ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 16A.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is. . .”
--Latin proverb
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“There were times that it made a great difference, knowing that I had a home to come back to.”
A home provided by Harlan Garrett. His grandfather’s house had been Scott’s home for twenty-four years, the home he’d referred to in his eulogy. It had been Catherine’s too, Murdoch reminded himself. But this would be the first night that he had ever spent under this roof, in the house his son now owned.
Someone had been sent to the Harpers’ to fetch his things and Murdoch’s bags now awaited him in a comfortable upstairs guest chamber. A small fire burned on the hearth here in the room that Scott had identified as “Grandfather’s study.” After carelessly draping his finely tailored suit jacket over the back of the sofa, Scott loosened his tie and took a seat in front of the fireplace.
His wineglass and a bottle of burgundy had already been deposited on the small table between the sofa and his chair. Having filled his own glass, Scott gestured with the bottle at the nearly empty one in Murdoch’s hand.
“Murdoch?”
“No, thank you, Scott, I’m fine.”
Scott set the bottle on the table, then took up his glass and lowered the level by half before putting it down again. Leaning back into the armchair, he set to work unfastening the buttons of his black vest.
Murdoch left his own wine glass on the mantel and began to move about the room, scanning the spines of the books arrayed on the shelves. The weighty silence was relieved by the plunking sound of stone on wood as Scott dropped first one, then a second, oval jet cufflink onto the small table, removing them preparatory to rolling up his sleeves.
“It was a fine service, Scott. You did a fine job,” he offered.
“Thank you, Murdoch. I thought it went well.”
The slender thread of conversation frayed, but before it snapped Murdoch caught it back up again, spinning a query about the identities of the other speakers.
Resting his head against the antimacassar-covered armchair, Scott began to list the men by name, indicating each one’s connection to his grandfather.
Murdoch’s movement about the perimeter of the room eventually brought him to the corner near Harlan’s desk, where a group of framed photographs drew his attention further away from Scott’s weary recitation. Murdoch mentally chided himself for only half listening, though truthfully he had primarily been interested in filling the awkward silence----and perhaps avoiding other, more difficult topics.
“ . . . Mr. Merrill has done business with Grandfather for many years . . .”
Murdoch reached first for the image of Catherine, a daguerreotype depicting a woman younger than the one he’d known and loved, just a girl really. The eyes were the same though, and Murdoch gazed into them searchingly for a long moment before sadly returning the portrait to its place on the shelf.
He picked up the next frame, containing another daguerreotype, this one of Scott at about five or six--- the age he’d been when Murdoch had last entered this house, the age he’d been when Harlan had introduced them. Staring at the framed image in his hand, he remembered this same serious child’s face gazing up at him, so many years ago, remembered shaking that small hand. Murdoch found he couldn’t look into those eyes and set the picture back down again.
Glancing over his shoulder, he could just glimpse the top of Scott’s blond head, all that was visible over the back of the chair.
“Wade has been working with Grandfather for some time . . .”
The last image was one of Scott in uniform, standing next to an older man, a general. Hands at his sides, Murdoch wistfully studied the youthful lieutenant. There was a similar photograph sitting atop Scott’s dresser in his bedroom at Lancer, and although Murdoch had always wondered about the identity of the older officer, he knew he wouldn’t ask now. He wasn’t willing to hear about another man who might possibly have been a father figure to his son.
He knew that Scott had been in the cavalry, but little else about his son’s service during the War. When he’d finally learned of Scott’s year-long imprisonment, he’d heard about it from a stranger, that Cassidy woman, who’d come to the ranch to warn them about her vengeful fool of a husband.
An officer, charged with leading men into battle, then a prisoner of war and the sole survivor of a failed escape attempt—he’d come so close to losing this son, the one who was supposed to be “safe in Boston,” come so close without ever knowing it. Without ever knowing him. The realization never failed to turn Murdoch’s insides to ice.
He wondered if he would have heard the sad news from Harlan, if Scott had failed to keep his promise to return. It was yet another addition to Murdoch’s long list of grievances against Harlan Garrett. The man could have written to tell him about Scott’s enlistment, he could have notified him when his son was captured.
But in all honesty, Murdoch couldn’t help but wonder how the news would have affected him. By then he’d long given up the idea of trying to communicate with his eldest son, certain that Scott would have no interest in hearing from the father he’d never met.
He’d been so grateful for the scant information contained in the unexpected Pinkerton report, rereading the few pages countless times. When the boys had arrived, there’d been little time for talk, and afterwards . . . well, he could hardly have asked questions about the past without being expected to answer some of his own. Scott had volunteered little about his life in Boston, and nothing at all about his captivity, neither before nor after the episode with the Cassidys. Clearly, it was a topic his son preferred to avoid. It had been a surprise when Scott had made reference to his imprisonment during the eulogy. Murdoch sighed and turned away, casting one last glance at that young soldier.
Scott, Murdoch realized, had stopped talking; the only sound was the popping and crackling of the logs burning on the hearth. With his elbows on the padded armrests of the chair and his long legs stretched out in front of him, his son sat staring into the flames. Scott cocked a brow in his direction as Murdoch moved slowly to the armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but didn’t speak. The wine bottle on the table beside him now stood empty.
Beside Murdoch’s own chair was another table, a larger one, upon which rested a reading lamp and several book-marked volumes. Once seated, Murdoch mechanically reached for one and read the title: The Capture, the Prison Pen and the Escape. Quickly turning to the inside cover page, he read the full description of the book’s contents: “Giving a complete history of prison life in the South, principally at Richmond, Danville, Macon, Savannah, Charleston, Columbia, Belle Isle, Millin, Salisbury, and Andersonville, describing the arrival of prisoners, and plans of escape, together with numerous and varied incidents and anecdotes of prison life.” It was a fairly recent work, published in 1870, and written by a Captain Willard Worcester Glazier.
“Is this something you’re reading, Scott?”
Scott’s eyes had drifted closed. They opened reluctantly, that hauntingly familiar blue-grey regard taking in the book cradled in Murdoch’s hand. He shook his head slightly.
“No, my book is upstairs . . . that must be . . . Grandfather’s . . .” Scott said sadly and returned his gaze to the hearth.
Murdoch set the first book on his lap and examined the second. LIBBY LIFE: Experiences of A Prisoner of War in Richmond, VA, 1863-64 By F.F. Cavada. He opened the book to the middle of the first chapter, and started reading partway down the page.
“There are filthy blankets hanging about the room; they have been used time and again by the many who have preceded us; they are soiled, worn, and filled with vermin, but we are recommended to help ourselves in time; if we do so with reluctance and profound disgust it is because we are now more particular than we will be by-and-by.
We have tasted of the promised soup: it is boiled water sprinkled with rice, and seasoned with the rank juices of stale bacon; we must shut our eyes to eat it---”
“He always preferred histories.”
Startled, Murdoch looked up. Scott managed a tired smile.
“So, what is it about?” he asked, pointing at the open volume.
Murdoch closed the book.
“Murdoch?”
The distance between them was too far to reach across easily, so Murdoch reluctantly pushed himself up from his chair and took the few steps necessary to close the space. Looking puzzled, Scott sat upright and extended his hand.
After a swift examination of the covers of the two books, he uttered a harsh expletive. Murdoch remained standing, looking down at him.
“Have you read either of them, Scott?”
“This one, no,” Scott replied, indicating the thicker volume. “But this other, Cavada’s work, I’ve read.”
“Is it . . . accurate?”
“Yes . . . as far as it goes. He was there in ’63. Conditions were . . . worse by the War’s end.”
Scott stood, swayed a bit, and dropped the two books onto the cushion of his vacated seat.
“Damn.”
Murdoch wasn’t sure if the milder curse was another expression of displeasure at Harlan’s selection of reading material or a reaction to the empty wine bottle.
Scott folded his arms across his chest. “He never asked any questions. I would have . . . ” Scott drew in a deliberate breath, his hands dropping to his sides. “We never talked about it,” he said tightly.
Snatching up his glass, Scott drained what little was left, though it could hardly have been enough to douse his barely suppressed emotion. It was hard to see Scott struggling with those kinds of feelings, so close to the surface. Murdoch thought for a moment that he might even fling the delicate piece of glassware against the furniture or one of the walls but instead Scott set it back on the table with exaggerated care.
“There were . . . so many things we never talked about,” he said, finally looking up and meeting Murdoch’s eyes.
“Scott . . . there are some things we need to discuss. I’m ready,” he added firmly, in response to his son’s openly skeptical expression.
It was Scott who turned away. “I’m not sure I am.”
Murdoch tentatively dropped one hand upon his son’s shoulder. “It’s been a long day.”
Scott nodded mutely. “Perhaps . . . tomorrow.”
“Well, Son, I do have a ticket for the ten a.m. train.”
“You’re planning to leave in the morning?” As Scott turned to face him, Murdoch’s hand slipped off of his shoulder.
“I need to get back, and I thought . . . I thought you’d have things to do . . . Teresa tells me you’re going up to Maine.”
Scott regarded him calmly, folding his arms over his chest and standing his ground. “We’re not leaving right away; Aunt Cee wanted a day before she had to think about packing. To recover, she said. I don’t have anything that I have to do tomorrow . . . so I could show you around the city.”
“I have been here before, Scott,” Murdoch pointed out gently, but too quickly, and wished the words back as soon as he’d said them.
Scott’s mouth quirked up into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then perhaps you might show me around, Sir,” he said dryly.
Murdoch nodded in grateful relief. “Perhaps we could each-—there are places I’d like to see again. I’d like to show them to you, Scott.”
“Well, then, we’ll make a day of it.”
“I’d like that, Son.”
Scott nodded, then exhaled audibly. “Now, I think it might be a good idea if we both turned in. I could use some sleep.”
“You go ahead, I’ll be up soon, after I find something to read.” Murdoch bent to pick up the two books and felt Scott watching him warily as he crossed in front of the fireplace to return them to the their place beneath the reading lamp. “Something a bit lighter,” he assured his son as he carefully set them down.
“All right . . . well, good night, Murdoch. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night, Scott.”
After Scott had departed, Murdoch dutifully perused the shelves, selecting a volume of short stories to take up to bed. But first he sat for a while before the dying fire, paging through the slim volume of Libby Life until a particular passage gave him pause.
