ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 19.
“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
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“Ready for dessert?”
Scott bowed his head to hide his grin at the memory evoked by those words, the image of his father extending a tumbler of scotch in one large hand.
“The apple pie is waiting.” Teresa stepped up beside him as he turned to face the ocean once more.
“I was watching the waves. Seems I never get tired of it.” No longer eager to go back inside, Scott resumed his position leaning against the post.
Alongside him, Teresa crossed her arms against the chill. The wind loosened her hair, so that some of it floated free on the breeze.
“I can understand now why this place is so special to you. I’m glad I got to see it, Scott.”
“I’ve enjoyed showing it to you.”
Glancing down, he searched for her answering smile, but waving tendrils of hair obscured her face. Scott reached out with his left hand to gently sweep the wayward strands back behind her ear.
The sensation, when his fingertips brushed against her cheek, was like a tingle or a small shock. He really couldn’t have described it, but the feeling was startling enough to cause him to quickly drop his hand. It dangled there awkwardly between them, until he pulled it up and across his chest, folding the right arm over it with the empty wineglass still clasped in his hand.
Scott stared out at the waves, but the feeling of calm well-being had disappeared.
He knew he was in trouble.
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She’d felt Scott pull away, out on the porch.
When they’d gone back inside, he’d been so quiet the whole time they were sitting in the kitchen with Mrs. Holmes, the three of them eating thick slices of Madame Carrier’s apple pie. Then he’d hidden behind a book for the remainder of the evening.
Teresa knew, with sick certainty, that Scott had withdrawn because he’d somehow felt it, finally, her aching for more.
What she couldn’t understand, as she lay awake in the narrow bed staring up at the slanted ceiling, was how. Or why now, when he’d never before seen what she feared was all too evident in her eyes whenever she looked at him. When he’d never heard it in her voice, even though at times it had been plain enough to her own ears, causing her to hold her breath in dread of what he might say in reply.
The day had been so very wonderful and while strolling along beside Scott, she’d felt once more like a welcome, even a cherished, visitor to his past. It hadn’t hurt one bit that the walk had afforded ample opportunity to admire his strong legs in rolled up trousers. She’d always appreciated Scott’s sculpted profile and the slow smile that started in his eyes, the smile that was still a smile even when it didn’t quite reach his mouth. Today, it had; he was happy here.
She’d been happy too. They’d had the beach to themselves and she’d even allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be marooned with Scott on Fox Island over night. Falling on the rocks had been embarrassing as well as dangerous, dangerous in that he might read her thoughts, especially when he’d gently cradled her injured hand in his. Being swept up in Scott’s arms had been exhilarating, like a fairy tale come true, emboldening her to finally raise the question about his going home and risk confiding her desire to stay with him in Boston. Scott had clearly been surprised, and she’d thought at the time perhaps even pleased, but now she realized how unlikely that was. Whereas earlier she had been heartened by the fact that he hadn’t yet given an answer, now she curled up in despair, expecting that he would be all to eager to send her back with the Hayfords.
If he knew, then everything was about to come crashing down; what she couldn’t bear was the thought of losing what she’d always had: Scott’s steadfast support, his quiet trust, his affection. Scott had always been generous but sincere in his compliments; he meant it when he’d told her she was pretty, but of course that wasn’t enough for him. Only in fairy tales did brave knights or handsome princes fall in love with silly maidens.
Teresa felt utterly alone, and for the first time since leaving Lancer, homesick. Thousands of miles away from Murdoch, Maria and Johnny, on the opposite side of the country from her friends and the older women she’d trusted for advice. Not that her feelings for Scott were anything she’d ever dare express to any of them.
Melissa Harper had guessed, and then had taken the entire situation far too lightly, making assumptions she had no right to make. Mrs. Holmes was a wonderful lady and Teresa felt certain would offer sage counsel, but of course she couldn’t confide in Scott’s aunt.
Painfully, the person she really couldn’t talk to, the person with whom she had in the past shared so much, was lying asleep in the very next room.
Teresa turned onto her other side pulled the light wool blanket more securely under her chin, but couldn’t block out thoughts of Scott, sleeping. It was no use, she couldn’t contain her longing and she couldn’t hope to hide it from him if they remained in such close proximity.
Closing her eyes tightly, feeling the hot tears spill out onto her cheeks, she knew what she had to do.
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Scott lay awake staring at the curtains as they lightly floated away from the window. It wasn’t warm, so he’d pulled the blanket up to his bare chest, but he’d wanted the salt air and the sound of the ocean enough to leave the glass raised a few inches.
He didn’t expect to fall asleep anytime soon; he couldn’t stop thinking about Teresa, and that unanticipated physical reaction to the merest touch.
How many times had he taken her hand, or she his arm? Countless. He put his hands around her waist and lifted her down from the wagon or the buggy whenever they arrived in town; hell, today he’d even carried her in his arms to the very top of Fox Island. How many times had they actually embraced, and yet he’d never felt quite so . . . connected.
It was as if today a wall of some sort had been breached. But to say that he’d never felt anything at all before, well, that would be a lie. Teresa was an attractive young woman. Regardless of her actual age, she was a strong and capable young woman, not a girl, something he’d recognized right away. And she was not his sister, although some people seemed to assume that he would regard her as such. Never having had a sister, he simply treated her as he would any other young lady—with respect and consideration. Well, to be honest, he was probably a bit overly protective of her.
Realizing that she’d rarely ventured far from the ranch, he’d enjoyed escorting her in Sacramento and San Francisco, and had relished the thought of being able to show her Boston. They’d always gotten on well together and he’d greatly appreciated her company on this trip East.
Yet it was Johnny with whom she seemed to share an easy familiarity, laughing and teasing. Johnny had tried to tell him it was nothing, “That’s just how it is with little sisters, Boston,” but Scott had been skeptical.
Earlier this evening, he’d been trying to read in the front room while Teresa and his aunt lingered over their pie. He’d heard them talking about the ranch, and how long he and Teresa had been away.
“Tell me, Dear, is there a special young man waiting for you there?”
He’d lifted his head, listening intently, unable to hold back a surprised smile at the firmly negative response.
“No Mrs. Holmes, there isn’t.”
