Unspeakable (32 page)

“Her estate, yes. But I believe you've inherited something far more valuable and enduring. Her books are classics. They will never go out of print. They will never stop earning royalties. To put it bluntly, every copy that sells earns you money.” He nodded at the cheque in my hand. “You can expect to receive one of those every six months. And that's not even
considering the recent inquiries on the rights to scripts. Her death has only increased public interest. Just imagine that. A film based on her book—a Dean adventure headlining at the theatre.” He shook his head and smiled. “Oh, she would have loved that!”

“I never dreamed—” I sank slowly into the chair. So
this
was her literary legacy. A hope and promise for my future. And for my child … and her life to come.

“Actually …” Mr. Cronin paused before continuing. “I'm glad that you're here. I've had an offer on the house. A little less than the asking price. I didn't want to be presumptuous, but I know you're living there. Have you … have you considered putting in a bid yourself ?”

“You mean buy Strandview Manor?” Could this really happen? Was he serious? “Can I? I mean—do I have enough—” I held out the cheque in my hand, like a child with a fistful of pennies in a sweet shop.

He raised his eyebrows over his round glasses, amused by my innocence, for I knew neither the asking price nor the real value of what was now mine.

“Miss Hardy,” he explained, a grandfatherly smile on his face, “with the royalties and the investments, not to mention the rights you now own, you, my dear, have enough to buy Strandview Manor ten times over.”

Chapter Forty-Five

“NO KIDDING?”
Steele shook his head as I told him of the recent events. “And that's when you told him you'd bought the house?”

We sat on our bench at the park. It would always be that now, our bench. Even if he never sat here again.

“He'd no idea the literary legacy was worth so much. He saw it as my aunt's hobby—and an unladylike one at that. You should have seen his face, Steele. I've never seen my father at a loss for words.” What was there to say? I'd found a way to keep Strandview Manor and my daughter. All my father could take from me was himself, and sadly, he did just that.

“He told me I would never be welcome in his house,” I said, still stung by his words. “And I said he would always be welcome in ours.”

“You never know,” Steele said. “Dear old dad might surprise you one day.”

I doubted it. But at least I had no regrets. I'd said all I wanted. It was up to my father now.

The one person I still had regrets about was Jim. I hadn't seen or heard from him since the day on the shore nearly a week ago. I couldn't stop thinking of him. Of what he'd said. Of all I hadn't.

The two boys from our kite adventures ran up the path to join us. “Did you bring it?” they asked Steele, their freckled faces bright beneath their cowlicks.

Steele took a folded newspaper from the satchel at his feet and peeled off one sheet.

“That's not a boat!” the younger one whined. “It's only a bit of paper.”

“Hush up, Tommy.” The taller lad elbowed Tommy. “Will you make us a boat, then, Wyatt?”

“Tell you what, boys. I'll do you one better.” Steele spread the newsprint on the gravel at our feet. “I'll
show
you how to make one.”

Tommy groaned. Learning how was not part of his plan—he wanted the boat was all.

“That way when I'm gone,” Steele continued, eyeing them both, “you boys can make your own boats. As many as you want.”

He creased and folded the paper, slowly explaining step by step. Then as if by magic, he flipped the pleats and popped them open into a—

“Boat! It's a boat!” Tommy snatched it and took off for the pond.

“Did you get it, Harry?” Steele asked the older boy who still stood before us. “Will you remember how?”

“I'm not sure.” Harry scratched his head. “I think so.”

“Show me.” Steele handed the lad the rest of the
newspaper. Sure enough, fold by fold, Harry made his own boat. He held it up proudly, his face smudged with newsprint but aglow with pride.

“That, my boy, is one tight ship.” Steele patted him on the shoulder. “Well, go on then. Give it a go.”

Harry ran to join Tommy, who stood at the water gingerly launching his vessel. The paper crafts lingered at the edge but the boys prodded them with sticks, urging them over deeper waters. Sure enough, the boats caught the light breeze and rode the gentle ripples to the middle of the pond as the lads cheered them on.

“Writer. Kite flier. Shipbuilder. A man of many talents,” I teased.

“I'm just glad someone has finally found a use for those damn articles. Speaking of which—” He leaned over and rummaged through his satchel once more. “Here.” He gave me a file.

“The article?” My heart raced as I took it. I didn't want to read it. Didn't want to see how he'd spun my story, what angle he'd taken, what hook, what sensationalized secrets he'd set out in black and white. I swallowed as I opened the file.

I had to look. I had to know.

But inside it wasn't an article; instead, I found a dozen pictures. I lifted up the large prints and stared at the first one: Faith and I reaching to each other in Barnardo's garden, our faces full of joy. Our first meeting. He'd captured that moment and all the feelings that went with it. It amazed me how much a photo could say.

“A thousand words,” Steele said, beside me.

I moved on to the next picture. Faith and I sitting on the
chair, several of the same pose—surely one of these would be the shot he'd run with the article. Then I came to the one of Faith and me caught right after our muck about. I held it up and laughed at the state of us. Our knees and hands muddied, our skirts stained, and the both of us with that same elfish grin, filthy and loving it.

