The Secret of Stavewood (Stavewood Saga Book 4) (6 page)

Eleven

     
L
ouisa tossed and turned, restless in her bed frustrated by her nightgown twisting around her legs. She threw herself onto her back and straightened the exasperating gown. The weight of the down quilt was far more than she had grown accustomed to and she pushed all the bedding, with the exception of the sheets, to the foot of the bed.

      Stavewood was quiet. The woodland was sleeping. Everyone in the household was snug in bed and not even the hoot of an owl echoed from the tall pines outside the open window.

      Louisa was excited about fishing. She thought about Talbot’s blue eyes looking deep into her own and she missed him. But had he joined her there at Stavewood there would certainly be no fishing trip in the morning and Louisa did not want to miss the opportunity.

      “Fishing?” Louisa’s mother had looked up from her plate at dinner. “Why on earth would you make a date with that young man to go fishing?”

      “First of all,” Louisa replied in a very matter-of-fact tone so there would be no mistake, “it is not in any way whatsoever a date of any kind. Secondly, why shouldn’t I go fishing? I never have you know. Why should it be for men only?”

      “But Loo,” Rebecca was sticking to her guns, “fishing is nasty. It smells and you are a young lady.”

      “No, mother. It’s not just for men, women fish too and some of them are rather good at it.”

      “What women?”

      Timothy had continued to eat quietly, looking between his lovely wife and bullheaded daughter.

      “I’m going fishing early,” Louisa declared, brushing off her mother’s question. “It’s something I have always wanted to do.”

      Rebecca shrugged her shoulders in confusion.

      Now Louisa lay in the darkness thinking about the fact that her mother had assumed her fishing trip with Luc was a “date”. Yes, she admitted to herself, he really was quite handsome, but he was a local man. Luc was not educated and refined like Talbot. He was more like her brother, or her father, more like a friend. Luc Almquist was exactly the kind of man Louisa had told herself a thousand times she didn’t want. A different type of man would suit her much better. She wanted a city man, a refined man, someone dashing and debonair, an educated man, not anyone right underfoot here at Stavewood.

      Louisa pushed the thought of Luc from her mind and instead focused on the research she had done earlier. After all, it was the whole point of her trip.

      Louisa had not thought about the Weintraubs in a very long time before today. Diana’s daughter, Octavia, had not been attractive. She was described as awkward, crude and classless. There were those who pitied her, especially after her suicide. Diana at one time had an exemplary reputation breeding horses but somehow she had lost that business. Years later it was discovered that she and Jude Thomas had been the masterminds behind a series of very successful train robberies around Hawk Bend. Louisa wondered what, if anything, all these things had to do with her mother.

      She sat up in the bed and checked the time on her watch. It was late but she accepted the fact that she could not sleep. Whenever she had a puzzle there was one surefire way to solve it. She climbed out of bed and pulled out all of her papers. In the corner she lit the lamp and carefully removed all of her mother’s sewing notions from the long wooden table. She began by copying each note onto a separate slip of paper and then sorting the slips into logical groups.

      When she had finished, she stepped back and surveyed her work. Arranged in neat rows were sketches of Hawk Bend Station, the shack Mark had described and dozens of names, facts and locations. She mapped out the ride from the station to the cabin and the shack. In one column she started a list of questions. She wondered who had shot Bumble Bee and why. And why had someone been digging at the shack where her mother had been held? Louisa realized she had more questions now than answers.

      She took her heavy typewriter from the case and set it in the middle of the table. Slipping a single sheet of paper into the rollers, she turned the knob to feed it through and began typing.
The Secret of Stavewood
stamped onto the white sheet as she pounded the keys. It was a start. For now she considered it a working title to help her organize her thoughts. She typed out an outline and suggestions for chapter titles:
The Trip in Coach, The Kidnapping,
and
The Train Robbers.
A story was beginning to take shape. She typed until she could type no longer.

Twelve

     
T
he soft light of a dreary dawn found Louisa stirring in the narrow bed. She sat up and looked around the room. A muslin covered sewing form stood upright in one corner with a slender dress pulled over the frame, the hem folded up and pinned neatly. In her mother’s needlework room she always felt inspired. Louisa rubbed her face and stretched her arms lazily.

      Suddenly her eyes flew open wide and she sprang to her feet, pulling on her robe. Luc! She was supposed to go fishing and she could tell by the dim light in the room that she should have been up long ago. Louisa threw open the window and peered through the mist down into the yard. He was there, smiling up at her as he stood beside a huge, white horse.

       “I’ll be right down,” she whispered loudly and ran to the bath.

      Several minutes later she hurried down the stairs as quietly as she could in a calico summer dress. As she turned the knob to the back door she heard her father’s low voice in the big kitchen.

      “Have fun,” he said.

      Louisa turned and smiled. “Thanks, Daddy.” She ran out into the yard feeling like an errant child.

      She nearly ran into Luc standing in the center of the yard. “I’m so sorry, I overslept. I was up late. I just need to saddle up the bay and we can go.”

      Luc mounted his horse, throwing a long leg over the stallion’s back. “Don’t bother, we’re only going to the lake and I don’t want to miss the fish. Here.” He held out his hand.