But he wasn’t smiling now, stretched out with his hands behind his head, considering. What if Johnny was right, and Teresa had all along . . . had he led her on in some way? While he certainly hadn’t been immune to Teresa’s charms, any sort of dalliance with his newly met father’s surrogate daughter had been out of the question, even for him. Besides, when he’d first arrived at Lancer, he’d still been writing to Julie and hoping . . . Of course, that hadn’t stopped him from regarding with keen interest the steady procession of local women of marriageable age. He’d gotten to know a few of them, not that anything much had ever come of it.
Despite Johnny’s insinuations, Scott assumed that Teresa had come to regard him as an older and wiser brother. The two of them had spent considerable time together, however, and they’d talked a good deal, plied each other with curious questions. He’d shared as much with her as he had with any other woman. Even Julie.
Was that it, was it because his heart was finally free? Teresa deserved much better than to be some sort of replacement. Before anything more could happen, he had to be sure.
For a lot of reasons, he had to be sure.
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The next day, the three of them walked down to the fort and back, stopping to call at a friend’s house along the way. Teresa kept her distance, always strolling on the opposite side of his aunt. Scott told himself it was ridiculous to be so fanciful as to want to “test” for that sensation that he’d felt the previous evening, but he probably would have, if afforded the opportunity. The day was half past and he and Teresa had barely exchanged a glance or more than a few words.
Over lunch back at the cottage, Aunt Cee encouraged Teresa to go swimming, so that she could say she’d “truly been in the Atlantic.” Attired in a bathing costume supplied by his aunt, Teresa had ventured into the waves. Scott had accompanied her, and they’d spent an awkward half hour standing a few feet apart in the water, under the older woman’s supervision.
Teresa still seemed subdued over supper, and Scott could only shrug in response to Cecilia’s concerned expression. He had no answer to his aunt’s unspoken question. As they would be leaving early the next morning for the return trip to Brunswick, it was no surprise when, soon after the supper things had been cleared away, Aunt Cee tactfully announced she was turning in.
When Teresa indicated her intention to follow suit and started moving towards the stairs, Scott quickly intervened.
“Teresa, wait. Come take a walk with me.”
She tried to decline, murmuring that it was late, that she didn’t have a jacket.
“Please, it is our last night here. Besides, it’s not so late,” he assured her, as he removed the wool shirt he was wearing unbuttoned over his cotton one. “You can wear this; I have a jacket hanging near the door.”
The day had been crisp, more fall-like than the previous ones, and so the evening air was considerably cooler as well. They set off briskly towards the mouth of the Kennebec; as they were both wearing shoes, they were careful to walk well beyond the constant reach of the waves.
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Despite remaining strong throughout the day, or perhaps because of it, she hadn’t had the strength to say “no” to Scott’s invitation. She hadn’t had the willpower to refuse the wool shirt he’d offered, warmed from his wearing. Unfortunately, it hadn’t yet picked up his scent, disappointingly it only smelled like a garment that had been stored away for some time. Teresa wrapped the oversized shirt around herself as they stepped outside, keeping her arms crossed over her waist as she walked along beside Scott.
They came to an abrupt halt when Scott stopped to pick up one of the large white clamshells lying on the damp sand. After he flung it out into the waves, they stood facing the water, neither one having spoken since they’d exited the cottage.
The stars were out, although many of those in the northern sky were obscured by thick clouds. The half moon was rising, leaving a path of silvery light across the tops of the rippling waves. Scott seemed particularly pensive, though of course he looked very handsome in the moonlight. His thoughts seemed to have drifted far off from shore.
“Have you . . . have you spent much time out on the ocean Scott?”
He seemed mildly startled to hear her voice. “Have I . . . ?”
“Spent much time on the ocean.”
“I’ve spent more time in boats on lakes and rivers. Though I sometimes went out with a few of the local fishermen here in the summers.”
Teresa nodded. It seemed that Scott wasn’t especially interested in conversation; she was somewhat relieved, but still wondered why he had been so insistent that she join him.
“I have sailed to Europe, with my grandfather.” He smiled and shook his head. “It’s hard to believe, that there’s a whole other world waiting across the Atlantic.”
“I’d love to see it someday.”
“I wouldn’t mind going back there myself . . .”
She told herself that the way her heart lifted at his words was only a silly reflex. “I was thinking that I probably should go back with the Hayfords after all.” The words sounded abrupt, but at least she’d said them.
Scott looked down at her, eyebrows lifted, but didn’t speak. Teresa resolutely looked back out over the water. “Mrs. Hayford is expecting me.”
“Now, Aunt Cecilia told me she invited you to spend the winter with her in Boston.”
Teresa swallowed. “Yes, she did mention it, while you were out swimming this morning. But I’d already decided . . . one of us really should go back, Scott.”
“So . . . if I were to return to California with Will and his mother . . . then you’d consider staying in Boston?”
“I might . . . but—you don’t really expect to be ready to leave so soon.”
“No, I don’t.” He sighed, sounded disappointed. If Scott was sorry not to be going back to Lancer, then that was a very good sign. He suggested they continue on to where the shoreline turned before heading back, so they started walking once more.
Scott wasn’t wearing a hat, and his hair was ruffling in the breeze. He’d shortened his strides, so it wasn’t too difficult to keep up. Then she realized it was because his shoulders were hunched forward and he had his hands in his pockets, an unusual posture for him.
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It was mystifying.
Yesterday, Teresa had seemed determined to stay in Boston, insistent that she couldn’t return to the ranch without him, almost as if it was her responsibility to bring him back. Today, even while spending the day in close proximity, she’d still managed to essentially avoid him. And now, it sounded as if she was planning to be on the opposite coast from whichever one he chose.
Other than not immediately agreeing that she should remain behind with him when the Hayfords set out for California, he couldn’t think of anything he might have said or done to provoke such contrary behavior. It was one of the things that had always made spending time with Teresa so pleasant; she’d never been one to easily take offense or engage in silly pouting. She’d always been open and direct.
Of course he’d been pleased when she’d indicated that she wanted to stay with him, but there was plenty of time to think about it, to discuss it at greater length. And Murdoch should be consulted; he was, after all, her guardian.
