No Other Love (7 page)

Mercifully, they had arrived at the house. Climbing out of the carriage, Rose hurried away without a word. She knew without looking that he watched her the whole way.

By the time she gained the servants’ entrance she had moved Mr. Byrne up her short list of suspects. The fact that he was a cad did not necessarily mean he was a murderer as well. But he was family and he clearly had a stake in the railroad. Just how much she would have to find out.

Her pulse sped up as she made her way through the servants’ wing and up the stairs to her room. Of course she didn’t hear or see any sign of Luke, but just knowing that at any moment she could run into him kept her on edge.

She spent the next morning in this state, her senses on alert for Luke’s voice or footstep. Her anxiety was soon dispelled however when she overheard Mrs. Craig reviewing the week’s menu with Mrs. Beech.

“Master Luke left for the Berkshires this morning on railroad business. That leaves us with just four for supper tonight, though tomorrow…”

Rose lost track of what Mrs. Craig was saying. She knew only that she need not face Luke for a while yet. It was a four day trip on horseback, which meant he would likely be gone at least two weeks. It was an unexpected reprieve. Yet mixed with her relief was a sense of disappointment.

It was only then she admitted to herself that part of her very much wanted to see him again.

Chapter Four

“Rose?”

Rose started at the voice behind her and turned from where she stood on tiptoe in the pantry, searching for the tea Mrs. Fletcher insisted must be served to her guests. Charlie, the lanky young groom, stood in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he tried and failed to make eye contact.

Rose couldn’t begin to guess the reason for his shyness. Normally he was quite confident, and though he was not as cold to her as were Dottie and Abigail, his manner when they had occasion to meet was familiar to the point of rudeness.

“Yes, what is it, Charlie?”

“I was wondering…that is…Lydia says you read real pretty and you’re helping her read too. I don’t need to read out loud to people or anything, leastways I don’t expect I’ll ever want to, but I was thinking maybe someday I’ll want to do something besides take care of horses. So I was wondering if you could help me read better, and maybe even write better also.”

He looked up at her hopefully.

Rose stared at him in surprise, turning the idea over for a moment before replying.

“Yes, I could help you,” she said, glad for the opportunity to make another ally. Besides, she enjoyed her sessions with Lydia and could never turn down anyone who wanted to learn to read.

They had their first lesson the very next afternoon. It being too warm in the servants’ hall, they settled themselves on a horse blanket under the shade of a maple tree near the carriage house. With a sheepish grin Charlie produced a bible given him by his mother.

Charlie was an eager student and Rose found that she possessed an endless amount of patience when it came to teaching. She didn’t mind if it took ten minutes for him to get through a single paragraph, and she recited passages for him to copy, repeating herself as many times as was necessary.

Word of their lessons spread, and within two weeks several of the farmhands who worked at Cider Hill had approached her and asked if they might join them. Delighted, Rose agreed and soon had eight students she met throughout the week for lessons.

In the evenings, when not reading with Lydia, she read and re-read letters Vivian had given her from Aunt Olivia and Will. Her aunt wrote of how well the crops were growing, a runaway cow that had managed to travel ten miles before being caught, and the new schoolhouse that would be raised within the month. She had always loved the parties for raising buildings, when people from miles around ate and drank and danced after the walls went up. She missed laughing.

It was at just such an event that she met Will. He came from a good family with a thriving farm, was shy but not afraid to approach her. She enjoyed his company, found him sincere and comfortable to talk to. But whereas his eyes lit up every time he caught sight of her, she was never more than pleased to see him.

He was handsome and kind, with a gentle manner, and he genuinely wanted to know what she thought. Only she somehow could never talk to him about the things that mattered to her. When she spoke of her former life in Boston he seemed at a loss, puzzled and worried that her life did not already contain all she could want. The way he spoke of his farm she knew he loved the land, and she envied him the certainty he had of his place in the world.

