Page 4 of Willow (Out on a Limb #4)

In Which a Mystery Reveals Itself

“You did what?”

Harry managed to keep his voice relatively calm, although his brain felt as if it was on the verge of erupting like a volcano.

“Well, I should think it’s obvious.”

Willow’s chin went up, in that particular way that all the Trease women seemed to have. If the matter under discussion hadn’t been so serious, he might have grinned, but as he was still reeling from her revelation, he let it pass.

“Explain to me, if you would be so kind,” he breathed slowly, “how it is that you, a young woman of good birth and excellent family, should do something so bloody stupid as to risk your reputation by claiming to be my wife?” He blew out an angry breath. “For God’s sake, woman. Have you no sense at all?”

She glared at him. “It was either that, or let you die.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I am not.” She rose and began to pace. “Madam had gone, but she asked me to promise her something before she died.”

“What did she ask?”

“She asked that I stay here until he arrived. Only then could I leave, and I would know when the time was right.”

“Well, that sounds utterly ridiculous…” he began.

“I know,” Willow continued. “And I’m still not sure exactly what or who she meant by it. I went through what few papers Madame had left, but there was no clue whatsoever as to the meaning of her request.”

“I see.”

“So, when an injured man was dumped at my doorstep, unconscious and clearly quite ill, I had no choice but to take him in. He turned out to be you.” She spun on her heel and returned to the table, sitting down forcefully. “Mrs Smithers, a wonderful woman who lives next door, saw the trouble I was in and has been helping ever since.” Her shoulders sagged. “What else could I say, Harry? You were lying there on the floor, and I truly had no idea if you were still alive. When she tapped on the door and offered her assistance, I had to accept. And the only thing it occurred to me to say was that you were my husband.”

“I see,” he said again, watching her face.

“I spun a neat tale about you having been travelling on business and professed my ignorance as to what had happened to your horse. And it all worked.”

Harry watched as she poured tea, noting the tiny tremor of her hands as the kettle clinked against the china mugs.

Pushing one across the table, she met his gaze at last. “My hope is that this…this…pretense will go no further than Little Witham. I see no reason why it should. And once you are recovered and on your way, I shall remain here for a little while longer, announce that you have left on business, and that I will be able to join you once I’ve sold this house.”

“Ah.” He reached out for the mug and cradled it in his hands, staring now at the fire, his thoughts turning over what he’d been told. “You would sell, then? Or wait until this mysterious person arrives?”

“I cannot live here forever, Harry. Although this place has its charms, I miss Forest Grange and my family. Ashe and Florinda are due to have a baby soon, Cherry is married, and Holly announced her engagement just before Christmas.” She sighed. “The family is doing what families do…marrying, settling into their own lives. When I do go home, it may well be to an empty house.”

He managed a chuckle. “That will not happen, Willow. Your parents will always have family there, and it will always be a home to you all. Although ’tis good to hear that your brother and sisters are happily settled.”

“You’ve been away for quite some time, but you must know you’re a part of the Trease family, don’t you?”

“After they learn what you’ve done, dear girl, I’m likely to be thrown out on my ear.”

“Don’t be stupid.” She shot him an angry glare. “How will they know?”

“There’s always someone who will discover something, some hint or whisper of impropriety. Someone’s aunt or cousin who lives nearby and heard a rumour, and passed it to her third cousin twice removed who happens to be close to the young man walking out with Lady Jersey’s seamstress…” He stared at her. “The name Trease is not unknown in London, Willow. And you know as well as I that there is always a thirst for the new and the scandalous.”

“I don’t care.” She stared back at him. “Since my other option was to let you die, I think I made the right choice, even if I have to spend the rest of my life hidden away in a nunnery.”

Harry dropped his head and laughed, weakly, but with humour. “A bit Shakespearean, dear girl.”

“Oh be quiet and drink your tea. Eat something too.”

Obeying her command, he picked up some bread and butter, then took a bite, letting his gaze roam around the room as he did so. He was warm, felt almost human despite his blasted ankle, and in a way, strangely comfortable.

