Page 22 of A Brush With Love at Brookview Hall (Noble Hearts)

Nineteen

JULIA

T here was no question, no more room for doubt.

They had talked about the tobacco, the tea, about other goods.

They were concerned that nobody happen upon the cottage, but why?

When she left, she was quite certain there was nothing in the space to raise any alarm.

Not that she had seen much when she entered the previous afternoon, thick and dark as it was, but upon leaving, in the early moments of morning when sunlight spilled through the broken window, only the small boxes (which she confirmed held ordinary supplies such as tools, forestry supplies such as axes and saws, a selection of ropes, and the like) and the table and chairs, which had been pushed against one wall, stood witness to whatever had transpired last night.

There were no boxes of stolen tobacco, no bags of contraband tea, no crates of illicit brandy.

Only the ordinary objects one expects to find in an outbuilding.

What, then, had been going on?

This Julia turned over and over in her head as she lay back once more against the back of the copper tub, revelling in the warm water that swirled gently about her.

She had stumbled into the house shortly after seven o’clock in the morning, freezing and filthy.

Her explanation—that she had been walking and was caught in the storm and took shelter in one of the storage sheds—was accepted without question.

It was true, after all. Everybody muttered about how the storm had come out of nowhere, and how frightened they had been, how worried for her.

She was sent immediately to rid herself of her ruined frock and wrap herself in more blankets, these clean and soft, then was made to sit before the blazing fire in the kitchens and plied with hot tea while somebody heated water for a bath.

Then, after Mrs Sanders had assured herself that Julia was simply cold and tired, and had not taken ill, she was left in a toasty room off the kitchen to warm up and cleanse herself. It was heaven.

Or, it would be, if the questions did not keep coming.

It had to be smuggling. There was no other explanation.

And Cornelius had to be involved, for she had found in his cottage exactly what the men had spoken of.

Tea. Tobacco. Brandy. His strange, elusive behaviour, his rambles, the scuffle he had been involved in, that mysterious meeting…

it all fit, all made sense. But where were the goods?

The men had spoken as if the contraband were there in the cottage with them, but there had been nothing.

Julia ducked her head under the water to rinse her hair. Oh, how wonderful it was to be warm and clean again. She hoped the blanket she had found in the cottage did not have lice. Nothing itched, thank the heavens.

At last, clean and mostly dry, she was bustled up the back stairs by the housekeeper, who insisted she rest for the remainder of the day, while Miss Kingstone minded the children.

Too tired to object, Julia took to her bed and drifted to sleep.

Disturbing dreams troubled her slumber. They started pleasantly enough, with sweet glimpses of her former life, full of laughter, pretty frocks, and beautiful music.

Her friends, a cheerful crowd, an elegant ball.

Then the glittering lights of the chandelier faded and the shadows grew threatening.

She was no longer dancing, but was stealing through dark rooms and hiding in corners, then fleeing, running for her life down endless hallways, banging on locked doors, crying for help, as he drew closer and closer.

It was like before, but now there was something else.

A flashing light, off in the distance. One, two, a count of three, one, two.

Lights in the channel, pounding footsteps, flash flash, heavy breath, flash flash, coming closer and closer…

One more step, and another, but it was too late. Rough hands grabbed her and?—

Julia woke with a start, her heart pounding and her forehead drenched with perspiration.

That dream… it was back. She struggled to calm her breathing and take stock of her thoughts.

Why had this nightmare returned? It had been years since the last one.

Was it the lights she had seen, or the alarm of hearing those voices in the outbuilding by the cliffs? Or was it something else?

Cornelius… the smugglers… What dreadful confusion she felt about him.

He was fascinating and brilliant, tender and unreserved, and mixed up in some terrible and felonious activities that she could never condone.

And she had allowed him to kiss her, to put her very future in jeopardy, and she had enjoyed every second of it.

Her heart began pounding again in anguish.

There would be no more sleep. Somewhere in the house, a clock struck noon.

She had rested for long enough. But no productive activity was possible.