When Will suggested they might one day marry, Rose went home to talk to her father. She found him in the barn, sitting on a bale of hay and mending a piece of tack in the sunlight from the open door. Though it was a story she knew well, she asked him how he and her mother had fallen in love, something she hadn’t done since she was a little girl. But she listened now with a woman’s heart and wondered if she would be giving up on that kind of happiness. And if so, would she find another kind in return?

“Everyone has to decide for themselves what they want, Rose,” her father had said in that quiet, thoughtful way of his. “You’ll know it when you find it, and it may not be the same as what your mother and I had. You may need to be brave enough to see it for what it is.”

All she’d wanted at that moment was to remain in the warmth and safety of her father’s presence, breathing in the sweet smell of hay as the goats shuffled in a nearby pen and cows lowed in the field below. But life did not stand still. Everyone had to grow up and make their choices.

Perhaps growing up meant giving up on childish ideas of love. Few people had what her parents had. They were lucky, luckier than most, but wasn’t she lucky to have found a man like Will? Maybe it was foolish to expect more than that.

A couple of women told her she’d be a fool to pass him by, and that one day she’d regret it. She even overheard one woman say that Rose thought she was too good to be a farmer's wife, coming as she did from Boston with her city manners, her Latin and French. Rose didn’t think she was too good for Will, but she wondered if maybe she had gotten foolish ideas in her head. She wasn’t so special, and she could do a lot worse than marry him. But three weeks later her father was dead, and Rose asked Will to wait.

The questions she’d struggled with then loomed even larger now that she knew what she was missing. But Will loved her and was ready to share his life, whereas Luke Fletcher was an impossibility. Comparing the two men was ludicrous, and yet she couldn’t seem to help herself.

Of course, she didn’t have much to compare these days, as she hadn’t seen him since that day in the study two weeks ago. Their encounter was beginning to seem like something out of her imagination, which was all for the better, as her imagination was dangerous enough.

Which was why she needed to find out who killed her father before things got even more complicated.

A rare opportunity finally came her way. She was on the second floor replacing rugs she and Lydia had enthusiastically beaten outside when she heard Mrs. Fletcher address Mrs. Craig.

“I need a message sent to Mr. Fletcher at the office. The Willoughby's shall arrive earlier than expected. Please convey this note to Mr. Fletcher as soon as possible so that he may come home early and greet them with me. I would hate for it to look as if he thought work more important than our old friends.”

“Yes, ma'am. I'll send someone straightaway.”

Rose caught up with Mrs. Craig as she descended the stairs.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I overheard Mrs. Fletcher say she needed a message sent. Shall I go? I've just finished the carpets.”

“Very well. I'll have Charlie bring the wagon around. Mrs. Beech needs some things for tonight's dinner as well. Get the list from her and you can stop at the market on the way back.”

Quickly Rose retrieved her bonnet from her room before stopping in the kitchen for the list of ingredients. Mrs. Beech scowled at her, but then, she scowled at everyone.

It was a comfortable day for early July, hot but without the stultifying humidity they’d had all week. The sun shone and a soft breeze blew through the trees. Gratefully she sat on the rough wood seat behind Charlie, the two of them enjoying the break away from the house. It was good to be outside, good to be off her feet. It felt like she hadn't drawn a deep breath since her visit with Vivian several days earlier.

She closed her eyes for a moment and could almost believe she was back home, riding with her father to visit a neighboring farm or buy supplies. Though she and her father had always talked easily to each other, they had also enjoyed the quiet of their own thoughts, the creak of the harness leather and occasional snorts from the steady team of horses. If only she could keep her eyes closed forever and go on imagining her father next to her. But it was no use. It merely reminded her of his absence.

The houses stood closer together and traffic grew heavier as they neared town. Riders on horseback vied with carriages and pedestrians for the road, and the air was full of noise – greetings and shouts, stamping hooves and the more distant screech of one of the local trains braking.