“There is a group in a dusky corner that I can see from here: some one is playing "Home, sweet home! " on a violin. It is a very dismal affair, this group: the faces are all sad,-no wonder, for the tune is telling them strange, wild things : there are whispering voices in its notes . .”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Author’s note: For more on Federico Fernandez Cavada's 1864 book about his Libby Prison confinement:
http://www.latinamericanstudies.org/libby-life.htm
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 16B.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is. . .”
--Latin proverb
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
<<“You’ll get no apology from me!”>>
The voice had been angry, the words startling. An apology, or rather, an attempt at one, had been exactly what he had expected from his father. It hadn’t happened when they’d met and most likely wouldn’t happen today either.
Perhaps there might finally be some answers-----but was he prepared to hear them, Scott wondered. Was he even willing to ask the questions? To be honest, the question uppermost in his mind this morning concerned the wisdom of urging Murdoch to stay on another day in Boston.
The face staring back at him in the mirror looked just as weary as he felt. His aunt had planned to sleep in, and as he moved slowly down the stairs, Scott wished he’d done the same.
It was no surprise to find Murdoch downstairs in the dining room, dressed and ready for the day, his breakfast half eaten. Scott cinched the belt of his robe more tightly and settled into his seat at the head of the table.
Murdoch offered a “good morning” in a sympathetic tone, but further conversation was curtailed by Jane’s entrance. The maid efficiently served what Scott hoped would be a revitalizing dose of coffee.
Fortunately, Teresa soon joined them, her cheerful conversation with her guardian affording Scott some time for the coffee to take effect. In response to Murdoch’s expressions of concern, she assured him that she’d be quite fine on her own for the day. When his father voiced regret over not having had a chance to sit down and talk with his ward, Scott realized that Teresa could not have had an opportunity to let Murdoch know about the revelation concerning the Pinkerton agent.
“It’s much more important that you and Scott have a chance to spend some time together,” she said, brightly. Too brightly—and she was looking at Scott when she said it. No doubt she was worried, but since Murdoch wasn’t aware of her disclosure, there was little danger of him bringing it up, even if the man truly was prepared to break his long-standing pattern of avoiding discussions about the past.
While Scott did have hopes of hearing a bit about Murdoch’s time in Boston, and perhaps some of the details of how his parents had first met, he wasn’t anxious to probe the matter of why he had been raised by his grandfather in Boston. Grandfather’s loss was still too painful and it was hardly the sort of conversation he wanted to have while suffering the after effects of a long day with too little food and too much wine, followed by an even longer night with too little sleep.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Scott had already spent several restless nights thinking about the things to be done after his grandfather’s will was read and the decisions that would have to be made about the house and the business.
Last night other matters had kept him awake, as he had first reviewed the memorial service in his head, particularly his own carefully crafted speech. Scott didn’t regret his departure from the written page, wasn’t at all sorry to have expressed his affection and admiration for his grandfather publicly. But his forgiveness he had offered silently, before leaving the podium at Old West.
<<“I do forgive you, Sir.”>>
Best not to dwell upon others’ faults and failings, the Reverend Grimes had said, yet it was impossible to forget what Grandfather had done, what he’d tried to do. His grandfather had, at least, offered an apology. Although Scott had at times questioned his ability to truly accept it, when he had concluded his eulogy and bade Harlan Garrett a final farewell, it had been with the conviction that his forgiveness was indeed coming from the heart.
Equally as important, returning to this house, finding the letters and the framed flag remnant and now with the discovery of his grandfather’s selection of reading material, Scott in turn felt forgiven.
The longer he’d thought about it, the more Scott’s initial dismay at what the older man must have learned about the conditions at Libby was replaced by appreciation of the fact that Grandfather had wanted to know. Although they had often corresponded about the books they were reading, on this subject, his grandfather had been secretive, and Scott had to admit that he most likely would not have welcomed the news. He’d always been relieved that Grandfather hadn’t ever asked many questions.
Only one person had heard the worst of it, really, and that was Will Hayford. Of course, at first that had been largely unintentional, as Scott had believed his friend to be even more inebriated than he himself at the time. But the next day, they’d both remembered and continued the sobering discussion. It had helped a great deal, talking with Will. Although he’d never been captured, there was no question that Will understood, having survived his own hell at Gettysburg and bearing his own, much more visible, scars.
Scott had never been eager to talk about his incarceration in Libby Prison, but he would have answered honestly any questions asked. Or so he told himself.
Unlike Murdoch Lancer, who seemingly had no difficulty refusing to answer even a direct question.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
<<“Why didn’t you come to claim me in Boston?”>>
The words came unbidden, as Scott sipped at his coffee, regarding his father’s profile and only half listening as Murdoch conversed with Teresa about things that had happened at the ranch during their absence. Rebuffed the first time he had posed the awkward question, Scott had refrained from asking it again, even when opportunities presented themselves.
There was another opportunity now, with Murdoch here in Boston. His father’s last minute arrival had been one of the few genuinely happy moments of the past few days. It was a long journey from California to Massachusetts, and Scott understood fully its significance as a gesture of support. He was well aware that Murdoch Lancer hadn’t traveled so far simply to pay his respects to his former father in law.
Finding it much easier to think about what they might do, rather than what they might talk about, Scott had used a portion of his wakeful night to plan their travels about the city. He’d more or less determined a route and despite his weary, wine soaked thoughts, was starting to look forward to that part of the day.
The coffee was helping, as were a few pieces of dry toast. Scott would welcome whatever memories Murdoch cared to share, but this would also be an opportunity to show his father his home and the city he knew so well. The home he’d had to leave behind.
Just as he’d grown up understanding that it was best not to mention Murdoch’s name in Harlan Garrett’s house, once settled in at the ranch, it had seemed advisable to refrain from saying much about his life with his grandfather. Here in Boston, it had never been especially difficult to avoid talking about a man he’d never met; at Lancer, it had proven to be more of a challenge to omit references to the only home he’d ever known, and to the grandfather who had raised him. Sometimes, in the beginning, he’d felt a bit like a ship adrift in the harbor, cut loose from its moorings.
It seemed strange to recall that even in the midst of his hasty departure for St. Louis, when he hadn’t yet made up his mind to continue on to California, he’d still taken the time to pack a few mementoes to share with his father, tangible connections to his past. The photograph of himself with General Sheridan had been one such item, but Scott had never actually shown it to Murdoch. The shock of meeting Johnny, their father’s less than warm welcome, and the subsequent series of events in the bloody conflict with Pardee had left no time for introductory conversation. He’d gotten to know Murdoch Lancer first through observation, judging him by his actions and interactions with others, rather than by asking questions. Apparently, his father had been satisfied to do the same.
Johnny, however, had asked questions, and right away. Recollections of that first morning never failed to bring a smile to Scott’s lips. His brother had been a study in contrasts. Although there had been a certain amount of what he now viewed more fondly as “brotherly behavior,” Scott had been well aware of the purpose of Johnny’s early morning visit –it hadn’t been simply to snap up another twenty dollar gold piece, but it hadn’t all been friendly either. Curious questions coupled with cold warnings. Bravado masking just a bit of uncertainty, or so Scott had suspected. While studying the photograph and trying on that hat, Johnny had been forming a careful assessment. The verbal sparring had made it clear to Scott that he’d been underestimated. He’d rather enjoyed proving his brother wrong.
Later, both Johnny and Teresa had asked questions about Boston, about his friends and family, about his life there. Scott had been quite aware that he’d grown up amidst luxury, in decided contrast to what his brother had known. Even Teresa’s happy childhood at Lancer, where her father, Maria and Murdoch, had, by all accounts, doted upon her, paled in comparison.
One day, Teresa had inquired about the photograph. He’d talked about his time in the cavalry a bit, but the War wasn’t really something he wanted her to hear about. Teresa had a kind heart, and she worried about things—worried about things that weren’t her fault, things she couldn’t change.
Grateful that she had kept Murdoch engaged in conversation, Scott smiled reassuringly at her now, and quickly downed one last cup of coffee. Although he’d never shown Murdoch the picture taken with General Sheridan, today he would take him on a tour and show him Boston. Scott headed back upstairs to prepare to spend the day with his father.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
As the carriage moved along Chestnut Street, Scott pointed out the Hayfords’ house. Wending their way through Beacon Hill, he identified a few of the other residences. Teresa would have recognized them, but the names were unfamiliar to Murdoch.
They passed down Walnut to Beacon Street, which bordered the northern edge of “the Common.” A huge public park, British troops had camped there prior to the Revolution. Scott was about to share some of the history of the place when Murdoch spoke.
“That’s Boston Common,” he said reverently, without turning away from the view from the carriage window.
“That’s right. I understand cattle still grazed here, forty or fifty years ago and---”
“I met your mother here.”
It had been a Sunday afternoon, he said, and they’d each been strolling through the park with friends. Although Murdoch had never appeared to be a man inclined to pay particular attention to the details of feminine attire, he seemed to easily recall exactly what Catherine had been wearing, how she’d worn her hair. While Scott listened intently and his father continued to gaze out at the green expanse, Murdoch spoke at length about Catherine’s eyes, Catherine’s knowing smile.
And finally the mystery was solved, partially at least, as to the role that Jim Harper had played, the debt that Murdoch had owed to that self-important little man. It had been Mr. Harper—Murdoch called him “James”—who had accompanied him to the Common that day; Murdoch had been employed by his father “Big Jim” Harper, loading and unloading ships down on the waterfront.
In the course of their maiden conversation, Catherine Garrett had mentioned that she looked forward to attending the theater later in the week. Barely able to afford the price of a ticket, Murdoch had appealed to his friend for assistance in obtaining suitable clothing to wear. All so that he could spend a few minutes conversing with Miss Garrett in between acts.
As the carriage carried them across the Charles towards Cambridge, Scott heard for the first time about the earliest stages of his parents’ courtship. A concert had followed the encounter at the theater—though, just as with the play, Murdoch could provide no information whatsoever about the content of the performance. As it had turned out, the young woman who had accompanied Catherine to the music hall was suddenly taken ill very soon after their arrival, necessitating an immediate departure. Clearly, in addition to Melissa Harper’s father, a great debt was also due to Catherine’s unnamed friend, since Murdoch had been invited to occupy her vacated seat.
