Mostly Risky, page 12
part #3 of The Women of Ambrose Estate Series
Grigg knew that Amelia still wasn’t convinced. She and her sisters had been living in fear for too many years.
“And what about Sofia’s fiancé? He died in that car crash.”
“Yes,” Lillian agreed. “A terrible accident. It can happen to anyone.” She tilted her head. “Don’t let that stop you from living, Millie. Truly living.”
Amelia’s shoulders sagged. Grigg wanted to comfort her, but he also felt that she had to face what her grandmother was saying, because he wholeheartedly agreed.
“All right,” Amelia said at last. “Where’s Margaret’s journal?”
Lillian smiled a gentle smile. “It’s in the locked drawer of the credenza.” She lifted the chain of her necklace, and Grigg saw a small key hanging from it, along with several other charms.
Amelia rose to her feet and removed the necklace from around her grandmother’s neck, then crossed to the credenza. With slow movements, she unlocked the drawer, then produced a leather-bound book.
“Is this it?” Amelia asked in a soft voice.
“Yes, my dear,” Lillian said. “Take your time. Read it together. And open your heart and mind to find your answers.”
Amelia bit the edge of her lip and nodded. Then her gaze connected with Grigg’s. “Do you mind if I read it alone first?”
“No,” Grigg said automatically. He could wait, right? He’d been waiting this long. What was a little more time?
“Escort me back to my suite,” Lillian told Grigg. “She’ll call us when she needs us.”
So Grigg did the woman’s bidding. He helped her from her chair, and then he tucked her free arm into his, and together they left the library.
Mrs. B met them in Lillian’s suite, and Grigg was about to leave, but Lillian said, “Stay a while. I’d like to share a few things with you.”
The journal Amelia held in her hands would give her the answers she’d been so desperately searching for. At least she hoped so. And for that reason, her palms were sweating and her heart was hammering. Having her mother show up at Ambrose hadn’t helped either. And now, whatever was inside these pages, Grigg would eventually know as well.
Was that good news or bad news? Could they work through this together? Could she have the confidence of her half sisters that it was truly possible to break the curse that had such power over her? Gran was right. Amelia knew it. She just had to find faith somewhere.
Amelia crossed to the chair that was closest to the empty fireplace. She used to love this spot when she was a young girl. Even with the hearth cold, it was still a cozy area. She turned the first pages and leafed through them, glancing at the handwriting of Margaret Florence Thorne Ambrose. Margaret’s daughter was Helen, and Helen’s daughter was Lillian.
Amelia flipped back to the first entry and read it slowly:
The Life Recordings of Margaret Florence Thorne Ambrose
Born February 9, 1874
April 23, 1893
Today I married George Frederick Ambrose II, the man I have loved since I was sixteen years of age. In February I turned nineteen, and Father finally gave his permission. Mother wept behind her lace handkerchief like the dainty lady she has always been. Our seamstress created a perfect pink-satin gown, and George told me I looked like a princess with my long hair dressed in ringlets and jeweled combs.
It was a beautiful spring day, and after the wedding supper, we danced past midnight. Wedding guests numbered over one hundred, and the grounds were covered in buggies! All of our neighbors said it was the wedding of the decade!
Father has bestowed a most generous wedding gift upon us of three thousand pounds. George has always wanted to immigrate to America, but I shall do my best to convince him to accept Father’s offer of a position at his law firm in London. I am certain that we shall be most happy!
Amelia wanted to smile at Margaret’s excitement, but Amelia knew enough of family lore to realize that things didn’t turn out well for Margaret. She’d lost her sons to early deaths, soon followed by her husband’s death.
Amelia began to skim, turning pages faster than she could read them, looking for the events that led to the curse. Finally, she stopped on another entry that mentioned Madame Zelana, a fortune-teller who’d been commissioned to carry out the purposes of an evil woman—Mrs. Celeste Fontaine.
