The Secret of Stavewood (Stavewood Saga Book 4) Page 2

  Back in her seat, Louisa recalled a time as a child when she had taken ill in the middle of the night and her mother had come to her.

  “Oh, Loo, honey. Let’s get you out of those nasty things.” She had stripped off the soiled nightgown and hurried to run a warm bath.

  Her mother rinsed her hair and dressed her in fresh nightclothes and Louisa remembered how beautiful she had looked. It was one of the few times she had seen her without her hair perfectly arranged and it tumbled in shiny dark waves over her shoulders. Her mother’s touch was kind and gentle. She smelled of honeysuckle and lavender. The way she saw her mother that night was a rare and important moment. It was the way her father saw her when they were alone, beautiful and soft and feminine. The following morning when she watched her father kissing her mother goodbye she had her first thoughts about falling in love. At every wedding or whenever she saw a couple looking into one another’s eyes she would recall how intimate and precious that feeling had been. She would always remember that night as the moment she discovered that love wasn’t a fairy tale, it was something you could touch and feel.

  At Stavewood there were bits and pieces of the story that Louisa wanted to see. She knew there was a photograph of her mother and there was the ad that she had answered. There may have been more keepsakes as well. She knew her father and was sure he would have saved them all tucked away in his comfortable study. Louisa smiled and pictured him there. His chair was so massive that she would sit in the great depths of it and not be able to bend her knees. The lamps would be lit and he would be reclining in that huge chair with his stocking feet upon the massive desk with sheets of paperwork in his hands.

  In the dim light of the carriage, Louisa made her way to her berth and prepared for bed. She had boarded this second train in Chicago and would reach Billington, Minnesota just before dawn. She would try to sleep. Louisa was anxious to get home. She donned her nightgown and lay back on the mattress, staring up at the flat surface just above her. Memories crowded her mind. She thought of her brothers and cousins and her niece and summer afternoons at the lake. They played games and made daring midnight raids on watermelon gardens. She chuckled to herself, recalling the mischief they had often gotten into together. Louisa drifted off with Stavewood clear in her mind.

  Three

  Hawk Bend Station, a squat, log building tucked into the wilderness, rushed by in a blur and Louisa felt the big locomotive slow. As it approached the station closest to her home the porter called out, “Elllllgersooonnn Miiiillllsss Staaaaation!”

  The quaint, wooden train stop had been built there when she was a child, when her father had expanded his massive mill operation. She was arriving far earlier than expected, before the workers and before the colossal saws would begin their deafening screams. Just as the sun was about to break over the horizon she walked the private path that led to the back entrance and the kitchen at Stavewood, bounded on either side by towering pines. She knew she would find her father there, in the big estate’s kitchen, alone with his enormous mug of coffee, sitting in a quiet moment with the soft light of dawn streaming through the windows over the big, stone sink. He’d be there before the cook, Birget, would rise and before her beautiful mother would emerge perfectly attired and ready to run her household. About that same time the earliest birds would sing out their morning calls and Timothy Elgerson would begin his day. Louisa was certain that, no matter what Mark’s letter had said about him slowing down, their father would still be up before dawn. Louisa was counting on it.

  She stepped carefully along the well-worn path in her leather heels, avoiding an exposed root in the dim light as a wide-eyed doe emerged from the woodland, tossed its head and crossed her path unhurriedly. The animals of Stavewood always seemed docile and familiar to her. Louisa realized it was because, like her as a child, they always felt safe. She watched the deer wander into the dense trees, the white tail like a teardrop disappearing into the shadows of the woodland. She caught sight of a lone man peering off into the distance.

  Louisa did not recognize him, but he was unmistakably a local man. He wore the softly faded chamois, snug trousers and heavy leather riding boots that were so popular with the locals. His shoulders were broad and his arms tanned and well-muscled. When he turned in her direction, he brushed aside sandy hair and lifted a large, weighty knapsack from the ground beside him.

  “Hello,” Louisa called out and stepped toward him.

  “Hello!” he called back to her, the deep timbre of his voice low in the quiet of the dawn. Louisa was not surprised that he seemed a bit startled.

  “Hi. Do you work for the Elgersons?” Louisa asked as he approached her. She took a step back. He was far taller than she had originally thought and his warm and friendly brown eyes met her own. His face was young and well-tanned with strongly chiseled features.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m surveying, trying to catch the landscape in the early light. I’m a cartographer and I’m just taking a few measurements.” He smiled nervously and shifted the pack onto his broad back. “I’m sorry. I suppose you don’t know me or what that means.”

  Louisa felt a bit surprised finding a stranger on the property, yet she had been away a long time and no longer knew the business of the household. He smiled handsomely and she swallowed and cleared her throat.

  “Yes, I know what a cartographer is. It’s a fancy name for a mapmaker.” Louisa smiled though she felt somewhat unnerved by the way he looked into her eyes. “Do you have permission to be here on this land, making your maps?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I do,” he assured her. “I’m Luc Almquist.” He bowed slightly. “And you are…?”

  Louisa smiled. Charming, she thought, and rather handsome, for a Minnesota fellow. “Almquist?” She knew the name. “Isn’t your father a logger?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned boyishly and Louisa studied his face. “The log roller.”

