Sara Mitchell - Legacy of Secrets

Ah. Here then was the real purpose for this circuitous conversation.

“Now, really, Grayson. Someone shot at her. I think her reaction proved to be remarkably levelheaded.”

“Ha! You wouldn’t say that if you’d been there.” He paused. “What do you really know about her background, Aunt Bella? I don’t think you have ever fully appreciated the risk, inviting strange young women without any family connections into your life. I know Uncle Everett’s family pretty much washed their hands of you after he died, and you turned Sumner into this school. But I don’t think Uncle Ev—”

“Without the Academy’s existence, I would have no home at all, Grayson. Not here, at any rate.” Not for the world would she admit that his words jabbed, deep inside. “Tell me, are you more concerned about the fact that Sumner is no longer the beautiful Chilton family estate, or are your objections primarily all the ‘strange young women,’ Neala Shaw in particular?”

“Aunt Bella…” A band of red spread across his deeply tanned cheeks, but his expression revealed little. Somewhere over the years the boy had learned to screen his feelings from even his favorite aunt. “I’m not quite that much of a heartless cad. I’m sorry for her orphaned status—I know life is difficult, especially for…for women like Miss Shaw—but my first concern is you. For your safety and well-being, especially when you insist on maintaining such a small household staff. What if I hadn’t been here this afternoon? Your gardener would have expired from the exertion had he been forced to traipse through the woods, after an irresponsible woman old enough to know better than get herself lost, then spin wild tales.”

“Neala is neither irresponsible nor given to melodrama. Really, Grayson. Last fall, for example, when she’d been here less than a month, she saved the stables from burning down. She almost died herself because she refused to run away. If you knew her—”

“The point is that you don’t really know her any better than I do. She could have set that fire herself, Aunt Bella.”

“Grayson! What a scandalous observation.”

Her nephew shrugged. “Just staying objective. You seem to think letters of introduction from solid citizens, detailed applications, and one personal interview are sufficient to protect you. But I’ve seen—”

“As they have been,” Isabella interrupted. She tapped her foot several times, then forced it to stillness. “I’ve been operating this school for almost twenty years, my boy. I can count on one hand the students who had to be dismissed for lack of good character.”

“All it takes is one,” Grayson muttered darkly. “Women have never been the ‘weaker’ of the species, regardless of how you view them.” For a nightmarish second an expression on his face turned him into someone Isabella didn’t know at all. “Contrary to your quaint notions about creating godly wives and ‘Able Stewards of Society’—isn’t that one of your slogans?—a lot of females these days prefer to dump their husbands completely, or marry a lonely old man in hopes he’ll die soon after the vows. They’d rather help rob a bank than work in one. Sweet young things with innocent-looking eyes can be ruthless, far more devious than most garden-variety male criminals. Women kill, Aunt Bella. And smile at you while they carry out the deed.”

Oh, my dear, my dear. He was still suffering, deeply. “You are referring to your friend’s tragic death last fall, I presume.”

Grayson had been in a very bad state, Isabella knew. He had written her a brief note explaining about the death of his childhood friend, asked if he could come for a visit—then spent the next months making a spectacle of himself with that dreadful pistol of his. Until the telegram two days earlier letting her know of his pending arrival, Isabella had not heard from him at all since the note.

“‘Tragic death.’” He slammed the paperweight down hard enough to scratch the table and send several other knickknacks skittering toward its scalloped edge. “What an insipid description of the deranged woman who plunged a butcher knife in the back of an unarmed man. The partner I was supposed to be protecting. The friend I’d known for most of my life.” His eyes glistened as he stared through Isabella, seeing frightful images she could scarcely imagine before he covered his face with his hand.

A knock sounded on the door. “Miss Isabella?” The door opened a fraction. “Can I talk with you for a little while? It’s about this afternoon—Oh!”

Neala Shaw froze in the portal, her eyes flooding with dismay, guilt—and a smattering of outrage. “Mr. Faulkner. I didn’t know you’d be in here.”

Though her aching knees protested, Isabella managed to rise without betraying the effort it required. “Do come in, my dear. As it happens, my nephew would like to talk about this afternoon, as well.”

“Yes. Do join us, Miss Shaw,” Grayson echoed so mockingly Isabella almost swatted his arm. The mask was firmly in place again, all emotion smothered beneath the cynicism.

Small wonder that Neala walked across the room with the aura of a condemned convict headed for the gallows. Isabella started to speak, then caught herself as she watched the pair of them size each other up as though they were the only two people in the room. Hmm. She silently thanked the Lord for His nudge, and waited for an appropriate moment to leave.

“Mr. Faulkner, since you’re here, I suppose I should apologize for hitting you with a stick.”

“Miss Shaw, no apology is needed, since in point of fact, you missed.”

“Yes, I did.” Two bright spots of color turned her pale complexion the color of broiled salmon. “But it wasn’t for lack of trying. Perhaps I should extend an apology anyway, since in God’s eyes the intent of the heart, as much as the action, determines one’s guilt.”

“Spare me your self-righteous homilies. I need them even less than your contrived excuses.” He stalked across to stand in front of her, hands fisted at his hips. “My aunt, and Mr. Pepperell—now, they’re the ones who deserve your apology. They’re the ones who would have worried themselves into early graves if I hadn’t been here.”

“Your aunt knows I would never—” Neala broke off, then whirled around to Isabella. “Miss Isabella…are you all right? I thought you looked…fatigued, at supper, but I thought it was from the trip to Berryville. I didn’t know, I mean I didn’t realize…and I haven’t seen Mr. Pepperell since lunch. Is he—is he—”

“Calm yourself, Neala.” Isabella slid Grayson a reproving stare as she laid a hand on the girl’s rigid shoulder. “Mr. Pepperell and I are both right as rain. You’ve done nothing wrong, and certainly nothing to cause me worry. Concern, perhaps, because you still tend to assume more responsibility than is appropriate. How fitting, isn’t it, that my nephew seems to share that very same trait?”

Grayson made a derisive sound, which Isabella ignored. Keeping her lips pressed together to keep a smile at bay, she squeezed Neala’s shoulder a final time, then started for the door. “I’m sure the two of you can talk about me much more freely in my absence, so I’ll go take care of a matter and return shortly.”

“Aunt Bella…”

“Miss Isabella…”

“I trust both of you to remember what they say about the spoken word? Once allowed to escape, it cannot be recalled.”

She closed the door behind her, and let out a soft chuckle. Well, Lord, You wanted me out of the room. I leave them in Your far more capable hands.

Gray stared at the closed door in consternation. His aunt had left him alone in the room with Neala Shaw. He didn’t know which would provide more relief: tossing the conniving little baggage out the window, or exiting that way himself.