Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1) (19 page)

“Aye.” Whether or not Chelle was part of his life, Martin couldn’t imagine his world without her in it. Surely the love he felt for her went with her every day, even if she didn’t know it.

It occurred to him that he’d forgotten to ask about the lad whose name Chelle had mentioned. “Was Rory her young man at home? The one she almost married?”

Colin nodded, his face taut. “Yes, he was.”

“First her mother, and now this.”

“She’ll get through it.” He put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Come back tomorrow. She’ll want to thank you.”

Colin glanced behind him at Jack and Brian sitting at the table, then followed Martin out to the yard and held Tessa while he climbed into the cart. “Lad, I’m worried about Chelle. She hasn’t been herself since she broke things off with you. I meant it when I asked you to come and see her.”

Martin shut his heart to a rush of longing. She’d told him where she stood in plain English. Why make her tell him again? “I will, but I’m not sure she’ll want to see me.”

Colin shook his head. “We’ll see. If you still care, don’t give up on her.”

Martin climbed onto his seat and picked up the reins. The smart thing to do would be to leave well enough alone. Pay a brief call, accept Chelle’s thanks and get out. He didn’t need any more grief. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He sent Tessa on and left Colin standing there, watching him.

* * *

Chelle woke in the gray winter dawn and sat up in bed. Her stomach rolled with nausea as the memory flooded through her.

It was Christmas morning, and all she wanted to do was pull the covers over her head and stay here, nursing her emptiness. Would she ever feel young and alive again?

Someone knocked. When Chelle didn’t answer, the bedroom door opened a crack. “Lass, are you awake?”

Chelle swung her legs over the edge of the bed and reached for her robe. She knew well enough that the family wouldn’t let her hide. “Come in, Dad.”

Her father crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed and put his arm around her. “We’ve naught to hold on to right now but faith, you, your brother, and me.”

Chelle knocked his arm away and got up to pace the floor. She had to keep moving, stay ahead of the pain. “Trey didn’t know anything for sure. All his information was secondhand.”

“Chelle, you know how unlikely it is that anyone else would have Rory’s knife if he were still alive. It was marked with his initials.”

“He could have been wounded and dropped it. Someone else might have picked it up. That man Trey spoke to might have just assumed Rory was dead if it was him at all. He could be recovered by now.”

“Lass—”

Chelle stopped pacing and folded her arms across her chest as if she could ward off the truth. “Dad, I know. I just don’t want to believe it.” With a sigh, she sat beside him again and rested her head on his shoulder. “Do you remember the time back in the spring when I had that nightmare about a battlefield?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I dreamed that I was looking for Rory, but I found Trey instead. He was badly wounded. And Uncle Jack said that your mother had the sight. Do you think that means Trey will be—”

Her father stroked her hair. “We know Trey hasn’t seen action yet, love.”

“But I had another dream just the other night, about Rory. I saw him dead, and now…”

Her father pulled away to look at her. Chelle saw fear flicker briefly in his eyes.

“Ever since we heard Trey had enlisted, you’ve been afraid for him. So have I. It’s only natural that you’d dream of him. Right now, with your brother still in camp, I’m more worried about you.” He took her face in his hands. “You frightened us all last night.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Chelle smiled for him and stood. “I’ll be all right. It’s Christmas Day. Let’s not ruin it for the family. Go down to breakfast. I won’t be long.”

That flash of doubt she’d seen in her father’s eyes stayed with her. He wasn’t convinced that her dreams meant nothing, but Chelle was through making things harder for her father. She washed her face and put on the new navy wool dress she’d just finished a few days ago, left her hair loose and went down to the kitchen with her head high.

Not long after breakfast, Martin’s cart pulled into the yard. Before he could come to the door, Chelle slipped out to meet him. He was the last person she felt like talking to, but she quite possibly owed him her life. She couldn’t be a coward now.

A thick blanket of snow lay over the yard and the open country beyond. She’d never seen anything like it. The storm clouds had packed themselves off, leaving everything glittering under a chilly blue sky. A breathtaking winter day, but a harsh one. Chelle found no solace in its beauty.

Martin got down, left the reins trailing in the snow and came toward her. An arm’s length away he stopped, his eyes searching hers. “How are you this morning, lass?”

