Chapter 4
Clyde thought his father’s request to be an odd one. Why could he not ring up the hotel and ask himself?
Clyde had an hour’s break from studies. He took the opportunity to fulfil the task his father had given him. He gave a quick nod to the smartly dressed valet standing outside the Lord Nelson’s before entering. One look—he was in awe of the grandeur of the establishment. Surely, this Richard Gable had quite a bit of money. He strolled to the front desk and waited his turn as an elderly lady, dressed in gaudy material and plumed hat, was being registered at the desk.
“Can I help you?” Another receptionist called to him from the side.
“Yes, I’m looking for a friend of mine, a Richard Gable. He’s supposed to be staying here.”
“One moment,” The attendant checked the records. “I’m sorry. There’s no such person here.”
“Uh, are you sure? Could you check the records again?”
“Yes, I am sure. There is no Richard Gable here.”
“All right. Thank you for your time.” Just as he was about to exit, a man with the description his father provided him walked down the stairs and headed toward the Arms Public House, the hotel’s resident bar and restaurant.
Clyde pointed at the man. “I’m sorry. I have one more question. Who’s that man there?”
The receptionist looked up. “That’s Mr. Dawson.” His eyes screwed in suspicion upon Clyde’s baffled look. “I think you better leave.”
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to find my friend.”
***
The next day, Carl encouraged Evelyn to visit with Mrs. Doyle, the neighbour who regularly dropped by to borrow an ingredient or two.
Evelyn left after the children went off to school.
Carl bit his lip and kept watch at the window for a while. He drummed his fingers against his thigh and paced around the room. What if what he suspected was true?
“Richard Gable” returned for the manuscript around noon. He came down the path whistling a merry tune.
Carl had his manuscript all neatly packaged.
“Good day!” Richard bounded up the steps.
“Good day to you, Richard, or should I say Mr. Dawson?”
Richard’s face went slack and paled. A frail smile tried to appear. “I...don’t...”
Carl pointed inside. “We need to talk.” Leading the way, he heard Richard prop his cane against the house and follow him through the screen door. Carl sat down, steepled his hands, and motioned for Richard to sit across from him.
Richard hesitantly pulled out the chair and sat, looking at anything but Carl.
“Who are you?” Carl asked.
“I’m Richard Gable.”
“Then why are you registered as Mr. Dawson at the Lord Nelson?”
“I believe you are mistaken.”
“I most certainly am not. I had my son go and ask to see you. They said there was no Richard Gable staying with them. He caught you coming downstairs and asked who you were. They said you were Mr. Dawson.” He could see Richard trying to come up with some sort of excuse. “Or should I say your name is Gerald MacCrae.” He knew he could be wrong, but something in his gut told him he was right.
Richard’s features became a canvass of panic and, finally, of defeat. “Your face says it all.”
“How did you know?”
“You can drop the accent.”
“It’s one I’ve used the last nine years. It’ll stay.”
“I couldn’t know for sure because, frankly, you’re supposed to have died a decade ago. Despite that fact, the evidence seemed to point in that direction. You and Evelyn are very much at ease in each other’s presence. That is just the beginning. I saw the way you looked at her as she walked up the stairs when you came for supper. You were a man in love and not one smitten in the space of a few hours.”
“I thought...”
“Your accent was another giveaway. It was followed by your indecisiveness with the facts of your sister’s life. With each of these, my suspicions grew. You were not who you said you were.”
“You don’t know how hard it has been...”
Carl raised his voice, “No, I don’t know how hard it’s been. I’ve never been in love with another man’s wife.”
“Forgive me, I didn’t think I’d ever see her again. Please let me explain.”
Carl put out a staying hand. “No, I don’t want to know why you came back from the dead, neither do I want to know the particulars of your disguise and why. To think you would stoop so low by following her and her loved ones around so that you could orchestrate the giving of your gift....”
Carl paused as he took a deep breath. “The fact is, Evelyn should know. We’ve been happily married over the years. We have three beautiful children of our own. Yet, this story is not all happy. She still has nightmares about what happened all those years ago. Perhaps seeing you will help her let go, will give her peace, will stop the nightmares.”
“I don’t think I can...”
“You will. You started down this journey. Now you must end it.”
Gerald sat very still, eyes trained on the wood grain of the table. “I had to know she was all right. I left those flowers there...I knew they would catch her eye. My plan was to leave after I knew she was happy and all right. Once I saw her, I was content. Fate decided to throw us together.”
Carl, enlightened that Gerald was the one who had left the bouquet for her—all the pieces were coming together. “Go back to your hotel without the manuscript. I’ll have Evelyn bring it to you tomorrow. Inform the receptionist to point you out when she asks for a Mr. Gable. Then, reveal the truth. She needs to know, for the past has haunted her long enough. Please, release her.”
Gerald swallowed hard. “If that is what you really want...”
“It is. My wife’s whole wellbeing is foremost in my mind.”
“I don’t wish to drive a wedge...”
