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I sigh and take it from her expectant hand. Why would Mr. Barrett want anything to do with this? As much as it pains me to think about, he’s probably relieved that his friend has stepped aside. And Mr. Barrett’s a gentleman, a true one, not like Mr. Pierce. Our checkered past won’t deter him from pursuing Catherine.
“I don’t think we should be dragging Mr. Barrett into this or that he’ll want to help. He—”
“Of course he will. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’ll answer you anything, and he’ll straighten this whole mess out with August. Besides, he confided in me before, remember?” She gives me a sly look out of the corner of her eye. “He’ll want to help me.”
* * *
I could ask Joe to take me in the carriage to Barrett House, but hitching up the horses and then being jostled about for such a short trip hardly seems worth it. Besides, Mother might want to make calls and would need the carriage for that. I go find Ada, who’s in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she rolls out a piecrust. She looks up when I come in.
“Yes, miss?”
“I need go to Barrett House to deliver something, but you’re busy. It can wait.”
She wipes her floured hands on her apron. “Is Joe not about? I’m sure he would deliver it for you. No need to trouble yourself.”
“No,” I say quickly. “That is, I have to deliver it.”
She gives me a queer look, no doubt wondering why I don’t go with Mother as a chaperone if I’m bent on making a trip there. But she doesn’t question me and just says, “If you wait a few minutes until I tidy up I can go with you.”
I hate to trouble her when she’s busy, and while she’s brushing the flour off the table I start to wonder what would happen if I went on my own. Maybe I don’t need a chaperone at all. I could just slip the letter for Mr. Pierce under the door and be on my way. And if Mr. Barrett is home and happens to come out to see who’s at the door, why, I could hardly be blamed for that, could I?
My mind fixes on the idea. Why should Catherine be able to buck convention whenever she pleases? Why shouldn’t I be able to see Mr. Barrett during an innocent errand? I feel reckless and excited.
Ada is taking off her apron and rolling her sleeves back down. “On second thought, I think I’ll just go for a walk. I’ll have Joe deliver it later.”
I can hardly meet her eye as she frowns, studying the flush of color at my neck. “All right, miss. If you say so.”
Feeling more than a little guilty about lying to Ada, yet at the same time breathless and eager to be out on my own, I set off for Barrett House.
21
BEFORE I LEAVE,I tuck my weathered copy ofThe Italianunder my arm. It’s one of my favorites, with lots of twists and turns, a dashing hero and luscious Italian scenery. It positively drips with romance. Most important, it has a happy ending.
I’ve never been to Barrett House before, and rather than taking the shorter, more direct route through the woods and around the pond, I set off down the looping, winding road. I don’t think I could stand to pass so close to the willow tree today, nor to see the flat rocks littered in freshly fallen leaves, a reminder that the world moves on from that fateful summer day.
Twice I nearly turn back, talking myself out of it. I’m supposed to be the good one, the dutiful daughter. What am I doing walking alone to meet a man at his house? What if Father found out? And what if I get there, showing up alone and unannounced and Mr. Barrett is put off by my forwardness?
He hasn’t come by since that day in my room. I pause on the dirt road. He’s probably busy, with the land deal and drafting plans for the new mill. Again I think of Mrs. Tidewell and what she said about an engagement, and I can’t squash the little niggling voice in my head that says,He was just being nice. He pitied you, that’s all.
But whatever my excuse for making my way to him, the promise of seeing him is too great, and as I start walking again a thousand little thoughts of him send tremors through my body. Like the place where his starched white collar meets the narrow, tender strip of lightly tanned skin of his neck. Him absently caressing Snip’s ears in my room. The calmness that surrounds him, belied only by the smallest fidget in his fingers when he is deep in thought. All those little things that make my heart beat faster and my stomach fluttery are just around the next bend of the road. I walk a little faster.
When I finally come upon the house, I stop in my tracks. This can’t be the right place. The neat little white home tucked under the generous shade of an elm tree is nothing like the shabby house that Mrs. Tidewell described. An equally neat white fence hems the property, broken only by an arbor arching over the front path. In the spring it must be beautiful, with trailing roses and clematis, and even in the drab, late days of autumn it’s cozy and welcoming.
So this was the home that Mr. Barrett’s father built after the tragedy where Willow Hall stands. I was expecting peeling paint and broken shutters, signs of the senior Mr. Barrett’s anger and hatred imprinted in the house. But there’s nothing sinister about the curl of smoke coming from the chimney, nor the late-blooming asters that cluster around the path. The tightness in my jaw softens, and I relax. John lives here, how could I have thought it anything but completely charming?
I climb the steps to knock on the front door, but it’s already pushed halfway open.
“Hello?” I call softly into the front hall, hoping that a maid will intercept me and tell me that Mr. Barrett is out and that I better just go home after all. I call again and no one comes.
With equal parts relief and disappointment, I turn to go, when the low murmur of a voice stops me. I freeze, my hand on the open door. It’s too quiet to hear the words, but it’s a man’s voice. Maybe Mr. Pierce is still here. The thought of confronting him on Catherine’s behalf makes my stomach drop. But I promised her, and I have a vested interest in the answer, so against my better judgment I slip into the hall.
The voice grows louder, carrying through the first door on the left, which is just cracked open. I should knock loudly, make myself known. Instead I creep up to the door, putting my ear against the crack.
It’s Mr. Barrett, but he’s not talking to another man, certainly not Mr. Pierce. He’s speaking softly, lovingly. The way a man speaks to a woman.
I shouldn’t be here. Mr. Barrett is with a woman and it’s none of my business. But just as I’m turning to go, the floor under my foot lets out a long, protesting creak. His voice breaks off. My elbow brushes the door the rest of the way open and I have no choice but to stand my ground like the spy that I am.
But when I look up, it’s not a woman in Mr. Barrett’s arms.