As it happened, they arrived at Harvard College well before Murdoch’s story reached the point of his first encounter with Catherine’s formidable father. They were passing by the ‘delta,’ a triangular area bounded by Quincy, Kirkland and Cambridge streets, the site of ongoing construction work that captured Murdoch’s attention.
“They’ve made great progress,” Scott observed. “The cornerstone was laid shortly after I left for California . . . as you can see the transept is almost completed.”
In response to Murdoch’s questions, Scott told him what he knew about the work in progress.
“It’s to be called ‘Memorial Hall,’ in honor of the Harvard men who were killed during the Rebellion,” he explained. “The plans call for stained glass windows and marble plaques with the names inscribed. There will also be a theater inside and eventually commencement exercises will be held there.”
Once they’d moved beyond the work site, Scott called for the vehicle to halt. The remainder of the morning they spent walking about the college grounds, stopping to talk with a few instructors they encountered. Scott pointed out other buildings and was happy to satisfy his father’s curiosity about his studies. He was grateful that Murdoch elected not to pursue any further the subject of his son’s departure for California, or anything more about the War.
At mid-day, they drove back across the river to Boston to dine at the Parker House. The restaurant attached to the elegant hotel had become well-known for both its buttery soft rolls and for the Parker House Chocolate Pie, the creations of, respectively, a very talented German baker and an famously highly paid French pastry chef.
They disembarked on School Street, opposite city hall. Mounting the white marble steps, they entered the lobby of the hotel itself, taking in the impressive display of chandelier and oak paneled walls, thick carpets and horsehair divans, before passing through to the restaurant.
Once seated, Scott placed an order for drinks, eschewing the concoctions of mixed spirits that also held a featured spot on the Parker House menu and requesting the establishment’s best scotch whiskey. Since the hotel and restaurant hadn’t begun operations until after he and Catherine had departed for California, Murdoch had never dined at the Parker House. “Not that I could have afforded it,” he added ruefully, looking around at the luxurious surroundings.
“It must have considerably more difficult to travel so far then, and costly.”
“We went by ship. I had enough money saved for the trip and to make some sort of a start in California. Fortunately, your mother insisted upon paying her own way.”
While an efficient waiter provided them the beginning courses, including bowls of creamy clam chowder, Murdoch described the westward journey. The hacienda entered the story just as the main course of whitefish--the day’s best catch, termed “scrod” at the Parker House---arrived at their table.
“So how were you able to purchase the ranch?”
“Although it was in poor shape, it still cost much more than what was left from my savings. But your mother had come into a portion of her inheritance from your grandmother . . .”
Scott arched one brow. “So she used her own funds, her inheritance,” he said carefully, “to make an investment in the ranch?”
“Yes.”
From the expression on his father’s face, Scott gathered that the point had been taken, and so he didn’t press it. Time enough for that if and when he himself returned to Lancer. Deftly shifting the topic, Scott told what he knew of Harvey Parker, another self-made man, who had traveled by boat from Maine, arriving in Boston virtually penniless. Working as a coachman, he’d saved enough money to purchase his first small café, turning it into a successful enterprise. Eventually, he’d fulfilled his dream to construct a first class hotel and restaurant at the base of Beacon Hill.
The Parker House had in recent years become the home of the “Saturday Club” a group of Boston’s brightest intellectual lights, many of them writers, who gathered there on the last Saturday of each month. The “membership list” was impressive, including Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Nathaniel Hawthorne, John Greenleaf Whittier, Francis Parkman, Charles Francis Adams, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, a cousin of Aunt Cee’s late husband. Scott recalled the stir created when British author Charles Dickens had visited Boston after the War, offering public readings of his work while in residence at the Parker House.
The fine meal was concluded with coffee to accompany slices of the renowned Parker House Chocolate Cake, a pudding pie cake with chocolate glaze. The afternoon was spent touring the rebuilt areas of the business district and the waterfront. Murdoch found that time and the devastating fire had significantly altered much of what he had known. Although he refrained from pointing them out to his father, Scott was pleased to see that most of the establishments he had once frequented had been reconstructed. While he had been happy to meet a few old acquaintances in the environs of Harvard and the Parker House, he was just as happy not to encounter anyone he knew along the waterfront. Apprehensive about being pulled into a business conference by Cousin Wade, Scott pointed out the office on Milk Street as they rode past, but decided against stopping in.
There were still a few hours remaining before suppertime when they returned to the house on Chestnut Street. It had been an enjoyable day, a day of shared memories. And by unspoken mutual agreement, it had also been a day of avoiding difficult topics.
When they did not immediately encounter either Mrs. Holmes or Teresa, Murdoch suggested they adjourn to the study before supper. Once the door closed behind them, he wasted no time.
“Scott, I’m leaving tomorrow. I know you have questions. Go ahead, Son, and ask them.”
Scott considered and swiftly rejected the idea of asking once more a question to which he already knew the answer. When he’d finally asked his father why he’d never come to claim him, he’d expected Murdoch’s response to be “I did,” but that hadn’t been the case. Now, if he asked his father “Why did you send for me?” Scott knew that the most truthful answer would be “I didn’t.”
Despite the fact that Murdoch was now indicating his readiness to discuss the past, Scott was unwilling to be disappointed again.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“There was something that I was wondering about, Sir,” Scott finally offered, after what seemed an interminable silence.
“What’s that, Scott?”
Leaning against the front edge of his grandfather’s desk, Scott folded his arms across his chest and studied the floor. Murdoch recognized it as a posture reminiscent of the one he’d assumed that day back at Lancer, in the Great Room, when he’d reluctantly admitted to having questions about the past. When he’d asked why his father had never come to “claim him” in Boston. As he regarded his son’s bowed blond head, Murdoch resolved that whatever this inquiry might be, this time--- this time--- he would answer.
“Did you ever . . . write to me?” Only after he’d forced the words out did Scott look up. Murdoch met his gaze, still determined not to back away from the question.
“Yes, Scott. Many times . . .”
Scott pushed himself to his feet and turned away, but not before Murdoch had caught a glimpse of the dismay there. Scott moved around behind the large desk.
“Then I suppose I’ll find your letters somewhere, in amongst Grandfather’s papers,” he said tightly.
“No. No you won’t Son.”
Then those eyes were upon him again, the slight squint of intense examination. Lips parted, the question evident in his facial expression, still, Scott didn’t ask.
Murdoch inhaled once and plunged in. “I suppose you might find a few letters that I wrote to Harlan, when you were very small. Very few, I’m ashamed to say. But the letters that I wrote to you, Scott . . . I never sent them. I’m not sure I ever even finished one.”
Lips pressed together now, Scott’s gaze slipped away once more. Murdoch slowly withdrew the thick envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket.
“Until now.”
It was a relief to hold the letter in his hand, after bearing the weight of it against his heart the entire day. Murdoch stepped forward, and when Scott made no move to accept it, placed the envelope upon the desk. The stark white rectangle, blank except for Scott’s name written in Murdoch’s own hand, lay on the dark, highly polished wooden surface that stretched between them.
“It’s long overdue, Scott, but I finally wrote down everything . . . everything that I’ve wanted to explain for years. Things I should have written, or said, to you a long time ago.”
“Why didn’t you?”
The abrupt question gave Murdoch pause. “I just . . . I never could. It always seemed too hard,” he admitted finally.
“And it’s easier now. Now that he’s dead.”
“No.”
With an effort, Murdoch swallowed his angry reaction to the accusation in the words, tried to focus on the sadness lying beneath the surface of his son’s attempt to affect a carefully neutral tone. He reminded himself that it had been only yesterday that Scott had spoken so eloquently at his grandfather’s memorial service. Given Murdoch’s own reluctance to discuss the past, and his undisguised antipathy towards his former father-in-law, it was understandable that Scott might expect the thick envelope to contain an indictment of Harlan Garrett. Until he opened it and read the pages inside, Scott could have no way of knowing how much Murdoch blamed himself.
“No, Scott, what made it easier was that now . . . I know you. I know what kind of man you are.”
<< Compassionate. Understanding. Qualities you share with your mother>> he wanted to add, but didn’t. Instead he watched silently as Scott reached out, reluctantly, with one hand to finger the envelope. His son’s head was lowered, so Murdoch couldn’t begin to guess at the emotions the young man was experiencing. With Scott, it was never easy to tell.
“You don’t have to read it now. But when you’re ready, it’s all there.”
“Everything?”
The challenge in his son’s eyes was unmistakable. “I’m sure you’ll still have questions. And I promise you, Scott, I’ll be ready to answer them.”
Scott’s gaze dropped to the thick envelope once more. “I should probably tell you . . . I know you didn’t send that Pinkerton agent.”
Not Sam, Murdoch decided quickly. Teresa then. He wondered how long Scott had known. Murdoch’s response was measured. “Then . . . you won’t be surprised, when you read about that.”
Scott’s head came up then, his serious expression giving nothing away. He nodded slowly, and then finally reached down to pick up the envelope. Scott started to tuck it into the inner pocket of his black jacket, then seemed to change his mind. Pulling open the center drawer of his of his grandfather’s desk, he laid the thick envelope inside.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
<<"Seems to me, Murdoch, you could have tried a little harder. You could have put up a fight.>>
Johnny’s angry words echoed in Murdoch’s head, what his younger son had said when they’d stood in front of the hacienda watching Scott drive away with his grandfather. It had been different then, Scott was no longer a child, he was a man, more than capable of making his own decisions. Still, the words had struck a familiar chord because they matched the accusations echoing in his own guilty thoughts over the years. They all came back to him now, as he tried to absorb Scott’s announcement.
Now he and Scott were standing side by side on the platform, amidst the coming and going of passengers and railroad employees, waiting for the call to board the train. Anticipating being confined for the next week, Murdoch wanted to be out of doors, even if the air was rife with the noise and fumes of the locomotive.
The first call sounded, though there was no need to hurry yet. Murdoch felt he should say something, but the truth was that everything he needed to say had already been said, either in the stories he’d told yesterday, or in the pages of the letter that now lay in a drawer of Harlan Garrett’s desk. At least Murdoch assumed it was still there, carefully sealed inside its envelope, for if Scott had read it, his son gave no sign. Surely if he had, Scott would have had additional questions to ask. Surely they would have run out of time.