According to the journal entries, Margaret and Celeste Fontaine were dear friends, at least until the affair. Amelia felt sick to her stomach as she read Margaret’s entry:
August 29, 1911
I have taken to my bed. I have never been so utterly and completely devastated in my entire life. Never have I wished death on someone. Especially someone that I trusted, loved, and confided in.
I have learned for myself that Mrs. Fontaine accompanied my husband—my George—to Houston to fetch Madame Zelana last February, and they spent the night in a hotel together under a false name. The dates match up perfectly. My own friend was pregnant with my husband’s child.
Celeste’s baby had died, and the woman was devasted, which included making more demands on George Ambrose. Then, as if the Ambrose family weren’t in enough crisis, their oldest son, Matty, had died, followed a short time later by James. Both in freak accidents.
Amelia read faster and faster. This was her family history, and it was heart-wrenching.
May 2, 1912
My hand is shaking badly as I write this, my eyes so blurry I fear I’m going blind. My limbs are weak. I have taken to my bed.
Celeste took her final revenge. Two weeks ago, after learning that George would not leave me once and for all to come to her, she cursed him so that I couldn’t have him.
He died while rounding up cattle with the foreman. Kicked in the head by the sire bull, in preparation for mating season with the cows. My husband has ranched for seventeen years, and he was accompanied by experienced ranch hands no less. His accident is no coincidence.
George succumbed to death a day later after lying in a coma.
The doctor said he died of a brain hemorrhage.
In less than six months I have lost my husband and two sons. How will I ever cope—or survive out here all alone?
Amelia closed the journal with a snap.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t read any more right now. The gloom permeating from the words and sentences was a tangible thing. The room had grown chilly, and the windows dim. Was there a storm coming? She set the book on the floor and curled up on the chair, tugging the afghan from the back of the chair and wrapping up in it.
When she was seven, she’d lost her beloved father. She knew what grief and despair were. And then when she was sixteen, she’d found out the kind of person her mother really was. As much as losing her father had hurt, being betrayed by her mother had been infinitely worse.
And now, by reading the tragedy in the pages of the journal, it was like all of Amelia’s wounds had been opened once again. Deep and raw.
Wind rattled the windows of the library, and moments later the rain started. Amelia loved the rain. Perhaps it was a sign. Perhaps some of the old pain could be washed away, just like the rain was now washing away the heat and dust and footprints of Ambrose.
Amelia closed her eyes against all of it. The library, the journal, the curse . . .
“Amelia?” Grigg’s voice sounded far away.
She tried to open her eyes, but they were so heavy, and she was so, so tired.
Grigg said something else, but she couldn’t understand him. Again her eyes wouldn’t open. And then she felt herself being lifted and carried. Grigg was carrying her? Why? And where? When she felt herself placed on the softness of a bed, she wondered what time it was. But she was too tired to open her eyes and look at a clock or find out if Grigg was still with her.
The next time Amelia opened her eyes, her bedroom at Ambrose was bright with sunlight. Had the storm passed already? Had time gone backwards?
“How are you feeling?” Grigg asked, his voice a rasp.
She turned her head to see him sitting in a chair by the window. He rose, unfolded his length, and crossed to her.
He hadn’t shaven, and she was surprised he could grow so many whiskers in such a short time. And he’d changed his clothing too. He wore a simple navy T-shirt and jeans. The next thing that Amelia noticed was that she was starving. Had dinner already come and gone? Why was there so much sun in her room?
“What time is it?” she managed to croak.
Grigg settled on the edge of her bed and picked up a glass of water from the side table. He helped her lift her head and take a sip. The water was cool and tasted of lemon. Signature Mrs. B.
“Thanks,” Amelia murmured. “What are you doing in my bedroom?”
The edges of Grigg’s mouth lifted, but she didn’t miss the flash of concern in his brown eyes. “Making sure you’re okay. You’ve been asleep for seventeen hours.”
She frowned. “What?”
