By the Light of the Silvery Moon (16 page)

“Amelia, you’re home so soon.” Color rose up Aunt Neda’s neck.

“Find good reading material, Aunt?” Amelia teased.

Aunt Neda smiled and fanned her face with the letters. “I hope you don’t mind, dear. I woke up from my nap and was afraid to venture out to find you. There are so many passageways and levels. I feared I’d get lost.”

Amelia laughed, remembering when the roles were reversed and her aunt was the one who used to catch her up to no good.

“Aunt, you know I don’t mind. I’ve read those letters to you a few times each, and I don’t blame you. There isn’t much to do in the room alone. I apologize for not waiting for you to wake before I walked to the library.”

“No problem, dear. As long as we do not miss tea.” Her aunt placed the letters on the top of the bureau and spread them with her hands. “And I do hate to mention it, but I’ve noted something I didn’t realize before. Maybe it’s because this time I read all of the letters back to back.” Her brow knitted and her aunt’s thin, age-spotted hands continued to play with the letters.

“What is it, Aunt?” Amelia stepped forward and placed a hand on her aunt’s arm. “Do you have a concern about Mr. Chapman? You don’t feel we’ve acted hastily by moving all this way, do you?”

“My dear Amelia, I’ve never had a concern about Mr. Chapman. Elizabeth’s recommendation is good enough for me.” Aunt Neda lifted her gaze and looked at Amelia with watery blue eyes. She sighed and then continued, “But don’t you feel it strange, dear, that he seems so taken with his cook? That Miss Betsie MacLellan will be someone you might want to keep an eye on.”

Amelia gasped. “Aunt, how could you say such a thing? He hired her for us—for me—to make things easier.”

“Yes, dear.” Aunt Neda smiled. “And although it was a very fine gesture, maybe you should read these three letters and tell me what you think of the way Mr. Chapman favors her so.”

Amelia nodded and took the letters her aunt had pulled from the stack, but as she read, she didn’t think anything appeared unusual to her…. Well, at least not too much. Instead her heart endeared even more to what a dear, dear man Mr. Chapman was.

Then again …

Even after Amelia tucked the letters away, Mr. Chapman’s words played over in her mind. Betsie and I were talking. Betsie and I were wondering. Betsie might come with us to New York. Betsie, Betsie, Betsie …

Was her aunt right? Had Mr. Chapman found a new love in his cook? Was Amelia coming all this way for nothing?

Amelia sat at the bureau and unpinned her hair, deciding to put it up in a new style. Not because she was displeased with the way it looked but rather to occupy her mind so she could stop thinking of Betsie MacLellan spending so much time with
her
Mr. Chapman.

Q
uentin stared into the water. Even after all these years, he could see his mother’s form in the ripple of the waves. The pain of that day at his father’s party wrapped around his soul like the anchor of the
Titanic.
Yet his feet were rooted to the deck. Part of him hated the water. He hated the fact that something so beautiful could suck away the life of a person so easily.

Another part of him was drawn to its power. For a time—before he lost all his riches—he lived at a cottage near the ocean shore and would fall asleep to the pounding of the waves. It was one of the few things that had helped him sleep over the years. The sound of the waves had helped to dull out the other noises. It had helped him drift away. But it was the sight of the water that caused him to remember. It took his mind back to that place as quickly as if he’d walked through a passage back into time. The pain ripped at his heart, the memories of his mother’s embrace. The embrace gone. How could loving someone hurt so much? He’d told himself long ago that he’d never allow himself to go to that place again. By keeping people at arm’s length, he was protecting himself.

His eyes moved to the tall cliffs along the coast of Ireland. Hills rose above them, the fading light casting gray shadows. He watched until the last of the Irish coast slipped out of view and they were once again on the open water.

He questioned whether he should partake of his meals in the dining area or ask the steward if one could be brought to his room. He decided on the latter. It was best not to bother Amelia again. The poor girl. She had a habit of trying to help people fix unfortunate situations. But there was no fixing him—no rectifying what he’d done.

He touched his hand to his cheek, fingering the cut and remembering the way the stewards had dragged him off. He deserved that. He had no right being here—not with these good people.

Quentin entered his stateroom and sat heavily on his bed. He’d pushed the thoughts of his father out of his mind, but doing so sapped more strength than he could muster. Unwilling to fight the memories any longer, he allowed his mind to go there. To think back to the day of his mother’s death.

The house seemed miles from the pond as his weak legs had struggled to run up the hill. The orchestra was still playing when he ran into the house. Men and women mingled—wearing their finest clothes. He’d tried to find his father in a sea of dark-colored suits. He’d finally found him near the fireplace. Damien had been at Father’s side entertaining the partygoers by reciting memorized poetry. His father’s face had been bright with joy as he’d listened to Damien, but then his mouth dropped as he’d turned to Quentin.

“Son, what happened? Why are you wet?” Concern transformed into horror as he hurried to the nearest window that overlooked the pond. “Quentin, where is your mother?” he’d asked only loud enough for Quentin to hear.

Father turned back, dropping to his knees and grasping Quentin’s hands with vicelike grips. “Son, where is she? Where is she?” he whispered, his face pressed close.

Quentin barely squeaked out one word. “Under …”

Without waiting for more of an explanation, his father darted to the pond with Quentin trailing. The laughter and music had continued as though nothing had happened. His brother most likely recited another poem. Only the maids and the butler—whose job was to be alert to his father’s needs—realized something was wrong and followed.

Then, from the soft, muddy grass at the edge of his pond, he’d watched his father struggle to pull his mother from the water. He’d heard his cries and saw his moans, and then when Quentin knew she was dead, he approached. He stood there wet, quivering. His father only had to take one look into his eyes to guess what had happened. Quentin would never forget the expression on his face when his father’s gaze met his—one of pure pain.

And that was when Quentin had found it easier to look away—to run away, because it was easier to forget when he didn’t have to look into his father’s eyes.

Clarence Walpole gazed at his clothes that were once again arranged in the bureau. His butler, upon seeing Clarence had packed to return to the shore, had set matters right. As he’d packed his things in his trunk the night before, all he’d thought about was the fact that young woman had seen his son. He had to see if what the woman said was true. He longed to see for himself that Quentin was all right, safe.

To Clarence’s surprise when he’d awoken in the morning, he knew he was no longer supposed to disembark in Ireland. One
thought filled his mind: “Give your sons to Me.”

The words came as a whisper to his heart.

He’d lain there for a while thinking of that. Wondering if the message was from God. The peace that came with the words told him it was. It pushed away the anxiety that had filled him the previous night when the realization that he was leaving Quentin behind became as clear as the steady vibration from the engines below that stirred his bed.

The new peace didn’t soothe all the anxiety he’d been storing up over the past five years, though. It was as if the Spirit of God had opened up the storehouse of concerns and let warm shafts of light in, dusting off the closest burdens. It hadn’t yet touched the locked boxes of worries and fears he’d been piling up … but casting light on them was a first step, wasn’t it?

“Give your sons to Me,” he whispered into the room. Silent sobs shook his body. Why was saying those words harder than anything he’d worked at or set out to accomplish in his sixty-one years?

From the beginning, Clarence believed he’d given everything to God. His business. His marriage. He prayed about his decisions and didn’t proceed until he was certain of his path. But his sons? Could he trust God with them completely?

He’d done what he could for them, especially after Jillian’s death. He’d made certain they attended the best schools. He saw that their every need was met, and when Quentin had asked for his inheritance, nearly as soon as he was old enough to leave home, Clarence hadn’t argued. His friends tried to tell him he was a fool. Clarence had as many English friends as American ones, and his English friends had been most appalled.