“She chose me ten years ago. Do you think that will change? I do not envy you for what you must do next.”
***
Manuscript in hand, Evelyn entered the Lord Nelson. “Good day, could you ring Richard Gable down please?”
The receptionist lifted a brow and nodded slowly. He cupped a hand over the mouthpiece as he announced her arrival and returned, saying, “He’ll be down in a minute.”
Richard came swiftly and studied her.
“Is anything the matter?” Evelyn asked, thinking he looked oddly downcast.
He put out his arm for her and gave a small smile. “Shall we?”
She took the proffered arm and rambled on, “I’m sorry if the manuscript wasn’t delivered on time. Carl said he had a few more things to fix and...”
He patted her hand. “Really, it’s nothing of the sort. I must speak with you about something.”
She gave a quizzical smile. “It sounds serious.”
They walked across the street to the Public Gardens.
“I love this spot,” he said, as they came across the small arid section of plants.
She turned to him confused. “I thought you said you had never been to Canada before.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“We all have pasts we prefer to keep hidden.”
“Yes, it seems that many do.”
He gestured to a nearby bench, at which they both sat.
Suddenly, her breathing became restricted and slightly painful. She had to consciously breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth.
He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I hope you’re not too cold. If you are, we could find somewhere warm.”
“No, I think I need to be outside.”
He asked, “Did you recently find a bouquet of wax flowers?”
She earnestly looked into his eyes. “How do you know about those? How could you? I never told you about....” Her eyes widened in realization. “You put them there, didn’t you?”
“I did. Do you know who I am?”
She fiddled with her gloves. “You must be someone Gerald knew in prison. Did he ask you to seek me out all these years later to make sure I was all right?” She spoke to herself. “It makes sense that such kindness I knew in him would manifest itself in this way and...”
The sensation of Richard’s hands covering her own stopped her silly. “Richard, I’m a married woman, happily married at that.”
“I know.”
“Then please remove your hands.”
His hands lingered for a moment before they dropped upon his knees. “Evelyn, I’m back.”
Flustered, she asked, “What do you mean, you’re back? Speak plainly.”
“I’m Gerald.”
She almost expected it. Still, those three words knocked her breath out. Her vision began to swim in circles. She gripped the bench with both hands until she was certain her gloves would burst at the stretched seams at her knuckles. She shook her head violently. “That is ridiculous! Do you think this is funny? Are you an actor? Who hired you?”
He bent low to seek her eyes. “Have you not felt a familiarity with me? It truly is me.”
She chuckled. “Then how? You’re British. You’ve blond hair, blue eyes. In those ways, you look nothing like him. The shape of your face...oh, it’s been so long. It doesn’t make sense!”
“You’re right. It shouldn’t be, but it is. I hired a tutor to help change my accent. I dye my hair, beard, and brows on a regular basis. I have contacts I put in every morning.”
“Contacts.” She launched off the bench and stated, “It’s not possible. I’m sorry, I have to go.”
A few strides away, his arms firmly grabbed her. He swung her around to face him. “Do you not see what I feel? Do you not remember the feel of my arms upon you?”
Evelyn couldn’t see his face clearly anymore because the tears were increasingly stronger every second. “I cannot do this again. This is too much. You are a spectre, taunting me for feeling guilty I trusted someone I shouldn’t have. Please let me go.”
Afraid he was causing a scene, he did as she wished. He blurted, “Carl knows.”
She stopped in her tracks and turned. Fury overtook her features. “What? How?”
“He figured it out yesterday when I originally came for the manuscript. He told me I needed to tell you. I believed I was ready to walk away...”
“Why? How could he want such a thing?”
A pained look crossed his face. “He loves you too much to see you haunted by me, by the past. He thought if you knew that you could put it to rest.
“Now that you know, I can leave. I’m at peace knowing you’re happy with Carl and the children. I want you to know that I’m all right, that...”
“You’re a fugitive.”
He chuckled, “Yes, well, there’s that. I wish I could have seen Clyde, but we don’t always get what we want in life do we?”
She closed the distance between them and placed her hands on each side of his face. “Is it really you?”
He didn’t break eye contact with her as he said, “Yes.”
Her lips quivered. “Please don’t go.”
“Evelyn, I think it’s for the best that I...”
“I need time to think. If you just up and leave, I might...fade again.”
“Again?”
“Just as when you were to be executed. I told myself I couldn’t love you.” She bit her lip to stop the tears. “I cried for weeks, wouldn’t get out of my bed for days. And Carl? He had to watch all that. I’ll not do that to him again.” Her hands found their way around his neck.
He pressed his forehead to hers.
“Are you real?” she asked.
He kissed her frigid nose. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”
She pulled away, tears brimming in her eyes once again. “That’s the thing. You’ve been lying to me all these years. You never wrote me a letter.”
“You said you couldn’t love me. You were moving on.”
“Yes, I did say that and failed miserably. I can’t move on. I can’t let go.” She turned and walked away.
He watched her stop and look at him. He blinked—she was gone.