Now, in the final minutes remaining before he would board the westbound train, it seemed the two of them had run out of things to say, and were reduced to repeating previous conversations in order to fill the space between them.
“You’ll wire us when Teresa leaves with the Hayfords? Someone can meet her in Sacramento.”
“I’ll do that. And I’m sure Will won’t mind sending word too, when they get close . . .”
“Hopefully you won’t be too far behind them, Scott.”
Scott lowered his gaze, and in that moment, Murdoch knew that he didn’t want to hear what his son was about to say.
“Murdoch . . . I may decide to stay.”
Johnny’s accusation came instantly to mind. Murdoch recalled what his response to Johnny had been— Scott wasn’t a little boy, he was a man. His decision.
He’d chosen to leave because of Harlan’s machinations, but it had been Scott’s decision, nonetheless. Still, whenever he recalled that sad departure, Murdoch did have regrets. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond now, but he’d be damned if he’d make the same mistakes again.
“It’s your decision, Scott,” he started, tentatively. The blond head remained bowed, nodding woodenly. Murdoch stepped around to face his son, gripping one of Scott’s arms with each hand, forcing him to look up.
“But I want you to know this: I hope you’ll come back home. To stay.” Their eyes locked.
“And if I don’t?”
Murdoch lowered his own gaze, but only for a moment. “If you don’t . . . if you don’t, we’re still a family, Scott.”
Relief warmed those blue-grey eyes. The smile started there, but hadn’t yet reached his son’s lips. “I understand the trains do run pretty regularly, in both directions.”
Reluctantly, Murdoch released his grip, allowing his hands to slide away. “I’ll send your brother here first,” he said casually, as he moved into position beside his son once more. Deliberately, Murdoch rested one arm across Scott’s shoulders. “Then you can take him to all the places you didn’t show me yesterday . . .”
Scott looked up in astonishment, mouth falling open in guilty reaction. And then he laughed.
It felt good to have something to smile about. Almost as good as it felt to have his son’s hand come to rest upon his own shoulder when Scott gently guided him towards the open door of the railroad car.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Scott was still smiling when he climbed back into the carriage for the ride home to Chestnut Street. He’d dreaded telling Murdoch that there was a chance he might decide to stay permanently here in Boston. Now that it was done, he realized that what he’d feared most was that his father would simply say that it was his decision and leave it at that.
Nothing that had been said between them would make the final choice easier, yet Scott still felt better about the decision to be made. And he felt ready to read the letter awaiting him in Grandfather’s desk drawer.
When he arrived home, Scott directed James to go ahead into the carriage house, indicating that he’d get out there and make the short walk to the rear entrance. He was surprised to see an unfamiliar vehicle parked in the drive behind the house; Scott assumed that someone was calling upon his aunt, although visitors’ carriages usually pulled up in front to await their owners’ departure.
Once inside, Scott headed towards the kitchen, but was intercepted by Fredericks.
“Ah, Mr. Lancer, you’re home, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Yes, and now I’m hunting for a cup of coffee.”
“Let me take care of that for you, Sir.”
“Thank you, Fredericks. Is my aunt around?”
“Mrs. Holmes and Miss O’Brien have gone to pass the morning with Mrs. Hayford. But you do have a visitor, Mr. Lancer, in the sitting room. She asked if she might wait for you---it’s Mrs. Prescott.”
For one brief moment, Scott wondered who ‘Mrs. Prescott’ might be and why she wanted to see him. But only for a moment.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Additional Information on the internet:
Harvard’s Memorial Hall:
http://www.fas.harvard.edu/~memhall/concept.html
The Parker House Chocolate Pie is now more familiarly known as “Boston Cream Pie.” For more on the Parker House, see:
http://www.jetsettersmagazine.com/archive/jetezine/hotels/omni/parker/house.html
And here is a Biography of Harvey D. Parker, a Maine boy who “made good.” ;-)
http://www.oxfordcountybicentennial.com/harveyparker.html
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 17.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is. . .”
--Latin proverb
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“Hello, Scott.”
It wasn’t lost on him what a faint echo her greeting was of the one he remembered from the hotel in Morro Coyo; the tone was subdued, the smile uncertain.
Julie was standing when he entered the sitting room; her face seemed flushed and Scott had the impression she’d been pacing. She was behind one of the wingchairs, and as she stepped around, he could clearly discern that although she couldn’t be very far along, her condition was indeed a delicate one.
“Hello, Julie. Though of course it’s Mrs. Prescott now.” He added the one word, “Congratulations,” pleased to hear it coming out all on one level, evenly.
“Thank you,” she responded, with a lift of her chin.
He might have known that she wouldn’t be easily disconcerted; she never had been.
“Please, sit down.”
As she carefully settled herself in the wingchair, Scott took the seat opposite. Julie neither offered sympathy on his grandfather’s passing, nor initiated polite conversation about the memorial service. Good manners precluded his asking a blunt question about the purpose of her call. So instead, Scott informed her that Fredericks would be arriving shortly with coffee and tea. Since the absence of any preliminary small talk might indicate that his guest expected to quickly arrive at the point of the visit, he wanted to signal the anticipated interruption.
They’d always danced well together, and so it was no surprise when Julie followed his subtle lead and glided into the expected condolences and inquiries. She only faltered once, showing genuine surprise when Scott made mention of his father’s attendance at the memorial service. Julie then asked after his Western family, rather stiffly he thought, with a few cool questions about how “Miss O’Brien” was enjoying her stay in Boston. Then Fredericks entered, and while she poured herself a cup of tea, Scott smoothly steered the talk to recent news of mutual acquaintances. They waltzed around each topic like strangers, maintaining a formal distance.
Once the door closed firmly behind the ever-discreet manservant, it was as if the music abruptly stopped. Scott studied the coffee in his cup and waited. As expected, Julie came quickly to the point.
“Scott, I’m here to talk to you about my father. About the money he owes you.”
“Julie . . . those were business dealings between Mr. Dennison and my grandfather---”
“Were they? You asked your grandfather to loan him money, though you never told me about it. Mr. Garrett made it more than clear that he would never have given father the funds otherwise. ”
“When he persuaded you to travel to California?”
“Yes.”
“And you only came with him because he threatened to call in the notes.”
Julie calmly regarded him. “That was one reason.”
The challenge in her voice was unmistakable. Scott carefully set his cup down on the table positioned between them, sat back and waited for her to continue.
“Your grandfather said that he was very worried about you . . . ”
“Go on.”
“And that you were still in love with me.”
Scott had prepared himself not to react, and believed he’d managed not to do so despite the unwelcome revelation. He derived some satisfaction from the fact that Mrs. Prescott had the grace to blush.
“He wasn’t entirely wrong, as must have been evident from the welcome you received.”
Julie’s blush deepened. Scott exhaled softly, and relented.
“I had no idea you were coming, Julie.”
“I could see that---”
“Your father, when he was here, seemed to have understood something of the purpose of the trip. Though I am curious about Mr. Prescott----how much did he know?”
“He didn’t know; he hadn’t proposed yet. I told him everything, when I returned,” she added somewhat defiantly.
She didn’t add what was evident, that William Prescott loved her and had been eager to marry her anyway. She didn’t need to.
“Now, I’m sorry, Julie, I’m sorry for what my grandfather tried to do. If you’re worried about the loans, well, I’ve already informed your father that I have no intention of calling in the debt. So there’s no need for you to worry.”
“But you did ask for a schedule of repayment.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Scott, Father can’t repay the loans. He never expected to, the largest sums were borrowed when we were still engaged. And then after the fire, he borrowed more . . . ”
“A great many businessmen were badly hurt by the fire, Julie, including my grandfather. But until I’m sure the money won’t be needed, I can’t forgive the notes. It’s not spite, whatever you may think.”
“I know it’s not spite,” she said, turning her attention to the teacup cradled in her hands, but not before he caught a glimpse of tears in her eyes. “I do know you better than that, Scott.”
Scott had to lower his own eyes. His Julie had never been one to cry easily. It was difficult to see her now, with those emotions so close to the surface.
“I did tell your father that the repayment schedule could be whatever he thought feasible. I promise you, I’ll accept it.”
To his dismay, the tears now began to fall in earnest. “He can’t pay, he can’t pay anything. You’ll never get a penny from him.”
Scott rose and offered her his pocket-handkerchief. He returned to his seat, grateful that Julie had chosen an armchair rather than the sofa, and waited for her to regain her composure.
“Scott, Father lost everything in the fire.“
“Everything?”
She bravely managed a weak smile at the question. “Yes, everything. Of course, by then he had very little to lose.”
“What about his business?”
“Oh, there isn’t one really. An old friend has allowed him the use of a small office, and Father dutifully goes there every day.”
“He still has a fine home,” Scott offered. Julie had told him once that the Dennisons’ elegant mansion had come to the family through her father’s childless first marriage.
“The house on Mt. Vernon Street, and all of its contents, is now in my husband’s name. Fortunately, we were able to convince Father that the only way to preserve it was to sign it over to Mr. Prescott as part of my dowry.”
Scott nodded thoughtfully. Julie spoke again, the words rushing quickly, one after another.
“Scott, if you do try to get any of that money, you’ll only succeed in bankrupting and humiliating my father. I know, I *know * it’s a great deal to ask, and I have no right to ask it of you, but if you could only---”
“I’ll forgive the notes, Julie.” Standing, he added, “If you’ll just wait here, I’ll go get them for you.”
He was almost at the door when her voice halted him, and he turned back to look at her expectantly.
“Scott, wait. My husband doesn’t know I’m here. He . . . he expressly forbade me to come.”
“Then we’ll have to make sure that he doesn’t know.” Scott smiled reassuringly. “I’ll have the papers brought round to your house later this evening.”
The clock chimed the hour and Julie’s expression of gratitude and relief swiftly disappeared. She rose to her feet hastily, one hand reflexively curving over the slight round of her abdomen.
“You have another appointment?”
“Yes, my sister-in-law is expecting me.”
“Come this way,” he said, motioning towards the door. “Your carriage is parked in back.”
“Scott.” The one word stopped him again, and he waited as she approached. The urge to take her into his arms was almost too much to resist. He wanted only to comfort her, he told himself. Anything more was a reflex, a footnote to their history, with its sad conclusion, although he’d once hoped to share his future with this woman. Scott reminded himself of the child she was carrying, a child that wasn’t his.
