Chapter 24
HOT AND COLD
Jude drives us home in silence.
We left after making sure Lainey didn’t get in the water. She was stubborn about it, too. Belligerent even. Until finally, Jude convinced her to take a drive with Kate and Twig, who would get her home safely.
A lump has lodged itself in my throat, and I’m not even sure why.
Because of Rafe, and his callous dismissal of Lainey’s safety?
Because of the things I said to Rafe that I shouldn’t have?
Because of his ominous threat before he sauntered away?
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at bay.
Jude slows to a stop in front of the carriage house.
I tug at the sleeves of my hoodie, then say in a rush at the same time as Jude, “I’m really sorry.”
We laugh a little nervously.
His hand comes off the wheel in a gesture for me to go first.
“I’m sorry for telling you that would be a fun time.” I twist my fingers in my lap. “It really wasn’t a fun time.”
“I’m sorry for my cousin’s behavior,” he says.
“You’re not responsible for Rafe’s behavior.”
“No, but I can still be sorry for it.”
“He’s such an awful person. A legitimately awful person. I didn’t think I was capable of hating anyone as much as I hate him, but I really hate him. I can’t believe he was going to just—”
“Can we not talk about Rafe right now?”
Heat crawls up my neck.
Jude winds his hand around the back of his.
The lump returns. I’m pretty sure he’s annoyed with me, and I don’t blame him. I’m letting Rafe live rent free in my head, which is—I’m sure—exactly what Rafe wants. And the last thing I want is to give Rafe Vandenberg anything he wants.
“Will you go to the ball with me?”
My thoughts short-circuit.
I glance at Jude, positive I heard him wrong. “What’s that?”
He smiles a half-smile full of self-deprecation, and my insides turn to putty. “I wanted to know if you’d go to the masquerade ball with me.”
“I usually go with Twig.”
“Oh,” he says.
“I don’t mean—I was just—commenting. Thinking out loud. I usually go with Twig. But that doesn’t mean I have to go with Twig. I would feel a little bad about ditching him, but I—”
“It’s okay, Selah,” he says. “You can go with Twig.”
“I don’t want to go with Twig.”
He blinks at me, confused.
I’m being very confusing.
“Can we try this again?” I ask.
His half-smile returns. He bites it back.
Tucks it in one corner, where one of his dimples makes a faint appearance.
With a dramatic breath, he shifts in his seat so he’s facing me, and I swear, I fall in love with him for playing along.
“Selah Whitlock, would you grant me the immense honor of escorting you to the Hunter’s Moon Masquerade Ball? ”
“I don’t know.”
His eyes narrow roguishly.
“I’m just saying, if we’re being old-fashioned about this, you should probably ask my dad for permission first.”
Jude unbuckles his seatbelt. He grabs the door handle, like he’s going to get out and ask my father’s permission right now. With a laugh, I take his arm and pull him back into his seat.
The live wire returns, crackling in the cab of his BMW.
I tuck my hair behind my ear with a noticeable tremble in my fingers. “Of course, Jude Vandenberg. I would love to go to the ball with you.”
The morning air is crisp as I jog my usual loop.
I cut around the stables, the grass tipped with silver.
The season’s first frost always feels magical, but even more so here on the Vandenberg estate.
Sunlight filters through a scatter of gold and crimson as I turn down the wooded trail that takes me toward the manor.
The whole time, I’ve barely felt the ground.
Last night, Jude asked me to the ball and I’m still floating. For once, I didn’t dream about fires or monsters or bombings. I dreamt of pleasant things. Happy things. Attractive things.
A smile breaks across my face.
I’ll need a dress. Something period-appropriate. My mind wanders to the wardrobe on the third floor. I imagine donning that gorgeous gown. I imagine Jude in a dark coat and gloves, a cravat at his neck, looking at me the way he did last night.
I burst through the woods. Ahead, the backside of the manor rises from the fog like a gothic dream. I follow the path, which curves around the hedge maze, and to my delight, I discover I’m not the only one awake this early on a Saturday morning.
Jude sits alone on the terrace with a book and a mug of coffee, bathed in golden sunlight like a brooding Adonis. His hair is damp, as though from a recent shower. And as I approach, I notice he’s not reading a book after all, but one of the leather journals we’ve been poring over as of late.
“Hey,” I say, smiling as I come to a stop, my breath escaping in puffs of white.
He looks up, and for a slip of a second, it’s like watching a candle catch flame—a warm, delectable spark. But then, just as quickly, the flame flickers and dies. A shadow creeps across his face.
“Hey,” he says back.
I step onto the terrace, feeling uncertain. “Do you usually get up this early?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he says.
“Me neither.” Only something tells me our sleepless nights were very different. I couldn’t sleep because I was too giddy to sleep. Jude, on the other hand, looks haunted. Or, shoot. Maybe regretful? My chest tightens at the thought, the warmth from my run evaporating.
He avoids eye contact as I stand there awkwardly, pulling at my sleeves, stretching them over my hands. I nod at the journal. “Find anything new?”
He taps the porcelain handle of his coffee mug. “I was thinking about what Rafe said last night. It is strange that he didn’t write about the portrait.”