However, if his failure to be sufficiently enthused about her desire to stay was the problem, then it cast Teresa’s subsequent behavior in a familiar, feminine light. He couldn’t help thinking that this might be a good sign.
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They stood facing the Pond Island light, on the curve of land where the river met the sea and the beach turned away behind them to the west. Off in the distance they could see the dark outline of an approaching ship. She felt Scott’s hand came up to rest upon her shoulder.
“He’s fortunate, to have the light to guide him home.”
Teresa resisted the urge to curve one arm around Scott’s waist. But she couldn’t help wondering if Scott might not be thinking of something more than a boat trying to find its way to the mouth of the river.
“The old sailors say you can hear voices when the wind comes off the water.”
How she loved that, hearing Scott talk about such things. She’d always enjoyed listening to him anyway, to the Eastern accent, the cadence of his speech, even if he was just reciting the list of supplies they needed to pick up in town. But so often he’d discuss things she’d never heard of or thought about, books he’d read, far off places he’d visited, interesting ideas. She was immediately intrigued.
“What sort of voices?”
“Lost sailors, I suppose. ‘Those who have gone on before’ is what I was told. Now, I prefer to think it could be anyone, anyone you want to hear.”
They stood still for a while, listening.
“You still miss your grandfather.”
She could feel Scott exhale beside her, and his thumb rubbed her shoulder a bit.
“Yes, but not here so much. He rarely came to the shore.”
“It’s like a different world right here.”
“Yes, it is,” he said, smiling down at her. “And yet, I’ve never wanted to stay. It’s almost as if it’s too special for that, more a place to come back to.”
They turned to start back along the channel toward the beach house. Although Scott’s hand gently caressed her back as it slipped off of her shoulder, she instantly felt bereft of his touch.
To their right, the waves washed the shore, but on the left, up the slope of the beach and back from it stood a row of houses, many of then standing dark and empty, their summer inhabitants already departed. Others, occupied year-round, had curtains drawn over the lights marking each window.
In front of one house, Scott pointed out the remains of what he termed an old “snow fence,” jagged wooden slats held together by long twisted strands of wire. He explained that here at the shore, such structures were often used in an attempt to control the drifting sand dunes.
“The sand and the winds change with the seasons, so it’s intended to be temporary, not like the fence lines at the ranch.”
“It looks like an easier fence to put up.”
“Much easier.” Scott shook his head slightly. “One time, I was working alone, repairing a section in the south pasture. It was a long day and I started thinking about . . . I started thinking about how the fence posts reminded me of Murdoch. “
“You mean because they’re tall?” she asked doubtfully.
“Well, yes, but . . . it was more than that.” Scott paused long enough for her to wonder if he had changed his mind about sharing this story. “The posts are solid, rooted in the land, they . . . stand guard over it.” Scott sighed. “They’re also rigid and unbending, and I guess that’s how I saw him then.”
“He’s a good man, Scott.”
“I know. But he still doesn’t bend very easily.” Scott smiled, and it was clear he intended no criticism of his father. “The same was true of my grandfather.”
She couldn’t resist. “So he was like a fence post too?”
“No, Grandfather was more like a . . . stone pillar.”
Teresa smiled, thinking of the stone pillars that formed a part of the stately brick walls she’d seen so many of in Boston.
“Uncle Elwood, he was a good old fashioned New England stone wall. Now, some people think they are just piles of rocks, but there’s an art to putting them together, so that they last as long as they have.”
As he so often did, Scott started to warm to his topic, and his enthusiasm as he continued his comparisons was infectious. “Aunt Cecilia, she was more of a challenge. I finally decided she’d be like a wrought iron fence. Graceful and elegant but also strong . . . ”
“And what about Johnny? Did you think of something for him?”
“Well, he was the hardest one of all; the analogy seemed to fail with Johnny. I couldn’t think of any type of fence to describe him.”
“Nothing?”
“At the time, I decided that he was more like the wire than anything else. It’s tough, twists in unexpected directions, not easy to nail down. And then there are those sharp points . . . ” Scott gave her a wry smile. “I’m not sure I can explain it exactly.”
Listening to Scott, she’d not been conscious of how far they’d walked, and so was taken by surprise when he turned to start up the sandy slope towards his aunt’s house. He lengthened his stride and she had to take several quick steps to catch up to him again.
“So—what sort of fence are you?”
Now apparently it was Scott’s turn to be surprised and he came to a complete stop not far from the cottage’s fenced yard. She guessed from his expression that he’d never given any thought to where he fit in. Then he shrugged and turned to continue on.
Teresa reached out to catch his arm. “No, Scott Lancer, now you’re not going to get off that easily.”
Furrowed brow and pursed lips indicated he was considering the possibilities, then even in the dim light she could see his eyes brighten.
“A picket fence,” he announced, gesturing with one hand towards the one surrounding the small yard. “Only with taller pickets ----and closer together, makes it harder . . . to see in.” His eyes slid away from her on that last and she withdrew her hand as he gazed out over the waving beach grass.
Feeling dissatisfied with Scott’s depiction of himself as a commonplace wooden picket fence, Teresa started to move ahead of him towards the gate, but paused when he spoke again.
“Now you, you would be a hedge, soft and flowering.”
He came up to stand very close behind her, and his hand brushing the hair off of her shoulder caused the familiar aching to start again.
“Always growing and changing, like this rosa rugosa here.”
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“Beach roses” some people called them, the flowers were most often a strong clear pink, with cheerful yellow centers. There were still some fragrant blossoms scattered here and there along the rose bushes that threatened to swallow up the low picket fence in places. But the rose hips had also already formed, and earlier that day his aunt had gathered some of the bright red bulbs to bring back to Brunswick so that Madame Carrier might turn them into jam.
Of course, when he’d decided long ago that Teresa was a flowering hedge, he hadn’t been thinking of rosa rugosa. No particular flower really, and not a formal, clipped hedge; it would have to be something that grew freely. A more typical, classic rose would be in keeping with her delicate, classic features. But roses had thorns. Scott decided that he needed to work some more on this particular analogy. . .
“The gate. You’re like the gate.”
As Scott stared over her shoulder at the gate in front of them, Teresa turned to face him.
“You close them to protect people. It lets them in or out. The posts and the wire, they can’t be a fence without a gate. All fences need gates.”