But might have been.
Julie placed one hand upon his arm. Scott gazed down into those still bright eyes and resisted the urge to touch that glossy dark hair.
“Thank you, Scott.”
He nodded mutely, and opened the door. They passed through the corridor without speaking, in step, his strides shortened to fit hers. When they arrived at the rear entrance, she stopped him again, reached up and gently kissed his cheek.
“Good bye, Scott.”
“Good bye, Julie.”
He stayed in the doorway watching her, allowing her driver to clamber down to escort her to the carriage and help her inside. He stood watching until Julie drove away, nodding as the vehicle moved past, then remained there a few moments longer.
Once back inside, Scott moved directly to his Grandfather’s study, sat down at the desk and removed from the drawer the papers describing each of the Dennison loans. It took some time to find an envelope large enough to hold them, and a bit longer to resolve against enclosing a personal note. It was then an easy decision to address the package to Mr. John Dennison rather than to the care of Mrs. William Prescott. Scott summoned Fredericks and requested that a delivery be made to Mt. Vernon Street that evening. The papers would no doubt be burned, the debt cancelled.
If only other things were as easy to forgive.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Scott considered going through more of his grandfather’s papers, then wondered if it might not be better to read Murdoch’s letter instead. He hadn’t yet had time to act upon either of those thoughts when he heard a gentle knock on the door to the study. He expected Teresa, thinking she might have questions about his farewell to Murdoch. But it was Aunt Cecilia who stepped into the room. His aunt’s presence was not unwelcome, especially as there were some things he wanted to talk to her about anyway. Scott swiftly closed the drawer containing his father’s letter and rose to greet Aunt Cee.
“I understand you had a visitor while we were out,” she announced without preamble. Dark skirts rustling, she advanced to the sofa in front of the fireplace, obviously intending to take a seat there.
Scott remained standing behind the desk, his attention drawn to the doorway. The cat his grandfather had named Napoleon appeared in the narrow opening left by the partially closed door. The animal looked searchingly around the room and then trotted hurriedly after her.
“Come, Scott, leave off working and sit down a moment,” Aunt Cecilia urged, gesturing at one of the armchairs.
Meanwhile, the cat stopped in front of the sofa and gazed quizzically up at the woman seated there for a long moment, then gathered himself. The grey tabby floated gracefully into the air and landed with a heavy thump on the cushion beside her.
Scott came around the desk to occupy one of the armchairs. He took his seat with some reluctance, suspecting that his aunt had her own agenda firmly in mind for this conversation.
“Now, you do understand that it is rather unseemly for a married woman to be seen paying a social call upon a man to whom she was once engaged. Even one of condolence.”
“Her driver parked in the back.”
“Did he? Well, that’s something, I suppose.”
“As you point out, she is married. There was nothing improper between us---”
“Of course not. I know you better than that, Scott.”
There was a brief silence, during which Aunt Cecilia eyed him speculatively. Beside her on the sofa, Napoleon, who had folded his pure white paws up under his equally pristine white bib, regarded Scott balefully with unblinking green eyes.
“She was only here out of concern for her father.”
“I see.”
His aunt pensively scratched the appreciative tabby under the chin. Napoleon closed his eyes and leaned into her hand.
Cecilia sighed. “Sometimes things do work out for the best, Nephew. Harlan never was particularly enthused at the prospect of a connection to the Dennisons.”
“He never said so.” Scott was sincerely surprised by his aunt’s statement; Harlan Garrett had never been one to keep his opinions to himself.
She smiled. “When your grandparents married, people said that my brother had made a good match, that he’d ‘married up.’ I believe he was rather pleased to think that his grandson was regarded as ‘the catch.’ And he was most satisfied to think of you as being settled my dear.”
It was true. Despite his negative assessment of John Dennison as a businessman, Grandfather hadn’t said very much at all to discourage his grandson’s engagement to the man’s daughter. In fact, Scott would have said that his grandfather seemed to approve of his choice.
“Of course, Harlan did mention once that your Julie had a grandmother who was a Cabot. Or was it a Lowell? Not a *Holmes *, in any event,” she said, with her musical laugh.
Cecilia Holmes’ late husband Elwood, though related to the Boston Holmes’ and an instructor at Bowdoin College, had been no society swell, but simply a Mainer first and foremost. And no one who had ever seen “Cee” and “El” together would have doubted that their union was anything other than a marriage of the heart. Even as a boy, Scott had been aware that the relationship between his aunt and uncle was somehow different from that shared by the parents of his friends.
There had been times when Scott had secretly wished that the Holmes’ had actually been his parents, each time feeling disloyal to his grandfather. Aunt Cee had shared some wonderful stories about his mother, but, to Scott’s disappointment, she had never met the man her niece had married. And so she was unable to tell Scott very much at all about his father, except to sadly say that Catherine had loved Murdoch Lancer and that it was too bad he had taken her so far away from home. Catherine had traveled north to Maine for a farewell visit, but her future husband had remained in Boston. When Scott was older, Uncle El had explained that his wife had been unable to attend her niece’s wedding due to her confinement for what would be the last in a tragic series of stillbirths and failed pregnancies.
In Scott’s eyes, Elwood Holmes had been a role model. An erudite professor of classical literature and languages, he was also every bit at home on excursions into the Maine woods, where, in the company of a rough hewn guide named Ned “Smudgy” Pierce, he’d instructed a young boy from Boston in the intricacies of hunting and fishing. Uncle El had also answered his country’s call, enlisting to serve under his Bowdoin colleague, Colonel—later General-- Joshua Chamberlain.
Although wounded and sent home after a year of service, it had been sickness, rather than a Rebel bullet that had struck him down. Already seriously ill when Scott returned from Libby, his uncle had passed away not many months afterwards. Grandfather had waited a few days after Scott’s arrival in Boston before finally relaying the sad news, then the two of them had made the journey to Brunswick together.
The three of them had gone fishing, though Uncle El had mostly sat and watched. Scott had listened while the two older men talked about the provisions to be made for Cecilia. Except for his uncle’s funeral, it had been Scott’s last visit to Maine.
“You were very fortunate to have found each other.”
“Yes, we were, although it took us more time than you might think, to realize it.” Cecilia’s smile softened, threatening to melt, as she absently rubbed at Napoleon’s ears. Even from several feet distant, Scott could easily discern the sound of the animal’s contented purr.
“I do look forward to attending your wedding one day Scott, even if it means traveling to California.”
“Now, Aunt Cee, are you trying to marry me off?”
“Not all young men of your age and station are ready for a wife and family, but you were ready, ready to marry Miss Dennison, were you not? You’ve always been . . . responsible, Scott. And willing to take care of others, as well, I believe.”
Scott smiled. “Yes, as you’ve said, I’m a ‘good catch’.”
“I’m terribly biased as you know, but that has always been the truth---even more so now, thanks to your legacy from Harlan. Though I hardly think many of our Boston debutantes would adapt very readily to life on your ranch. And you do intend to return there, don’t you? Miss O’Brien mentioned that you might not be leaving with the Hayfords.”
“I’m not sure, Aunt Cee. I’ve asked Will if we can delay our departure by a few more days, but he does need to be getting back to Sacramento. Although even if I stay behind, Teresa will still travel with the Hayfords.”
“So she said.”
Scott was puzzled by his aunt’s tone. “Murdoch and Johnny will be expecting her.”
“This is the first opportunity she’s had to be away for any length of time, is it not?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me, what sort schooling has she had?”
Scott considered this for a moment. “In a formal sense, very little, from what I can gather. Teresa doesn’t read a great deal, but she does have a deep curiosity about other times and places.”
Cecilia nodded approvingly. “I’ve noted that Miss O’Brien does not hesitate to ask questions. She seems to be fitting in here quite well. In fact, I’d wondered if she might appreciate an opportunity to remain in Boston, and study along with her friend Miss Harper. I could invite her to stay on with me here through the winter.”
“Then you’ll force me to stay through the winter as well.”
Now it was his aunt’s turn to look puzzled.
“Aunt Cee, if I were to return to Lancer without Teresa, my father and brother might very well shoot me. Which would at least be quick and relatively painless, in comparison to what I would suffer at the hands of Senora Maria.”
Mrs. Holmes frowned. “You’re joking, of course, but it’s still strange to imagine living in such a dangerous place where guns are a part of everyday life. And I know,” she said, holding up one hand to ward off his protest, “they are a tools, as you say. But deadly ones, nonetheless. I do worry about you, Scott, that is my prerogative as your ‘favorite’ aunt.”
Scott smiled at that, shaking his head.
“It’s also my prerogative to decree that all difficult decisions shall be postponed until after we return. And that you will not worry about anything while we are in Maine.”
If only it were that easy. Still, far be it for him to disagree with his beloved aunt. “I am looking forward to the trip. It’s been a long time.”
“Well, then I suggest you pack; you’ve time before supper. We are leaving very early in the morning.”
“Yes, ma’am, right away,” Scott replied in a mock serious tone, getting quickly to his feet and offering Mrs. Holmes a smart salute. Covering the small space between them in one long stride, he assisted his aunt to rise from her seated position. Jostled by the movement, Napoleon jumped down from the sofa and fled the room. .
“Thank you, my dear.” Cecilia Holmes started to follow sedately in Napoleon’s wake, but then turned back to face Scott. “I do think, Nephew, that we might make a pact, and agree to leave off our mourning clothes once we arrive at Popham. It is, after all, but an outward sign of what we carry with us in our hearts----and the seagulls will likely be our only society there.”
Scott readily agreed and proceeded to his room, hoping to find some of his “Maine clothes” still there.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
<<“Teresa O’Brien, just think about what you’re doing Child!”>>
Her conscience, in the form of the Widow Hargis’ distinctive voice, chided her
inattention to the musical notes that were also swirling around inside her head. With a sigh, Teresa shook herself and started in again at the beginning.
“Blest Be the Tie That Binds” was one of the hymns which had been performed at Mr. Garrett’s memorial service. It was also one of the pieces she had learned to play by ear, on the rosewood-encased melodeon in the small church just outside of Spanish Wells. Mrs. Hargis had been a demanding taskmaster, even more so when they’d begun to work on learning to read the music.
