He stilled, and she felt strangely compelled to offer an explanation.
“Beau, The Grove would make someone a wonderful home,” she said. “And it should go to someone special.”
“Don’t you think you’re someone special?” he said. Frustration edged the normally smooth edges of his voice. He sighed and smiled again. “Perhaps you need some time to consider it. It is a big decision.”
“I don’t need more time,” she replied. “Maybe you need to rethink this. After all, you have a family next door now.”
“They have a home they are already in love with,” he said. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Madeline, a few moments ago when you were talking about your dreams you were so happy. Why wouldn’t you want that?”
How on earth could she give him the answer to a question she didn’t know the answer to herself? Her hands clenched at her sides.
“Why do you care so much if I am happy?” she asked. “I’m nothing to you.”
Was it Maddy’s imagination, or did he flinch at her question?
“I can’t tell if you just insulted me, or yourself,” he said, his stare suddenly hard as ice. “But neither of us deserve that censure.”
“I was happy at Everwell, Beau.” she said. “It was enough. And if you hadn’t come and?—”
“—taken you away from your books and flowers? Yes. You said as much. And when they catch the bastard who murdered my stepfather, I will ensure that your inconveniences are added to the charges,” he said, naked sarcasm in his voice. “In the meantime, I apologize for any presumptions I had about trying to make you happy.”
He turned, about to enter the house, leaving Maddy alone in the moonlight.
“I never asked it of you,” she said, calling after him. “I never asked anything of you. And I certainly never needed you to make me happy.”
Her words flew through the air, as if she’d thrown a blade that grazed his cheek before it hit the wall behind him. He turned back to her, his jaw tight, and when he spoke next, his voice was brittle, as if he was holding back his own fragile emotions.
“No, you did not. But here is the most remarkable thing of all. I shouldn’t care for you, Madeline Murray. I shouldn’t care one wit if you are happy or miserable, as you seem so damned intent on being. But I do. I care for you very, very much.”
Maddy blinked. Not because of his admission, but because the very idea that he might not want her was somehow more than she could bear. She wanted to push past him and get herself out from under his steel gaze. And she could have done it, if she chose, move him out of the way without so much of a thought. Push past him and every terrifying thing those words stood for. Instead of reaching out with her hands, she used her words.
“What would you have me do?” she whispered, her throat so tight she feared the tears stuck in her throat might erupt in a sob. “Leave all my friends, every bit of safety I have ever known, for some fantasy? You go through the world with your beautiful face, charming smiles, and perfectly cut suits and the world is happy to open whatever door you chose to walk through. It doesn’t work that way for me. You cannot be so unfeeling as to disregard why this is so much of a risk. Not everyone gets a happily ever after.”
He stood, unmoving and if Maddy didn’t know better, she would have thought for a moment he was waiting for her to continue.
“Unfeeling,” he said at last, but it was more of a murmur, as if he was talking to himself than to her. He nodded in agreement with a conversation he was having with himself. “I am unfeeling.”
“Beau, that is not?—”
“I am not a young upstart that needs to prove himself by marrying a rich man’s daughter to make his fortune. I am not so small I need to make someone else small to feel strong.” There was something in his voice—a hardness perhaps—she’d heard before, but only once before—directed at Nelson after he’d insulted her. “And I will not turn myself into a rude, obstinate version of myself just because that is what you seem to take comfort in. I grew up with that man, Madeline, but I will not become him. Not even for you.”
He turned away and disappeared into the darkness of the house, leaving her alone on the step, the moon at her back. The sound of peepers and crickets were overcome by the pounding of her heart in her chest. And it was breaking.
Chapter Twenty-Three
If Beau had been in Saint John, he would have been tempted to drink himself into oblivion. Between the intoxication and the blinding headache for days afterward, he would have had some kind of reprieve from the hollow pain in his chest. As it was, he spent a restless night, drifting in and out of sleep, wondering how on earth he could have allowed himself, once again, to find himself in need of approval from a person who would never give it to him.
Of course, unlike Frank, Madeline Murray had never demanded anything of him.
At least he hadn’t gone and told her he loved her. It was one thing to be a fool, and it was another to be a fool in love. She’d known that heartache once, and never recovered. She’d once been sweet-talked in a way that he now understood had damaged her in a way that still bled into that heart of hers—a heart she kept armoured, lest it be damaged again.
Beau would never wish a man dead, but he could not find it in his heart to be sad about Malcolm Ferguson. He’d treated Madeline so poorly that he’d robbed every man after him of even a chance at her trust and affection. Not that he thought Madeline had anything to do with his death, of course. He had not seen a single indication of the sort of temper that would inspire a person to inflict such grievous injury on another.
He lingered in bed, coward that he was, as he heard her rise. He couldn’t face her yet, and he sensed from the cautious way her bedroom door opened this morning that she’d had a similar trepidation. Best not to spoil her morning by inflicting himself on her first thing. He waited until he heard the door below swing open, then rose.
He dressed, then went downstairs and brought the fire back to life to heat water for coffee and a shave. Even yesterday, he’d been considering installing a modern stove. It was 1876 after all, not 1776. Now he had no idea what to do with The Grove. Maybe he would sell it after all. Not to George’s College, of course, but there had to be someone who might want the property. He would still come to visit the Chandlers—they were family. But even as he stood in the dining room, gazing out the window, he didn’t know if he could bear being here without Madeline. Just out the window was the kitchen garden, which was remarkably tidy given what it was when they arrived. Even he could make out some of the plants now—chives, sitting in thick clumps topped with purple flowers, next to taller plants with blowsy leaves and star shaped tops he recognized as dill.
Christ. Maybe getting back into the boardrooms of Silver Lumber would be for the best. He’d always used the business as a distraction. After last night, he would need it more than ever.