  Louisa chuckled, feeling more at ease. “I didn’t recognize you. I guess it’s been a long time.”

  “I apologize, I don’t recognize you at all. That certainly surprises me, but I admit it’s the truth.”

  Louisa could not help but smile at the admiring look in his eye. He was very forthright and undeniably rugged, with well-muscled thighs and arms. “I am Louisa Elgerson,” she said. “Maybe if you picture me with long pigtails and as lanky as a newborn colt.”

  Luc scratched his head. “Maybe, not sure. I suppose back then I was distracted by your father and mine having a few rollicking fist fights.”

  Louisa laughed. “And do you log roll too?” she asked.

  “No, no, not since trying it once as a kid. Great disappointment to my dad and all.” He looked down at her luggage curiously. “You’ve been away?”

  “New York City,” she said, as he reached out a hand to help her with her bags. She shook her head and held onto her luggage.

  “I’m a mystery writer.”

  “Oh. Like Sherlock Holmes.” His face opened in a broad smile.

  Louisa felt the warmth of his grin. “Well, actually that would be Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but yes, like that.” She returned his smile.

  “I’ve read some of his tales. Are you any good?” He pushed the toe of his boot into the dirt absentmindedly.

  Louisa found his friendly smile and hint of shyness interesting. “I do alright. Maybe you should read one and decide for yourself.”

  “I might,” he looked her in the eye. “If there’s any loose ends I could tell you about them afterwards.”

  Louisa’s laugher floated lightly in the crisp morning air. “It’s been nice meeting you, Luc, and I do apologize, but I hope to catch my father before the entire household is awake, and I ought to go. Good luck making your maps.” She nodded and turned from him and resumed her walk along the path.

  “Sure,” he called to her. “I’ll get myself one of your books then. Do you use a pen name?”

  “Nope!” she said, back over her shoulder. “Why would I with a name like Elger
son?”

  “Louisa Elgerson,” he called out. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again!”

  Four

  In the soft mist of the early morning light Louisa stepped from the tree-lined path into the vast yards of Stavewood. She could see the first rays of the rising sun reflected in each facet of the third floor windows, sparkling as if to welcome her home. She took a deep breath, admitting to herself how much she had missed it all. Suddenly she felt a lump in her throat and she fought back an unexpected tear. Home, she thought to herself. She was home. Louisa turned and looked back up the pathway, pausing a moment to see if Luc had followed her, or if he was watching from the path. He was not and so she turned back towards the house. She had the feeling that something had changed, not with Stavewood, but with her. She looked down at her hands clutching her luggage and her typewriter case and then strode towards the kitchen door with determination.

  The faceted porcelain knob on the back door turned easily. She knew it was never locked. She stepped into the kitchen and in the soft light she waited for her eyes to adjust. Her father was there, standing beside the stove filling his favorite mug. With his back to her, he stopped mid-pour and set down the big cup. He turned slowly and she watched a warm smile spread across his gentle face. His golden mane of hair was streaked with silver now, neatly combed back from his tanned face and he stood as strikingly tall and upright as ever.

  “You’re early, Louisa,” he said, his voice vibrating low and deep in the big room.

  “Good morning, Daddy.” Louisa chuckled and set down her cases onto the polished wooden floor and ran to him.

  Timothy Elgerson’s strong arms encircled her and he pulled her to his chest. He wasn’t certain but he thought for a moment he felt her sob, silently as though it was something she didn’t want to share with him. Louisa was his only daughter and the child that most knew his mind. They were very much alike and shared the same, strong willed temperament. He understood without discussion how and why she oftentimes hid her deepest emotions.

  “You knew I would be early, didn’t you?” Louisa laughed self-consciously into her father’s broad shoulder. He smelled to her of soft soap and newly cut pine, his freshly laundered shirt soft against her cheek. When he responded to her the vibration of his deep voice was soothing and familiar.

  “Of course,” he laughed low.

  Louisa looked up into her father’s eyes and saw the lines in his face as it crinkled into a knowing smile. “I sure could use a cup of that coffee,” she said.

  He held her before him briefly and studied her face. She was a woman now and he saw it there in her eyes.

  He retrieved a cup from the cabinet and filled it for her and she sat across from him at the long table. The surface had worn to a smooth patina over the years.

  Louisa sipped the dark, rich brew. She had realized long ago that no one, not even Birget or her mother, made coffee quite as rich and strong as her father did. It was as if she tasted it before it reached her lips. She had long suspected the real reason he was up early was to make his own coffee the way he liked it.

  “There’s a fellow out roaming the woods. He says his name is Almquist,” she said.

  “The map fellow, yes. Nice kid. He’s doing some work for the government. Land preservation study of some sort.” He looked at her sidelong. “Did he catch your eye?”

  Louisa could not help but notice the mischievous twinkle in her father’s expression. “Don’t even think about it,” Louisa laughed. “He’s not my type.”

  “Mark said you wrote that you had a fellow in New York. Something serious?”

