"Our mother died only a year and a half after Troy's birth. She had a rare blood disease. My father passed away a year ago next month, heart attack." His eyes went from a warm sky blue to frosty ice, as he must have remembered tragedy. "It happened in the maze."
"The maze!"
"Yes, and unfortunately, little Troy was with him at the time."
"Oh no," I cried.
"They were going to the other side. We have a little cottage there. No one uses it now, but it's so quaint and special, we keep it up and Troy thinks it's a magical place from one of his children's stories. Do you know he was reading when he was only about two and a half. A nanny we had working for us then, Mrs. Habersham, a delightful elderly lady from London, spent hours patiently teaching him. He's very, very bright, far ahead of his age."
"I know, but how horrible it must have been for him to be there in the maze when such a thing happened!" I exclaimed. "What did he do?"
"Amazingly, he didn't panic. Another child his age would have most probably sat there beside his father's body, crying and crying until someone eventually found him. But Troy realized something was seriously wrong with our father and found his way out of the maze quickly. I can still hear him screaming for me as he came running toward the front door. We rushed to my father, but it was too late."
"I'm sorry. How sad," I said, thinking again of what it would be like to lose my own daddy, even now when I was old enough to understand what death was.
"It's been harder for Troy, of course. No nanny I hire can replace a mother and no matter what I do, I can't substitute for a father. I can't spend enough time with him, not the kind of time he needs."
"Is Mrs. Habersham still here?"
"No, she got sick and had to return to England. Right now I have Mrs. Hastings doubling as nanny and maid. Here," he said, "we just go over this hill. Troy's already on the beach."
As soon as we walked over a little knoll, we confronted the ocean. It was breathtaking the way we just stepped up and there it was, the vast Atlantic spread out before us. Troy was down on the beach already digging. The beach went on and on in both directions.
"All this is your private beach?" I asked in amazement.
"Yes. There is a little inlet there," he said pointing to the right, "a very private, quiet place I used to go to when I wanted to be alone."
"How wonderful."
"Do you like it here, Leigh?" he asked, gazing at me with those sharp, penetrating eyes again.
"Very much?'
"I'm glad," he said. He smiled at me with so much warmth in his eyes, his stare almost drinking me in. How old was he? I wondered. At times he seemed worldly, so very wise, and at times he seemed no older than a high school boy. He looked out at the ocean again.
"It is wonderful here," he said. "When I was seven, I was sent to Eton because my father thought the English knew more about discipline than our private schools do. He was right, but I was always dreaming of coming home to Farthy." He closed his eyes and in a soft voice added, "Whenever I felt homesick, which was most of the time, I'd close my eyes and pretend I could smell the balsam, fir, and pine trees, and more than anything, the briny scent of the sea and I'd wake up aching, wanting to feel the damp, cool morning air on my face, wanting my home so badly, it physically hurt."
I held my breath as he spoke. I had never heard anyone speak of his home so romantically. Tony Tatterton was capable of such deep passion, I thought. It brought tingles to my spine to listen to hi e . He snapped open his eyes as if someone had slapped his cheek.
"But it's a lot of responsibility running an estate this size and a business that's growing in leaps and bounds all by yourself. And with a small child to look after, as well," he added.
"For someone so
young," I said. It just blurted out loud.
"How old do you think I am?"
"I don't know. . . twenty."
"Twenty-three."
Twenty-three, I thought. Momma was nearly twice his age yet she seemed only a few years older if that.
"Come, let's stroll along the beach here and listen to the ocean's roar. We can't go back to the house too early and interrupt the artist. You know how artists are--sensitive, moody," he said and laughed.
We had a nice walk. He told me about the plans he had to expand his business and asked me many questions about my school and life in Boston. Afterward, Troy and I went searching for seashells while Tony lay back on the beach, his hands behind his head, his eyes closed. By the time we returned to the house, Momma had cleaned up and changed again. Most of the castle on the dome was painted.
"I have a day or so of work left," she declared. "We have to start back to Boston, now. I'd like to get home before dark."