      Louisa looked up into his smiling face. He was freshly shaved and his golden hair was combed neatly. She took his hand and in an easy motion he lifted her and she settled in behind him, putting her legs forward to avoid the long fishing poles. In her hurry to dress she had forgotten her sweater and the air felt cool and damp against her skin.

      “He’s beautiful, what’s his name?” Louisa asked as she sat astride the Appaloosa behind him.

      “Avalanche.”

      They rode along easily. At first Louisa sat stiffly upright, but soon she settled in closer to Luc’s warm, broad back, becoming more comfortable on the big horse.

      “Up late visiting with the family?” he asked.

      “No, I just couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about my mother and the things that happened when she first arrived here. I couldn’t get it out of my mind so I got up and did some writing. Sometimes that helps me sleep.”

      “Well, Sherlock, next time do your writing after we fish.” Luc laughed and kicked the horse to a fast run.

      Louisa clung to his back and the chill of the morning air made her skin tingle. She felt wonderful. She didn’t even mind so much that he was still calling her “Sherlock”.

      It was a soft, dreary morning, the grasses were shades of greens and greys and the lake a deep steely blue when they trotted up to the water’s edge. Luc jumped to the ground and lifted her down by her waist.

      For a moment the sun broke through beneath dark rain clouds and reflected in his warm, brown eyes. She stood, looking into them and had a feeling that something important was happening at that very moment. She forced herself to look away and cleared her throat.

      “Now what?” she asked hoarsely.

      “Now we fish!” Luc flashed a smile and Louisa again felt easy in the warmth of his open expression, as comfortable as if she had known him all her life.

      “That’s right,” Luc instructed her. “Get him on there good or the fish will just nibble him right off the hook.”

       Louisa felt the big night crawler cringe as she shoved the squirming length of it onto the sharp, curved hook and she made a sour face. “Oh! That is more than a bit unsettling,” she said.

      “I expect he finds it somewhat more unsettling than you do but it is necessary if you want to catch a fish.” Luc prepared his own hook quickly and efficiently.

      “Like this,” he said, demonstrating how to hold the pole and where to drop the line. “Here, in the shadows where they like to lurk.”

      Louisa let the hook drop into the water and watched Luc cast his line out towards a fallen log. He sat down, stuck his pole into the soft bank and settled in, leaning back against a rise of grass at their backs.

      “Now what?” Louisa felt light and easy as she sat on a patch of grass beside him. She could hear the birds chattering in the woodland surrounding the lake and they watched several deer drinking at the water’s edge before disappearing back into the thick timberland.

      “Now we wait,” Luc said, looking up to the sky. “So, did you get everything figured out last night, with your notes about your mother?” He picked up a piece of wood laying in the grass, produced a small knife and began whittling.

      “No,” Louisa scowled. “I’m on the right track but my research has turned up some strange things. Things I can’t explain yet. Almost like clues in one of my mystery stories.”

      “Maybe you just want to write your mother’s story as a mystery because that’s what you’re used to writing.”

      Louisa looked at the side of his face as he cut away bits of wood, flinging shavings and curls across his lap. He had a strong jawline and his profile was striking.

      “No,” she said. “See, I always thought my parent’s love story was very romantic. My father on a gallant charger and my mother always in a swoon.” Louisa paused and smiled to herself. “Well, not quite that extreme, of course, but certainly like a fairy tale. Now that I’m older, I realize love is not that way at all and that’s the story I want to put into words. Not a fairy tale but a real-life true story, something my readers will feel they can find too. After all, it happened for my parents so why not for them? But so far it’s eluding me.”

      Luc nodded silently. “Maybe you need to talk more to the men in your family. Men see love differently. That might help you figure it all out, Sherlock.” He chuckled as she wrinkled her nose.

     “You’re funny, Louisa Elgerson.”

      “Why do you keep calling me ‘Sherlock’? I’m not sure I like it.”

      “It suits you somehow.”

      He turned to face her and looked her in the eye. “Maybe just letting your mother’s story be a fairy tale isn’t such a bad idea.”

      Louisa huffed. “No, I’ve always wanted to write this. I just have to do it right.”

      Luc turned his attention back to his whittling. “Sometimes things are better off when seen through rose colored lenses.”

      Louisa could feel her face flush. She thought about Talbot telling her to find every detail of the truth and learn her mother’s story through and through. If she were telling
him
right now he’d want to hear every detail and read every one of her notes. Talbot was always emphasizing the importance of the facts. He said it was her detailed, analytical mind that made her successful. That was what her readers wanted and appreciated. Talbot understood why she couldn’t write this novel as a fantasy.

      Louisa studied her wristwatch in the soft light and thought of his sparkling blue eyes and finely featured face.

      “Oh, another thing you should know if you want to learn to fish,” Luc said. “No one brings a watch fishing. It’s about losing track of time, not keeping it. Watches are for New York City.” He smiled at her and waved his hand over the lake. “This is what fishing is about.”

      Louisa sighed and looked up at him. His smile was so kind and gentle she decided she didn’t mind him calling her a nick-name. He was her friend and they were fishing together and she should just relax and enjoy the experience. There was nowhere she had to be and no one she needed to answer to in this moment in the soft misty morning. She took a very deep breath.