“She looks just like you there,” Steele said.

I'd never seen us together before, never noticed how similar we truly were.

The last two photographs were taken here at the park, on the day I flew the kite. In the first one, I'd been caught running and turning in the foreground, hat blown free as I clutched the bobbin overhead, skirts billowing behind. In the distance, I saw Steele frozen mid-leap and mid-yell as he launched the kite in the air.

“But who—”

“I gave Harry the camera,” Steele explained. “He's not half-bad.”

I skimmed the picture again, chuckling at the fun in it before slipping it to the back. “See?” I eyed Steele. “I told you I could fly a kite.”

My breath caught at the next picture, at the memory of that moment. This one was a close-up of me and Steele together. He stood behind, his arm around me, tugging on the kite string. My hair fell in loose wisps across my face, caught up in the wind. Caught up in the moment. Our gaze was upwards at the kite in the sky, our faces full of wonder and excitement. I hadn't even seen Harry there with the camera.

“That's a great shot,” Steele said.

It seemed so intimate, and yet, it wasn't. Not really. But it
had captured Steele's childlike exuberance. And the moment I'd found mine again. The girl I was. The girl I now know I still am.

Under the last picture lay notebooks. Three black leather flip books, each filled with page after page of his sloping scrawl. Steele's notes. In the margins, he'd scribbled one-word questions—
Collision? Meg? Barnardo's?
Some were circled or underlined twice, but each one like a signpost along the journey we'd just taken. Clues he'd collected to help me find my way through that difficult telling.

Why was he giving it to me now? I looked up at him, unsure what this meant.

“It's a damn interesting story, especially when you add heiress to the end.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as he looked at the boys. “But I won't be writing it.”

“But …” I looked at the notebooks and back at him. “I don't—I don't understand,” I stammered. “Don't you need an article?”

“I have one—a great feature on Dr. Barnardo and his orphanages. I even got some great shots of Winters and the home. It's running in the
Times
and I sold it to the
London Illustrated News
, too. Winters will love that.”

“But what about the editor's job?” He'd told me my story would get him that coveted position.

“Chained to a desk while everyone else gets the scoop?” He waved away the idea. “That's not for me. No, I already told them I'm not interested.”

Confused, I looked back at the notebooks, thumbing slowly through the pages.

“It's all there,” he said. “Every word of it. And the
research, too.” He paused. “Don't get me wrong, the world does need your story—God, and what a story it is. Of struggle and loss. Of survival and perseverance. Of finding Faith and hope and love. Great title, by the way.” He looked at me and smiled his lopsided grin. “But I realized the story isn't mine to tell, Ellen. It's yours.”

I sat there, at a loss for words. I would never have known my story if it wasn't for him. Though I'd hated him at first for making me speak all I'd thought unspeakable, Steele had helped me find my voice. He'd helped me find my daughter. He'd helped me find myself. Like a midwife, he'd been there coaching me through the pain and labour of birthing my truth, and in the end, he'd handed it back to me.

“Oh, and I got you a little something.” He handed me a package wrapped in brown paper. I opened it to find a book of piano music.

I read the cover and smiled. “
Ragtime Favourites by Scott Joplin
.”

“And for the record, a piano is not furniture,” he said. “You'd better know how to play at least one of those by the next time I'm in Liverpool.”

I laughed and promised I would. “When will you be back this way?”

He shrugged. “That depends on the war.”

The world was changing. None of us knew what lay ahead. But it didn't faze Steele.

“My editor has asked me to be the paper's war correspondent.” His eyes sparkled with excitement. “I'm doing it, Ellen. It's not Africa—but it's my own adventure. I leave for the front tomorrow.”

“But isn't it dangerous?” We both knew it was. I suppose every soldier did, too. But they wouldn't let fear stop them. And neither would Steele.

“If I survived your driving lesson,” he teased, “well, then I guess I can handle just about anything.”

He stood and picked up his bag, and I remembered the large envelope I'd brought.

“Wait, I got you a little something, too.” I gave it to him.

Steel slipped out the thirty typed pages, his eyes widening as he read the title. “
The Hero's Journey: A Garrett Dean Adventure by G.B. Hardy
.” He met my eyes. “Is this …”

“Aunt Geraldine's latest manuscript.” I smiled at the reverence he had for it. If anyone would cherish this, it was him.

“I can't take this,” he said, holding it out to me.

“I'm not asking you to take it.” I stood and gently pushed it back, leaving my hand on his. “I'm asking you to
write
it. You know the characters and the voice. You love adventures. Hell, Steele, you even look like Dean.”

Now it was his turn to be speechless.

“I've already talked to Cronin; my aunt's legacy is mine to manage. And I want the best. I want you. Who knows, maybe in this adventure he's a war correspondent.” Already, I could see the seed of an idea sprouting in his mind. “Take as long as you like, but you'd better have at least one chapter by the next time you're in Liverpool.”

“I don't know what to say,” he said, breathless.

“Say yes.”

He grinned like Harry with his paper boat. “You have no
idea what this means to me—to be given a chance to tell this story.”

I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Yes, Steele, I do. I know exactly how it feels.”