau. “She’s my granddaughter. Lives up near the shore. Hates surprises.”
A curious feeling came over Beau. He had a niece too. It was a good thing he didn’t mind surprises—the good ones anyway. Did Miss Murray even like surprises? He remembered the way her eyes lit up when he’d bought her that book in Halifax. Maybe she could have one more good surprise.
As the Chandlers made ready to leave, Beau pressed the telegram for Dominic in Daniel’s hand, along with a couple of bank notes to compensate him for his time and effort. Daniel and Teddy would take the note back to the telegram office in the morning.
After they left, Beau stood, hands on his hips, staring up at the stone house. The windows glistened in the sun. Madeline Murray had begun to work her magic on the back garden, where plants like marjoram, thyme, and sage, long forgotten, had been freed from a choking mass of weeds and overgrowth. And the pergola was already more inviting. In a year, maybe two, it would be back to its old self, encouraging a visitor to take a magical little journey to the back garden under a canopy of lush grape vines.
A year, or two. Would he be here in a year or two? Even if Beau managed to have his innocence proven, he did have a company to go back to. A legacy to continue. Despite their differences, Frank had put that faith in him, and Beau wasn’t particularly interested in letting him down once more.
The joy he’d felt a moment ago was sucked out of him with such a force it left him hollow inside. Once upon a time he would have filled that hole with drink, or a game of cards, or some other distraction. Now, even if they were available to him, he was certain they would not have the power to fill that well of yearning. On impulse, he looked around for Madeline, ignoring the twinge of disappointment at her absence. Annie had told Beau she’d gone for a walk, possibly to the small meandering river that edged one side of the property. Perhaps he would find her there.
He skirted one of the pastures that the sheep had clearly not yet inhabited. The foliage grew tall, with a mix of green grass, tall yellow flowers that resembled dandelions, delicate white flowers that looked like lace, and clover. No doubt Miss Murray would know every species, and how they might be used. Ahead, the path diverged, one segment of it partially blocked by the massive roots of an upended tree.
A hare bounded out from the bottom of the felled tree, startling him from his thoughts. He uttered a small curse, then watched the animal, equally startled, disappear into some nearby undergrowth. At the base of the bright green leaves, something unusual caught his eye: a small edging of dark stones, three high, gently curving off and out of sight.
Intrigued, Beau moved to examine them. They continued, curving away into the undergrowth, under the boughs of an overgrown apple tree. He followed the brickwork, which, despite some missing stones, was remarkably intact. In some places it disappeared under the haphazard plantings different from anything else on the property. A modest orchard of apple, pear, and plum trees, overgrown but bearing fruit, stood on his right. The brick edging continued, bordered by daisies and wild roses, leading him on, until it came to a halt where a small bridge had been built over a brook bubbling underneath. The boards were largely intact, but it was clear that he was the first person to walk over this threshold in a very long time.
On the other side of the bridge was a little wooden gate with a strange pattern—like a keyhole —cut into the centre of it. A rush of excitement caught in his chest as he recalled Hollis’s mention of the keyhole garden.
Beau was nineteen the last time he’d been struck by such a thrill. He’d walked into a small fishing cabin in the woods in northern New Brunswick. Nearby, was the mighty Miramichi River. It was spawning season, and the salmon were rushing. He’d seen that old cabin and that river, and he’d known in his heart what he could do with it. For five years, he’d had a successful little business, built out of nothing but his own belief and a lot of sweat. But he’d done it.
His father had demanded he sell it, to concentrate on the family business, hinting that any deflection of his efforts was viewed as some kind of betrayal. He’d always mourned the loss of it and the sense of satisfaction it had given him. But swayed by a more urgent desire—to claim, for even a moment, the respect, and possibly even love, of his father—he’d left it behind. Left it for a tantalizing promise that had died with Frank da Silva.
He wasn’t sure how long he spent walking the small paths, some of them so overgrown with ivy or some leafy monstrosity that they were practically impassible, lost in his own thoughts. It would be an impossible task to bring them back to life. For him, anyway.
But not for Madeline Murray.
He retraced his steps, going back across the little brook, under the apple tree, and back down into the woods toward the brook. Eager anticipation drove his steps. He imagined her sitting on a rock, her feet dangling in the water, reading a book. If he was very lucky, he thought, maybe she’d left down her hair.
He was about to chide himself for his schoolboy fantasies that his very grown up body was finding pleasurable, thank you very much, when he realized that the object of said fantasies was nowhere to be seen. A pang of disappointment—one that was becoming far too common when he was devoid of her company—rushed through him. Had he missed her? It was possible that in his meandering discovery of the overgrown garden, she’d already packed up and gone back to the house.
Except he caught a glimpse clothing, draped carefully over a large tree branch, and a pair of ankle boots sitting on guard underneath them. Beau turned toward the water again, then wondered if he should, given that the evidence suggested Miss Murray was here, but in a spectacular state of undress. His body went hard at the mere suggestion, as if the promise of a week’s worth of fitful dreams and meanderings of his mind would be presented to him.
He paused, afraid to look further. After all, it was one thing if a woman undressed for you, but it was another thing entirely to be sneaking up on a person in a private moment. He’d heard stories about one of his father’s secretaries who was let go for having a penchant for helping himself to the personal moments of the female staff in the household after a small hole was found in the wall between his room and that of a couple of the female servants. His father, upon some reflection, may have been an asshole to many, Beau included, but he had some level of basic decency. A twinge of something—regret maybe—twisted. Frank da Silva had not been good person. But he hadn’t been an entirely bad one either.
Beau was about to turn away from the small river when something caught his eye. He turned, his gaze immediately drawn to the rush of water tumbling over the rocks, splashing loudly into the dark pool below. At the base of that pool was a lone, solitary figure.
It took a moment for him to realize it was Miss Murray. She was lying utterly still, eyes closed, her face one of utter peace and contentment. For a moment, he wondered if she was sleeping, which would have been ridiculous. She looked like something out of one of those Rosetti paintings he’d seen once when he was in New York. Like an Isolde, lying in a boat, her red curly hair in a halo around her, dying as she mourned her lost Tristan. Beau could never imagine love hurting so much that one’s heart would actually break. But there was something about Miss Murray that made his heart fill with something so utterly light and full that it squeezed the air out of his lungs.
