The Book of Hours (12 page)

Brian kept his gaze fastened upon the river, which was transformed into a billion mirrors by the day and the morning breeze. “I had to have something to aim toward, though. Something to give me a sense of direction. So I always headed for places near water. I wanted the expanse, the chance to look out and see nothing but an empty horizon. Every morning and evening I would go out to the water's edge, marking the slow beat of empty time. And I'd try to see beyond the walls I had inside of me.”

Cecilia felt ashamed by her lack of anything to say. His words felt like a gift, one that would be incomplete without something in reply. But what could she tell him of worth? That she had been alone so long that she could not imagine a different life? That she had grown used to the fear that she would never find anyone to ever care for her as he had for his dead wife?

A shiver went through her, as though a trace of winter's breath had drifted across her heart. In truth, what she wanted to say was that she had prayed the previous evening and again that morning. The first two such prayers she had said outside of church walls for years. But how could she share such a thing with a stranger? The shiver strengthened, and with it an unreasonable desire to speak nonetheless. It was silly. She was overreacting to a journeyman's disclosure of nothing to live for. Cecilia found herself trying to respond with an anger, but the man's calm matched the day, and together they left her without the ability to escape.

The silence weighed upon her now, and she dropped her head, defeated by the absence of something to confess. Her eyes then settled upon the book, and it was almost with relief that she said, “I went by the vicar's yesterday evening.”

Brian seemed to have been waiting for a reason to turn her way. “Trevor?”

She nodded. “He's been living through a terrible strain.”

“The bells?”

She met Brian's gaze for the first time. “How did you . . . Oh, of course, the dollhouse. That was a lovely gesture, by the way.”

The clearness was still in his eyes, the extraordinary directness to his words. “Some of Sarah's finest childhood memories were centered around that dollhouse. I couldn't sell it.”

“Even so, it was such a nice thing to do.”

He turned back to the day and the river. “Sarah had a terrible childhood. She was terrified when she first came here. Heather designed a series of mysteries, puzzles. Each one led Sarah to know the house better, and each one had a reward at the end. The first riddle's reward was the dollhouse.” His tan seemed almost golden in the morning light, as though it was for moments just like this that he had been darkened. “What's the matter with Trevor?”

“The fight over the bells is wearing him down.” She dropped her gaze to the book in her lap. “He gave me a book about the town's early history. I had no idea the bells were so important to Knightsbridge's heritage. But that's not the problem. He wants me to speak on the church's behalf at tomorrow's town meeting. I hate speaking in front of a crowd. The thought alone is appalling. And I've never had to address a hostile audience.” She swallowed, her throat so tight the noise drowned out the birds. “I can't believe I agreed to do it.”

Cecilia waited with head bowed for him to offer some platitude, something to the effect that it would all turn out fine. Instead he spoke so softly the words were almost lost to the morning symphony. “You're talking to the wrong guy.”

She raised her head and had to squint against the sun's glare. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I've spent the last two years running away from every commitment I ever made.” He seemed not to speak to her, but rather to unburden himself to the sun. “Since I've arrived here, I feel like there has been a swirl of thoughts blowing around my mind. Once in a while I pull out a single shred and then spend hours trying to make sense of it.”

The lines of his face seemed to grow sharper and the edges clearer with each minute of strengthening day. There were tiny flecks of silver in his dark hair, or perhaps it was just the sun's bleaching. Cecilia found herself resisting a sudden urge to reach out and draw a wayward lock of hair off his temple. To cover herself, she added swiftly, “What about commitment?”

“I think too many people go through life assuming everything is going to work out just like they want, and then when it doesn't, they feel this gives them the right to pull up stakes and move on. But life isn't like that. Some of the most beautiful times I had with Sarah were also some of the most tragic.”

Brian started to raise his cup, realized it was empty, and set it down on the table. “I don't miss the burdens of commitment, but I sure do miss belonging somewhere.”

Almost before she realized what she was going to say, Cecilia asked, “Would you come to the town meeting tomorrow?”