“I found you asleep in the library, and you wouldn’t wake up,” Grigg said, reaching for her hand. “Your grandmother said that you would do that when you were a little girl. Fall asleep reading in that chair. So I carried you up to bed.”
“It’s really the next day?”
He nodded. “I kept checking on you, but you were still asleep. I would have been worried, but your grandmother didn’t seem to feel any alarm. Just said that trauma brings on exhaustion.”
Amelia looked down at his hand on hers. “She’s probably right.”
“I’m sorry for your trauma, Mills,” he said in a quiet voice. “I want to help. In any way that I can.”
“I think you are helping,” Amelia said. “I mean, you carried me to my bed yesterday. Is your back okay?”
He smiled. “It’s okay. I’m pretty sure you could have doubled up on breakfast and I’d still be okay.”
Amelia wished every moment of her life could be like these quiet ones with Grigg. “Speaking of breakfast, I’m starving.”
“I thought so,” Grigg said. “I’ll go grab something. Wait here.”
“I’ll get up,” she said. “Seriously. I’m not an invalid.”
But Grigg leaned over and placed a firm kiss on her forehead. “Stay. Rest. I’ll be right back.”
So she burrowed into the covers while she waited for Grigg to return. She gazed about the room. The sunlight had turned the pale-yellow paint on the walls to a warm gold, and now the dark cherrywood furniture gleamed. Memories of the journal entries floated through her mind, and with the passage of time, they seemed more distant—tragic still, but less potent. Almost as if Ambrose had made peace with itself.
Perhaps she could read the rest. But not alone. She wanted to be with Grigg.
She reached for her cell, then ignored any texts or missed calls and pressed SEND on Grigg’s contact. He answered, “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said with a smile. “Bring the journal up with you. I left it in the library.”
He paused, then said, “Will do.”
Before Grigg returned to her bedroom, Amelia had cleaned up in the bathroom and made the bed, then settled onto the loveseat near the bedroom fireplace. She scrolled through her missed calls, texts, and emails on her phone—all mostly from work. Except for the messages from Hayden. She only had to listen to one of the messages to convince her to delete them all.
Hayden was angry that she hadn’t come to California. Although it sounded like he was already released and was staying at his parents. This was good news for him, right? He’d be fine, and all was well. She hoped.
She put her phone on silent, knowing she’d have to call Hayden back at some point. Just not today. Then she pulled one of the pillows close to her and hugged it against her chest.
The door cracked open, and Grigg appeared. “Feeling better?” he asked, carrying a tray and the journal into the room.
“What did you bring?”
He set the journal on the side table by the loveseat, then the tray in front of her on the small coffee table. He sat on the other end of the loveseat, giving her space. “Well, I hope you like everything. I’ve made an educated guess.”
He’d put together a lunch tray with chicken salad, sliced cantaloupe, and juice. “I think you’re looking for brownie points or something.”
Grigg smiled and leaned close. “Is it working?”
“It is.” She moved over and looped her arms about his neck.
Grigg’s smile widened before he kissed her. Amelia closed her eyes, melting into the warmth of his touch, his embrace, and the way he kissed her ever so slowly.
His hands cradled her face, then he traced his fingers over her shoulders.
“My grandmother could walk in at any moment,” Amelia finally breathed. “Remember her rule?”
“I do,” Grigg whispered, trailing kisses along her neck. “She knows I brought you lunch, so we might have a little grace period.”
Amelia tilted her head back as goose bumps raced along her skin. The scruff of Grigg’s chin tickled her collarbone, and she laughed. Grasping the sides of his face, she lifted his head to meet her gaze. “Still. I think you need to cool things off, Mr. Edison.”
His brown eyes were warm and intent on hers. “I am staying cool.”
She shook her head, unable to stop her smile. “Maybe in your book, but my grandmother’s an old-fashioned woman.”
Grigg kissed the edge of Amelia’s jaw, and for another moment, she became lost again. She couldn’t believe she’d gone two years knowing this man and not enjoying everything he had to offer her.
