Prelude to Heaven (43 page)

It was harvest time in Saint-Raphael. Tess watched from the window of Alexandre's studio as workers in the distance scurried like ants on an anthill amid the vineyards of Château Dumond, harvesting the grapes. Alexandre had told her that grapes didn't do well if their life was too easy. To produce great wine, the fruit had to suffer. Life, she realized, was very much the same for people.

But the suffering was over now.

Margaret had been right about the aftermath of Nigel's death. The magistrate had been sent for, and once the dowager countess had explained the situation, emphasizing that Alexandre had acted in self-defense, he had been allowed to go free. He and Tess had returned to Saint-Raphael for a quick wedding before journeying to Florence for Alexandre's exhibitions there and a month-long honeymoon. But they had returned to Saint-Raphael in time for the harvest, and had arrived to find a letter from Margaret awaiting them.

The dowager informed them that she had decided to stop hiding herself away in Northumberland and had gone to London for the autumn. She added that the
ton
was still reeling from the shocking events at Aubry Park, but that, she had added in a wry postscript, would last only until the next shocking event came along.

The sound of a child’s laughter behind her caused Tess to turn away from the window, and she smiled at the sight of her daughter toddling awkwardly across the floor, away from Alexandre, who was pretending to chase her. She watched as Suzanne ducked behind the stout pedestal of a table, peering around it to search for her father, unaware that he had moved directly behind her.

Tess tried not to laugh and give her husband away as she watched him stealthily approach Suzanne. When he caught her, pulling her away from the table and lifting her into his arms, she shrieked, giggling and squirming, as Alexandre began to tickle her.

“If you stop every few minutes to play, you two will never finish the painting,” Tess told them.

“They will not be finishing it today,” a voice declared from the top of the stairs, where Jeanette stood smiling at them. “Leonie asked me to come fetch Suzanne. It's time for her nap.”

Alexandre set his daughter on the floor, turned her in Jeanette's direction, and patted her bottom to send her walking that way. But Suzanne didn't comply. Instead, she tugged at her father's trouser leg and pointed to the sunny corner where Augustus was curled into a ball, sound asleep. “Gus-gus, Papa. Gus-gus.”

“You want Augustus to go with you?” Alexandre leaned down and took his daughter's hand in his. Together they walked across the studio, where Suzanne released her father's hand and tried to pick up the huge, full-grown cat. Augustus meowed a greeting and allowed himself to be half-dragged out of his corner before he hopped to his feet and followed his young mistress to the door.

As Tess watched them go, Alexandre came to stand behind her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he rubbed his cheek against her hair. “The harvest is an excellent one, and the vintage should be superb. We might make a profit on it.”

Tess nodded, but as she leaned back in her husband’s strong arms and watched Jeanette lead Suzanne out of the nursery with Augustus trailing after them, she knew with or without the harvest, she was already the richest woman in the world.

She turned toward the window, and as she and Alexandre watched the harvest of the grapes, she thought about how much her life had changed, how quickly the painful memories of Aubry Park had faded from her mind. Alexandre had given her a new life, a life rich in love and laughter.

She had once thought her life to be hell on earth. But now she knew that life had only been the prelude to heaven. And heaven was now.

THE END

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Chapter One

Whitechapel 1889

Nathaniel Chase heard the loud, rather insistent knock on the open door and the irate voice calling his name, but being rather preoccupied, he did not look up from his task. "Yes, Mrs. O'Brien, what is it?"

The stout landlady followed the sound of his voice, dodging her way around moving men, steamer trunks, furniture, and wooden crates. In the center of the room she paused, unable to find her new tenant amid the chaotic jumble of his belongings. "Mr. Chase?"

"Over here," he called.

Peeking between a tall wooden Indian and a large telescope, she saw him on his knees beneath a table, his back to her, rummaging in a box.

She cast a curious glance at the tools and machinery that littered the table before bending to peer at the man beneath. "Mr. Chase, sure did I not say to have your things off the stairs by five o'clock?"