“I’m better. Martin, I feel so foolish. If you hadn’t come along—”

He stepped closer, his brows bent in a puzzled frown. “Foolish? Chelle, you were grieving.”

“Yes, I was.” Chelle fought the urge to step back. Being near Martin like this brought back every feeling, every memory of each time he’d touched her or kissed her. “You probably saved my life yesterday. What can I say? But nothing’s changed.” She saw the fresh hurt in his eyes and lowered her gaze. “Someone’s bound to see you leaving here. You’d better go.”

His face set, making him look very much as he had the first day she’d met him out on the hillside. He climbed back to his seat and gathered the reins. “Goodbye, Chelle.” The words came out flat, with no feeling. Cold to the bone, Chelle went in.

Chapter Seventeen

Drew Markham looked around him with loathing. His father’s farm had been the scene of the worst years of his life, but two years of hard labor in the mill had bought him a promotion and escape. He’d only returned home twice since leaving, but what he’d heard in the village yesterday had brought him back one last time. He’d sweated too much in these fields as a boy to be done out of what was rightfully his.

The farm lay tucked in a hollow, near the track leading to Carston. The stone house and byre stood as little altered by the years as the moorland around them, but Drew saw small changes everywhere he looked. The hood over the well needed repair, the gate that filled the gap in the yard’s stone wall hung crazily on its hinges, and many of the cobbles in the yard were worn and broken. His father and brother hadn’t been doing much of a job keeping the place up.

He heard voices coming from the byre. His father and Richard must be nearly finished with the morning chores. Drew turned and walked into the house to wait for them. He was through with milking and swinging a pitchfork.

He added a shovelful of coal to the stove and sat at the kitchen table. The room looked as cheerless as it always had in Drew’s memory, with the once-white curtains now dingy with soot and no rug on the cold earthen floor, which looked like it hadn’t been properly swept since the curtains were last washed. His father wouldn’t tolerate dirty dishes or neglected spills, but beyond that he didn’t care much. God, how glad Drew was to be free of this place.

Boots clattered on the kitchen step. Drew’s father and brother came in out of the gray winter morning, blowing on their hands. At the sight of Drew, Richard’s pale blue eyes turned sullen. “Now then. Fancy you dropping by.”

Drew’s hackles rose, as they always did around his brother. His father hung his coat on the back of the door and dropped heavily into a chair, while Richard filled the kettle from a bucket on the pantry cupboard. “So what brings you here? You’ve been scarce enough this past year.”

“I heard something in the village yesterday. Seth Brimsby told me at the Crow that you’d said Dad was signin’ the farm over to you. Was he tellin’ the truth?”

His father gave Drew a hard stare. “Aye, it’s the truth. What then? You couldn’t get away from the place fast enough.”

That’s for sure and certain. What reason did you ever give me to stay?
“No, I couldn’t. Richard can have the place and welcome as far as I’m concerned, but I want to know where my inheritance is going to come from. While I lived at home, I worked as hard as either of you. I deserve something.”

The contempt Drew remembered so well once again laced his father’s voice. “You turned and walked out without a backward glance, never thinking of aught but yourself, just like your mother. I’ve naught for you, Drew. You gave up your rights when you left.”

Up yours, old man.
“I know there’s some money in the bank in Carston. I see no reason why I shouldn’t have a share of that since Richard’s gettin’ this place.”

“You’ve got your cheek, comin’ here with your hand out after turning your back on us.”

His father had always been able to intimidate him with his anger. Drew’s throat went dry, but he was through backing down. “How could I turn my back on you when you turned away from me before I was old enough to go to school? You and Mam couldn’t get along, so you visited your spite on me. You’ve only ever had one son.”

Before Drew could react, Richard lashed out with a blow to his face. The force of it snapped Drew’s head back. He tasted blood and got up, roaring, “You bloody sod—”

“Mind your tongue with your father, or there’s more where that came from!”

His head ringing, Drew looked at his father and saw no yielding in his eyes. Enough. They could cut him off without a brass farthing, but he was done with them. He’d never set foot in the place again. “Right, then. I didn’t really expect any different. The two of you can rot here and be damned. I’m through with you. I won’t be back.” Drew raised his hand to his throbbing cheek and glared at Richard. “As for this, you’ll be sorry, I promise you that. I’m off.”

