Beau couldn’t help but wonder if his gravestone would have the words “A means to an end” engraved under his name.
Beau nodded, then flashed a smile, the same smile he used to cover over a thousand hurts. And Christ, he didn’t even know why it pained him so. Of course she was here to help the people she knew, trusted, and quite probably loved. He didn’t know why, but for just a moment, he didn’t want Madeline Murray to be here for her duty to Everwell. He wanted a scrap of that devotion. It was ridiculous, given they were barely acquaintances, and certainly not friends. He didn’t deserve it.
But how he longed to have it.
Chapter Eleven
Both Miss Murray’s plans to dig in the garden and his own to survey the property were scuppered by a thick band of ominous grey clouds that settled overhead almost immediately after breakfast. The light but steady rain continued for the rest of the day, and the entire day following.
Beau had been eager see the land for himself, which according to Aunt Veronica, was a good fifty acres of rolling hills, bordered by forest and a small tidal river. It must have had some potential, otherwise an exclusive college would not be offering him a small fortune for it. Frank da Silva might be dead, but Beau was still his son, and he’d become rich doing what the da Silvas did better than nearly anyone—taking the land and harvesting it for whatever it was worth and then selling it.
What worth did this place have?
It was a question he’d often asked of himself, and came up wanting.
To occupy himself, Beau spent much of his time reviewing old ledgers and notes made by his grandparents. It was a fascinating window into a part of his story he’d been blithely unaware of. When he’d first set eyes on The Grove, his curiosity had been tempered with disappointment. The place was solidly built but the interior would have benefited from a fresh coat of paint or some paper on the walls. The kitchen needed updating, including the addition of a modern stove instead of relying on an open hearth for cooking. And the privy… well, that just needed to be rebuilt. When he’d run a highly successful business bringing in wealthy Americans looking for excellent fishing in the Miramichi River, he prided himself on having the right mix of simple, rustic surroundings mixed with some basic refinements—good food, a comfortable bed, and modern plumbing.
Still, the investment of a little elbow grease had already done wonders. With every bucketful of dirty water he’d tossed away after wiping the place, Beau felt himself connecting with the faded beauty of the place. When he and Teddy Chandler had finished cleaning the chimney and had the fire burning properly, Beau felt a rush of accomplishment he hadn’t recalled in ages. Even Miss Murray had gifted him with a genuine smile which gave him far more pleasure than was rational.
The idea that she considered herself an old maid bothered Beau. What injuries of the heart had she faced that had left her without the promise of love? Not that love and sex had anything to do with each other—he’d lived a lifetime with a scarcity of the first and a respectable harvest of the second to know the truth. But Madeline Murray was a romantic soul. He knew it as surely as the sky was blue, despite her attempts to keep that sky hidden under a thick carpet of dark cloud and rumbling thunder. Because every time he’d seen a break in those clouds, it was dazzling.
After a day and a half of rain, and with no end to the cloud cover in sight, Beau climbed the narrow stairs to the attic to check the water tightness of the roof. Satisfied to find it dry, he’d turned his attention to a handful of his grandparent’s belongings, including a battered straw hat that once upon a time made a comfortable shelter for a small family of rodents, a box of odd buttons, and a weathered, hand-stitched volume full of the most bizarre recipes that should have been as dry as dust, but were in fact, fascinating. There were multiple notes in the margins, apparently made by his grandparents, and their own recipes added on scraps of paper stuffed between the covers. Thoroughly engrossed, he lost all sense of time, looking up only when he heard the creaking of the attic steps. He was gifted a view of Miss Murray, and was inexplicably pleased she’d gone in search of him.
“There you are,” she said, a line of concern on her brow. “Would you like some tea?”
“Miss me?” he replied, unable to help himself. Because he’d missed her.
She rolled her eyes, but Beau saw the hint of a smile on the edge of that delectable mouth of hers. Her expression turned from feigned irritation to undisguised curiosity.
“What is that?”
“I’m not exactly certain,” he answered, carefully closing the cover. “I think it’s part Mrs. Beeton, part Domestic Medicine, and part witchcraft.”
She stepped forward, looking from him to the book and back again. The movement was surprisingly tentative, as if she was fighting her own enthusiasm. Beau stifled a laugh. He’d wooed women with smiles, teasing innuendos, and any number of expensive trinkets. None of them had worked on Madeline Murray. Not that he was trying to woo her. But here he was, sitting in an attic in wrinkled trousers on an old dairy stool poring over an old book and suddenly he couldn’t drive Miss Murray away if he tried. And he didn’t want to try.
“May I?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Perhaps, you can help me decipher it.”
They went down to the kitchen and perched side by side on the wooden bench at the kitchen worktable. A teapot sat on the table, its precious contents wrapped in a linen tea towel to keep the pot warm. The smell of the woodsmoke mixed with the subtle scents of Miss Murray’s rose-infused soap, along with the scent of the old book in front of them. He pushed it toward her. In her eagerness to take it, her fingers brushed against his, sending a small shock of intense awareness through his veins. She pulled her fingers away, even as that familiar blush crept up over the collar of her cotton blouse.
It could not be his imagination. She’d felt it too. Beau stifled a smile of satisfaction, even as the echo of that brief touch lingered.
“It’s like two books were taken apart and restitched into one,” she said, as if the touch had not happened, even though she kept her eyes glued to the book, carefully examining the binding. “It seems like the last third of the book is completely handwritten.”
“What do you make of it?” he asked.
“I can’t speak for the witchcraft,” she said, “but your first assessment doesn’t seem too far off the mark. There are recipes in here for feeding the sick, tonics for any number of ailments, and a few for making soap. And—” She paused, her brow crinkling into a frown as she squinted slightly, clearly trying to interpret a passage that, if he had read her expression correctly, suggested either morbid fascination or disgust.
“What is it?” he asked, unable to help himself. Without thinking, Beau slid closer, holding out his hand. She opened and slid it back toward him, her finger pointing to the top the page.
“There’s a recipe for forcing mustard seeds into greens in the space of a morning,” she said. “With hot horse manure.”
“You don’t want to try it?” he said, genuinely curious. “Just to see what happens?”
“Would you eat salad that was pulled from a fresh pile of horse manure?” she asked in such a manner that Beau knew in a heartbeat Miss Murray’s answer to that question.
He shrugged. “I’ve been accused of worse things,” he said. “I’m curious enough.”