Nathaniel stopped ransacking the box and lifted his head to reply, forgetting that he was kneeling beneath the table. He hit his head with a bang, nearly tumbling his equipment onto the floor. "Ouch!"

He caught the legs of the table to prevent it from falling. Once it was stable again, he moved out from under it and jumped to his feet. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, rubbing his sore head and doing his best to look contrite, "but moving in is taking longer than I thought."

"Where do you want this one, guv'nor?"

Nathaniel glanced at the two men who stood nearby holding a huge crate between them. "Ah, my trains!" He pointed to an empty space beside the table. "Put it here, if you please. And be careful," he added. "It's somewhat fragile."

He returned his attention to his new landlady. "Mrs. O'Brien, I will have my things off the stairs as soon as I can find a place to put them."

She placed her hands on her ample hips. "You said you'd be moved in by the end of the day. Other tenants will be returnin' from work soon and won't like that they can't get up the stairs, yer boxes and things bein' scattered hither and yon. You promised me—"

"Yes, I know," he interrupted. "By the time my neighbors return from work, my things will be out of the way." He looked around with a frown. "I don't know where I'll put them. It seems I have underestimated the quantity of my luggage."

Mrs. O'Brien was never one to miss an opportunity. "I've a cellar you could use. Only two shillings the week."

Nathaniel considered that option for a moment. These were only temporary lodgings, of course, but he wasn't certain how long it would be before he could find permanent rooms. In the meantime, he would have to use his rooms as his laboratory, and he wanted his things close at hand. Mrs. O'Brien's cellar simply wouldn't do. There had to be another solution.

He raked a hand through his hair and glanced up, then paused as an idea struck him.

"The attic is directly above me, is it not?"

"It is." The landlady frowned suspiciously. "But I don't see—"

He pointed to the ceiling. "If I put in a hole, I could use the attic."

"A hole in my ceiling? Heavens, no!"

Nathaniel paid no attention to her protest. "Yes, that would work," he muttered to himself. His decision made, he turned to one of the men who was bringing in his things. "Mr. Boggs, could you come here a moment?"

The burly, bald-headed man stepped up beside him, and Nathaniel pointed above his head. "Could you cut a hole here and give me access to the attic?"

"Mr. Chase, I won't allow it. I won't let you tear me house down!"

Mrs. O'Brien's declaration was lost on the two men, who began to discuss the project. "Very good," Nathaniel finally said. "When can you begin?"

The man rubbed his jaw. "I'd need t'get me tools and buy the goods. And I'll want me boy to 'elp. Tomorrow afternoon be all right, guv'nor?"

"Of course. Before you leave today, would you and your men bring the rest of my things off the stairs? Just pile them anywhere you can find room."

A wail from Mrs. O'Brien caused Nathaniel to turn to her. "Are you unwell?" he asked, noting her flushed face and distraught expression.

She placed a hand to her heart. "Holes in me ceiling. Oh, heavens."

She seemed quite upset to Nathaniel. This was a matter of simple carpentry, easily repaired when he moved out,

and he couldn't understand her distress—until he looked into her eyes and perceived a shrewd gleam in their green depths.

He pulled his wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket. "If I leave, I will pay to have everything put back exactly the way it was before," he assured her. "And I'll pay you half rent for the attic."

He began to count out money. "And there's five pounds to you, my dear lady, for all the inconvenience."

"Well, now," she said, brightening considerably, "that's somethin' I can agree to." She snatched the money from his hand.

Nathaniel turned and tossed his wallet toward his desk, where it landed in an open drawer. He took the landlady by the elbow and turned her gently toward the door. "Mrs. O'Brien, you are a pearl beyond price. I thank you."

"Will ye be needin' anything else, sir?" she asked, tucking the money into the pocket of her apron as Nathaniel guided her past Mr. Boggs and around a stack of crates. "Breakfast, tea, an' dinner? I'm a fine cook, I don't mind sayin'. Three meals a day for, say, two quid the week?"

