The tea pot rattled like a tiny bell the whole time she was filling the cup, but Mrs Mercer’s smile stayed perfectly pleasant, as if nothing was wrong. She was young and beautiful, but woefully unprepared for what was going on around her. She did her best not to acknowledge Topek as he perused her belongings, his hand on the hilt of the knife at his belt, nudging knick-knacks with his knuckles. But it was hard to ignore him, which made Émile’s job even harder.
“Thank you, madame,” he said with a smile, taking up his cup. “Your home is lovely.”
“Aye, ain’t it that,” said Topek, ominously, from behind.
The house was a testament to extravagance: built by the same stonesmiths who’d assembled the mighty Sapper’s Bridge, it was bigger than it needed to be, but not so big as to be impractical. The interior looked like it was made from the leftover bits from all the greatest palaces in Europe, made cohesive with the judicious use of gold leaf. It felt like the kind of house that belonged in Toronto, or Boston, or Washington…and yet it sat hidden in the middle of the most unremarkable plot of land in all of Upper Canada. Like a beautiful fortress, best never seen.
Émile took a sip of his tea as Mrs Mercer stirred hers. She was terrified of them. Part of that was understandable—Topek did make an imposing impression—but there was something more, too.
“How long until your husband returns?” he asked, in a polite conversational sort of way.
“I…he…” she said, trying to spin a lie. “He didn’t say, I’m afraid. Days, likely.”
“Days…” said Topek, to himself. “Hmm.”
Mrs Mercer set down her spoon and clasped her hands together tightly, trying to control her trembling. Full-bore panic was starting to set in.
Émile looked over his shoulder and said to Topek: “Could you check on the horses?”
“They’re fine,” said Topek, not taking the hint. “Besides, Dexter’s—”
“Just in case, please?” said Émile, and this time Topek got the message.
“Ma’am,” Topek said to Mrs Mercer, and then headed for the door.
Once they were alone, Émile set one of the baked goods on a plate like he was performing a little act of rebellion. “Apologies,” he said. “It’s been so long since I’ve had scones.”
“You eat scones?” asked Mrs Mercer, barely masking her curiosity. She was watching him closely, now that they were alone. He could sense her curiosity, her loneliness. Her need to connect. He had to tread carefully.
“I used to make them,” said Émile. “In my shop. Once a week.”
The faintest smile. “You’re a baker?”
“Oui, I…” He took a bite of the scone and his face lit up. “Oh, madame. These are wonderful. Please pass my compliments to your cook.”
“I…” she said, a shy smile in full bloom. “I made them myself, actually.”
“Madame!” he exclaimed. “Wonderful. Truly. The texture is just perfect.” He took another bite while she watched, her nervousness melting away. “I wish Béatrice could…” he said, and trailed off.
“Who?” she asked, curiosity piqued.
“Ah, no, I apologize,” he said. “You don’t want to hear about—”
“I do,” she said, inching closer, like she longed for human contact. “I truly do. We’ve no visitors out here, and all the letters I receive from home are just so proper, sometimes I feel like I might trade my soul for a touch of gossip, and…” She hesitated, pulled back. “But if you don’t—”
“No no,” he said, setting down his tea. “I completely understand, and it’s no bother. Béatrice is my…well, she was my fiancée.”
Her face went through a round of emotions in the space of a heartbeat: intrigue at the notion of his having been betrothed, but then sadness at it having ended. And yet…a second wave of intrigue, thinking he was single again, and—and then a straightening of her soul, trying to keep herself in line. But then her eyes lingered on him, and she wasn’t trying to hide it. He pretended not to notice, not to care.
“The first time we met,” he said, “she came into my shop looking for scones. Nothing else would do, it had to be scones. But not only did I not have any, I had never even made them before.”
“No?” gasped Mrs Mercer, along for the ride. She was determined to live vicariously through his ended love affair, for as long as it lasted. “So what did you do?”
“I did what any sane man would do when faced with a beautiful woman asking for scones: I tried my best to please her. I worked so hard on those things, begging and pleading for recipes, carefully measuring each ingredient to get it perfect. I was so looking forward to Béatrice’s return, but dreading it at the same time. I thought: if I get this wrong, if I disappoint her, I might never see her again.”
“And?” asked Mrs Mercer. “And what did she say? Did she like it?”
He laughed, “Not at all. The moment she took the first bite, I knew it was wrong. It was written on her face, how wrong it was.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “So how did you…what did you say that made her stay?”
“I didn’t have to do a thing,” he said. “She finished the whole thing, then smile so beautifully, and she called them delicious.”
“She was smitten,” said Mrs Mercer. “She was in love.”
“I think we both were,” said Émile. “And right then, I knew…I knew I had to do better. To make myself worthy of that smile. So I worked and I tried and I tested until the next time she came in, and I gave her a fresh batch, and she—”
“Loved them?” asked Mrs Mercer, hopeful.
Émile laughed, shook his head. “Sadly, no. I think they were worse than before. But again, she smiled and called them delicious, and bought the whole batch. Probably to save anyone else the torment.”
Mrs Mercer poured them both more tea, mind racing through the ins and outs of this romantic escapade. There were questions on her lips, the kinds of things she’d seen the contours of in her friends’ letters, but never been able to explore in detail. She was so young, she’d never really lived—and here, in this isolated mansion, she knew she never would.