But did hedges? Scott lowered his gaze and shook his head, thinking her analogy as flawed as his own. But he knew she was thinking about his father and brother, how much she felt they needed him. He met her eyes when she repeated the statement.
“All fences need gates.”
“And what about you?” he asked seriously, looking down at her. “What do you need?”
Scott just glimpsed the startled, almost panicked look in Teresa’s eyes before she turned away, saying something about needing to go inside. Before she could push open the gate, he grasped one of the pickets and held it firmly in place. Reaching down brought his mouth close to her ear.
“Teresa?”
It seemed a long moment before she finally turned around again. Scott released his hold on the gate, and straightened, but Teresa still refused to look up at him. Sensing a sadness in her, he wanted to fold her into an embrace, but resisted the urge to simply pull her against his chest.
Placing one hand gently beneath her chin, he lifted her face. Looking his question into her eyes, he found the answer there.
For one more instant, Scott heard the pounding of his own heart in his ears, the crash of the waves, the singing of the wind. Then there was only Teresa. And when her soft lips started to move, he used his own to silence them.
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Rosa Rugosa:
http://www.hort.net/profile/ros/rosru/
Scott’s thoughts about his family as fences first appeared in “Crosswinds” a two-part WM Birthday story that was co-written with Chris W. Special thanks to Southernfrau for her comments at that time regarding hedges and gates. :-)
This chapter also owes a nod to the song “Voices on the Wind,” by Little Feat, from the 1988 “Let It Roll” album.
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 20A.
“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
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Even after their lips parted, neither of them tried to speak.
Scott reluctantly released her and took a small step backwards. Teresa moved with him, sliding her hands beneath his unbuttoned jacket and around his waist, her face against his chest. Scott’s arms encircled her shoulders; he closed his eyes and rested his chin on the top of her head.
Scott couldn’t have said how long they stood there, silently sharing this new connection. After a time, he became aware of the familiar music of the waves and the wind.
Although he knew in his heart that kiss was irrevocable, he still allowed himself the token equivocation of tense.
“It seems I’m falling in love with you.”
Then he waited, eyes open now and squinting into the darkness, as if that would help him listen more intently. But he heard only the passage of time, counted off by the drumbeats of his heart.
Finally, the words were murmured into the fabric of his shirt.
“I love you, Scott.”
Her voice sounded tremulous to his ears. Lifting his chin in disappointment, Scott grasped her shoulders and gently eased Teresa away from him, enough to search her face. Gazing into her eyes, he saw them glistening in the moonlight.
“Show me.”
A man could learn a great deal from a kiss.
After only the briefest hesitation, one hand reached up and firmly clasped his neck. The other pressed against his chest, then he felt her fingers curl over the edge of his shirt pocket as their lips met once more.
She kissed him as if she meant it.
He held her tightly, and continued falling.
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<<He kissed me...>>
It was wonderful, amazing, unbelievable.
<<He said he was falling in love with me…>>
It was the incredible realization of what would have been her heart’s deepest desire, had she not been so determined to deny it. And perhaps most astonishing, Scott seemed to be seeking assurance from her. She had eagerly accepted his challenge, surprised by her own sense of confidence. His response to her kiss was nothing less than thrilling. She felt . . . powerful.
And kitten-weak when the moment ended.
Scott reached past her. She was aware of him lifting the latch and pushing the gate open, and he guided her through it, with one hand on her back. Her steps shaky, she preceded him along the path to the porch and up the few steps.
When she reached the landing, he stopped her.
“Teresa . . . ”
Scott was standing on the step below, which brought their faces more nearly opposite. This time when they came together, she was able to use the fingers of both hands to ruffle the hair on the back of his head. And when the kiss ended, she was acutely aware of Scott’s hands, one covering her hip, the other pressing against her back.
“Teresa,” he said again slowly, a moment later, “I think we’d better go inside.”
On the other side of the door, he helped her out of the wool shirt and removed his jacket. She waited uncertainly while he hung up the garments. The task completed, Scott turned to face her, brow furrowed. Then, in a characteristic mannerism, he glanced down at the floor.
It was only a moment before he looked up and met her eyes, but surprisingly, he didn’t say anything. Stepping forward, Scott reached out with one hand to cup the side of her face, the thumb outlining her cheekbone.
“I love you Scott--”
“Shhh . . . ”
Now his thumb was tracing her lips, and Scott was looking down at her with a very serious expression.
“We’re going . . . to need to talk. But it’s late . . . we should say good night.”
She nodded mutely as his hand slid away. Already reassured by the repeated use of the word “we,” Teresa released a shaky breath when he pulled her close. Her fears as to what that talk might entail were further alleviated by the intensity of Scott’s whispered “good night” and the manner in which his voice caressed her name.
Murmuring her own good night, Teresa reluctantly started up the stairs. When he didn’t follow, she looked back over her shoulder. Scott offered her a wry smile and quietly said he’d “be up soon.”
Reaching the door of her room, she glanced back again and saw him still standing in the shadows at the foot of the stairs, watching her. She smiled uncertainly, but couldn’t discern a response. Once inside the bedchamber, Teresa closed the door and then turned and fell back against it, wrapping her arms around herself and closing her eyes in heart pounding recollection of Scott’s hand touching her face, his lips pressing against hers, the sound of his voice . . .
<<“It seems I’m falling in love with you.”>>
It was several long minutes before she stirred herself to light the lamp and prepare for bed. It was simply impossible to stop smiling into the mirror as she brushed her hair. The phrase “I love you Scott” kept echoing in her thoughts; at times she couldn’t help softly uttering the words aloud. And after she changed into her nightgown, she couldn’t prevent herself from twirling ecstatically around the room, before finally climbing, exhausted, into bed.
Not that she could possibly fall asleep; instead Teresa found herself reliving each step of that evening’s walk along the beach. When she finally heard Scott’s tread on the stairs, she held her breath, listening intently as he stepped past her door.
As she tried to detect the sound of his movements in the next room, Teresa pictured Scott sitting on the bed, removing his boots. She imagined him unbuttoning that familiar beige checked shirt, one that she must have washed and ironed many times back at the hacienda.
Pajamas and nightshirts, she knew, had no place in Scott Lancer’s wardrobe.