"That's a tempting offer. A man does appreciate home cooking. I will consider it." He gave her his most charming smile and pushed her out the door. "I'll have my things off the stairs shortly," he promised. "Good day."

She hesitated a moment, then bobbed her head and turned to go down the stairs. "Very good, sir. If there's anything else you need—"

"I'll be sure to let you know."

"Lad's got more money than sense," she muttered as she descended the stairs and finally disappeared.

Nathaniel turned back around and caught sight of the huge crate that contained his trains. He grinned. He didn't have much money, and he probably didn't have much sense either. But he had his dream, and that was enough.

***

Mara Elliot walked along the mezzanine of the factory with a brisk, no-nonsense stride that bounced the ostrich plume of her straw bonnet and caused the heels of her high-button shoes to hit the floor in rhythm with the steam engines on the production floor below.

The six o'clock whistle sounded, a loud squeal over the rumble of machinery, and she turned, leaning over the rail to watch as activity ceased below. Steam engines shut down, conveyor belts came to a stop, and the deafening roar of machinery faded away. People began heading for the doors.

When she caught sight of her secretary beckoning her to come down she turned away from the rail and joined the women leaving the mezzanine.

"If me Alfie thinks of gettin' any tonight, he's off his chump," one woman declared to another, pausing on the stairs in front of Mara. “Passing me wages to a pubkeeper! I won't stand it."

"Good for you, Emma," the woman beside her said.

"And shovin' me around. Who's 'e think 'e is?" Emma paused for breath and glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of her employer standing only a few feet behind them. "Evenin', ma'am," she said respectfully and moved back, pressing herself against the wall to let Mara pass. The other woman did the same, and Mara walked between them.

She had never been the sort to fraternize with her employees. She knew other small business operators who did, regarding their workers as a sort of extended family, but Mara preferred to keep some distance between herself and her staff, feeling it gave her more respect.

She was very conscious of her position. She was not the owner, she was the owner's wife. Her authority was always at risk, and she knew the best way to maintain respect was to remain cool and efficient.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, her secretary was waiting for her. "What is it, Percy?"

"Mr. Finch is waiting in your office. He needs to speak with you."

"Here?" Mara was surprised. She couldn't recall the solicitor ever coming to her office before. "I'll go immediately."

She started across the production floor, and her secretary fell in step beside her. "Did he say what he wanted to see me about?" she asked.

"No, but perhaps it's about the gentleman who was here this morning."

Mara stopped walking. "What gentleman?"

Percy also came to a halt. "I didn't have the chance to tell you earlier, but a man came this morning asking to see Mr. Elliot while you were out. He seemed surprised to find that your husband wasn't here."

Mara's brows drew together in a frown. "James is in America now. At least, I thought he was." One never knew with him. He could be anywhere. "Did the man say what he wanted?"

"No, just that he had business with Mr. Elliot and was expected. Mr. Elliot supposedly had arranged a meeting with him here."

She almost laughed out loud. It was just like James to arrange a meeting in London when he was probably wandering around the Arizona desert. "Did you tell him James has been away for quite some time?"
Four years
. "And that we don't anticipate his return in the near future?"

"Yes, ma'am. He mentioned that Mr. Elliot had arranged for them to meet here in London, and that he had come all the way from San Francisco, expecting Mr. Elliot to be waiting."

More fool him
, Mara thought cynically. Anyone who expected her husband to be where he was supposed to be was doomed to disappointment. "San Francisco? An American gentleman?"

"No, he was British, I believe. I explained to him that you were in charge during Mr. Elliot's absence, and he requested a meeting with you. I made an appointment for him to meet with you Thursday morning at eleven."

She sighed. "Oh, very well. I'll meet with him if I have time. Go home, Percy. I'll see you tomorrow."

Percy walked away, but Mara remained where she was, lost in thought. She couldn't help wondering why someone had come all the way from San Francisco to see James. She didn't like the sound of it. Knowing her husband, it was probably some get-rich-quick scheme. Well, if he intended to take out another loan to pay for it, he was mistaken. It was hard enough to make interest payments on what he'd already borrowed.