She wanted to hear what it was like to live a free life, but didn’t know how to ask. Or even if she should ask. She blushed, eyes downcast. “When did you know she was…was the one you?” she whispered.
“The moment I found her in my shop,” he said, remembering it with a shiver. “Instantly, without a doubt. The second I saw her lying there—”
“Lying?”
He blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry, my English is—standing. Standing there.”
“Ah,” she said, her mind going back to picturing the scene. “It must have been magical, that feeling between you. Nothing arranged or…or predetermined, just a lightning strike out of the blue. From nothing to everything, and…” She caught herself staring at him. “I’m sorry. that was very crude of me.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “There’s nothing shameful about passion. It’s what makes us human.”
She caught her breath at the words, and he felt a pang of guilt. She was so alone, so forgotten, he knew he could manipulate her in any way he chose. Part of him wanted no part of it, this role he was playing. Part of him just wanted to forget.
“So…what happened?” she asked, hopeful.
“I had to go,” he said. “It had to end.”
“But there’s a chance you’ll be reunited?” she asked. “That your passions will be rekindled?”
Émile’s expression faded to an empty stare. “No. We can’t.”
Mrs Mercer edged even closer to him, hands tucked in together despite the horrible impropriety of what she was doing. “You can’t why?”
“I had to leave to protect her,” he said. “She is only safe so long as I stay away, so for her happiness, I must sacrifice—”
“No,” said Mrs Mercer, an angry frown upon her face. “I’m sorry, but no. You men all say that, but who are you to decide what makes us happy or not? You say it’s for her safety, but I’ll bet you anything she would rather live a short life with you than an eternity apart.”
Émile was caught off-guard by this sudden turn. Perhaps Mrs Mercer wasn’t quite so delicate after all. “I can’t go back,” he said. “I could not live with myself if she—”
“She can make her own decisions. Stop treating her like a porcelain doll. She’s more capable than you think.”
Émile smiled at her, bemused. “You sound a lot like her,” he said.
She tucked back, blushing again. “I just relate, is all. It’s not easy, being left behind while your loved one—”
“Hides from creditors?” asked Émile, and her mood shifted again. To defensive. And exposed. He kept his tone gentle, as gentle as he could. “He’s not coming back, is he?”
She considered lying to him for a moment, but only a moment. “I don’t think he is.”
“The servants who ran away,” he said. “What did they steal?”
“He wouldn’t say. But when he realized they were gone, it put a fury into him that I…” She cast her eyes downward. “I know his life has been difficult, but until that moment I never truly saw how broken he was. How terrified he was.”
“So he left,” said Émile. “Left you here alone.”
She nodded.
“When all you really wanted was to be there to support him. Especially now, in his hour of need.”
She nodded again.
He reached across the divide, set his hand upon hers. She didn’t pull away.
“You deserve better, madame.”
She looked up, tears in her eyes, and saw the compassion in him that she had been missing these past weeks, all alone in this displaced palace in the middle of nowhere. She took a halting breath, and slowly, slowly, turned her hand in his, until—
“Let me help you,” he said, softly.
“How?” she asked. “How can you help me?” She laced her fingers in his, willing him closer.
“I made a mistake, leaving like I did. I wish to God I could take back what I…”
“Yes?” she said, inching closer.
“What I should have done.”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“But now…” he said, letting her move his hand up to her cheek. “Now I realize…”
“Yes…”
“I can help you…”
She closed her eyes as his palm brushed her skin. “Yes…”
“…get your husband back.”
She opened her eyes, confused. “Pardon?”
“He is scared, madame, and alone. But he does not need to be. He could have allies, if you let him.”
She lowered his hand from her face, but didn’t let go. “But he didn’t want—”
“He did not want you there, either. And as you say, we men make poor decisions.”
She kept hold of him, like she wanted to go back to what they’d had before, but wasn’t quite sure how. “He’ll never forgive me. He made me promise.”
He put his other hand on hers, made sure she saw his eyes. “You can say no. You should say no, and we can…” He brushed her skin with his thumb. “We can forget our others, together. But that would mean admitting they were gone.” She flinched at the words. “And I don’t think either one of us is ready for that.”
Dexter paced him the second he got outside. “She was willing,” he said.
“Stop spying in windows,” Émile said.
“You make odd choices.”
Gauthier, Topek and Nowak were waiting by the horses, enjoying the breeze and shade among the towering trees. “He coming back?” asked Gauthier.
“No,” said Émile. “He’s hiding.”
“From Aylen?” asked Topek.
“I don’t think so. I suspect Mr Mercer owes money to some dangerous people.”
“Some other dangerous people,” said Gauthier. “With a house like this, you’d think he could pay off any debt.”
“Not so easy when you are trying to hide from Peter Aylen,” said Émile. “That he made the bounty at all shows how desperate he must be. Why he ran, and left everything behind.”
“Everyone,” noted Dexter.
“So where’d he go?” asked Gauthier. “Did she know?”
“Kemptville. South-east of here.”
Topek frowned. “Kemptville? What’s in Kemptville?”
Émile’s jaw tensed. “Men,” he said. “Men with guns.”