Teresa snuggled in closer beside her extra pillow. Even before she fell asleep, she was already dreaming of lying beside Scott, safe in his arms, with her head resting on his bare chest.
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Scott stood in the center of the moonlit kitchen, listening for Teresa’s light step in the room overhead. Knowing that he wasn’t anywhere near ready to turn in, he decided to warm the coffee left over in the pot on the stove.
He was able to keep his attention focused on the tasks of kindling a fire in the stove and then locating a coffee mug and spoon. Conscious of the small size of the summer house and the near proximity of his aunt’s closed bedroom door, he moved silently and deliberately, until finally there was nothing more to do but wait.
Seated at the small table, Scott removed the cover from the sugar bowl and began lifting rounded spoonfuls of sugar, each time tilting the utensil just enough to allow a wide stream of granules to flow back into the bowl. He thought about Teresa.
He’d done his testing, tentatively resting his hand on her shoulder out on the beach. Before that, there had been the slight brush of their hands when he’d given her his wool shirt to wear, neither contact triggering anything like the previous evening’s startled recognition that something was different.
Not that he needed another reminder. He already knew that everything had changed.
But that wasn’t true, not everything. Despite the sudden epiphany, it was somehow a natural progression. It felt right.
Dropping the spoon onto the tabletop, Scott skittered his chair back from the table so that he could reach for the coffee pot, only belatedly recollecting the need for quiet. The liquid he poured into the thick white mug wasn’t steaming hot, but it was warm enough. He returned the coffee pot to the stove and then carefully pulled the chair back across the rough wooden floor.
<<“It does feel right,”>> he repeated to himself again, as he ladled a generous scoop of sugar into his mug. There was no need to enumerate each one of Teresa’s many good qualities, he knew them all full well, by heart. He knew her. Scott sat hunched over the table, still needlessly stirring the coffee even as his thoughts spun away from him, back to the beach.
He hadn’t intended to kiss her, not so soon. He didn’t regret it, but he’d have to move more slowly. It had already required an effort on his part to hold his hands steady, to resist exploring a bit more than just her lips.
Despite Teresa’s responsiveness, he couldn’t be certain of the extent of her ‘experience,’ although he suspected that her romantic encounters had been limited in number. At least the ill-fated association with Andy Blake had been blessedly brief.
With hindsight, it was significant that in all the time they’d spent together and the various subjects they’d discussed, certain topics had been avoided. He’d never questioned her closely about Andy, and Teresa had never said much about any of the young women with whom he’d kept company. They’d never once spoken about Julie.
Certainly Teresa never lacked for masculine attention at social events. On occasion, she had pressed Johnny into service as her escort, although this was perhaps to counter to Johnny’s habitual reluctance to attend at all. While no one had ever come to the hacienda to call for her, there had been times when it had been understood that Teresa was ‘meeting someone’ at the dance. On those evenings, he and his brother had often been unforgivably inattentive to their own dance partners, in their efforts to watch over Teresa.
Now that Scott expected to be Teresa’s ‘someone,’ he wondered how Johnny would react. There was no question but that he would have to endure some “I told ya so” or “It sure is about time” comments from his brother, although he expected that Johnny might actually be pleased. But as he sipped thoughtfully at his coffee, Scott found it difficult to imagine his father’s reaction.
Thoughts of Murdoch reminded him once more of that letter waiting in the drawer of Grandfather’s desk. He’d intended to read it immediately after Murdoch’s departure, but Julie’s unexpected visit had scotched that plan. While packing for the trip to Maine, he’d made a mental note to bring the envelope along, but had only remembered it after they’d boarded the train in Boston.
That thick, sealed envelope was merely one of several possible complications awaiting him in Boston, and Scott again contemplated not opening it at all. He knew that once he returned to the city there would be the reading of his grandfather’s will and decisions to be made about the business and the household staff.
Suddenly Scott’s attention was drawn to the ceiling once more, as he tried to decipher the flurry of what sounded like faint footfalls overhead.
Staying on for a time in Boston would be much easier, if Teresa would stay too. As he finished his coffee, he hoped that she might be persuaded.
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She awoke very early the next morning, but when she eased the door open, Teresa could see that the door to Scott’s room was already standing ajar. Securely belting her robe, she ventured downstairs and proceeded to heat up some wash water, hoping to carry the kettle back upstairs before either Scott or his aunt appeared.
While the water heated on the stove, Teresa slipped into the front room and used the opera glasses to scan the channel.
“Did the two of you have a pleasant walk last night?”
“Oh! Mrs. Holmes . . . good morning.”
“I’m sorry, Teresa, did I startle you? I do beg your pardon, Dear. Is Scott out for one last swim this morning?”
“Yes, yes, he is.”
“Well, it’s still early yet. But Mr. Rideout will be here with a wagon within the hour.” Mrs. Holmes studied her with a thoughtful expression. “You go on upstairs and get dressed, now, and I’ll just stir up some oatmeal for breakfast.”
Up in her room, Teresa filled the basin with warm water from the kettle and went back downstairs to replace it on the kitchen stove. This morning she was more attentive to her toilette than she had been previously during their stay at Popham. Because they were going back to Brunswick, she put on traveling clothes. Displeased with her first choice, she changed to another outfit and then attempted to arrange her hair in one of Marguerite’s styles.
Teresa was still dissatisfied with her appearance when she heard Scott return to his room. Hastily buttoning her jacket, she prepared to go downstairs, but paused for a moment, listening at the door.
She was avoiding him. All of her giddy excitement of the previous evening had disappeared and she felt hollow inside. She was afraid, so very afraid that things would be different now it was daylight, that Scott would look at her this morning and see only ‘Teresa.’
She knew Scott, knew that he would still love her even if he wasn’t in love with her. He would never want to hurt her, and would be very sorry if he had. He would feel responsible. Her stomach clenched at the thought of looking into his eyes and seeing an apology there.
Even worse would be actually hearing the words.
Of course, he now knew exactly how she felt, she’d shown him in her kiss, she’d told him she loved him. If she had been a self-assured, worldly and mature woman, experienced in matters of the heart, she would have boldly knocked on Scott’s door and demanded to know his intentions—and would have somehow managed to feign indifference if his response was less than hoped. Since she was none of those things, she slipped out of her room and down the stairs to join Mrs. Holmes at the breakfast table.