She tried to read, but could not focus on the words, and then started and abandoned three letters to her friend Dorothea.

Even should she finish one, she knew she could never post it.

These attempts would not even find their way to the pile in her bottom drawer, but would be consigned to the fire.

Question after question continued to assail her, like the waves of a stormy sea, endless and relentless, coming one after the next without any intermittent reprieve. The smugglers, his involvement with them… that kiss that she ought to have spurned but could not resist.

She needed to speak to him, to confront him once and for all. She needed to have the truth. Perhaps that would clear him from her thoughts. But oh, how could she approach him now? What could she say? The torment of indecision gnawed at her.

No! It was decided. If she did not find him and speak her piece, she would never be rid of him. As difficult as it might be, there was no alternative. It must be done, and as soon as possible. She had to find him now.

The halls were empty as she made her way downstairs to the back door by the kitchen, and no one stopped her as she strode off across the gardens towards the studio.

She was only the governess, after all. No one paid much attention to her unless she did wrong.

No one saw her, save Cornelius. He saw her all too clearly.

And now she must castigate him thoroughly and send him away.

He was not at the cottage, but his easel was missing as well.

He could not be far. A few more moments brought her to the edge of the woods, where she could see across the fields towards the cliffs.

There he was, at the brink of the precipice, where the cliff path wound its treacherous way down the coast. His latest masterpiece was on the easel before him, his paints on the small table at his side.

She took a step, then another, until she was just at the edge of the woods. She froze.

No. She could not do this. It was madness to think of it. Better to fly back to the house, tell Mr Derriscott she could not work with the artist any longer, and avoid him for the rest of his tenure at Brookview Hall. It would not be easy, but she would manage somehow.

She would have to learn to forget those enticing blue eyes and that easy grin, the insightful observations and the way he made her pulse flutter. Forget him , she commanded herself. He is bad. Dangerous. He is not for you .

Perhaps she had made a sound, or perhaps he felt her presence, but as Julia was about to melt back into the woods, Cornelius spun about and caught her in his gaze.

“Julia.”

The word sounded through the air, drawing her as if by a magnet. Her feet betrayed her and carried her across the field to where he stood in his paint-streaked smock.

His creation was all but complete, a serene seascape which he was now gilding with delicate pale highlights to bring it into perfect relief. He was a cad and a scoundrel, and most likely a criminal as well, but he was a brilliant artist. What a loss for the country.

“Julia! What brings you here? I heard you had taken ill. I was worried?—”

She swallowed, willing herself to be strong.

“Do not lull me with your sweet words, Cornelius, and do not try to distract me again. I need answers, real ones. Enough with the lies. Confess it all.”

He let his hand holding the paintbrush drop and he stepped back from the canvas. His shoulders sagged as he let out a ragged breath. With his free hand, he brushed a fallen lock of hair off his forehead, exposing the last greenish tinges of his bruise to the bright sunshine.

“You will not believe me, no matter what I say. I only ask you to have faith in me.”

“That is not an answer, Cornelius. You say you trust me, you beg me to trust you, but you tell me nothing. How can I believe you when all I hear are evasions and lies?”

Now his chin snapped up. “I have never lied to you. I admit to… to leaving out some details, but I have never told an outright falsehood. I cannot explain. I wish with all my heart that I could but… but there are others involved.”

Yes, she had seen those others, at the mysterious meeting in the woods.

“You are doing it again.” The ire rose in her blood and her voice grew stronger. “You are trying to change the subject, to mislead by avoidance.”

His lips twitched into what might be a hint of a smile.

“Is this what I must do to reveal the real Julia, tucked beneath your careful disguise? Must I always make you angry? You ask what I am doing, but I might ask the same of you. What has happened to you, that you always hide beneath your armour? Your secret is buried deeper than mine.”

His words struck like arrows.

“I have no idea what you mean,” she retorted. “And you are changing the subject again.”

Carefully, with deliberate motions, he rinsed his brush and laid it on the table, alongside its fellows. Then he walked towards her, slow and languorous steps that made her mouth dry. She stepped backwards.