He stood quickly, sending his chair crashing to the floor, and strode out the door. Snow had begun to fall, but it didn’t soothe his stinging face or cool his temper.

Panic started to seep through his anger. What if the mill didn’t reopen? The payment he’d gotten from Westlake wouldn’t go far. He’d been getting his groceries through the relief committee like everyone else, and the house he lived in belonged to the mill.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t be greedy, wouldn’t push his luck. All he’d wanted was to stick it to Westlake and get enough to compensate him for his lost income. He’d never counted on his family for any help, but now that the words had been spoken, he knew for certain that he was on his own.

He wanted out. He wanted to leave Mallonby and its memories behind, just disappear, and there was one simple way to do that. Get on a ship and go somewhere where an enterprising young man could make something of himself. Australia, or America. America… According to the papers, the Union was welcoming anyone who’d fight for them, but there was a better way. He’d go with enough money to keep himself out of the army and take advantage of the opportunities war offered. All compliments of Phillip Westlake.

* * *

Chelle stopped at the top of the Westlakes’ drive to brush some of the snow from her hat and cloak. Before Trey’s letter had come, she’d promised to bring the records of the relief committee to Miss Westlake for her approval before the New Year. Chelle didn’t feel like seeing anyone, but she couldn’t go back on her word. All she had to do was deliver the account book and be on her way.

In spite of the snow clinging to the red brick façade and frosting the yew hedge, the Westlake house reminded Chelle of Pinecrest, Rory’s home. It had the same imposing feel. She followed the butler, Louden, through the familiar front hall. She’d called on Miss Westlake a few times on committee business, but the house never seemed to welcome her.

Inside, it wasn’t quite as elegant as Pinecrest, but Chelle couldn’t deny it was done up in excellent taste. A wine-colored, fringed oriental rug warmed the hall’s parquetry floor. Mahogany furniture upholstered in deep red velvet brightened the dim space, lit only by weak winter sunlight coming through the open doorways of adjoining rooms, which also afforded glimpses of bright curtains as she passed.

Like Rory’s home, this house had dignity but lacked soul. The McAfees had never mixed much warmth with their civility. She guessed the Westlakes didn’t either, but she’d lost her dislike of Maria over the weeks they’d worked together. As conscious of her social position as she might be, Maria really did seem to care about her father’s employees.

Louden opened the door to a small, cozy room with lace-draped French doors facing the back garden, paper in a muted yellow stripe on the walls and a set of cream-upholstered Heppelwhite furniture near the white marble fireplace.

Maria sat at a graceful oval table, reading. She put down her book and looked up with one of her reserved smiles. “Happy Christmas, Rochelle. Sit here by the fire. You’ve had a cold walk.”

“Thank you, but I can’t stay, Maria. I brought the account book. I’ve entered everything from the last food distribution meeting.”

Maria took the book and turned to the most recent page of entries. “Everything looks to be in order.”

“Good. I’ll be going, then. Aunt needs my help this afternoon.” Maria might think her rude, but Chelle wasn’t in the mood to be good company. As for that, Maria looked troubled herself, as she had the last few times Chelle had seen her. “Happy Christmas to you as well, Maria. I’ll show myself out.”

Maria nodded and picked up her novel. Chelle closed the sitting room door behind her and walked down the hall. Angry voices stopped her outside the door of Mr. Westlake’s study. When she realized she was eavesdropping she continued on, but not before she heard Mr. Westlake’s words. “I’ve no more time to listen to you. As of now, you are no longer in my employ. Get out of here before I have you thrown out.”

Chelle didn’t hear his companion’s reply. Not wanting to run into an angry discharged servant, she hurried out.

She walked through the village and past the Fultons’ cottage, lightless and cold-looking under the gray sky. Mrs. Fulton had gone to York with Kendra for a few days to help her and David get settled.

Chelle had gone to Kendra’s wedding and seen her off with all the good wishes she could muster, without saying anything about Trey’s letter. She’d asked the family not to mention it to anyone, as she didn’t want to be questioned or consoled.

