No Other Love (5 page)

“But we’ve got to tell the sheriff –-” Rose began.

“I already have. He doesn’t think there’s anything to it. Or not enough to go chasing after a powerful Boston family.”

Rose couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Did he read these? He must see how urgently Jonas Fletcher wants our land. Why, he offers more each time he writes. In the very last one he says he’ll send someone out to speak to you. How can the sheriff not see how important this is? It was written only two weeks before Papa was shot.”

“I feel just as you do, but it’s no use. According to the sheriff it’s not enough to start an investigation.”

“But what about what Papa said before he…” she trailed off, her throat closing up as she recalled the last few minutes of her father’s life.

“Oh, Rose, I understand how this feels. Don’t you think I want to know who did this to us? But if someone from the railroad did kill him, then we may still be in danger.”

“I can’t accept that the man who shot my father is still out there, living his life. If the sheriff won’t do something, I shall.”

“That’s exactly what I was afraid you’d say, and the very reason I didn’t mention anything to you. I can’t lose you too, Rose.”

But Rose couldn’t bear the thought of never knowing, of such an act going unpunished. She spent weeks lying awake at night, considering and discarding ways to prove the Fletchers’ guilt. Now here she was, despite her aunt’s fear and protestations. After two months spent searching for a way to get near the Fletchers and another month exchanging letters with Mrs. Craig, her plan was in motion.

Perhaps she was as rash as Aunt Olivia said.

She missed the farm. While her life there was a far cry from her earlier life in Boston before her mother’s death, still her father had been there to challenge her, to give her books and discuss her thoughts on them. Aunt Olivia was a well-read and curious woman, and the three of them would read aloud to one another or play word games in the evenings, a ritual Rose missed dearly.

But at least she had some of her books here to comfort her. In addition to the sonnets, she had brought
Oliver Twist
, a book both she and her father had always loved, and which he had assigned her to read as if he were still a teacher. She would have brought Emerson’s Essays as well, had not her father’s name been inscribed inside.

Homesick and eager to escape her own circumstances, at least for a time, Rose opened Dickens and read by the light of the wavering candle while Lydia tatted lace for a sister who would soon be married.

A few minutes later Lydia let her lace fall to her lap with a sigh.

“I guess you must like reading. You hardly notice anything when you have your nose in a book.”

Rose held her place with a finger and looked up with a smile.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. Do you dislike reading?” she asked, wondering what had prompted Lydia’s comment.

“Yes, but I suspect that’s only because I do it so poorly. I was always so busy taking care of my little brothers and sisters, I wasn’t in school enough to learn properly. But I love to listen to stories, so if ever you want to read something out loud from one of your books, you don’t have to worry about bothering me.”

Rose smiled inwardly at Lydia’s eager, rather childlike way of asking Rose to read to her.

“I’d be happy to read aloud,” she said. “In fact I’ll start the book over so that we can begin together.” She paused for a moment, turning an idea over in her head. “We could even take turns, if you like. That way you could practice.”

Lydia flushed with pleasure. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind? I don’t think I’m much fun to listen to. The teacher used to get awful cross and strike my hand with a ruler when I made a mistake.”

“Well, I won’t get cross. What do you think? Should we begin now?”

Lydia smiled with delight and nodded her head. Rose held out the book, which Lydia shyly took from her, and so their own nightly ritual began.

Chapter Three

Rose was standing at the dining room table polishing an enormous pile of silver and working out the best way to get into Mr. Fletcher’s study when Mrs. Craig stopped in the doorway.

“Rose, please take tea to Mrs. Fletcher and her guests in the drawing room. Mrs. Beech has a tray of food as well.”

When Rose entered the kitchen for the tea tray, Abigail was giggling, her face bent toward Dottie.

“Well
I
could have sworn I heard her sneaking down the hall late last night, no doubt to meet him,” Dottie said, before Abigail caught sight of Rose in the doorway and whispered urgently to Dottie. The two of them looked at Rose and laughed meanly before turning back to their tasks.

