“Her mother had taken ill. Clemmie had received a letter in the day’s post and departed by nightfall.”
“Yes. That’s it. Again, I never saw her off. Strange that she’s never written to us since, if even to let us know her mother’s condition.”
“Out of sight, out of mind, so the saying goes. Probably Clemmie forgot all about us in the turmoil of caring for her mother.” Grosvenor smiled at her. “You’re a suspicious sort this morning. What’s bothering you?”
“Why, nothing at all.”
Minerva laid aside her shovel, and pulling together, they dragged the post stump from its bed. Then they carried a fresh post from the cart and, with some huffing and puffing, placed it in the hole. They paused to catch their breaths.
“Minerva,” said Grosvenor, “you must understand the differences here at Bonaventure.” He cleaned his glasses on his handkerchief. “We strive for egalitarianism, it’s true. But in the end, it doesn’t exist.”
“How is that?”
“Because it’s my name on the deed.” He replaced the glasses on his nose. “I speak plainly with you because as my daughter you bear some of the risk. Subscribers—people, friends—may come and go to Bonaventure, and take it and leave it as they wish. And that is precisely what they do, in the end. They come for a while, as it suits them, and then depart, again, as it suits them.”
“There are the subscriptions, however. It’s not as simple as rolling a mattress into a bindle and wandering off down the road.”
“No, you’re right—and thank Providence for that. If it weren’t for those stakes in Bonaventure, the turnover would be even higher. Yet even such money is no firm tether. Mr. Bradway asked for his money back, which I returned immediately. Mr. Sutton will probably do so once the full flush of his embarrassment passes. As I recall, Clemmie Russell never paid that much to begin with, so little was lost there.” He looked hard and frank at her. “If Bonaventure fails, then the members lose only what they’ve paid. They can always return to their old lives or start over again somewhere new. But if it fails, we—you and I and your mother—will be bankrupted. We will be indebted and hounded by creditors, forced into penury. In a word: ruined. We have much more to lose than the any of the rest. So much more. That’s why I wouldn’t worry yourself over departures. Let them go. We’re the ones who can’t leave.”
Minerva nodded and bit her lip, the gravity of her father’s words falling on her like a shadow. And yet they still didn’t quite explain an absence of simple good-byes.
•••
The following morning, as she descended the staircase, Minerva saw the young man before he saw her.
He sat on the bench by the front parlor window, his arm on the ledge, the other idly fingering the planter’s hat in his lap. As he gazed through the glass his head was turned slightly from her, and with her mind’s scissors, Minerva couldn’t help but cut the sharply defined features of his silhouette from black card stock. She was sure he was unaware of her presence, and yet the way he sat seemed almost a pose, as if he was an artist’s model silently listening to the pen or the brush as it moved over a canvas. For whom the pose was intended Minerva couldn’t guess, unless it was something learned after a lifetime of being self-conscious about his own handsomeness until it finally became unself-conscious.
Not willing to be caught staring, Minerva intentionally brought her foot down on a specific lower step. At the stair’s squeak, the man sprang to his feet.
“Beg your pardon, miss,” said the man, “I didn’t see you there.” His face was scrupulously clean shaven.
“Another new recruit! No need for begging or pardons at Bonaventure.” She held out her hand. “I’m Minerva Grosvenor. So glad you’re ready to join our undertaking.”
Instead of shaking her hand, however, he pressed it to his lips before releasing it. “I have to beg your pardon again, Miss Grosvenor. I’m not here to join your commune.”
“Oh?”
“I have some business with your father, David—I presume he’s your father?”
“Yes, that’s right.” He did not strike Minerva as a banker or businessman; his clothes were too simple, his sleeves and hems too worn from travel. “And you are?”
“My name’s Isaac Rose. I introduced myself to one of the other ladies of the house and she let me in. She said your father had gone for a walk but would return soon and I should wait.”
“I see. I apologize for the mistake.”
“No apology necessary, miss. I’m actually glad his absence provides an opportunity to wait. I am in awe of the view outside your window.” He gestured with his hat toward his former perch. “I’ve been told that nothing is finer than New England in the autumn, and I’d yet to behold it until these last few days.”
“I’m afraid you’re a few weeks past our best foliage.” Minerva detected a slight drawl in his voice. “Have you traveled from the south?”
“I am from the south originally, miss—northern Georgia, in fact. But I’ve most recently come east from Ohio, where I was traveling for work.”
“That’s a fair distance to travel. I hope your trip was a success.”
“It was not, I’m afraid to say. But I believe I may find more fruitful results here in Connecticut.”
“And what is your profession?”
Rose hesitated before answering, smiling a bashful smile. “I find people who are missing. Long-lost relatives, folks who may have inherited wealth. Folks who have something coming to them.”
Involuntarily, Minerva stepped closer to him. “Like a ratiocinator?”
Rose looked at her, then smiled again. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that word means.”
“I apologize. It means, an investigator. Someone who investigates a mysterious event or circumstance—like, say, a crime—and determines the truth of it.”
“Well, I don’t investigate crimes so much, although I’m sorry to say that too often the circumstances of