  Louisa considered her father’s question. “His name is Talbot Sunderland. He’s no timber man, that’s for sure. He’s good to me. He’s distinguished, I suppose, and British. Mama would like him.” She wanted to avoid any misunderstanding that she was serious about Talbot until she was completely certain about her feelings herself. Louisa looked down at her watch thoughtfully. The gift was such a sweet reminder.

  Timothy recognized that she had dodged the question and decided that serious was not the case. “I suppose he didn’t travel with you.” He rose and refilled both mugs.

  “No. He’s staying in New York to start a publishing company. He’ll be putting out my next book. I want to write something different, Daddy. I want to break away from the mysteries and write about Mama.” Louisa leaned back in the pressed back chair. The thick calico-covered cushion was a welcome comfort after spending the night in the train berth.

  “Ah,” her father rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I know you’ve talked about doing that since you were a little kid. Will you write it here?”

  “No. I’m only here to do the research. Then I’ll go back to New York to write the book. I don’t plan to stay very long, Daddy.” Louisa could see the obvious disappointment on her father’s face, yet she knew he would understand completely.

  “Then you gather what you need. I’ll help you in any way I can and we’ll enjoy your visit.”

  “Thank you, Daddy.” Louisa touched her father’s big hand on the wooden table top. She studied his strong fingers as they lay there casually. His hands had aged, she noticed. Her father was growing older and she considered that, should she return home less frequently, she would see him only a limited number of times. Louisa realized she was a bit disappointed herself.

  She heard a soft creak on the back kitchen stairs that led to the upper floors and turned to see Birget stepping down carefully, her chubby hand gripping the darkly stained doorjamb. The old cook looked up and her face burst into a smile of recognition. “Oh heavens!” Birget exclaimed. “There she is!”

  Louisa rose and opened her arms to greet her. They hugged warmly and Louisa took her elbow and helped her across the room. She looked up at her father from over Birget’s shoulder with a discreet, questioning expression. It had only been two years since Louisa had been home but it was clear that Birget was walking now with considerable difficulty.

  Her father nodded to Louisa confidentially. “Good morning, Birget. Where’s your new assistant this morning?” he asked.

  “Oh, I knew that Loo would be trying to sneak in early before anyone was up. I knew you would get her first, but then I wanted her to myself. So I told Liv not to come down until I called her.” She smiled at Louisa with genuine love in her eyes.

  Louisa watched Birget pull a heavy skillet from beneath the stove. When she went to help her, Timothy caught her eye and shook his head.

  Birget set the skillet on the big cast iron stove and toddled to the table, her arms encircling a large bowl filled with newly harvested potatoes, smooth and scrubbed in the big vessel. She began to cut them efficiently into small chunks, all the while smiling at Louisa affectionately.

  “So,” Birget began. “Your brother said you had yourself a man. I don’t suppose he’s packed in your suitcase. You know, you can’t be waiting forever to find a good one. Soon enough, child, you’ll be looking like me and they get hard to trap then.”

  Timothy’s hearty laugh filled the room. He knew his long-time cook was not one to mince her words. Birget had been there when he had built the estate, much of it with his own hands. She had been there the day he had brought home his beautiful maid-order-bride. She was their cook when Mark was born and every one of his sons and Louisa as well.

  Louisa gasped in mock insult. “I’m perfectly capable of trapping any man I want, thank you, Birget. I just haven’t found the one I want just yet.”

  Timothy now knew the answer to his question. Whoever Talbot Sunderland was, Louisa was not defining him as the right one. He looked at Birget’s round and weathered face and knew she had caught the subtle message as well.

  “So, where is he?” Birget continued her interrogation.

  “He’s still in New York. Maybe the next time I visit he’ll come with me. I came here to work, not discuss my love life.” Louisa scowled and smoothed her skirt self-consciously.

  “Well,” Birget huffed, her generous
bust round beneath her white apron. “I’m telling the good lord not to be coming and getting me until I see you walking down the aisle with a decent man.”

  Louisa was hit hard by the woman’s words. It had always been a long running joke that she had managed to stay single for so long. She had felt that, should she ever want a man in her life, it would be easy. But it never was. Most of the men she met were self-centered and lazy, although they all seemed to have lofty ideas. Talbot was ambitious, yes, but he had energy as well. He could stay up rubbing elbows with New York City’s elite until all hours of the morning. He would sleep in, yes, but once he was on his feet he was driven and motivated. Talbot would go places, she was sure. She tried to imagine what would be happening right now, here in the kitchen of Stavewood, had she brought him home with her.

  “Loo!” Rebecca burst through the kitchen door, dressed impeccably in a dark, wide woolen skirt and ruffled blouse and ran to her daughter.

  Louisa held her mother close. She could not help but notice how delicate and petite she felt in her arms. She stepped back and looked into her eyes and saw her as she never really had before. Louisa felt something more than the connection between mother and daughter. Now Louisa saw her mother as a woman like herself. She too was growing older, though she was as beautiful as ever, her complexion smooth and fair. Yet, Louisa saw that her mother was beginning to mature.

  Louisa was not a child anymore, Rebecca thought. Something in her face had changed. She was certain it had to be a man. Had she been with someone? Was Louisa finally in love?