It had been difficult, with the instruction coming in short snatches. When Teresa did go to town during the week, it was because there were errands to run. Even when there was extra time, the Widow wasn’t always able to be away from her store, especially after Zee left. So most often the lessons took place on Sundays prior to the service, with the earliest arrivals sitting in the pews listening in. She’d envied Melissa Harper her opportunity to study music at one of the institutes for young ladies in San Francisco. Now her friend was taking classes here in Boston, but still seemed quite unappreciative of the education she was receiving. Teresa had heard only complaints from Melissa about her exercises in elocution and readings in Mrs. Siddons’ poetry class.
Weary of hymns, Teresa returned to trying to pick out the notes of “Oh, Susanna,” but before she realized it she was once more idly fingering the ebony and ivory keys. The piano at which she was seated was a fine instrument, with an ornate inlaid cabinet, and easier to play than the melodeon, since there was no need to worry about working the pump with her foot. Scott had identified this small space as “the music room,” although it was really a section of the main sitting room, closed off from the larger area by a pair of curtained French doors.
She’d managed to have some conversation with Scott before supper, and had been reassured that all seemed to be well between him and Murdoch. She’d had no real opportunity to converse with her guardian during his very brief time in Boston, even though there had been quite a few things she’d wished to talk with him about. Teresa’s hands dropped into her lap; she had no idea how long she must have sat there, thinking and staring at nothing, until Scott came in and caught her.
“Teresa—I wasn’t sure you were still here, since I didn’t hear you playing.”
“Oh . . . this is such a beautiful piano, Scott. It’s just that I don’t really know that many pieces.”
Scott moved to a nearby mahogany cabinet and opened the door to reveal narrow shelves stacked with sheet music. Quickly shifting through them, he picked out a number of pages. Leaving some of the papers atop the cabinet, he brought the rest to the piano and propped them up against the music stand. Then he proceeded to light the candles standing in the sconces on either side.
“Scott—you know I’m not very good at reading music.”
“No, not yet, it takes a great deal of practice, Teresa. But you play very well by ear.”
“So you’ll play it for me first then?” she asked with a smile.
To her delight, he readily agreed. “I intend to try.”
He removed his black jacket, tossed it over a nearby chair, and rolled up the sleeves of his white linen shirt. And then Scott was seated on the piano bench alongside her, his light hair silvery in the candlelight.
He began with Stephen Foster’s “Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair,” sitting back and dropping his hands on his thighs when he reached the final notes. “Well, It’s been a long time,” he said with a rueful smile.
Then it was Teresa’s turn, to pick her way through the tune, with Scott patiently pointing out the notes whenever she faltered.
Even Teresa had to agree the song was becoming recognizable by the time Mrs. Holmes opened up the French doors. Scott’s aunt returned to her chair near the lamp in the sitting room, where the light was better for her needlework, but smilingly assured them that she did very much enjoy hearing both the music and their laughter.
They spent the rest of the evening seated at the piano, sometimes actually attempting to play music, as Scott told stories of long ago lessons, and Teresa shared tales of her more recent tutelage under the formidable Eulalia Hargis.
Though she could feel Scott smiling down at her, it was difficult to look up at him, sitting so close together, so Teresa watched his hands instead. They were so large and the fingers so long that Scott could reach across a good number of the black and white keys with little effort. Strong and capable, she imagined that one of Scott’s hands might easily envelope both of her own. She thought about how easily he could span her waist; rather than simply offering her a hand down from the buggy or the buckboard seat, Scott was more likely to physically lift her up into the air before gently setting her feet on the ground.
They retired a bit earlier than was usual, since they needed to meet the train promptly the next morning. Teresa found it difficult to get to sleep, and lay awake for hours thinking about the trip to Maine.
And Scott’s hands.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 18.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is. . .”
--Latin proverb
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
<<”I don't know how you ever got him to leave Boston.”>>
Johnny’s words, though he hadn’t been the only one to ever voice that thought. More than a few of Murdoch’s friends and fellow ranchers in the Cattleman’s Association had said much the same thing. Murdoch would have asked the question of himself, except that he knew he hadn’t “gotten” Scott to do anything in terms of leaving Boston--—that credit belonged to Teresa, and to Sam.
Murdoch was proud of both his boys, although he could take very little credit there, either. Still, few things had given him as much pleasure as introducing them at the annual meeting in Stockton not long after they’d come home. Not surprisingly, Scott, with his cultured background and fine Eastern education had been very much at ease in social gatherings. Scott had asked careful questions of the older men and listened attentively to the answers, thereby learning a great deal about ranching in a relatively short time. Johnny had picked things up quickly too, of course, but his independent younger son had a bit less respect for the voices of experience and even less patience for the endless meetings that the association members so enjoyed. While he probably would have preferred to join his brother in seeking other forms of entertainment, Scott hadn’t seemed to mind attending even the lengthy business sessions. Consequently, now when Scott had something to say, the senior members tended to listen. Cleve Anderson and others had often commented on what a good head Scott had on his shoulders, observing that he must have given up some fine opportunities back East.
More recently, Jim Harper had spoken of the more “civilized” society to be had in Boston, as well as the increased social status that would accompany Scott’s inheritance. But Johnny hadn’t been thinking of the social, cultural or economic advantages of living in an eastern city; no, his remark had derived solely from his very favorable impression of the young lady who had accompanied Harlan Garrett to California.
Miss Dennison had been undeniably attractive, well turned out in what Murdoch had presumed to be the latest fashion. She’d seemed confident and polished, although with a slight hint of condescension in her tone. Still, he’d welcomed her for Scott’s sake, even while privately considering her unlikely to adapt readily to ranch life. He’d been surprised to learn that Scott and Miss Dennison had once been engaged; Johnny had said so, and he had apparently obtained that information from Harlan. Scott had never mentioned it. He’d merely introduced Miss Dennison by name, although it had been easy—even for Murdoch, who often failed to register such things--- to see how smitten he’d been.
Then, unaccountably, Miss Dennison had disappeared, although, what with Scott’s abrupt announcement that he was returning to Boston, Murdoch hadn’t spared the young woman much thought. Later, after Scott had recovered from his injury and Harlan had left, well, it hadn’t seemed like the right time to raise the question, especially when he had his own theory about Miss Dennison. To be honest, after failing to respond to Scott’s queries about the past, Murdoch hadn’t felt that he had the right to ask his son anything at all.
But he had questioned Mrs. Holmes, when he was seated beside Scott’s aunt at supper the evening of the memorial service, wondering if he had simply failed to notice the young woman at the church or the reception afterwards. Miss Dennison, he had been informed, was now Mrs. William Prescott; Scott apparently had been aware of this for quite some time. Mrs. Holmes hadn’t tried to hide her surprise that Murdoch hadn’t known.
He sighed. There was still so much he didn’t know.
Seeing his son in Boston, briefly viewing that city through Scott’s eyes, he could no longer blindly ignore the eastward pull. Scott had a house—no, Scott had a home--- and a history, in Boston. But if there was one thing Murdoch was sure of in this life, it was that even though neither of his sons had grown up at Lancer, each of them had come to care deeply for the land and its people. If he had to, he’d find a way to remind Scott of that . . .
Murdoch sipped at his scotch and gazed out the windows at the passing scenery. It was early to be seated here in the well-appointed dining car, as it wasn’t yet time for the evening meal to be served. But he’d needed a drink and something to rest it on, so here he was, alone at a table set with crystal and silverware for four.
<< “ . . . I may decide to stay.”>>
Disturbing as it had been to hear his son utter those words, Murdoch could at least console himself that it had nothing to do with a woman; that might have been an impossible battle to win. Although he still firmly held that it was Scott’s decision to make, and told himself that he would accept and respect his son’s choice, Murdoch was determined that he would indeed “put up a fight” this time--- and to hell with the contradiction. He wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t go back home and try to forget, not this time.
All those years ago, he’d convinced himself that Scott was better off in Boston; that leaving him there was in the boy’s best interests. He’d told himself that he loved the child, but the sad truth was that as much as he’d wanted to feel more for that small blond stranger, he simply hadn’t experienced anything other than a dull aching in his heart.
It was different now. Painfully so.
With each passing hour, this train carried him further away from Boston and Scott, further away from a young man he had come to love more than he could have imagined. Further away from his son. This time he would refuse to allow the physical distance between them to lengthen into lost years.
Having made that resolution, Murdoch was still at a loss as to exactly what he might do. So much hinged upon Scott’s reaction to the letter, if and when he read it.
In his lowest moments, Murdoch wondered if it would even matter. There had been too many years of silence, too many questions, and Scott had finally sought his answers elsewhere. Perhaps it was simply too late. Murdoch punctuated that dismal thought by draining what remained in his glass.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
They spent a good part of the day aboard the Boston & Maine, traveling north to Portland. Teresa sat next to Marguerite, the maid who had accompanied Mrs. Holmes to Boston. Across the aisle, Scott sat beside his aunt.
Even so, Teresa found that the trip passed quickly. Marguerite was a pleasant young woman, very easy to talk to and the passing scenery was also fascinating. Where the trees on Beacon Hill were for the most part still dressed in summer greens, those in New Hampshire and Maine were already beginning to don warmer shades of yellow and red.
In Portland, they changed to the Maine Central line for the trip to Brunswick, disembarking at a large new train station where the Holmes’ carriage waited to take them across town. As they drew up to the intersection with Federal Street, Scott pointed out a large white house off to the right; it was the one in which Mrs. Stowe had written Uncle Tom’s Cabin, the book that President Lincoln himself had said “started the War.” Continuing past that house and up the hill would bring them to the grounds of the college where Mrs. Holmes’ late husband had taught, but instead the carriage turned left. Although there were one or two brick mansions, most of the stately homes were large wooden edifices, many colorfully painted and most embellished with porticos and cupolas, with shutters at each window. Although still sizable and very attractive, Mrs. Holmes’ residence was one of the smaller houses on the street.
The next morning they were up and out very early again, with another short train ride along the coast to the city of Bath and from there a bumpy journey by wagon to Phippsburg. The Popham “beach house” was a small wood framed structure sided with weathered grey shingles. Overlooking the shore, it was surrounded by a white-washed fence with widely spaced pickets enclosing a “lawn” of tall beach grass. It took time to settle in; Teresa helped Mrs. Holmes make up three beds with fresh linens and unpack the provisions they had carried with them from Brunswick. Meanwhile, Scott opened the windows to air out the rooms and filled the wood boxes, then busied himself with other projects outside.
