Chương 4
Julian sat very still.
Owen’s voice became smaller. “Am I going to the bad school?”
“What bad school?”
“The one where children go when they steal.”
Nora closed her eyes for a moment.
Julian’s chair scraped the floor as he stood. The movement was fast enough to startle Owen, and Julian immediately stopped.
“No,” he said, softer. “There is no bad school. You are not being sent anywhere.”
“Aunt Celeste said—”
“I know.”
The two words held more anger than a shout.
Julian walked to the window. Outside, snow had begun to fall in scattered flakes over the formal gardens and the dark line of Narragansett Bay beyond them. He touched the glass with his fingertips, then turned.
“Nora, I gave you an instruction not to let anyone speak to him.”
“She spoke to him before you arrived in the library.”
Julian looked at Owen. “Today?”
The boy nodded.
“In the study?”
Another nod.
“What did she say?”
Owen’s mouth closed.
Nora felt the question pushing him toward the place he had just escaped. “He has answered enough.”
Julian looked at her, perhaps unused to being interrupted in his own house. The irritation came and went.
“Yes,” he said. “He has.”
He crossed to the sofa and crouched until he was level with Owen. This time he did not touch him.
“I should have made the rules clearer. That is my fault, not yours.”
Owen watched him with the wary concentration children give apologies from adults.
“Can Nora stay tonight?”
“If she wishes.”
Nora said, “I will.”
Julian stood. “Mrs. Pike will bring supper here. No one comes in except Dr. Mercer, Mrs. Pike, or me.”
“What about Elsie?” Owen asked.
“Does Elsie have a medical qualification I have overlooked?”
“She knows card tricks.”
Julian considered it. “Elsie may come if she leaves the questions outside.”
For the first time, Owen smiled.
It vanished when footsteps approached in the corridor.
Celeste appeared in the doorway wearing a cream cashmere wrap over her gown. She had restored every visible detail of herself. Only the absence of earrings suggested that the afternoon had inconvenienced her.
“I need to speak with my nephew.”
“No,” Julian said.
Celeste’s gaze passed over him to Owen. “Darling, you needn’t be afraid. I am not angry.”
The boy moved behind Nora’s arm.
Julian stepped between them.
“I said no.”
Celeste looked at him as though he had breached an agreement older than either of them. “You are allowing a servant to construct a fantasy around a confused child.”
“I heard him myself.”
“He is six.”
“He knew where you gave him the box.”
“He wandered into the study. I tried to spare him the consequences.”
“By threatening to send him away?”
Celeste’s eyes flicked toward Owen. “May we discuss this privately?”
“We may discuss it in another room.”
“Julian.”
“Now.”
They left together. Celeste’s wrap brushed the doorframe, carrying a trace of rose perfume into the room after she was gone.
Owen stared at the empty doorway. “He’s angry.”
“Yes.”
“At me?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
Nora looked down at the white collar of her uniform, now wrinkled from his hands. She had been employed long enough to understand that certainty could become a lie merely because it comforted someone.
“I know what he said,” she answered. “And I know where he stood.”
That seemed to satisfy Owen more than reassurance would have.
The private study lay at the end of a narrow corridor behind the main staircase. Julian entered it with Celeste and locked the door after them.
Nothing appeared damaged at first. His father’s walnut desk stood beneath the portrait of an ancestor who had made money supplying rope to ships and later persuaded a painter to give him the hands of a philosopher. The brass reading lamp remained lit. Three folders lay open beside the blotter. A blue-and-white cup of Celeste’s tea had gone cold on the side table.
Julian crossed to the desk.
One page lay on the carpet near the wastebasket. It was not torn. It had been crumpled and flattened again.
“You said the papers were ruined,” he said.
Celeste removed her wrap. “Some were disturbed.”
“You said ruined.”
“I was trying to make you understand the seriousness.”
“You told Owen he had damaged them.”
“He handled them.”
“He picked up one page after you dropped it.”
“According to him.”
Julian opened the first folder. It contained correspondence from the conservation commission concerning erosion along the north shoreline. The second held estimates for repairing the seawall. The third contained documents related to the Harrow Arts Foundation.
A sheet was missing from the third folder. He knew because the numbering jumped from appendix six to appendix eight.
“Where is appendix seven?”
Celeste moved toward the desk. “I have no idea.”
He blocked her with one hand.
Her gaze fell to his fingers, then rose to his face. “You cannot seriously suspect me of stealing from you.”
“The authorization in the music box names Celandine Holdings.”
“As I explained, we discussed it.”
“We discussed granting a preservation easement. We did not discuss transferring forty-three acres to a private company.”
“Celandine would hold it temporarily.”
“Celandine is registered to Martin Vale.”
“My husband and I are separated.”
“Not financially, according to the document.”
Celeste sat in the leather chair beside the fireplace. For the first time, fatigue showed in the line of her shoulders.
“Martin has contacts with the coastal development board. He could have negotiated a rescue package.”
“By owning the land?”
“By using it as collateral.”
“For whose debt?”
“The estate’s.”
Julian looked at her.
She pressed her lips together. “You have refused to look at the numbers honestly.”
“Weller gives me the numbers every Monday.”
“Weller gives you the numbers you ask for. Heating this house, repairing the seawall, maintaining the collection, paying staff, supporting the foundation—it is unsustainable.”
“That does not give you permission to forge my signature.”
“I did not forge it.”
May you like
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know.”
