Chapter 30
Jennie tossed into the fire a pile of papers they’d taken from their third week of going through Traeger Hall.
They were old, useless papers, unlike the ones that listed art pieces that had come and gone through Traeger Hall as a part of the Traeger twins’ nefarious dealings.
Art pieces that had been sold a century ago, and art pieces they had yet to find after Todd had slowly pilfered them.
The only works of art no one seemed to care about were the Vallées.
The worthless paintings were so beautiful and compelling that Jennie wished things were different for them.
“We don’t get to keep any of the art, do we?” Hannah gave a sad laugh as she stood next to Jennie, watching the papers burn. “Even if the ones Todd sold on the black market are recovered?”
Jennie shook her head, exchanging glances with the others around the barrel. Hannah, Trixie, Greg, Zane, Milo, and of course Midas the dog. “Only the Vallées.”
“This has to be the first time in Newton Creek history that the FBI showed up,” Greg stated.
“What if the art wasn’t stolen, though? What if Traeger had acquired it legally? Then can Jennie keep it?” Hannah’s protest was laced with her desperation to keep a little bit of the treasure from Traeger Hall.
Zane gave Hannah’s shoulder a nudge. “The FBI will run the art pieces through the National Stolen Art database. Either way, the papers that were found weren’t bills of sale. They were inventory for trafficked art. Whoever Leopold Traeger was in cahoots with, it wasn’t legal.”
“When he died, he didn’t want anyone finding out. Or did he not want anyone to know about Louisa Theophilus?” Hannah pressed.
Zane shook his head. “I think it’s all the above.
He wanted to hoard the art, protect the name he’d spent years perpetuating, and, well, I think Pauline at the museum got it right.
Traeger wanted to live forever in Newton Creek’s memory.
Maybe he thought he was too important to be forgotten.
And maybe there was more, something none of us know about.
I mean, trafficking in art—he couldn’t have been a good man. ”
“What are you going to do with Traeger Hall now, Jennie?” Trixie’s question was a loaded one.
All eyes turned on her, and she grimaced.
“I’d like to find out more about Louisa Theophilus and Fidelia Vallée.
” Jennie met Zane’s gaze. “I think there’s more to the story.
The paintings, they . . .” Jennie left her sentence unfinished.
How could she explain how the Vallée paintings spoke to her soul?
It was as if each brushstroke carried with it some secret pain, one still tipped with an element of hope.
Hope for something better. For love. For belonging.
That was what good art did, Jennie had decided. It could reach inside a person, unravel their emotions, and connect with their spirit. It was a song of color, its imagery a dream yet to be realized.
Trixie cleared her throat. “How about some hot cocoa? I have it inside in the Crock-Pot.”
“Sounds good!” Hannah took off for the house, Milo running after her, with Midas barking in pursuit.
Once everyone had gone back to the house, Jennie and Zane stood opposite the burn barrel, watching the flames and listening to the crackling.
She still owed him an apology. Her recklessness had almost ended up getting both Hannah and Milo hurt.
Milo! That little boy had been her hero in so many ways already.
“Don’t say it,” Zane said in her ear.
Jennie startled, not realizing he’d rounded the barrel to stand by her.
“Say what?” she breathed.
“Don’t say you’re sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But—”
“No,” Zane said firmly. “Don’t take blame for something that wasn’t your fault.”
“But I went to Traeger Hall alone. I didn’t think Hannah and Milo would follow—I didn’t even know they were awake!”
“You didn’t know. That’s the point.” Zane reached over and tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear. “You didn’t know. You can’t hold yourself responsible for that.”
“But I’m always responsible for the bad things,” she whispered, tears threatening to spill over with her admission.
“Who told you that?” Zane’s gaze caressed her face.
Jennie didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She wasn’t ready yet.
And that was okay.
Zane leaned forward and brushed his lips against her temple, then drew her into the security of his arms. “We’ve got all the time in the world, Jennie. And Milo needs you, so . . . I hope you’re not planning on going anywhere.”
Jennie had no words. She’d always found it easier to stay quiet and keep the peace. But in this moment, keeping the peace wasn’t her responsibility. Someone else was keeping it for her, and they were beginning to chase away her monsters. And she was really very okay with that.
Waverly
Traeger Hall
November 1890
Preston had left Newton Creek, while Aveline had taken a position in Titus’s home as a housemaid. Waverly was terribly grateful for that little burst of generosity.
Two days ago, they had laid Uncle Leopold and Aunt Cornelia to rest in their mausoleum.
Thankfully, Waverly had listened to Titus when he’d told her the coffins she’d originally wanted wouldn’t fit through the mausoleum’s doorway.
It would have been humiliating to have to increase the door’s width and height just to hoist the deceased over one’s shoulder and carry them inside.
Also, there wasn’t time for such modifications to the structure.
As it was, Titus was an expert at what he did, so the burials had gone splendidly.
Uncle Leopold and Aunt Cornelia were encased in their stone sarcophagi for the rest of time.
Now Waverly took a final walk through Traeger Hall.
She cradled a subdued and compliant Foo in her arms. Maybe even the cat knew that today was the end of Traeger Hall as they’d known it.
Per Uncle Leopold’s will, it was to be sealed off.
The masons were already outside waiting, Mr. Grossman having made all the arrangements.
And since she could take nothing with her but her own belongings, packing hadn’t taken very long.
She realized one might argue that Foo was not her belonging, but there was no way she was allowing him to stay behind.
She took a moment to slip into the bell tower to retrieve Louisa’s locket.
She would keep it for now. Perhaps one day she would return it to Louisa.