It was nice to see Scott in his ‘everyday’ clothes--- familiar serviceable brown trousers and even one of the beige checked work shirts that he so often wore at the ranch. Mrs. Holmes had exchanged her formal black mourning attire for a simple blue flowered dress with a knit sweater over it; her normally upswept silver hair was pulled back in a low chignon.
It was just the three of them; Marguerite had been given several days off and Mme. Carrier, the smiling Federal Street housekeeper and cook, had packed up the food supplies, but stayed behind as well. Teresa welcomed the opportunity to work alongside Scott’s aunt in the small kitchen, taking charge of rolling out biscuits while Mrs. Holmes prepared a seafood dinner. En route to the beach house, they’d stopped to make a few purchases from local fishermen and so that evening dined on crabs and “steamers.” Teresa had never sampled these delicacies before and she’d been skeptical at first, especially when, rather than using a tablecloth, Scott had covered the kitchen table with pages from a newspaper and various items that resembled tools more than utensils. Before the informal meal was over, she’d heard several entertaining stories of Scott’s summers in Maine, and also become something of an expert at deftly picking the sweet pink meat from crab legs and claws.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“Excuse me, but are these seats taken?”
Startled from his reverie, Murdoch looked up to see two attractive middle-aged women standing beside his table, the resemblance between then strong enough to indicate they must be sisters. As he hastily pushed back his chair and struggled to his feet, Murdoch registered that the other five tables in the dining car were now mostly occupied.
“No, no, they’re not taken and I’d be pleased if you Ladies would join me.”
One end of the table was pushed up close to the wall beneath the window, so Murdoch came around the other end to assist each of the women with her chair.
“I do thank you very much, Mr---?” murmured the first woman he seated, while her sister stood waiting patiently.
“It’s Lancer, Murdoch Lancer.”
“Thank you so very much, Mr. Lancer,” the second sister beamed up at him.
Once he’d resumed his seat opposite, the lighter haired woman completed the introductions.
“My name is Miss Virginia Harrington, and this is my sister, Miss Louisa Harrington. We are very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lancer.”
Handshakes were extended across the table, while the efficient dark skinned waiter appeared to distribute menus and fill their water glasses. Miss Louisa studied the list of offerings, then, once the waiter had departed, leaned forward, a curious gleam in her eyes.
“You did say ‘Lancer’? I must say it’s not a common name,” she continued, encouraged by Murdoch’s nod. “It just so happens that we met a young man by that name on the eastbound train not so very long ago.”
“Yes,” added Miss Virginia, “A Mr. Scott Lancer. It was very sad, he was traveling to Boston for his grandfather’s funeral.”
“Well, then you’ve met my son.”
“Your son!? Oh, how very delightful! And the sweet young woman accompanying him . . . ?”
“Is Teresa O’Brien, my ward. Her father was a good friend and she’s like a daughter to me.”
The sisters exchanged a look; it was Miss Virginia who spoke. “Well, Louisa, it seems we were mistaken. You see, Mr. Lancer, they made such a handsome pair, that we thought-- ”
“Now, Sister,” Miss Louisa interjected, “there’s no need to trouble Mr. Lancer with our silly little malentendu. You must be quite proud of your children, Mr. Lancer, they do seem to be very fine young people.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
“Good morning, my dear.”
Teresa turned from the window to smile a greeting at Mrs. Holmes. Scott’s aunt was just entering the front room, carrying a saucer and cup of tea. “Do you see anything out there, is there a boat passing by?” the older woman asked, her eyes bright and expectant.
“No, I was just watching the waves, and the birds.” The gulls wheeled about overhead, black lines in a sky layered with clouds reaching down to the most distant edge of the glassy waves. “But, I do think I see something swimming out there.”
“Do you? We often see seals swimming in the channel,” Mrs. Holmes informed her. She set down her tea and joined Teresa at the window, with a pair of mother of pearl opera glasses in hand. “But seals don’t often have blond hair,” she added with a smile a moment later, passing the glasses to Teresa.
Teresa peered through the panes more intently. “Isn’t the water cold?”
“Oh yes, it is very cold. And don’t allow that nephew of mine to try to tell you otherwise! However, if you’d like to go in, I believe I might find a bathing dress and shoes to fit you.”
“I’ve never been in the ocean.”
“Well, then, perhaps it’s something else you should try.”
Teresa had never learned to swim, and she was quite certain that none of her friends could do more than paddle about either. There were several nice spring –fed ponds that were popular swimming holes, one of them located on Lancer land. On the hottest days, the girls would pack picnic lunches and spend the afternoon splashing in the water wearing only their under things, then lie on the rocks to dry off in the sun. They usually had an older woman along—sometimes Maria, or perhaps Mrs. Cushman----someone to keep watch for any sweaty cowhands who might have a similar idea. Scott, unaccustomed to the heat and the dry dusty summers in California, would often ride out of his way at the end of the day in search of a swim.
Deciding that Scott might appreciate a hearty meal after spending time in the waves, Mrs. Holmes returned to the kitchen. Teresa lingered at the window a few moments longer, but soon joined her there. Once the table was set and preparations well underway, Scott’s aunt turned from the cook stove.
“Teresa, dear, could you please go out and let Scott know that breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes?”
Scott was just coming out of the water when Teresa stepped through the door onto the small porch. He was wearing what looked like a suit of long underwear, but dark in color, and, as it was wet, quite form fitting. Intent upon picking up a towel he’d left resting on the sand and then using it to dry his hair, he didn’t see her watching him. Draping the towel over his shoulders, Scott trudged up the beach and reached the white picket fence before he noticed her.
“So, how cold is it?” she asked as he turned to close the gate behind him. She hugged the edges of her light jacket more tightly together against the light ocean breeze.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” he offered, but his grin and reddened cheeks gave him away.
“Your aunt warned me that you’d say that. She also said to tell you that breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
“I guess I’d better go around the back then, and rinse off.”
Teresa nodded and hurried inside, knowing that if she stayed, she wouldn’t be able to help herself from staring as he walked past.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Mrs. Holmes’ ‘hearty breakfast’ consisted of stacks of French Acadian style buckwheat pancakes ---called ‘ployes’ which rhymed with ‘boys’---slathered with butter and maple syrup. By the time breakfast had been eaten and cleared away, the clouds had blown over and the sun laid claim to a large patch of clear blue sky. Aunt and nephew smilingly agreed that the day promised to be “a slice of summer.”
Since the tide was going out, Scott proposed a walk to Fox Island. Mrs. Holmes proposed to accompany them as far as the end of the channel, at which point, Teresa could decide whether to return with her to the cottage or to continue on with Scott.
Teresa had declined the heavy navy wool bathing dress with the weighted skirt and matching pantaloons that Mrs. Holmes had offered her, but had agreed to the loan of a pair of long stockings and lace-up surf boots. These she wore beneath an old skirt of dark cotton fabric, so that she might go wading. Scott’s aunt had also supplied her with a wide brimmed straw hat to shield her face from the sun.
As they headed along the shore towards the open sea, Teresa looked back over her shoulder and noticed a very large stone structure looming some distance down the beach.
“Scott, what’s that building?”
“Fort Popham. The government started building it during the War, but it was never finished.”
Having rolled up his trousers, Scott stayed close to the water’s edge, with the foamy lips of the waves lapping at his bare feet. Teresa joined Mrs. Holmes on the margin of damp, hard packed sand left by the receding tide. There were interesting pieces of silvery grey driftwood cast up higher on the beach, but it was more difficult walking in the dry, white-gold sand which surrounded them.
The receding waves left seashells behind on the sand, and Mrs. Holmes named the different kinds. The most common were the shiny black half moons of mussels and the thick white quahog clams, much larger and heavier than the shells of the steamers they had eaten the night before.
Near the mouth of the Kennebec River, Mrs. Holmes pointed out Pond Island, with its picturesque lighthouse, then prepared to turn back.
“Enjoy yourselves. And you will remember to keep an eye on the tide, Scott,” she reminded her nephew with an arch look.
“Yes. I will.”
They bid the older woman farewell before turning right and continuing along the beach.
“It sounds as if there’s a story there,” Teresa observed.
“Well, I did once spend the night on Fox Island,” Scott said with a rueful expression. In a familiar gesture, he reached up with one hand to grasp the crown of the broad brimmed grey felt hat he wore, lifting it, then replacing it more squarely on his head. Scott explained that each low tide revealed a sand bar stretching to the island and connecting it to the shore. “I was on the island and I lost track of time, ended up being marooned. Uncle El made sure of where I was. He could have tried to come after me in a boat, but he didn’t.”
“What did you do?”
“Spent most of the night being angry ---with myself. But I did have a few ‘provisions’,” he added, gesturing to the rucksack on his back. “Food, water and a jacket, so it wasn’t so bad. But it was a lesson learned.”
“Why didn’t you swim back?”
“There’s often a ‘rip’ along here, an undertow. It’s a current that can pull even a strong swimmer out to sea. But it is safe to wade in the water.”
Lifting her skirts, Teresa ventured a little ways into the surf. After discovering that the ocean temperature was an ankle-numbing cold, she decided to stay on the sand up out of the swells, though sometimes an especially strong wave came up to catch her.
Now that they walked along the open ocean, the waves were bigger and stronger. Marking their reach were dark strands of seaweed scattered along the shore. Sprinklings of bits of broken shells also formed white shadow outlines of where the waves had once been.
It had turned out to be a very pleasant day; it was warm enough, although the breeze was constant. She could taste the salt air on her lips and without the ribbons to fasten beneath her chin, she could never have kept the straw hat on her head for more than a few moments. It appeared that they had the beach mostly to themselves, except for the birds. Scott identified several different varieties--- the black-capped terns skimming low out over the water, the groups of long-billed sandpipers skittering on pipe-stem legs through the shallows, and, of course, the large white seagulls standing guard in the sand, staring with their baleful yellow eyes.
Once they reached the edge of the wide sand bar linking beach and island, Scott slowed his pace, studying the water with increased intensity. Finally, he bent down and lifted something from the water, examined it and smiled. He held out one hand, and she could see a white circle resting in the center of it.