Rose's heart sank. She’d hoped the staff might be helpful in learning more about the family and its business, but that was impossible now. She would have to rely on her own ability to gather information, and it was time she got started. Sometime this week she would find a way to search the study.

Without saying a word to the other girls she moved about the kitchen, preparing the silver tea service, adding fresh baked scones and the little finger sandwiches Mrs. Beech had prepared. Shouldering the heavy tray, a task she had not yet mastered, she made her way to the back of the house. Her arms shook and the service started to slide as the tray tilted precariously, but just before everything crashed to the floor someone approached from behind and righted the tray.

“Allow me.”

Rose’s heart sped up at the sound of Luke’s voice in her ear, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when his arm brushed her side as he moved to take the tray. Embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable position, she wanted only to maintain a safe distance from him.

“Thank you, but that's not necessary. I have everything in hand,” Rose replied curtly, inwardly cursing her breathlessness and the visible trembling of her arms.

One eyebrow rose. “Of course you do. Humor me anyway.”

And with that he plucked the tray from her arms and let her proceed him into the room.

Upholstered in shades of gold with flowered accents, the sofas, brocaded chairs and heavy satin drapes caught the late afternoon light and spun it into a warm glow that lit the room. Mrs. Fletcher sat with two women, a mother and daughter from the look of them, and a young man Rose had never seen before. After a moment's study it became obvious he was Mrs. Fletcher's son, Nathan Byrne. Both he and his mother had the same narrow face and rather pinched features, though Mr. Byrne’s hair was dark blond. Rose felt his eyes on her as she stood awkwardly by while Luke set the tea service on a table.

Mrs. Fletcher looked on, none too pleased to see her stepson carrying a tray.

“I see you still need some training, Rose. I'll have to speak to Mrs. Craig about that. We can’t have family waiting on the servants, can we?” she said silkily.

Rose was mortified to be rebuked in front of everyone and felt her face burn in embarrassment. Then Luke spoke.

“You misunderstand, Charlotte, “ he said easily. “I insisted on carrying the tray as I could see it was quite heavy. I’m sure any man would have done the same.”

Mrs. Fletcher’s face hardened, her lips thinning, before she remembered herself.

“Of course. What a gentleman you are, my dear.”

“Shall I pour the tea?” Rose asked, stepping forward to take hold of the pot.

“Thank you, no. We’ll manage without you.”

Turning to her son, who had not ceased his scrutiny of Rose, she began to pour. “Do tell us all about your trip to Albany, Nathan.”

Rose was dismissed. Retreating from the room, she made sure not to look anyone in the eye, least of all Luke Fletcher.

Rose stood outside the study door later the next day, her heart pounding. She had been told to change the linens in all the bedrooms on the second floor, which made it the ideal time to search the study, but even the cleaning supplies she carried would not be enough to shield her if she were caught. Mrs. Craig had made it clear that Mr. Fletcher allowed no one but her in there to clean, and even then it was only upon request.

But this morning was perfect. It was a lovely summer day and Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher had left for a riding party and picnic with their guests. The staff was making use of the unexpected leisure time to loll about in the shade out back of the house. She could hear them laughing and teasing one another from an open window.

She paused outside the door, nearly faint with anxiety as she listened to make certain no one was inside. Not a sound but the blood beating in her ears. Before she could change her mind she turned the knob, the squeak it made seemingly loud enough to bring everyone running. Slowly she opened the door and let herself in, her breath fast with fear, noting with relief that the heavy damask curtains were drawn on the bright day outside. She needn’t fear being seen through the window.

The study looked very much as she had imagined it would, with two wing chairs set before a giant oak desk and bookshelves against the far wall. But what caught her eye were the pen and ink sketches that hung around the room. She had seen nothing of the kind anywhere else in the house.