Charlie maneuvered the cart through the crowded streets, just barely avoiding a collision with a cart full of chickens. Soon he pulled up before an impressive brownstone on Beacon Street. Next to the door a plaque read Western Railroad Company. For a moment Rose could not move. So long did she hesitate that Charlie looked over at her, one eyebrow raised in question.

“Something wrong, Rose? If you’re nervous I can bring the message to Mr. Fletcher.”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll manage,” Rose sputtered, moved to action by his look of concern.

Taking a deep breath, she headed up the brick walkway and mounted the steps. Pausing a moment before the door, she put her hand on the knob and turned.

The interior of the building was even more impressive than the exterior. The shiny wood floors with their plush Turkish rugs spoke of money and success, and bronze sculptures scattered about on delicate tables lent the room an air of elegance and sophistication. Behind a desk a young man in eyeglasses, brown vest and matching coat frowned down at a sheaf of papers.

For a moment, Rose was so terrified she could neither move nor speak. Then the clerk saw her and blushed furiously, standing up so quickly he upset a jar of pens. Somehow his nerves eased her own distress and she was able to approach his desk.

“May I help you, miss?”

“I've come to give Mr. Jonas Fletcher a message from Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Of course. Yes. Do let me take it for you. I'll be sure it reaches him.”

Rose had not foreseen even this simple obstacle. Quickly she recovered with a lie.

“Oh no. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Fletcher said I must deliver it myself and wait for his reply.”

The young man came around the desk.

“Very well, I'll escort you to his offices.”

Rose followed the clerk down the hallway, her heart hammering so loudly she feared he would hear it. Offices opened up on both sides, the low hum of voices emanating from inside. At the end of the passage they turned left into a room richly decorated in shades of blue and dark wood. On the walls hung maps of Boston, both older and more recent. The clerk gestured for her to sit.

“Please, wait here. It won’t be long. Mr. Fletcher left half an hour ago for an appointment at Town Hall. He should be back shortly.”

He hesitated, looking for all the world as if he longed to stay with her, before dropping a self-conscious bow and leaving.

On the wall to her left was a door that she guessed led to Mr. Fletcher’s office. Surely a trip to Town Hall would require longer than half an hour, in which case she had time to search it.

Entering his office was terribly risky, but if she wasted this opportunity she would never forgive herself. When the clerk's retreating footsteps had died away she went and pressed her ear to the door. All was silent. Nearly faint with anxiety, she opened the door and stepped inside.

At one end of the large room sat a desk of heavy oak; on it were stacks of paper and what appeared to be ledgers. Tacked up on all four walls were maps detailing different sections of the railroad line. Scanning them quickly, Rose found one showing the most western part of Massachusetts. A thick black line traveled across the state from Boston, breaking right at the boundary of their farm.

She could see that they would have to lay track in another section entirely now that they couldn't run it through their property. She couldn’t imagine how it was even possible to lay track through the those mountains, but these men seemed to think they could do it if only they had access through Aunt Olivia’s land.

Going to the desk she paged through the ledgers but could make no sense of the figures. It would take much longer than she could spare to decipher them, so she quickly moved on.

Opening a drawer, she flipped through the files until she came to one marked “Land Offers.” Inside were letters from landowners all along the route, some of them refusing to sell, others agreeing. She recognized a few names of farmers she'd met or heard mentioned, but there was nothing pertaining to their farm. Disappointed, she replaced the papers. Then her eyes fell on a file labeled “Harris.”

With shaking hands and racing heart Rose opened the folder. Inside were copies of the letters Jonas Fletcher had sent to her aunt. Also enclosed were her aunt’s replies, including her response to the last offer made for the farm. In it she thanked Mr. Fletcher for his generous offer and said that neither she nor her brother wished to sell. On it Mr. Fletcher had written a note indicating that Mr. Byrne would handle the matter going forward.

A hurried look through the rest of the papers revealed several letters from George Washington Whistler, the engineer responsible for finding a way over the mountains. Whistler mentioned the anticipated arrival of Luke Fletcher, noting that his expertise would be greatly appreciated on such a difficult endeavor.