She sat and sipped her tea, attempting to swallow a bit of toast. She pretended to carry on a conversation with Mrs. Holmes, when really all she was doing was dreading Scott’s arrival in the kitchen.
Cecilia Holmes asked a question, but the sound of his feet on the steps echoed the pounding of her own heart and prevented Teresa from hearing the words. The older woman smiled kindly as she rose to pour her nephew a cup of coffee.
Scott said “good morning” as if it were any other morning and then took a seat opposite his aunt. Like Mrs. Holmes, Scott had resumed his mourning attire for the return to town; his trousers and jacket were black, with a string tie gracing the collar of his fresh white shirt. Mrs. Holmes presented Scott with a healthy serving of oatmeal and the two of them conversed easily about the journey to Brunswick, the times of the train, the next day’s departure for Boston. Scott inquired if there was anything she wished him to take care of before they left. His aunt explained that she would be sending people to close up the summer house, to clear the cupboards, strip the bed linens and, finally, board up the windows; for now she only wished him to check to see that they were closed.
Silent since offering her own “good morning,” feeling excluded and growing ever more certain that a humiliating and painful mistake had been made, Teresa excused herself to finish packing.
“Teresa, I’ll come up for your traveling case in a few minutes.”
Even Scott’s “Teh-RAY-sah” sounded ordinary this morning. She nodded without meeting his eyes, and escaped.
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There were only three small bedrooms upstairs. Teresa had occupied the larger one, which had a tiny room opposite; his own door was cater-corner to hers. Scott dutifully looked in to check that he had in fact closed the windows and hadn’t left any personal items behind. Having completed that unnecessary task, he slowly retraced his steps, stopping beside Teresa’s door.
He stood there for a moment, arms folded and head bowed. There had been no welcoming smile this morning, in fact, she’d barely acknowledged his presence. She hadn’t joined in the conversation about travel plans, hadn’t even asked any questions. Despite their close proximity at the small kitchen table, he hadn’t managed to catch Teresa’s eye, not once. So, perhaps she was having second thoughts; perhaps he’d moved too quickly.
It was possible that he’d badly misread the signs that last night had seemed so unmistakably clear. He dismally considered that it wouldn’t be the first time.
If that was the case, then the sooner he made amends the better. Scott took a deep breath and knocked firmly on the door.
“Teresa?”
“Come in.”
Scott pushed the door open, but remained standing in the hallway. Teresa was just closing up the traveling case that was resting on the bed.
“I’m almost finished,” she said, glancing in his direction with the briefest of smiles before returning her attention to the straps she was fastening.
Dismayed by how nervous she seemed, Scott sighed and leaned against the doorframe.
“Teresa, I ah . . . I crossed a line last night.”
She nodded, still staring down at that damn case.
“I had intended to do it again.”
He had her attention then; she stared at him with an apprehension in her eyes that was painful to see.
“Now, I understand, if that makes you uneasy. And if you’d rather I didn’t, we could just forget---”
“No.” She shook her head, took a deep breath. “No. I can’t forget. I don’t want to, Scott . . .”
Contemplating her lifted chin and determined stance, Scott couldn’t hold back a relieved smile.
“Neither do I.”
Teresa moved around the edge of the bed and towards the doorway, her delicate features still so serious, those large brown eyes studying his own. But when he gave her his best wry look and lifted his right arm, she smiled--- her wide, warm, familiar smile ----and quickened her step. Teresa fit in close beside him, exactly where she belonged, and he reached up with one hand to smooth her hair.
“You were worried.”
“Yes.”
“Trust me.”
He felt her relax then. “I do.”
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Mrs. Holmes’ voice pushed them apart, when she came around to the bottom of the narrow staircase to announce that the man had arrived with the wagon to take them to the train station in Bath. Scott had carried her traveling case down the stairs and out the back door along with his own, then, while the driver, Mr. Rideout, had taken care of Mrs. Holmes’ bags, Scott stepped out onto the small front porch for one last look at the channel.
When Teresa joined him, he was squinting out at the ocean.
“It’s hard to know, if I’ll ever be here again.”
The wistful words were delivered in Scott’s usual matter of fact tone. She said something about what a special place it was. He looked down at her and took her hand and told her that she had “made it more so.”
She trusted him, she truly did. It wasn’t his fault that it all still seemed much too wonderful to be real.
The day’s traveling was pleasant and uneventful. It was a bright autumn day, breezy and cool, but not uncomfortable. After helping the two women up onto the rear bench seat, Scott sat in the front alongside bewhiskered old Josiah Rideout, talking about some of the people who lived along the bumpy route to Bath. The short trip by train to Brunswick passed quickly; Scott occupied the seat opposite them while Teresa again sat beside his aunt.
Mrs. Holmes took charge as soon as they arrived at her residence, ordering up tea to be served in the parlor while their bags were carried upstairs and requesting that baths be readied. Once the maid had served the tea, Madame Carrier’s presence was requested, but instead of sitting down to discuss the evening’s menu the cook had waited in the doorway, indicating that she wished to converse with her mistress privately.
Scott picked up a newspaper, but alternated between scanning the headlines and shooting concerned looks in his aunt’s direction as the two women conducted a whispered conversation. They were talking about someone; Teresa heard the word “she” several times and possibly the name “Marie.” Judging from her stiff posture and fierce expression, Mrs. Holmes was not at all happy; Madame Carrier appeared equally grim.
Finally, Scott laid the paper aside and asked his aunt if every thing was all right. She swiftly assured him it was, that there was nothing for him to be concerned about. Madame Carrier nodded and smilingly announced that she had made a “tortiere” for supper. Scott was clearly pleased, and responded with the French phrase for “thank you very much” which Teresa recognized since he had taught her how to say it to Marguerite. After they had exchanged a few more words in that language, Madame Carrier excused herself to return to the kitchen.
Mrs. Holmes resumed her seat, still seeming somewhat unsettled; Scott lifted his brow and shrugged his shoulders in reply to Teresa’s silent question, but he elected not to press his aunt. Teresa filled the awkward pause by asking about the “tortiere.” Scott explained that it was one of his favorite dishes, a French Canadian pork pie typically served at Christmas time, which in turn led his aunt to share reminiscences of her nephew’s holiday visits until the three of them finished their tea.
