Carefully she folded and replaced it, then delved beneath lace-edged cravats, tall boot stockings, and more handkerchiefs than a man could possibly use in a lifetime. To her vast relief, she found extra sheets in the bottom. And atop them, a small leather-bound book.
Gold lettering on the red cover identified it as Hesperides, or The Works Both Human and Divine of Robert Herrick, Esq. Inside, the front page was inscribed in beautiful, flowing script.
“March 1651. Poetry, for my son the dreamer. Your loving Mother.”
Colin, a dreamer? Amy’s lips curved at the thought.
She opened the book to a random page.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Times is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.
Words to live by, were they not? Smiling, she replaced the book and changed the sheets, folding the used ones and leaving them atop the chest. Anxious to explore the castle, she hurried to finish getting ready.
A survey of the ground floor revealed nothing of interest. Narrow slits through the curtain wall let in little light, rendering the unrestored chambers dank and dark. What was left of the furniture was draped in cloth, encrusted with layers of dust sufficient to discourage her from peeking underneath.
She paused at the closed door to Colin’s study, picturing him inside hacking away at his ledgers. She hoped he was suffering mightily, although in truth she had no idea whether he had an aptitude for such work. There was a lot she didn’t know about him, she admitted to herself.
Squaring her shoulders, she made her way to the entry, where the beautifully restored oak staircase renewed her hopes of finding something more intriguing upstairs. She trudged slowly up, then stopped when her gaze lit on her trunk downstairs, still sitting against the wall where Colin had shoved it. What was left of her family lay locked inside.
She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. Months had passed since the fire. What would her father think of the way she’d put off getting on with her life, put off reestablishing the family business she’d promised would continue?
”Oh, Papa!” Her hoarse whisper filled the entry as she lifted her skirts and bolted downstairs for the trunk, then dragged it scraping along the stone floor to the bedchamber. She reached to pull the key from her hem even as she shut the door behind her.
Falling to her knees, she worked the lock with unsteady fingers, then threw open the lid. The tray on top was lifted and dropped to the floor, the box of loose gemstones discarded without a thought. For underneath lay the real treasure: bits of her father wrapped in small squares of white flannel, pieces of his soul etched forever in his exquisite works of art.
She thrust her hands into the trunk, filled both fists with jewelry, then moved to the bed and allowed the pieces to sift through her open fingers…remembering.
THIRTY-THREE
WITH A HEAVY sigh, Colin dropped his head into his hands. His desk was piled high with receipts, his ledgers lined with numbers he’d spent the morning staring at with unfocused eyes.
In fact, he’d found himself unable to focus on anything this morning—anything except Amy Goldsmith.
He twisted the heavy gold ring on his finger distractedly. It was obvious he wasn’t going to accomplish anything today. A glance out the window convinced him he wouldn’t be delivering his distraction to the docks today, either.
The storm was waning, but the snow still fell steadily and the drifts were deep. His rumbling stomach reminded him it was past noon and Amy had offered to prepare dinner.
Leaving the study without bothering to don a cloak, Colin briefly poked his head into each of the empty downstairs chambers, then dashed through the freezing great hall and into the kitchen. He’d laid a fire for her earlier, hoping she’d be inspired to prepare something hot.
But she was nowhere to be found. Quick glances into the pantry and buttery also failed to reveal her presence. There was nothing bubbling in the stew pot nor any other evidence she’d been at work.
Was she lost? No, Greystone was too small to be confusing. Hurt, perhaps? That was a possibility. Despite all the time and money he’d spent on restorations, the structure was still in bad shape; she could have tripped and twisted her ankle, or even worse.
He set out grimly to find her, back through the great hall and the ceaseless snow.
Once in the entry, his gaze swept up the stairs, and he remembered the library. Of course, he thought, relieved. Ford had told him of the countless hours she’d spent in Cainewood’s library. She must have discovered his library and lost track of the time, forgetting about dinner altogether.
He took the steps two at a time, ran to the back of the upper level, and burst through the library door.
No—she wasn’t here. Nor had she been here. Not a speck of the considerable dust was displaced; the titles on the neat rows of books were as obscured by grime as ever.
Amy couldn’t have found this room and left it undisturbed. It was completely against her nature to ignore a room full of books, regardless of its filth and neglect.
She wasn’t in any of the other upstairs chambers, either. His heart started pounding as he once again imagined her stuck somewhere, arms or legs broken, perhaps lying in the freezing snow or at the bottom of the oubliette. He should have toured her around the castle and offered to help her prepare dinner.
What had he been thinking?
He’d been thinking about getting away from her for a while, that was what. He’d been pretending she had no effect on his life, that he could set to work as usual, regardless of her presence. He’d been
