The Rose of Winslow Street (22 page)

“Everyone could see I was able to be calm, so Enric let me stay. For a while. I moved back into the ducal palace, but I knew the sight of me reminded Enric of his failure to protect me, of his humiliation in weeping before his men. A week after I returned, I asked a servant to shut the windows so I would not have to smell the roses from the fields. When Enric learned of my request, plans were made to send me back to the sanitarium. I panicked and fled to Michael's house. I had always known he intended to sail for America one day, but when Michael learned of Enric's plans, he said we must all leave immediately. He said I would never be safe in Romania as long as Enric was my legal guardian. We left that very night and came here.”

Mirela continued to outline what Michael had lost by leaving Romania so abruptly. He had a fine country house with hundreds of acres of good agricultural land. With no time to liquidate his assets, he abandoned his estate and took nothing but the small amount of jasmine essence he had already distilled from the harvest. Even here in America, Michael could make no move to sell his estate for fear that the proceedings would lead Enric to their new home in Colden. If ever Libby needed proof that Michael Dobrescu was a champion, it was in his selfless act of spiriting Mirela out of Romania.

Mirela turned her wrists up, the red slashes obscene in the bright light of morning. “If Enric learns I attempted suicide, he would see me locked up in that sanitarium for the rest of my life.” A wry smile turned up the corners of Mirela's mouth. “So you can see, I do not mind the inconvenience of sleeping in a barn.”

And then Mirela stood, drawing a deep breath and letting her gaze roam over the abandoned apple orchard. She seemed to draw strength from the very sight of the bucolic landscape. “I was selfish and cowardly when I tried to subvert God's plan for me that night in the greenhouse. I am beginning to understand there may be a reason for my suffering. I know what it is to be frightened and alone, and lose all sense of hope. Experiencing these things has taught me about compassion. Perhaps I am meant to use this insight for some higher purpose. I still don't know precisely what I am meant to do with my life, but I believe God has a plan for me. And that knowledge has given me great comfort.”

As she spoke, Libby saw Mirela's resolve strengthen. There was a fierce beauty in the woman as she looked out into the field and breathed deeply of the apple-scented air. “There is
something
here I am meant to do,” Mirela said, a note of aching wistfulness in her tone. “I believe I was destined to come to America and that house on Winslow Street. I feel as though my uncle Constantine has beckoned me here, but I still don't understand what it is he wants me to do.”

Mirela paused, then turned to look at Libby. There was no challenge in the younger woman's face, only a look of gentle concern. “I have always felt bad about the way Michael took the house so abruptly, but you must understand, Libby . . . I intend to fight for that house. I am a patient woman and am prepared to wait for the court to rule, and to do so in the spirit of God's law. It is my hope that we do not become enemies in this process, but I truly believe the house belongs to Michael.”

Her words were firm. How strange it felt to have a challenge delivered so bluntly, but with such grace. Libby's father would react with a barrage of angry words; Regina would coyly offer soothing expressions while secretly plotting her own line of attack. Libby knew in her heart the only just settlement for the house would be for her father to retain ownership, but that did not mean she would demonize Mirela.

She met Mirela's gaze directly. “I am sorry about what happened to your family yesterday and will do whatever I can to make you comfortable. But I hope you will not hold it against me if I do everything in my power to make sure my father retains ownership of the house.”

Mirela's smile was resigned. “Libby, I would expect no less of you.”

L
ibby spent the day with the Dobrescus, picking apples and helping them cart water from the nearby stream. Time and again she peered down the dusty path to search for Michael's return, but there was no sign of him. By late afternoon the sky had darkened with storm clouds and she could not afford to linger any longer. Libby left the barn and made the long walk back to Winslow Street.

She darted inside the house just as the raindrops began to fall and was surprised to see Jasper in the study with her father. “Did you bring Tillie with you?” she asked hopefully.

Jasper dragged his hand through his hair. “She is at home with Regina. I just came over to talk some sense into Father before he loses his mind.”

“I am not deaf, Jasper,” her father said in a sour tone. He was sorting through stacks of paper like Rumpelstiltskin searching for a needle in a haystack. “I simply want justice, and I am determined to get it.”

“What is going on?” Libby asked, noting Jasper's rigid stance and her father's agitation. It was unusual for her father to be at odds with Jasper, the perfect child who excelled at everything. On the rare occasions Jasper tore himself away from the bank for a visit, her father usually rolled out the red carpet and killed the fatted calf.

“Father wants to bring criminal charges against Michael Dobrescu for stealing the mechanical drawings.”

Libby's head swiveled to her father. “Do you have any proof Michael took them?” The drawings were a potential gold mine should anyone ever capitalize on them, but Michael had little interest in any business aside from his perfume.

“I have proof the drawings are valuable,” her father said. “I have proof they are missing. And we all know who the only interloper in this house has been. I think this is enough to put before a judge and a jury. I would relish the sight of Michael Dobrescu at the mercy of a Colden jury.”

The sound of rain kicking up outside added to the undercurrent of tension that seized the room. Jasper paced nervously across the floor. “I can't let you do this, Father.”

“Why not? I am convinced the man is guilty, and he should be punished for it.”

Jasper braced a hand against the window frame, staring moodily out at the pouring rain. The way his shoulders sagged made him look so defeated—sapped of energy and drained of hope. When he turned to look at his father, his face was bleak. “I took the drawings,” he said.

Libby gasped, and her father looked like he had been shot. “What are you saying, boy?” her father demanded.