The one nearest her depicted Cider Hill in wintertime, the starkness of the house at that time of year conveyed with simple yet compelling details. Moving closer, she saw by the signature that it had been drawn by Luke Fletcher.

Quickly, knowing she should not be wasting even this much time, she looked at the others, all bearing the young Mr. Fletcher’s name—portraits of children she guessed must be nieces and nephews, as well as one of a dark-haired woman in a garden. At first Rose thought her one of Luke’s sisters, but on closer inspection she looked to be older than they would be even now, and the style of dress was far too out-dated. This, then, must be the first Mrs. Fletcher. Luke’s mother.

She was lovely, and lovingly portrayed as well, particularly given how young Luke must have been when he drew it. And though Luke looked far more like his father, she could see something of him in her high cheekbones and the fullness of her mouth.

Moved by the affection evident in each drawing, she found herself wanting to study them more, to see others he’d done. But she could spare no more time now on the discovery.

She hurried to the desk, grateful for the carpet’s muffling effect, and scanned the desktop. She didn't know exactly what she was looking for. A reference to running the railroad though Lenox, a letter on the subject perhaps? Taking care not to disturb anything, she read through the various papers on the blotter, her hands quick as those of a seasoned spy, though perhaps a trifle shakier. Next she opened the drawers and rifled through them. A thick file with Luke’s name on it caught her eye.

Inside were letters from Luke to his father. She held her breath as she paged through them. Near the end she found a letter from Fort Laramie dated 4 April, 1841.

Dear Father,

I see that it took so long for your last letter to find me that you may as well have come yourself. There will soon be no need for letter writing, however, or for further requests that I come home to work for the R.R. I am finally persuaded by you to return to Boston, at least until we see the railroad over those blasted mountains. My work here is coming to an end and I daresay they can spare me now. Someone must help Whistler find a way over that range, and there is nothing like surveying in the mountains.

Having begun my task under President Harrison, it is strange indeed to be ending it under Tyler, though I expect he too will want to organize and tame the Territories as much as his predecessor. I only hope he is not too successful. I would hate for all the country to feel as civilized as my hometown. The irony is that my own work hastens the very thing I fear.

If all goes well I will set off from here in a week’s time. As I will be passing so close to Woodstock, I shall stop for perhaps a week to visit with Annabelle. My niece and nephew must meet their uncle before they are too old to care that they have one.

I know you understand why I stayed away so long, and why I shall not remain in Massachusetts beyond the completion of the railroad. As much as I miss my family and my beloved Cider Hill, I cannot forget what I lost there.

I sincerely hope the frustrations you expressed in your last letter have passed. If not, I hope I may ease them upon my return.

As ever,

Your faithful son,

Luke

Rose stared at the date on the letter, the import of it gradually sinking in. At the time of her father’s murder in February, Luke was somewhere out west surveying for the government. He couldn’t possibly have killed her father.

Earlier letters from Luke to Mr. Fletcher were filled with tales of his adventures in the wilderness and occasional frustrations with government officials, but nothing of relevance to her search. If only she could get her hands on the letters Mr. Fletcher had sent to Luke, perhaps she would get an idea of how desperate he was, what lengths he might go to in order to finish the line.

Quickly she skimmed through the rest of the papers, but there was very little in the way of railroad business. No doubt there was a good deal more at his offices in town. But at least now she knew Luke’s role with the railroad. As a surveyor, he would be relied upon by his father, as well as the shareholders and engineers, for the best route through the hills.

She was putting the papers back in order when the sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence. Panicked, her hands trembling, Rose replaced the papers and closed the drawer. She had just stepped around the desk and grabbed the duster when the door opened.

Luke stared at her from the doorway, his expression quickly turning to a frown, and Rose feared he could read her guilt. Silently she ordered herself to remain calm.

“You startled me,” she exclaimed, a hand going to her heart as she smiled at him with what she hoped was a convincing display of innocence.

“What are you doing in here?”