Chapter 11 #2
It was about as vague as it could be, but it was something. A crumb. Much like the ones on her plate.
“Okay,” I said again. “So you need to go to the castle and dig through some dusty archives to get more information?”
“Aye.”
“When?”
“Today, ideally. If Hilda gives me the go-ahead.”
“So this is pretty important then?” I gestured to the window. “Since the shop is closed and you want to research immediately.”
“Pretty much.” Agnes took a bracing sip of her tea.
“And you still aren’t going to tell me why?”
“Hadn’t planned on it, no.”
Infuriating she may be, but she also looked sad and alone and heartbreakingly beautiful, so I wasn’t going to abandon her now.
“Right. Here’s what’s going to happen.” I nodded at the scone in her hand. “Finish that. Then you’re going to shower and put on clean clothes. I’ll get someone to cover at the pub, and then I’ll pack up all these papers so you can bring them with you. And then I’m driving you to the castle.”
“That’s not—”
“This isn’t up for debate.” I crossed my arms over my chest and sat forward, so she couldn’t try and hide from my gaze. Agnes lifted her chin.
“Graham, I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Good thing I’m not offering to be one.” I started gathering the loose papers, tapping them into neat stacks. “I’m offering to be a friend who helps you carry heavy boxes and makes sure you don’t pass out from exhaustion before you find whatever you’re looking for.”
“I can carry my own boxes.”
“I’m sure you can, but you don’t have to.” I met her eyes across the cluttered table. “Let me help, Agnes. Even if you won’t tell me why, let me help with the how.”
She stared at me for a long moment, and I could see the war playing out behind her eyes—the part of her that wanted to let me in fighting against the part that had been pushing me away for years.
“You’ll be bored,” she tried. “It’s just old documents and records. You’ll hate it.”
“I read Treasure Island. Cover to cover. I’m clearly capable of enduring things I don’t enjoy.”
Annoyance flashed in her eyes, but I didn’t care. It was better than the wounded look she’d been carrying all week.
“You said you liked it.”
“I said I finished it. There’s a difference.” I grinned at her. “Besides, maybe I’ll learn something. You know, expand my horizons. Become a man of cultural and historical knowledge.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet you haven’t actually said no.”
Agnes sighed, a long, exhausted sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her bones.
“Fine,” she said. “You can help. In a limited capacity. But you’re not allowed to ask questions about what I’m looking for.”
“No questions. Got it.”
“And you can’t hover.”
“I never hover.”
“You absolutely hover. You’re a champion hoverer.”
“I’m attentive. It’s my job.” I shrugged.
That surprised a laugh out of her and I relaxed, just a bit.
“Go shower,” I said, softer now. “I’ll sort things out here.”
She hesitated, then nodded and disappeared into her bedroom. A moment later, I heard the bathroom door close and the water start to run.
I stood alone in her kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of whatever was consuming her, and took a deep breath.
Something was wrong and I had to be okay with the fact that she needed to process internally.
It was her way, after all. But now that I was certain this wasn’t just a small project that had distracted her, that this was deeply troubling her, I was going to dog her every step whether she liked it or not.
I started organizing the papers, careful not to look too closely at her notes. She’d asked me not to ask questions, and I’d respect that.
But I noticed things anyway. It was almost impossible not to. A family tree sketched on the back of an envelope, names and dates stretching back centuries.
Whatever Agnes was hunting for, it was old and clearly linked to her ancestors.
By the time Agnes emerged from the bedroom, hair damp and wearing clean clothes, I had everything organized into three manageable piles and had washed up the few dishes in her sink for good measure.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, eyeing the clean kitchen.
“Agnes.” Bloody hell, this woman. It was two mugs and a plate. Rolling my eyes, I turned to her. “Are you ready to be off then? Did you hear from Hilda?”
“Aye. It’s an all-clear from Hilda, so I can head up there—”
“We’ll head up there,” I corrected, and she sighed. I was just happy to see some color back in her face.
“Fine. We’ll head up there now. Did you get someone for the pub?”
“Aye, that’s sorted.” I had a few people I could call on for an occasional night off here and there from the pub. It was the dead of winter right now, and hardly our high season, so I didn’t suspect that we’d have much in the way of clientele anyway. “Shall we?”
Agnes grabbed her jacket from the hook by the door, then paused.
“Graham?”
“Aye?” I paused from where I was gathering a box into my arms.
“Thank you.” She said it simply, without looking at me. “For not ... for not pushing. Even though I know you want to.”
“I always want to push when it comes to you.” I picked up the first stack of papers. “But I’m learning that you can’t rush Agnes Wright. It appears this absolutely infuriating woman operates on her own timeline.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” Agnes said.
“It is. And it isn’t.” I sighed and met her eyes and held them. “I’m not going anywhere, Agnes. Take whatever time you need. I’ll still be here.”
She didn’t respond, but her expression softened, and that was enough.
For now.
We were halfway down the stairs when Agnes suddenly said, “You need another book.”
“Do I?” This hardly felt like the time for me to pick up another book. I was hoping she’d let me help her research once we were at the archives.
“If you’re going to sit in the archives with me, you’ll need something to do. Otherwise, you’ll fidget and make annoying comments and distract me.”
“I don’t fidget.”
“You absolutely fidget. You can’t sit still for more than ten minutes.”
She wasn’t wrong. I did like keeping myself busy. I supposed that was part of running a pub, there was always something that needed cleaning or stocking or updating.
“Maybe I can read something in the archives.”
“Graham.” The way she said my name, annoyed, made me smile.
“Fine,” I said. “What do you recommend?”
“Quick, let’s just pop in.” Agnes paused at the front door of her shop and unlocked it, and I followed her in and put the box on the counter. Agnes crossed the dimly lit shop, knowing exactly what she was looking for, and came back with a thick book. I laughed.
“This looks like it should take some time. What is it?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” she said.
“Och, is it a vampire book?”
She gave me a withering look. “It’s about a man who’s wrongly imprisoned. He escapes after years of captivity and seeks revenge.”
“Revenge. I can get behind revenge.”
“It’s about more than revenge. It’s about justice, and obsession, and whether destroying your enemies is worth destroying yourself in the process.” She paused. “Also, there’s treasure. And a love story.”
“A love story?”
“A man who loses everything—including the woman he loves—and spends years trying to find his way back to her.” Agnes’s voice had gentled. “He never stops loving her. Even when it seems impossible. Even when everyone tells him to move on.”
My heart twisted inside me. Does she want me to read this because she wants me to keep loving her, even when others have told me to move on?
“Sounds like a smart man.”
“Some people would call him foolish.” Agnes shifted and played with her ring.
“Some people would be wrong.”
Agnes didn’t respond. But when I glanced over, she was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“I’ll read it this week.” I took the book from her hands.
“It’s over one thousand pages.”
“I like a challenge.”
“You complained about Treasure Island being too long.”
“I’ve had a change of heart. I’m a literary man now.” I tucked the book under my arm. “Besides, if this lad waited years for the woman he loved, I figure I can manage a few hundred pages for mine.”
Agnes’s breath caught, a tiny sound, barely audible.
I pretended not to notice.
“Come on,” I said, nodding to the car. “Let’s go dig through some dusty records.”