Her stomach grumbled, and Grigg drew away with a chuckle.
“All right, eat,” he said.
Amelia grinned, then reached for the tray and pulled it onto her lap. “I’ll eat while you read the journal. When you catch up to where I left off, we’ll read it together.”
For the next hour, Amelia leaned against Grigg on the loveseat while he flipped pages in the journal. As the afternoon marched on and the sunlight deepened, the mood in the room had grown somber.
“Here.” Amelia tapped the entry Grigg had just turned to. “This is where I left off. I couldn’t read any more.”
Grigg wrapped an arm about Amelia and pulled her closer, then kissed the top of her head. “I don’t blame you. This is pretty intense stuff. I don’t know how Margaret survived so much loss and betrayal.”
Amelia could only nod, because her throat was feeling raw. At this moment, with Grigg’s arms about her, she felt what Margaret hadn’t felt most of her life. Safe and loved.
“I ache for her,” Amelia said. “She’s been dead for decades, yet I feel her pain as if it were my own.”
“It is your own,” Grigg said in a quiet voice. “There are a lot of parallels to both of your lives. Her best friend betrayed her, and you were betrayed by your mother. She lost her boys and husband at young ages. You lost your father. Twice.”
Amelia nodded, her throat a lump.
“You need to know something, though,” Grigg continued. “I’ll never be George. What he did to his family was inexcusable, and by the time he realized his terrible mistake, it was too late.”
Amelia released a shaky breath and burrowed closer to Grigg.
He tightened his hold, and she could hear his heart thumping.
“Can you read the next entry to me?” she whispered.
He hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He picked up the journal and turned the next page.
Grigg scanned the heading at the top of the next entry written by Margaret Ambrose. Her entries had morphed from that of a young woman in love to a young mother with many joys mixed with concerns, to finally, a woman who had borne difficult challenges and terrible grief. He marveled at all the woman had faced and endured, yet her legacy lived on.
Now it was time to discover whether or not Amelia and he had a future together. Because whatever was found in these pages, Amelia would have to believe she’d be able to overcome the curse.
Yesterday when Amelia had been left to read in the library, he’d spent a couple of hours listening to Lillian Ambrose’s recollection of her mother, Helen. And then Lillian had told him about her daughter, Poppy.
“She’s lost three of her husbands to untimely deaths,” Lillian had said. “Poppy was always a self-centered child, so she gravitated toward men who would lavish her with attention. When they were taken away from her, she became desperate to control other things. Like property and money. When she comes here and makes threats, it’s because she’s afraid of losing someone she loves again.”
Grigg supposed it made some sort of twisted sense. Poppy did things to protect herself, but that still wasn’t a good enough excuse for the way she’d betrayed her own daughter. The whole situation only made Grigg feel more protective of Amelia.
He cleared his throat and began to read Margaret’s words:
Life Recordings of Margaret Florence Thorne Ambrose
August 31, 1912
My brother, Lloyd, sent his dear wife across the Atlantic to be here with me for the summer. Victoria is so good, so kind. I have grown very fond of my sister-in-law. She brought her lady’s maid, Nellie, with her so she wouldn’t be alone on the ocean voyage.
Nellie lifts everyone’s spirits with her genuine kindness and laughter and sweet singing.
Over the last few months, Victoria has tried to get me out walking in the gardens, but for most of the summer I sat on the veranda overlooking the estate in my mourning garb, just staring. Occasionally holding Helen, who is getting too big for my lap. Actually, she was too big about three years ago, but I crave her closeness, her sweetness, even when she fights to run off and swing in the gardens or play with the new kittens in the barns.
Will Celeste take her from me too? I begged Victoria to take her back to England with her to save her, but Victoria laughs off my worries. I tried to tell her about Celeste and George and the dead infant and the ties with the loss of my sons, but she is convinced it’s all in my imagination.