Teresa enjoyed a leisurely bath, and afterwards, Marguerite came in to help her dress and do up her hair for dinner. They were expecting guests; a Professor Alpheus Packard, who had formerly worked closely with Mrs. Holmes’ late husband and was now the librarian of Bowdoin College, would be joining them along with his wife.
When she entered the room, Scott was engaged in conversation with Professor Packard. Swiftly excusing himself, he crossed the room to greet her; his eyes told her what she wanted to know long before he whispered a compliment in her ear. Scott made the introductions before they proceeded to the dining room, where, owing to many curious questions from the Packards, conversation centered comfortably around ‘life in the West.’
Teresa enjoyed the savory tortiere and after the meal was concluded took the time to visit the kitchen in order to consult with Madame Carrier on the recipe and its preparation. Other friends stopped in, long time neighbors who had learned from her staff that Mrs. Holmes would be departing again the next morning, and so the remainder of the evening passed quickly.
The next morning, when they boarded the southbound train for Boston, Mrs. Holmes announced that Marguerite would sit beside her, freeing Scott to share a seat across the aisle with Teresa.
She had the place near the window, with Scott seated to her left. They chatted for a while, with Scott occasionally commenting upon the passing scenery. But after a time, he took up his book; he was still trying to read about Napoleon.
When he came to the end of a chapter, she asked about it, why he was so interested in Napoleon. Scott explained that General Bonaparte had been recognized as a superb military strategist, at least until the disastrous miscalculations that had brought about his downfall. He added that Mr. Garrett had been particularly fascinated by the French general. Then he’d smiled and asked if she remembered seeing a grey tabbycat in the house on Chestnut Street, informing her that apparently his grandfather had named the animal “Napoleon.”
They talked about pets for a bit: Mrs. Holmes’ soft grey Minou, Napoleon’s mother, Jelly’s Dewdrop, Murdoch’s prize sow. While they hadn’t exactly been household companions, there had always been a few cats roaming the stables at the hacienda and a dog or two occupying the yard. Although he’d had a succession of ponies, beginning with the infamous Spot, Scott admitted that his grandfather had never favored the idea of keeping a cat or dog. Teresa asked a few questions about what it had been like growing up with Mr. Garrett in Boston, but, as often happened, Scott steered the conversation towards her own childhood at Lancer.
“I feel guilty sometimes, that I grew up there, and you and Johnny didn’t.”
“There’s nothing for you to feel guilty about,” he assured her.
“But I still do.”
Scott studied the cover of the book he still held in his hands, before turning to look at her. “Tell me, can you imagine growing up anywhere else?”
“No, no I can’t.”
“Well, neither can I, Teresa. And I really don’t regret growing up in Boston.”
She hesitated. “I . . . I never understood why though,” she ventured finally.
Scott nodded, eyes front now. “It’s . . . complicated.”
The finality in his voice and the slight set of his jaw indicated he was finished with the topic, so she was quite surprised when he bowed his head and continued.
“Before he left, Murdoch gave me a letter, explaining things.”
Teresa bit back her questions, forcing herself to wait.
Scott sighed and lifted his head again. “I haven’t read it yet.”
Instantly, she was reminded of the first letter she’d received from Angel. She hadn’t wanted to read it, putting it off for days. She hadn’t wanted to have to think about that whole painful episode, but lacked the willpower to simply throw the letter away unopened. But the stark truth was that her mother had abandoned her. Which had forced Daddy and Murdoch to lie to her for years, pretending her mother was dead. When Angel had returned, it had been to selfishly try to take her away from her home and family. And in the end, the woman had rejected her again, though Scott had suggested that there might have been more to it than that.
The letter had been short, barely a page, and when she’d shown it to Scott, he hadn’t seemed surprised. He’d actually encouraged her to respond. She and Angel had written back and forth a few times now, and although Teresa doubted she would ever completely forgive her mother, at least she didn’t hate Angel any more. Of course she’d forgiven Daddy and Murdoch, because she knew how much they loved her.
Even though it looked as if Murdoch had abandoned Scott, there had to be more to it than that. Murdoch Lancer was a good man, who loved his sons.
“You have to read it, Scott.”
“I know.”
He still didn’t look at her and he sounded so . . . resigned.
“Scott . . . did you ever ask Murdoch about . . . that Pinkerton agent?”
“He said he wrote about that, in the letter. Among other things. I think it’s . . . quite long.”
Scott seemed so pensive after that, and when he tried to take up his book again, it was evident that he was only looking at the words, not actually reading them. They traveled many miles while the volume remained open to the same two pages.
He caught her once, studying his profile. He arched his brow, and after a quick smile, she turned back to the window to resume watching the passing scenery. But the second time, he reached for her hand.
“Teresa . . . what are you looking at?”
“I was just wondering . . . what those are called.”
“What what are called?”
Reluctant to remove her left hand from his grasp, she reached across with her right.
“This little strip of hair here, in front of your ear, what is it called?”
Still puzzled by the question, Scott paused to consider. “Well, my grandfather called them ‘side whiskers;’ he used to wear his quite long, when he was younger.”
She nodded; of course she’d heard that term before. “I just wondered if there was a special name. Like ‘chignon’ is used for a bun. Or ‘ringlets’ for curls.”
“In the army we called them ‘burnsides,’ after one of the generals--- but his covered nearly half of his face.”
She couldn’t resist, and gently stroked that line of hair with two fingers. She pulled her hand away as if she’d been burned when Scott turned his head and lightly kissed her palm. The touch of his lips sent a tremor coursing through her body.
The way he smiled, it was almost as if he knew it.
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Much as he was enjoying Teresa’s company, Scott’s spirits were progressively lowered as they neared Boston and he began dwelling on all he had to do. He had to decide very soon whether to join the Hayfords on the westbound train to California or remain for a time in the house on Beacon Hill. Since his aunt intended to be in the city during the winter months, at least the household staff could stay on that much longer. And while Mrs. Holmes was in residence, both he and Teresa, pending Murdoch’s approval, could remain as well, since they would have his aunt as chaperone. Then he could take his time settling Grandfather’s estate, and perhaps Teresa might attend the classes she’d mentioned. They could return to Lancer in the spring. It had, however, occurred to Scott that the two of them traveling alone together might no longer be deemed acceptable, or wise. And therefore it might be best if Teresa left with Will and his mother after all.