Maman, I never thought life could hurt like this.

* * *

Drew slammed Mr. Westlake’s office door behind him. His face burned with anger, while panic made his gut clench. He’d been so sure he’d be able to get more out of the man. Now he was out of a job whether the mill reopened or not, with barely enough money to pay for a berth in steerage and keep him fed and housed for two or three weeks when he arrived overseas. He’d have to take whatever work he could find, or else join the army. Drew had no intention of dying in a foreign war, and it enraged him to think that his slavery in the mill here had been in vain. Everything he’d worked so hard for was lost.

One thing was certain. Before he left, he’d make sure everyone in Mallonby knew the truth about the fire. When he confirmed what many already suspected, they’d find a way to make Westlake pay, and Drew would stay just long enough to watch it happen.

A flash of blue, disappearing around the bend in the road on the way to the village, caught Drew’s eye. He knew that cloak. He’d seen it on the McShannon girl often enough to remember it. What was she doing out here? Past the Westlakes’, there wasn’t another house for two miles.

Drew looked down and saw the marks of a woman’s boot heels in the snow on the doorstep. Tracks made by the same boots led down the drive toward the road. So she’d been here. What truck would a common girl like her have with the Westlakes? Oh, yes, she was on the relief committee. She must have called to see Miss Westlake.

Drew recalled hearing someone in the hall just as Westlake was telling him to leave. He’d assumed it was one of the servants, but now… It didn’t matter. If it was the McShannon girl, she hadn’t seen him, and even if she had, anything she might say would be lost in the general outcry about the fire. Drew dismissed her from his mind and headed into the village. The Crow was the place to begin getting his revenge.

The pub was full of mill hands making the best of a less than cheerful holiday season. Martin Rainnie sat at the bar, a mug of ale in front of him. The sight of him spurred Drew’s anger to another level. He took a breath, unclenched his fists and reminded himself that he was here for a reason.

He found a seat at the opposite end of the bar from Martin. “Bitter, please, Harry.” The pub owner picked up Drew’s coins and brought his ale without comment. Drew’s eyes flickered to Martin.

I’ll see you again, Rainnie, before I put this place behind me.
He took a swallow of his ale and looked around the room. “Right good crowd, Harry. Miss Westlake was generous with her handouts for the season.”

“It’s been slow enough.” Harry shrugged and turned away to serve another customer.

Drew raised his voice so that the people around him could hear. “Aye, and who’s to blame for that? Our own Father Christmas, Phillip Westlake. Well, I’ve got aught to say about him. If those insurance investigators had done their jobs properly, the man would be in prison right now. He set that fire with his own two hands. I was on my way back from the dance that night and I saw him standing at his window, watching our livelihood go up in smoke.”

Harry gave him a pointed look. “I’d have thought you too sharp to bite the hand that feeds you, Drew. You’d best not be talking like that without proof.”

“What I saw is all the proof I need, and Westlake doesn’t feed me, not anymore. I quit today, though of course, he’ll say he fired me. I won’t work for a man who nearly cost three people their lives.”

The noise in the pub faded as heads turned Drew’s way. The man next to him, Ben Thompson, a long-time mill hand, turned on his stool. “You saw him watchin’?”

“Aye, plain as day. The fire was just startin’ to catch. When I got to the village, Ethan had given the alarm and folk were already comin’ out. I went along to the mill with them. You all saw me there.”

Drew took a breath, waiting for indignation to spread through the crowd as quickly as the fire had spread through the warehouse.

In the pause, Martin rose from his stool and took two slow, deliberate steps toward him. “So you saw Westlake standin’ at his window watchin’ the fire, and you waited until now to say so? Why?”

Drew raked him with a look. “Do you think the investigators would have believed me? There was no evidence for anyone to see, and I had my job to protect. But I couldn’t live with myself, so I went to see Westlake today and told him I was through.”

A sullen, angry buzz swelled in the room.

Martin’s voice cut across it, dry and sharp. “If you’re telling the truth, you’re no better than Westlake. If you’d come forward after the fire, perhaps he could have been charged. The investigators might have looked harder for evidence. I don’t believe for a minute that you were afraid for your job. You decided to see what you could get out of him for yourself, didn’t you?”