The idyllic aura of Everwell faded into the distance, swallowed up the lush canopy of maple, oak and elm trees, as the carriage made its way to the train station, located near the harbour. Halifax reminded Beau very much of Saint John in essentials, clinging to its British connections, a busy port city that came with all the trappings, both good and ill: shining waters, working wharves, and a veritable forest of masts edging the shore from small schooners that would transport goods and people along the shore to areas that were still in winter largely impassible by road or rail. Alongside those vessels were the newcomers, their signature smokestacks belching out black effluent from the coal-fired furnaces deep within their iron hulls. The difference came in the scale and the source. Halifax, hanging between London and New York, with its deep harbour, ice free even on the bitterest winter day, made it the natural stopping place. It started its life as a military town and remained one, the British still occupying it even after Nova Scotia became part of the fledgling nation of Canada.
But Saint John had a mighty river and behind it, the dense New Brunswick forests that supplied lumber to not one, but two powers—the British empire and the emergent American markets. Frank da Silva had built his fortune cutting into the great swaths of those forests, sending lumber to London, New York, and beyond. And even though those iron-hulled steamships now took that lumber across the Atlantic much faster than the wooden ships, his father had still viewed them as a threat.
Then again, Frank had viewed nearly everyone and everything as a threat. The only people he seemed to have a modicum of time for was his sister, Jessica and her husband, Neil. Neil was in some ways the son Beau could not be—compliant, eager to please, and an excellent head for numbers. Had he instigated the manhunt for Beau? Neil had a healthy respect for Frank, and maybe even loved the man. If Neil believed there was a rivalry between them, he was mistaken. In the race to win Frank’s respect and maybe even affection, his brother-in-law had been the clear victor. Beau had spent a lifetime trying to secure his father’s approval. It was the only pursuit he’d failed at.
Getting from the train station to their compartment was blessedly unproblematic—at least until the compartment door was shut and they’d taken their seats. His body was acutely aware of hers. He seemed to feel her every movement, even though there was more room between them here than in the relative snug quarters of the carriage.
Almost immediately, she pulled a pair of reading spectacles out of her reticule and fastened them behind her ears. Her head tilted down, and her attention was apparently fixated on the same volume she’d used to ignore him all the way to the train station. The effect, which should have made her appear even more matronly and impervious, managed to intrigue him—an effect which no doubt would have mortified his surly chaperone. Miss Murray, on the other hand, seemed completely unaware of this unexplained witchcraft with which she was effortlessly affecting him. Everything about her was a challenge, and that stirred his blood.
“What are you reading?” he asked, desperate to try to engage her in something approaching pleasant conversation.
“A book,” she said, not bothering to look up.
“I would never have guessed,” he said, not bothering to hide his acrimony. He turned his head toward the window, watching the harbour disappear as they headed north. “Can I ask what exactly I have done to deserve your ire?”
She glanced up at him over the brim of her glasses.
“You have taken me away from my garden. I have a new species of hollyhock that was about to bloom, and now I’m going to miss it,” she said, glaring up at him. “And Rimple Jones makes the best chocolate cake you will ever eat in your life, which she normally bakes on the first of August, and knowing my luck, I will be with you instead.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” he said, trying to stifle a grumble. “I would much rather you were doing those things instead of being here with me.”
Her lashes fluttered; Beau saw a flush of pink creep up from under the collar of her stiff, green linen jacket. She stilled, and it occurred to Beau his words might have been misconstrued.
“It will take as long as it takes,” she replied, before turning her attention back to her book. “And there is nothing either of us can do about it.”
They sat in silence which could have been minutes, but felt like hours. More than enough time for every bit of self doubt, and every angry word exchanged with his father to replay in his head.
He rose, driven to his feet by a torrent of unwanted memory. He needed coffee. Or a whisky. Or anything to escape the oppressive silence.
“Where do you think you are going?”
He paused, oddly excited by her question. It was still unpleasant, but there was an urgency to it. Like she actually cared about what he was about to do next.
“To stretch my legs.”
“Are you certain there isn’t someone waiting out there to break them for you? Haul you back to New Brunswick and collect their finder’s fee?”
He paused. He wasn’t entirely certain of anything anymore. Except that he’d spent a lifetime being berated and managed by his father, and he was damned certain he wasn’t going to be managed by Miss Murray, no matter how beautiful she was. It was his neck on the line, not hers.
“Maybe it’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
With military-like efficiency, she closed her book and grabbed her valise from the rack above her. He expected her to reach in and grab a set of knitting needles or some other type of needle work that women of a certain age occupied themselves with. Instead, she snapped the clasp shut, grabbed the bag and… left.
Beau stood at the door to their tiny compartment and watched Miss Murray walk away. Part of him was impressed. Knowing when to walk away was an excellent negotiation tactic he’d employed successfully on more than one occasion.
It didn’t explain the strange, unsettled pressure in his gut, though. A sensation that was growing as the time stretched and she had not reappeared. He stood there for a nearly half a minute before it finally dawned on him she wasn’t coming back.
He called after her, but she either didn’t hear him over the din of passengers and steam, or chose not to.
Beau groaned. Should he let her have her fucking tantrum or whatever this was? Didn’t she realize he was the client?
A client she was walking away from. But more importantly, she was walking away from him.
He strode after her, smiling apologetically at the stream of people eager to take their seats before the train left. Ahead, he caught the flash of green from her skirt as she disembarked.
Panic grew. Was she abandoning him? Because it absolutely fucking felt like it.
Urgency fuelled his steps as he jostled through the crowd, “excuse me” falling out of his lips in an endless string of apologies. At last, he reached the platform where Miss Murray was speaking to one of the porters.