Jasper pushed away from the window frame to stand in front of Father's desk. “You have never filed a patent on
anything.
For decades these inventions have been lying around the house because you can't bring yourself to declare them finished. I filled out the proper paperwork and sent the drawings to Washington to get patents on your designs. I did it to protect you.”

The rage was liable to start at any moment. Until her father's inventions were utterly perfect he was unwilling to let them see the light of day, but what Jasper did made sense. After all, on more than one occasion Libby had seen technology that looked chillingly similar to her father's designs. Jasper's actions would protect her father should others produce a similar invention. Just last year she had seen an entire set of windmills that looked remarkably like what her father had designed. If she had not known her father had banished the windmill plans to the attic years ago, she would have thought they were her father's design.

The strength left her legs and Libby dropped onto the sofa. While her father and Jasper raged at each other, Libby closed her eyes, summoning up the image of those windmills. There had been three of them, clustered alongside an intracoastal waterway, their sails turning slowly in the breeze. The neck-bearing pin in the center of the sail was precisely what her father had designed. She had sketched that pin according to her father's meticulous description, both from the outside and the inside cutaway drawings. She knew exactly what it looked like, and they had been on those windmills. It was hard to even breathe. It took an effort to drag in a lungful of air and raise her head.

“I saw the windmills, Jasper,” she said quietly.

Her brother swiveled to look at her. “What windmills?”

“Father's windmills have been licensed and are operating on a piece of land just outside Plymouth. I saw them.”

Jasper's eyes narrowed. “I never licensed them for use, Libby,” he said dismissively before turning back to her father. “All I did was fill out the paperwork on your behalf. I didn't want other inventors to beat you to the punch if they came up with similar designs.”

Her father, trying to digest the information, fiddled with a pencil as he stared hard at Jasper. But all Libby could see was the heavy gold watch chain hanging from Jasper's vest. It was the sort of chain a robber baron could afford, not a small-town banker.

Other things started to make sense. The exquisite clothes Regina wore, her emerald earrings, the summer cottage on the island. These things had been purchased by the fruits of her father's labor.

“You licensed the windmill design,” she said through clenched teeth. “How else could Regina have emeralds the size of robins' eggs swinging from her ears?”

Both men turned to glare at her and Jasper's eyes smoldered in resentment. “She was given those earrings by her parents,” he said angrily.

Libby shot to her feet. “She bought them at the same time she bought an emerald-green riding suit. I never saw or heard about those earrings until she bought that outfit, and then she wore them all the time. How many other licenses to Father's work have you sold?”

“That's enough!” Jasper roared. “All I did was take action to protect him. And protect
you
as well, since you are unlikely ever to get married and will be a burden on our father for the rest of his life.”

She tried not to flinch, but the words scorched. “Thank you so much, Jasper,” she said in a trembling voice. “Although I'm sure Father would have appreciated a royalty check from your ill-gotten gains.”

“Are you accusing Jasper of stealing from me?” her father demanded. A roll of thunder sounded from outside, underscoring the ugliness of the accusation.

“I don't know a kinder word for what he did,” she finally said.

Her father stood, bracing himself with one hand on his desk and using the other to point a trembling finger at Jasper. “That boy has never disappointed me,” he said. “From the day he was old enough to speak, Jasper has made me proud with his intelligence, his industry. He is a child any man would be proud to call his own, and I won't have you insulting his integrity. You are barely fit to wipe his boots.”

She flinched. Not that she was deluded about where she ranked in her father's esteem, but the contempt seeping from his words had never sounded so scornful. Jasper was a thief and a liar but remained unsullied in her father's eyes.

“Look at the watch chain he is wearing! Look at the house he lives in!
Father, think.
Jasper used your designs to get where he is. If he had only told us what he intended, it would not be so terrible, but to operate behind your back . . . Do you think he
ever
would have confessed to obtaining those patents had we not gone looking for the drawings?”

“Get out of this house,” her father snapped. “I have allowed you to continue living with me all these years because you are my flesh and blood, but I will not allow you to besmirch my son's name. If I am forced to choose between you and Jasper, I choose Jasper. I want you out of here.”

Jasper took a step forward. “Father, really—”

Her father held up his hand, stifling any further comment. “This is my house and my decision. I will reconsider my relationship with Libby when she withdraws her vile accusations. Do you choose to do so, Libby?”

Her father's face was a mask of anger, with no trace of love or disappointment, just hard, twisted antagonism. All she wanted to do was escape it.

“No. I won't withdraw it.” She looked to the window, where the rain was pouring down in sheets. Somewhere out there the Dobrescu family was taking shelter in a leaky old barn. She would rather share space in their barn than live with a father who despised her.

It felt surreal as she walked to the hook beside the front door and removed her cloak. Jasper came to stand beside her.

“Don't be insane, Libby. You know his anger will blow over in a few hours.”

Perhaps that had been Jasper's experience, but Libby knew her father could keep this kind of bitterness simmering for weeks. Besides, all she wanted to do was find Michael. She wanted to fling herself against that wide chest and feel his arms close around her, protecting her from all the pettiness and hurt in the world. She stepped around Jasper and opened the door.

Cool air and the spatter of rain against the slate path surrounded her the moment she stepped outside. No one tried to stop her as she walked into the rain. There was plenty of time before the sun would set, and if she hurried, she could reach the barn on Storybrook Lane within an hour.

She quickened her steps, feeling the cool rain slide down her face. In less than an hour she would have Michael Dobrescu's strong shoulder to lean against.