Page 22 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House

Oliver sat at the edge of the Shadowbrook dock, his shoes beside him, trouser legs rolled up to his knees. His feet dangled into the gentle flow of the river. When he’d sat here as a boy, his feet had only reached the water when the river was close to overflowing its banks.

He stared into the water, remembering the way he’d watched boats slip along the current, squinting toward the wooden hulls, imagining how his life might be different.

If he were a cabin boy, he could climb the mast of a huge vessel, scurrying up to the crow’s nest to deliver a message or spy out an approaching ship.

On a ship, he’d be useful. Needed. Seen.

A life at sea was never truly an option for Oliver.

It was only a fantasy. His tutors made it clear his uncle expected him to excel in more gentle pursuits, so he studied his lessons, even if half--heartedly, and he drew his pictures.

Sketches of things he saw and things he dreamed filled pages of notebooks.

He covered each scrap of paper he found with his drawings.

And then he hid them away, knowing such a frivolous hobby would displease his uncle.

Only when Oliver left Shadowbrook to attend school did he allow himself to consider sketching as a talent worthy of his effort.

This led to rewarding work with builders, architects, and restorationists.

He knew his circumstances as heir to Shadowbrook didn’t require him to seek a profession, but the modern age allowed him to explore options that would not have been available decades before.

Options such as the sale of the house.

Here on the dock, Oliver could picture a busy workforce loading and unloading fabrics and clothing, a smart factory building rising behind him.

It could employ so many of the local families, give a new opportunity to those who previously had few choices if they wished to remain in this part of Hampshire.

Oliver opened the prepared contract, rereading the words written by the Campbell Company’s solicitors.

He knew their offer was based on an agreement he’d made without Uncle Arthur’s approval, and Oliver would need to convince the old man to see the sale of the property his way before he signed.

But he also knew any further delay would put the entire operation in jeopardy.

The Campbell’s agent required a signed contract before the end of the month, and the days were passing faster than he could have imagined.

He needed to move the process forward to its inevitable and best end. After the sales arrangement was finalized, there would be no further need to discuss Shadowbrook. Money would be plentiful, and new opportunity would open itself to Oliver and his uncle.

He only needed to convince Arthur the sale was the best outcome for Maxwell.

Since Maxwell was Uncle Arthur’s priority, it should be an easy task.

Oliver turned around and faced Shadowbrook.

Which room was Uncle Arthur in right now?

What was the old man doing? Why was he determined to deny Oliver this—the only thing he’d asked for in years?

As he turned back to gaze over the water again, a gust of wind ripped the contract from his hand and sent it fluttering out to the water.

With an agility he hadn’t made use of in years, Oliver ran after it. He saw the white paper spin in an eddy at the river’s edge. Before he reached the water, the paper had sunk beneath the ripples and disappeared.

He considered going in after it, but only for a moment. It was only paper. He could request a new copy of the document.

But there was little time for such setbacks if the contract was to be completed this month.

Gentle, misty rain began to fall, the spreading branches of the nearest trees forming a frame for the gray drizzle.

Oliver wished Maxwell was well enough to come out and join him.

There was no pleasure like feeling a soft mist while listening to the rushing sounds of the water from the Shadowbrook dock.

And getting the boy away from the smells, the noises, and the permeating fears and worries of Shadowbrook House could only do him good.

Oliver leaned against a tree trunk and pulled another folded paper out of his pocket. The barest sketch of Maxwell’s face, head thrown back in a joyful laugh, peeked out of the charcoal lines.

He took the pencil from behind his ear and began again, letting each line grow beneath his fingers. Instead of a realistic representation, the sketch gave the idea of Maxwell. The curve of his ear, the upturned wrinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiled.

Without thinking about it, he moved his pencil to the space opposite and sketched another line, this one longer and more delicate.

He added a few short strokes, a curve, and a shaded area, and Pearl’s image emerged out of the marks.

He was far more comfortable drawing buildings than people, but her face was firmly etched in his mind—the fine lines of her lashes and the curve of her lips.

The sounds of the river tumbling by accompanied the soft drift of his pencil across the paper, and before long, he had filled the page with sketches of Pearl’s face, her hands, her mouth.

In each drawing, she smiled out of the paper at him as she had last night, her face holding both invitation and challenge.

He hoped that expression would always be so easy to call to his mind.

None of the drawings showed Pearl’s look of frustration she often wore when Oliver was nearby.

She told him he was frustrating. Infuriating.

But the smile he called to mind showed she also felt something different about him.

Something more pleasant. Something that led to late-night kisses in hallways.

What would Oliver need to do to give Pearl a reason to see him in this more positive light?

His words to Uncle Arthur had hurt her, and she forgave him when he apologized.

He was sincere in his regret, even if he still firmly believed Maxwell needed more specialized care than he could get at Shadowbrook.

The words were wrong, even if the ideas behind them were for the best. He’d take care never to speak with such thoughtlessness again, but how could he prove to her his suggestions were only in the interest of the household?

Why did she resist the change so clearly best for Maxwell?

All his attempts to discuss it had resulted in her irritation and annoyance.

He understood her experience at Shadowbrook was different from his, but it seemed impossible she couldn’t see things from his point of view.

Convincing her might take as much effort as talking Arthur into selling the house, but Oliver looked forward to giving Pearl an excuse to change her mind.