“Tell me about your Madame Lépine. She had an interest in art, apparently.” He narrowed his eyes at an impressive painting over the fireplace. A large canvas depicting ships, some with sails fully hoisted, against a turbulent sky. One looked as if it was firing a cannon, but perhaps it was a salute, since there was no hint of a battle.

“She was a wonderful lady,” Willow answered his question. “A splendid tutor, and someone who made sure that the lessons were interesting. She was very knowledgeable about many things, an astute politician, according to Papa, who had many lively discussions with her, and someone who—I believe—shared his distaste for Napoleon.” She shrugged. “How right she was.”

“Do you know who did that painting?” A casual question, no more, since Harry did not want to discuss the situation in France with Willow. It was too terrible for her tender ears.

“I believe it was a Dutch painter. Hendrik somebody or other.” She sipped her tea, unaware that Harry had stilled at the name. “Wait, I have it. Hendrik VanDerVries. You can see his name scrawled in the lower corner, but it’s barely legible. Madame told me who he was. A friend of her family from a long time ago, I believe.”

“Ahh.”

“You know his work?”

“No. No, I don’t. But I will say I find it most pleasing.” His thoughts whirled. “Willow? When do you think I’ll be able to return home?”

She looked at him, her expression one of puzzlement at his rapid change of topic. “I…I would think you might be fit to travel within a few days if your ankle heals adequately. A carriage, of course. No riding for a while.”

“I see.”

“I shall have to stay here. I will honour my promise to Madame.”

“There will be no need for that, dear girl.”

“But…”

“Willow, you have kept your word.” His voice was calm and steady. “It’s time for you to leave.”

“Wait. You mean…” Her face showed every thought that raced across her mind. “You? You are the person Madame was waiting for?”

He had no other choice but to tell her the truth. “Yes.”

*~~*~~*

Willow felt her jaw drop for a few moments, then collected herself and snapped it shut.

“I…” Words failed her as she struggled to understand the implications of his statement, whatever they were.

“It’s all right,” he soothed. “And it’s a very long story, so…” he winced a little. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to rest a bit more before we have that conversation.”

He was indeed pale, and she rose without thinking about it, going to place her hand on his forehead. “Well, no fever, thank God. But you do need to get your strength back.”

“I will, I’m sure.” He managed to stand, using the table for stability, and then accepted her shoulder, allowing her to support his slow limping progress back to bed.

She remained silent until he was tucked up once more.

“This is a mess, isn’t it?” She stared at him, trying to read his expression. “I can’t begin to imagine what sort of business you might have had with Madame, Harry. And now I’ve put you in a difficult position with my subterfuge. I am so sorry…”

He reached out and took her hand firmly. “Stop. We will find a solution. Trust me.” He sighed and let her go, wearily sinking back onto the bed. “But I must get back on my feet first.”

“I know. And now you’re well enough to get out of bed, we’ll work on that.” She straightened his pillow. “Tomorrow.”

Harry sighed. “What is the number of this house, Willow?”

She blinked. “Seven. It’s number seven, Sea Lane.”

To her surprise, he managed a weak grin. “Of course it is.” He turned his head toward her and sighed. “Life is very strange sometimes.”

She wholeheartedly agreed with that sentiment but simply nodded. “Go to sleep.”

“All right.”

Within a minute or so, his eyes had closed, and his breathing eased into a steady rhythm. She’d become accustomed to the sound, to his occasional snoring, and found it comforting. More so now that he was clearly on the road to recovery.

She left his room, partially closing the door, and went to stoke up the fire and finish her tea. The bread and butter would serve her as a meal for the night, since she wasn’t very hungry. Her mind wandered to food, and she planned a larger breakfast than usual; eggs, of which she still had several, perhaps some bacon—if he could eat it—would do him good…

Running through her habitual activities, tidying up dishes, putting things ready for the morning, Willow’s mind tried to make sense out of Harry’s dramatic announcement.

Obviously, there must have been some connection between him and Madame.

Or, given his odd question about the house number, perhaps he’d been told to find this building, rather than Madame herself?