Regardless, the poor young woman had no idea how awful her family was, and there was no need to invite that sort of pain into her life.
If she herself could get settled, Waverly would invite Louisa to come to Newton Creek.
Perhaps they could grow old together. Louisa could start a new life here.
Of course, if Traeger Hall was to be sealed, so too would its secrets be.
Maybe someday Waverly would share what had taken place there.
Meanwhile, Newton Creek was to move forward as though nothing had happened.
They might retell the story of Leopold Traeger’s death because, well, no one grieved him at all.
All they knew was that the man who’d been taken from Traeger Hall that day the bell pealed a second time looked identical to Leopold Traeger.
But Leopold Traeger was dead, wasn’t he?
And what was it the man had kept yelling about the art collection being his?
No doubt Newton Creek would ruminate on that for years to come.
Waverly paused outside Uncle Leopold’s bedroom.
While she’d never been inside the room, now she pushed the door wide open.
To her astonishment, she was met with a portrait of Louisa.
How strange. How very strange indeed. Had Uncle Leopold allowed Theophilus to hang it there for when they swapped places?
Perhaps this was another indication of why Aunt Cornelia had been so unhappy.
She had lived in the shadow of a mysterious and beautiful woman, never knowing it was her husband’s illegitimate niece.
And poor Louisa. She was the victim in all of this, yet she had no idea .
. . would have no idea. This story of two brothers would not be passed down through the generations, not if Waverly had anything to do with it.
It was a secret she would take with her to the grave.
Leopold and Theophilus Traeger had ruined so many lives, played a wicked game of chess, and if by keeping silent, Waverly could spare Louisa the pain of the Traeger legacy? Then so be it.
On a whim she reached up and dislodged the portrait of Louisa from the wall and carried it down the staircase. She looked around and, seeing a hook, settled the portrait on the hook. It grazed the back of the portrait, and Waverly heard a ripping sound.
“Bother!”
“What happened?” Titus met her as he entered the room.
“I tore the backing.” Waverly turned the portrait over, and to her surprise a miniature fell out.
Titus knelt and picked it up, then looked at Waverly. “This must be Louisa’s mother, Fidelia Vallée.”
“The miniature Theophilus panicked to find was behind Louisa’s portrait the whole time?
” Waverly couldn’t help but smile. If Theophilus had insisted he have a portrait of his daughter hanging in their personal quarters, then Leopold had been vindictive in return and hidden the portrait of Theophilus’s lover in a place Theophilus would not have thought to look.
“Oh, Uncle Leopold,” Waverly breathed, “you were quite the scoundrel.”
She slipped the miniature back behind the painting, allowing Fidelia Vallée to keep watch over what would become her entombed art gallery, with Louisa keeping watch over the entrance.
Titus stood to the side, observing, and when Waverly stepped away from the painting, he mumbled, “Well, that’s that.”
“Maybe for you it is.” Waverly sucked in a breath, trying to be brave.
She was going to leave Traeger Hall now and go to Louisa—she supposed.
If there were a teaching position, she would resign herself to that, assuming the school where Louisa taught would make a place for Foo.
But it all felt so incomplete somehow. Her uncle’s estate would be sealed until decades beyond her own death.
Someday, someone would open Traeger Hall, and would they even know what had happened there?
Would they piece together the puzzle of Leopold and Theophilus and Louisa and her mother?
Or would it all crumble into dust and the story be forever lost in time?
Titus extended his arm to her. “Shall we go home?”
Waverly drew back. “What are you talking about?”
Titus’s cool eyes glimmered, and she saw a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth that entranced her. The idea of a warm evening with Titus in his drapery-shrouded sitting room, his shirt hanging out, half unbuttoned . . .
She blinked. Rapidly. “What do you mean by home?” she asked.
“I made arrangements,” Titus said. “If you’re willing, Reverend Billings will marry us this afternoon, and then you will no longer be destitute.”
“But I was going to . . .” Waverly couldn’t swallow for a moment, and she was afraid she might swoon. Were her dreams coming true? What was she to do with the evening that awaited her with this untucked undertaker? She could hardly imagine it, and yet maybe—
Titus snapped his fingers.
Waverly raised her eyebrows. “Enough thumb-snapping, for pity’s sake. Perhaps you forget that you said you are against marriage.”
“Of convenience, yes.” Titus was quick to respond with confidence. “Which this would not be.”
Heat rose in her face.
“It also wouldn’t be for money, for you have none,” Titus went on. “And your association with Leopold Traeger will not win me any social status, I’m afraid. Not to mention your alliance with Traeger offspring of questionable origin.”
“You dare not besmirch Louisa’s name in my presence.” Waverly defended her friend who knew nothing of the drama that had unfolded and never would.
“I do so appreciate your tendency toward loyalty. Such a wonderful companion you must be.” Titus tapped her nose.
“So you would propose marriage to me for companionship? And because I am loyal?” A small part of her admitted that it hurt a tiny bit.
While it was apparent Titus Fitzgerald was, well, a man, he had not mentioned affection or .
. . love. But then what was love after all?
She’d never really experienced love before, and perhaps it was all a rather inflated idea.
Oh, heavens.
Titus had moved quite close, and in that moment he kissed her.
He kissed her!
And he had such soft, fine lips. Passionate.
“Oh, heavens,” she whimpered.
He pulled back and whispered against her mouth, “I have a strong affection for you, Miss Pembrooke. I have for a very, very long time.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I didn’t suppose you would want to live in a funeral parlor.”
“Why on earth would you make such an assumption? You’ve been wise in so many other ways,” Waverly added. “Besides, I find the dead are far less trouble than the living.”
“As do I, my dear. As do I.”