“You recognize the books?”
“You have the things you notice, I have mine.” He straightened again, but his frown didn’t lessen. “Not all of them, of course, but most. Especially this one.” He indicated a tome upon the second shelf, though his finger didn’t touch the paper, no doubt to keep from smudging her careful work. “I gave it to him. Look, see that crease? ’Tis where Philly dropped it upon the corner of his desk. How on earth did she remember that crease, Thaddeus?”
He could only shake his head. “Remarkable.” He shuffled the papers and pulled another forward. A garden, this one, with buds holding tight their petals and a mist seeming to slither throughout it. And there, in the far corner, barely visible behind a tree, was a figure with his back to the viewer.
Father squinted. “It almost looks like Alain.”
“The hair is too fair.” An invisible hand squeezed his chest. “Does it feel desperate to you?”
At Father’s silence, Thad looked over to find his brow raised. A corner of his sire’s lips tugged up to match. “I can examine the technical aspect of the drawing, Thad, but you know well I have never been an expert on how a piece of art makes one feel.”
Thad sent his gaze toward the ceiling and then back to the paper. “Were it a Greek epic, you could pinpoint tone and emotion in every conjugation.”
“But it is instead pictures. Pictures are not my forte. But I presume it feels desperate to you?”
“In a strange way.” He sank into the chair. “As if that figure is out of reach.”
“Lost to the mist, perhaps?”
Though he sounded proud of himself, Thad had to chuckle. “That is not what struck me, no. More that he is…too far away. And with his back to her, as if denying her somehow.”
The case clock ticked. Father sucked in a deep breath. “’Tis a depiction of a spring garden, that I can tell you. You see how this bush here has yet to bloom, how small the leaves are? And these buds are still a good week from opening. I would say sometime in April, depending upon the year. If it were a warm one, possibly late March, if a cool one, as late as the first of May.”
And horticulture wasn’t even his specialty. Thad grinned. “Her garden?”
“Possibly. The architecture of the building to the side there is correct, though I don’t recall the layout.”
“Yet you recall the crease in a book’s spine.”
“Priorities, man. I have mine in order.”
A laugh spilled out as Thad looked around to remember where and when he had put down his coffee. Apparently on the corner of the desk at some point. He picked it up, let the warmth seep into his palm, and took a sip. “At any rate, the detail is again confounding. Though the shadows feel wrong in this one too.”
“Do they?” Father picked up the paper and tilted it this way and that. “The dappled shade of a tree, I should think. That would account for the odd shape of it.”
“Perhaps.” He had no better explanation.
Father patted Thad’s shoulder and set the garden drawing down. “Try not to worry overmuch about the purpose in Fairchild sending his daughter here.”
He could only snort at that and send his father an arched glance. “It is too confounding. Nearly as confounding as how you seemed perfectly at ease in her company, despite the fact she is female.”
Father grinned. “Let it confound you, then. We shall see how long it takes you to see what I did at first glance yesterday. For now, I believe I shall go peek in on Rosie and the breakfast preparations. You stare at those drawings until you have unraveled a few mysteries of the universe, hmm?”
As Father went out, Thad relaxed into the chair, content to brood into his coffee. His gaze wandered to the window.
Father was a master at spotting hidden patterns, be they in the elements or the written word. But people—they had to be unique indeed to capture his attention. What had he spotted within Gwyneth Fairchild to make him forget she was one of “those baffling creatures”?
Thad knew what he had seen. Mysteries. Questions that had no answers. Shadows too fleet of foot for him to examine.
Trouble. The intriguing kind.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and then opened a drawer in the base of the secretaire. He withdrew a scrap of paper onto which he’d written in bold ink a verse from his grandfather’s book of prayers. The one he needed reminding of most often.
Give me a deeper trust, O Lord, that I may lose myself to find myself in Thee.
Seven
As Arthur followed Gates through the doorway, he felt as though he were treading upon a grave. His companion headed for a shelf on the far wall, but Arthur drew in a long breath and clenched his teeth.
Emotions had their place, to be sure, but war had taught him well that sometimes, in order to stand tall, one must stand hollow. Let everything drain away and simply focus on facts. Mere, simple facts.