Her tenure here in this place had been…emotional, to say the least. There’d barely been chance for her to recover from losing Madame before Harry arrived so unceremoniously. Tonight, she would take some time to breathe; her patient was on the road to recovery, the house business was settled, and all she had to do was put the dishes away. Then she could think.

Her book was awaiting her by the fire, the one she’d begun a few days ago. A lovely tale that had intrigued her from the very beginning. But as she crossed to her chair, she realised she’d done little to clean out the few things that Madame had left.

The books she’d take with her, if she could. There weren’t many, but they carried memories, and she felt responsible for them. The bookshelves themselves were simple, and now mostly empty. One or two small pottery pieces, for flowers perhaps, and an empty trinket box.

The only drawer that still contained anything was the one Madame had used to store her bills and other important paperwork. The deed to the house, now in Willow’s name, was there. There were a few other sheets, some in their own leather folders. Perhaps it was time to take a closer look and see if any might be relevant to Harry’s mysterious revelation.

Settling in her chair, the fire happily warming her toes, Willow put the pile of papers she’d retrieved on the table beside her and began to review them, wondering if she could have missed anything.

Most were routine.

A list of neighbours and comments about them, written in French. Probably quite wise, chuckled Willow as she read the sometimes-pithy observations. Madame had missed nothing from her spot on the wharf.

Mr Hardesty was, according to her, courting Mistress Donegan. And the lady was interested enough to allow him an overnight visit or two.

Well, well. Willow smiled in amusement. Since neither would see sixty again, it probably wouldn’t cause too much of a scandal.

Other notes marked the comings and goings of shipping. Madame had indeed enjoyed the sight of ships of all sizes sailing past her window, and she had encouraged Willow to join her in inventing cargoes and home ports, making a delightful game of it. They’d passed more than a few afternoons that way.

Most of the rest of the papers were accounts, bills paid, services received and also paid. John the Woodsman had made a recent delivery, which accounted for the healthy pile of logs by the back door. And he had been paid too.

Madame had been efficient, and financially responsible. Probably why she had been held in esteem by the villagers. Anyone who honoured their bills on time and in full…well, nobody cared where she was from. She was a good neighbour and customer. That was enough.

There was one small, folded card, and to Willow’s delight, it contained a dried flower and a few scrawled words.

“ Je t’aime pour toujours ,” she read aloud. “I love you forever.”

What a tale must lie within that sentiment. Willow sighed, sad that she’d never know the story behind them, but pleased that someone had loved Madame at some point in her life.

The last envelope lay on the table, and as she reached for it a soft snore sounded from the bedroom. Satisfied that her charge was sleeping, she unfolded the paper and began to read the contents.

Puzzled, she held it up closer to the light.

“The 4th, 75 and more. Over 100 times four.”

And another line…

“Browns, one white, over 50 times four.”

Several more lines like these had Willow frowning, as did more notes that were just letters and numbers in a confusion of nonsense.

And the bottom line “C will lk 4 VDV. Approve.”

Was it a puzzle, perhaps? Had Madame idly scribbled a shopping list in terms known only to herself? Browns could be eggs, as could whites. But by no means of the imagination could Willow see anyone buying up two hundred eggs.

She put the paper carefully back in its little folder, then rested her head against the chair and stared into the fire, letting her mind roam freely over the strange words. Nothing fit, nothing matched anything she could put her finger on.

Restless now, she rose and began to put out the candles, knowing she had to get some sleep in case Harry woke and found himself worse. Of course, she prayed this would not happen, but one could never be certain when it came the human body.

Her gaze caught the painting he’d admired, and she neared it, appreciating the fine brushstrokes that gave movement and life to the sailing ship cresting the waves.

Perhaps Mr VanDerVries had been on a wharf like this one…

She stilled. VanDerVries.

VDV.

Rushing back to the note, she unfolded it and read it again. “C will lk 4 VDV. Approve.”

VDV. Could it be? It would be a very strong coincidence…and the C…

Good God. C for Chalmers.

Harry had come here and found that painting. He wasn’t here by accident—he was here on purpose.

But why?