That brought him fully around. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.” Confusion leaped into her mind, a clutter of reasons and desires for having asked him at all. “You could perhaps walk over with Arthur and Gladys. I know they plan to attend.”

“All right.” Brian rose with her. “This is going to sound a little crazy, but I have a favor to ask.”

Nothing, she told herself, would sound as bizarre as having just invited this man to a village gathering. “What is it?”

“Heather has left me some riddles of my own. That's what was in the letter Trevor found in the kitchen, and there was another in the dollhouse letter.” He dug in his pocket and came out with a much-folded sheet of yellowed paper. “I'm terrible with puzzles.”

Cecilia backed away from his hand and the risk of further entanglements. “I really have to be going. But you might ask Arthur. I'm sure he'd be happy to help.”

Twelve

B
RIAN WALKED DOWN THE LINE OF ELMS TO THE SOUND OF
a scraping rake. Through the trees he glimpsed a handsome man with a shock of red hair and the build of a wrestler pushing leaves off the main drive.

The man looked up and flashed Brian an easy smile. He dropped the rake and walked over, grassy hand outstretched. “I'm Joe Eaves, your lordship. Welcome to Castle Keep.”

“Thanks.” The gardener was about his own age, with a grip like sweaty iron. “The name is Brian, and I'm not lord of anything.”

The news only broadened Eaves's grin. “Mr. Seade's paying for the work I do 'round these parts, so you don't have to worry about a thing.”

“Could you maybe clear the leaves out of the backyard?”

“Mr. Seade only pays me to mind after his bit here by the stables.” He gave an easy nod and started away. “Any questions you have, just take them up with Mr. Seade.”

Brian watched as Joe Eaves went back to his work. For reasons he could not identify, Brian found the gardener's presence disturbing. Despite the man's friendly efficiency, Brian could not get over the fact that Hardy Seade was paying for the work.

The thoughts stayed with him as he wound his way toward the central market square. In ways he could neither explain nor deny, he was also certain his sense of transition was connected to this place. Somehow a ramshackle manor in an English market town was charged with a potential for change. And the realization left him sorely distressed that the manor would soon belong to others.

The winter sky was chalk blue. Sunlight adorned the ancient village with an enticing sparkle. Centuries and secrets reached out from both sides of the lane to catch his eye and slow his walk. A beamed lodge with the date 1614 branded over the doorway stood next to a trio of town houses whose dressed Cotswold stone was turned honey-blond by the morning. Beside them ran a bowed wall of brick and flint, the hard stones as translucent as uncut diamonds. Lead-paned windows watched his passage within a pair of newish homes designed to blend comfortably with the ancient street. Brian walked and took in lace curtains and cobblestones and medieval peaked doors and blooming wisteria and a sleepy kitten watching from a recessed portico. The way narrowed just as the central church spire came into view, and as he walked he decided that in his two years of travel he had never come across a place as gentle or as appealing as Knightsbridge.

Two friendly passersby directed him across the square and down a short cul-de-sac to the modern building at the back. He climbed the stairs to the second floor, read the sign, and knocked on the door. When the voice inside answered, Brian entered and asked, “Are you the county finance manager?”

“That's right.” Then the woman's head lifted, and her features turned to stone. “Oh, it's you, is it. Well, come in. I've been wondering when you'd show up.”

Brian had no choice but to enter and shut the door. “You know who I am.”

“Let's say your reputation has preceded you, shall we?” Her head dropped back to her papers. “By approximately twenty-four months.”

Brian settled into the chair opposite her desk and listened to the pen scratch angrily. She was in her late thirties and would have been very attractive were it not for her frosty air. She wore a silk blouse of bright yellow, the one touch of color in the austere office. Her forehead creased as the pen traced its way down a long line of figures, then she scribbled at the bottom. Brian realized she was giving him the treatment, putting the new manor owner in his place. He was tempted to leave, but there were answers he needed, and there was nowhere else to turn.