“Here, it’s a sand dollar.”
She picked up the disc, which actually was the size of a dollar coin. On closer examination, it had a slightly raised petal-like star on its surface.
By the time they reached the island, Scott had gathered a collection of sand coins in white and shades of grey. The ‘dollars’ varied in size, with the largest ones much bigger than a double eagle in diameter. Initially, Teresa carried a box that he had produced from the rucksack and into which several deposits were made, but then she decided to try her own luck. Rolling up the sleeves of her blouse and gathering up her skirt in one hand, she imitated Scott’s method of walking along in the surf and attempting to peer beneath the surface of the waves.
The first two times she eagerly reached down into the water, Teresa was disappointed when her hand brought up only clamshells.
“Don’t look for color, look for shape,” Scott advised her. “Try to see the circles, perfect circles.”
He also said that sometimes the sand dollars were partially buried in the sand, leaving only a portion of a circle visible. Teresa was again disappointed when her ‘first sand dollar’ turned out to be only half of one. She would have continued hunting, but finally Scott stowed the box away, saying she could renew the search when they came back down after lunch, which they planned to eat on the island. It was necessary to clamber over some seaweed-covered rocks at the base, but he assured her they would eventually come to a path. Stepping carefully in order to gain a solid footing for his bare feet, Scott went ahead, then reached back to assist her.
Teresa found that the smooth soles and high laces of her slightly too-big borrowed boots made climbing over the rocks very difficult. At least as they moved away from the sand bar, there was less seaweed; still, she moved cautiously.
Suddenly her foot slipped over the edge of one of the rocks and Teresa fell heavily against Scott, losing her hat as her head struck his chest. Arms encircling her, he looked down with a concerned expression.
“Teresa,” he said slowly, “We need to be careful.”
Heart pounding in his embrace, she looked up into those eyes and waited, barely breathing.
“The rocks here are slippery.”
Propelled by disappointment, she lowered her gaze and moved hurriedly past; if Scott hadn’t quickly stepped out of her way, she would have pushed by him. It was silly, she knew it was silly, what, after all had she expected he would say? The salt wind blowing in her eyes blurred her vision.
Then she slipped again, and this time Scott wasn’t there to catch her.
Her ankle twisted and she landed on the hard packed ground beside one of the smaller boulders. Scott was beside her in an instant, helping her up.
“I’m all right, really-- ” But she couldn’t help wincing as she put her weight on her left foot.
“Just take it easy.”
Scott got her settled upon a stone seat, with the wayward straw hat beside her. “Let me see,” he said, taking her hand in his and holding it palm up to study the scraped skin. Shucking off the rucksack, he knelt down in front of her to remove a water flask and a small pouch. After rinsing off her hand, he offered her the flask while he removed some salve and bandaging from the pouch.
“I can do it, Scott,” she murmured, still too embarrassed to meet his eyes.
“No, now, just let me take care of it, Teresa.”
She watched silently as he gently applied the salve and then wrapped a bit of bandage around her hand.
“You might want to keep this out of the salt water,” he suggested. “Now, how’s your ankle?”
“It’s fine, Scott. It’s just that these shoes---”
“You’re not used to them. And they don’t look very comfortable,” he added, as he pushed himself up into a standing position.
“No,” she said, looking enviously at Scott’s bare toes.
He swung the pack up onto his back, while she picked up her hat and rose more tentatively, testing her ankle. It seemed fine.
“Put your right hand on my shoulder.”
Mystified, she did as Scott instructed---and then he simply scooped her up.
“Scott!”
He just smiled, obviously pleased with himself, and started to carry her up the slope.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
She didn’t weigh anything, really. She fit comfortably in his arms and it was easy to carry her, even while having to pick his way along the beaten path that wound through the grass and boulder-studded ground.
Scott flashed on the memory of carrying Polly Foley just like this, only she had been pregnant, and very near her time. Even in the borrowed skirt, Teresa’s tiny waist and flat stomach were a decided contrast to his mental image of Polly. He noticed that the fabric of her blouse was stretched taut across her breasts and then decided that he’d better focus on the trail.
It didn’t take long to reach the top. Barefooted, he wouldn’t try to carry her down the southern side of the island, so he set Teresa on the ground and they carefully worked their way to a large, flat rock that offered a secure picnic spot facing the open sea. Scott sat down with his feet resting on one of the rocks below, while Teresa sat back from the edge with her legs tucked up beneath her skirt. They dined on bread and cheese and crisp MacIntosh apples while the waves crashed against the rocks down below.
Uncharacteristically, Teresa seemed to have very little to say. Scott pointed out some of the nearby islands, including Seguin and its lighthouse off to the southwest. He suggested that once they were back on the beach, Teresa might remove the surf shoes. He reminded her that she hadn’t yet found a whole sand dollar, talked a bit about the tides.
After repacking what was left of their lunch, Scott leaned forward, resting his beige checked elbows on his thighs and studied the delicate profile shaded by the brim of the straw hat.
“Something’s bothering you. What is it?” he asked finally.
There was a long pause. “Tell me,” he urged gently.
“Scott . . . how long are you going to stay in Boston?”
“It’s hard to say. Long enough to finish taking care of things.”
“I’d, I’d like to stay with you.”
Scott was taken aback. “Well, the Hayfords---”
“You said I should see Boston in the wintertime. And then, then we could go back together--- in the spring. They’ll need us at Lancer in the spring, Scott.”
“I suppose they will.” Not that he’d mind at all having her continued company, in fact, he’d welcome it. Scott had to admit it would make staying easier. But he was still surprised that Teresa was willing to delay her own return to the ranch.
“The winters are long here, and I thought you’d be eager to go back home.”
“Not without you.” He studied her, trying to fathom this. His scrutiny seemed to make her uncomfortable, because she tried again to explain.
“Scott, I can’t go back without you, because . . . we’d all miss you.”
“You’d be fine.”
“That’s not true. Besides . . . Maria would never forgive me. And Johnny—Johnny would probably just get on the first eastbound train and come right after you.”
“Bring me back at gunpoint?”
“Yes!”
Despite his own attempt at humor, he could see she was serious. And she wasn’t through yet.
“Murdoch, wants you to come home too, I know he does, even if he didn’t say it.”
“He did say it,” Scott said softly, and it was his turn to feel uncomfortable. He looked out at the ocean and thought once more about Murdoch’s letter.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Although Scott hadn’t actually agreed that she could stay, Teresa was heartened by the fact that they did talk a bit more about Boston winters. When she suggested that she might attend classes with Melissa Harper, Scott seemed intrigued by that idea. He also mentioned the possibility that she might consider studying music at the same institute in San Francisco that Melissa had attended--- when ‘we’ return to California.
Finally, Scott looked at his pocket watch and announced that it was time to go back to the beach. They made the descent without incident, and once safely on the sand, Teresa gladly removed the surf shoes. It did feel somewhat daring and indecent, having ankles and toes exposed to view. Scott smiled down at her feet, but didn’t say anything, simply tied the cumbersome footgear onto his rucksack, where they jounced around as he walked.
On the way back to the beach house, Teresa paused to examine more closely the sprinkling of broken shells marking the different levels of the tides. Upon closer inspection, she discovered that amongst the broken bits there were perfect, tiny, whole shells. There were bright yellow coils which Scott termed snail shells, tan and white striped periwinkles, miniature mussels, and many other varieties. Most remarkable were the diminutive sand dollars, smaller even than a three-cent coin. Although she hadn’t discovered any of the full-sized sand dollars, Teresa decided that she was quite happy with her collection of petite treasures. Once back at the cottage, Mrs. Holmes paused in her supper preparations to show her a large glass jar filled with sand dollars of every size, most of them Scott’s finds over the years.
The evening meal included Boston baked beans and brown bread, with an apple pie for dessert. Afterwards, Teresa insisted that her injured hand should not prevent her from helping with the dishes and cleaning up the kitchen. Mrs. Holmes reluctantly agreed, but when Scott offered his assistance, he was shooed away. Banished to the front room, he could be heard starting a fire. Edging back into the kitchen, he poured himself another glass of wine from the bottle standing open on the table.
“I think I’ll step outside,” he announced.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Scott stood on the small porch, leaning against the support post and looking out over the tall blades of grass waving in the fenced in yard. Far beyond, the rolling watery sound of the waves washing up from the channel provided a backdrop to his thoughts.
Those thoughts drifted backwards, and westward. He pictured the main street of Morro Coyo, heard the dull thuds of the horses’ hooves plodding along and the creak of wooden wheels as they churning up the ever-present dust. He recalled the views of rolling hills, remembered looking down the winding road leading to the familiar Lancer arch and the gleaming hacienda beyond.
Since leaving California, Scott had found that he was capable of going for hours, even days without giving much thought to what must be happening now at the ranch. Once he’d arrived in Boston, he’d been focused upon the tasks at hand. Now, standing here absently rolling the stem of a wine glass between his fingers and looking up at the sky, he allowed himself to indulge in some treasured memories of his life at Lancer with Murdoch, Johnny and Teresa. The images rolled by, fleeting, like the waves shimmering in the moonlight.
He missed it. And it felt good, knowing that he had Lancer to return to.
The moon was half full, fixed high in a night sky crowded with stars. In Boston, close and comfortable, the stars were viewed in smaller sections, as you peered up at them past the rooftops or through the branches of trees. Here, the vast expanse of stars seemed to go on forever, reminiscent of the night sky that hung over the ranch.
In the days before his departure, he’d spent considerable time gazing up at those stars, as if he might find some answers there. One night he had stood near the wall overlooking the kitchen garden, another out in front of the hacienda. Murdoch had joined him the first evening, Johnny the next.
Behind him, the door opened and there was a light step on the wooden planks of the porch. As Scott turned to greet Teresa, it was with a sense that he had been waiting for her for a very long time.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Popham Beach:
http://www.visitbath.com/24-popham-beach.html
http://www.anitavacation.com/articles/destinations/pophambeach042403.shtml
Pond Island Lighthouse
http://www.gramlighthouse.com/pond-island-lighthouse.html
Seguin Island Lighthouse
http://www.gramlighthouse.com/seguin-island-lighthouse.html
Back to Story List
Return to Main Page