“He did, though. Maggie has the proof in her office, remember?”
“That’s just one mention. Written on the day he finished. What about all the decades he toiled?”
“He might have written more. There are whole years unaccounted for. Journals that were lost in the fire.”
“Maybe. But we have quite a few. And aside from that one scrap Maggie has, there’s nothing. Don’t you think he’d write about the object of his obsession as much as he tried to paint it?”
I’m not sure. I’ve read plenty of Vandenberg journals by now, and the menfolk weren’t exactly verbose when it came to their inner thought life.
“I want to show you something,” Jude says, finally meeting my eye. “It’s up in my room.”
In the upper hall, Rafe steps out of Jude’s bedroom.
Jude and I come to a stop.
“What were you doing in my room?” he asks.
“Looking for you,” Rafe says, far too casually. He gives Jude a once-over and clucks his tongue. “My, my. You look like hell, Cousin. Trouble sleeping? Insomnia got you down? It does seem to run in the family.”
“What do you want?” Jude asks.
“I wanted to check in. Things got a little dicey last night, and I’ve been thinking—there’s no reason for all this hostility. Whatever drama our ancestors stirred up doesn’t have to be ours. Water under the bridge, right?” Rafe extends his hand.
Jude doesn’t shake it.
“Well, just know there’s no hard feelings on my end.” He slides his hands into his pockets and turns to leave, then stops short. “Oh, I almost forgot. Isabel wanted to know if you got the job done.”
“What job?”
“Securing a date to the ball. I know you’re not thrilled about going, but you are a Vandenberg, after all. Certain obligations come with the territory.”
A wave of heat rushes up my neck. Obligations? Is that why Jude asked me—not because he wanted to, but because Isabel was pressuring him with obligations?
“After everything she’s done to bring the event here,” Rafe continues, “her one and only son can’t very well show up stag.”
“I’m not her son.”
He holds up his hands in mock apology. “Stepson, mea culpa. Anyway, with the Founders’ Descent being reinstated, the FHPS is pressuring her to make an announcement, so I was just checking in.
” His attention slides to me, the girl with the face on fire, and his eyes brighten with an understanding that looks every bit as contrived as his apology.
“Ah, so you have secured a date. What a perfect picture the two of you will make. The Vandenberg heir with a local girl on his arm. It’s almost like … history repeating itself.”
He shoots us a wink. Then he strolls to the staircase and leaves.
By now, the fire in my cheeks has spread to my ears. Maybe even my forehead. “What’s the Founders’ Descent?”
Jude rubs his jaw. “It’s an old tradition. Founding family members of a certain age are formally introduced, along with their dates. Then they open the ball with a dance. I should have mentioned it last night.”
“What kind of dance?”
“An English country dance. Apparently, it’s a Foggy Hollow original. The steps aren’t complicated, but there will be a couple rehearsals to get them down. If you aren’t comfortable, I understand.”
I’d be more comfortable if he’d look me in the eye. As it stands, he’s making a concerted effort to look anywhere but, leaving me to assume he’s the one who isn’t comfortable.
“Do you regret inviting me?” I ask.
This does the trick.
His attention snaps to mine.
“Because if you do, I’d rather just go with Twig.”
“Of course I don’t,” he says.
“Okay, then,” I reply. “Let’s go see what Rafe was up to.”
Inside Jude’s room, nothing strikes me as out of place.
But something must strike him, because he crosses to his desk in a few long strides and rummages through a stack of journals.
“Two are missing,” he says, moving the journals aside.
“So is a photograph I found of my great grandmother wearing the ruby necklace.”
Jude shuffles through more papers. “And the sketch of the locket.” He strides toward his wardrobe and yanks it open, revealing a row of neatly hung jackets and pressed shirts. He reaches past them, and with a relieved exhale, removes Ezra’s Obsession with care.
Seeing it again—seeing me again—is every bit as jarring as the first time.
“I wish we knew what he was up to,” Jude says.
“Me, too.”
Whatever it is involves the ruby necklace, and those gemstones. And now, the locket. Because why else would he take the drawing?
My attention returns to the portrait. “I think we should move it.”
“Where?”
“My bedroom. It’ll be safer there than here.”
“And if your dad sees it?”
“I’m not going to hang it on my wall, and he isn’t a snoop.” I pull at my sleeves. “You said there was something you wanted to show me?”
Jude grabs one of the journals. He opens it, flips to the middle, and shows me what he sees—a gap, like several pages have been removed.
Outside, a car door slams shut.
We move to Jude’s window.
Down below, the family car idles in the circular drive. Rafe hands a suitcase to the chauffeur, then slides into the back seat.
Jude and I look at one another.
A few moments later, we find Isabel in the conservatory, thumbing through mail with a glass of something far too strong for the morning.
“Is Rafe leaving?” Jude asks.
“For a stint,” she says, barely looking up. “Family matters to attend to.”
I think of his father, Thomas.
Then Frank and Rueben.
Are they still alive?
“Where is his family?” Jude asks.
Isabel gives her hand a vague wave, like it doesn’t concern her. Like it shouldn’t concern us, either. “Somewhere in England.”