“All right.” She slapped the file shut. “You are aware of the upcoming foreclosure auction for Castle Keep, I take it.”

“I was actually wondering if you might be willing to postpone it.”

She looked genuinely aghast. “Postpone?”

“Yes. I've just heard about the unpaid inheritance taxes. A postponement would give me a chance to put together the money and pay—”

“Now, look here, Mr. Blackstone. That is your name, correct?” She eyed him as she would a bit of refuse. “I fail to see how you can waltz in and talk about slamming this great huge change right smack-dab in the middle of our town's scheduling. Our town, mind you. Not yours.”

He struggled to keep his tone mild. “All I'm asking—”

“I have nothing against the casual visitor from America.” The words were as flinty as her gaze. “What I do object to is the wild gadabout who blows in and expects the town to offer him the bended knee.”

Brian decided he had no choice but to sit and simmer and wait her out.

She rose from her desk, crossed the room, flung open a filing drawer, and said as she riffled through the files, “We will not thrash about merely because you finally elect to show your face.” She pulled out a file, opened it, and set it on the drawer. “Your property is in arrears, Mr. Blackstone. To the tune of six hundred and thirty-four thousand, five hundred and twelve pounds.”

“So I've heard.”

“Well, of course you have, since I have personally written you nineteen letters to that effect. Nineteen, Mr. Blackstone.” The accountant eyed him from the heights of power. “I'm rather confused. Precisely why has it taken you two years to finally respond?”

“I've been away.”

“Away.”

“That's right.”

“For two years?”

“Yes.”

“Rather a bizarre manner to see to your duties as heir, wouldn't you agree? Or were you not informed the place was bequeathed to you?”

“I thought it was being handled by a local property agent.”

“Ah.” The news took her back around to her padded executive chair. “You did not feel it was worth your while to check matters out for yourself?”

Brian rose to his feet with a swiftness that drove the accountant back in her seat. He took no pleasure from the flicker of unease in her eyes. At that moment, all he could think of was that to remain meant telling her about Sarah, and that was not going to happen. Not with this woman. Not ever. “Thank you for your time.”

“Enjoy your brief visit to our town, Mr. Blackstone.” Her icy tone followed him through the door. “Castle Keep is to be auctioned off five days from today. And I for one will not be the least bit sorry to see the back of you.”

The first thing Cecilia heard when entering the clinic on Friday was Maureen declaring, “If I didn't know better, I'd say I was greeting a woman in love.”

She was vastly relieved to see that no one else was there to observe her turn crimson. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Well, let's see.” Maureen had a way of cocking her head that made whatever she said sound comic. “Your face is shining like a little lighthouse.”

“I've never heard—”

“And you're carrying the funniest smile, like the world's told you a joke and you can't quite decide whether to laugh out loud.”

Cecilia slammed the outer door hard enough to make the panes rattle. “Maureen Dowd, you are positively the most irritating woman it has ever been my misfortune to work with.”

“Let's see.” Maureen pretended to pat her curls into place. “Could it be that your landlord is no longer a beast with scales, rising from the swamps?”

Cecilia's denial was halted by Maureen's knowing smirk. “If you must know, I had a chat with Brian this morning in the garden.”

Maureen declared smugly, “So I heard. Gladys Wainwright stopped me in the marketplace this morning. Seems she observed your two heads together for quite a while.”

“That does it, then.” Cecilia walked over and slumped onto the corner of the counter. “If Gladys knows, then so does the whole town.”

“Have a fling with the man if you want, dear, but take care who you trust your heart to.”

Cecilia toyed with her keys. “I've pretty much given up hope of ever finding someone to fling with at all.”

“Oh, come now. A lovely thing like you?”

“A woman with a very clear idea of what she wants out of life,” Cecilia corrected. “I've been in love. Three tries, three strikeouts. Twice with young men who were certain that if I learned to love them enough, I'd give up on my dreams of becoming a village doctor. The third try was the worst mistake of my life. I guess I got tired of being hurt by men who accused me of putting my dreams before love.”