Also looming ahead was the meeting with George Hayford and the reading of his grandfather’s will. He also needed to have some serious and detailed discussions with Cousin Wade about the company.
But the first order of business was to read Murdoch’s letter.
Leaving Fredericks to attend to his unpacking, Scott went directly to his grandfather’s study and sat down at the desk. The thick envelope still lay in the center drawer, its surface blank except for his own name written in Murdoch’s hand. Taking up a letter opener shaped like a miniature cavalry officer’s sword, Scott carefully slit the top edge of the envelope. Abruptly deciding that he simply couldn’t read this letter while confined within the four walls of the study, he pushed away from the desk and headed towards the door.
It had been many years since he’d entered the rooftop cupola. The octagonal space was level with the tops of the tallest trees, and afforded a view of the rooftops of the stately mansions nearby. Scott had spent countless boyhood hours in this aerie, reading and daydreaming. He couldn’t help recalling that the little room had sometimes been a place of refuge from the disappointment of yet another birthday passing by without any communication from Murdoch Lancer. It took a few tries before he found which of the large windows would easily open and allow some cooler air in. Carefully removing the pages from the envelope, Scott dropped onto one of the window seats.
He started reading the letter, the first one he had ever received from his father.
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Author’s note:
the Bowdoin College professor mentioned in this chapter, Alpheus Spring Packard, was a real person. Like the fictional Elwood Holmes, Prof. Packard was an instructor in the department of languages and classical literature.
http://library.bowdoin.edu/arch/mss/aspg.shtml
For an image of General Ambrose Burnsides:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sideburns
ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 20B.
“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
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<<“What do I call you? Under the circumstances, ‘Father’ hardly seems---”>>
The letter was signed, simply, “Murdoch.”
As if he couldn’t bring himself to write the words “your father.”
Of course, that was patently unfair, when Scott himself had been so quick to deny Murdoch Lancer that title.
Scott felt frozen, cold with disbelief, even though it was still warm in the glass-enclosed cupola, brightened by the late afternoon sun. He could see movement outside, a soft breeze riffling the tops of the trees. It shifted through the changing leaves, then slipped in through the open window to brush against the papers in his hand.
He’d read the entire letter, and knew he’d have to read it again, knew he hadn’t fully absorbed everything Murdoch had written.
But the closing lines he’d read ten times over.
“I love you, Son. And I want you to know how proud I am to call you that.”
It was far easier to focus on those sentiments than to dwell upon the rest. The pages Scott held in his hands clearly represented Murdoch’s honest feelings, line after line laying bare both heart and soul to reveal shadowy layers of guilt and regret. Far from being passed and gone, the events and the emotions described seemed to be still very much here and now. Scott didn’t doubt that it had been a painfully difficult letter to write; he knew for a fact it had been a damned hard one to read.
He set the accordion-folded sheets down on the window seat. Elbows on his thighs, Scott rubbed his face with his hands and tried to decide which man he was most angry with, his father or his grandfather.
<<It would be easier to simply hate both of them,>> he thought bitterly, with a renewed sense of betrayal. But he knew well how destructive that emotion could be.
He also knew he should feel appreciation that Murdoch had finally set the record straight. But too much of it hurt. On some level, Scott had always known that it would, and surely Murdoch had too. He ran his fingers through his hair, the nails furrowing his scalp; the mild physical pain a welcome distraction.
<<Well, Boston, you may as well get it over with.>>
Scott straightened and forced himself to take up the letter again; he’d left the last page lying on top. That one included the expected revelation that Teresa had made the decision to send for him and that Sam Jenkins had engaged the Pinkerton agency. Murdoch was “grateful” to both of them, terming himself “a stubborn fool” for not contacting Scott years before. He admitted to a series of vain attempts over the years to write a letter he considered worth sending, thwarted by his certainty that Scott would have no interest in hearing from him.
<<He was wrong.>>
Murdoch should have sent a letter, something, after all, what did he have to lose? How hard would it have been to post a short note? It hadn’t been until after his twenty-first birthday had come and gone that Scott had decided he no longer cared if he ever received a communication from his absent father. He’d gotten drunk with Will and offered up a caustic toast, something to the effect of hoping that someday Murdoch Lancer would learn how very much his son hated him.
He had hated Murdoch Lancer, but only as much as you could hate someone who was nothing more than a name. Now that he knew the man, he couldn’t feel the same way. Scott knew in his heart he could never hate his grandfather either. He shook his head; although hatred could be useful at times, there was never anything easy about it.
What he felt was . . . disappointment. Hardly a strong enough word by itself, but it was ‘deep’, it was ‘profound,’ Hell, right now it was damn near bottomless.
Wearily, Scott leaned forward once more and resumed reading about how grateful Murdoch had been to learn that he had agreed to come to Lancer:
“The day that I received word you were coming, was one of the best days of my life.”
Of course Murdoch had no way of knowing how close Scott had come to rejecting the imperious summons with its accompanying promise of travel expenses and what could only be considered a generous amount of bribe money. If it hadn’t been for Barbara Otis, or more to the point, her irate father, Scott would have been unlikely to travel as far as St. Louis, let alone California.
Murdoch didn’t say anything about the less than warm welcome he had extended to his sons, nothing at all about how he’d actually felt that first day. Before closing, Murdoch did offer up a positive assessment of how well Scott had fit in at the ranch. He praised Scott’s work ethic, leadership ability, his willingness to learn. However, on second reading, many of the compliments were qualified. Murdoch had been “surprised,” or “impressed,” he “hadn’t expected.” Perhaps Murdoch meant well, but it served to remind Scott of the extent to which his upbringing set him apart from his peers. He had received a fine education and more opportunities for travel than most. In addition, Scott had been raised by a man who was both demanding and attentive; the fathers of many of his friends simply left their sons in their mothers’ care, to be raised by assorted tutors and governesses. Scott also had his military service, as well as his boyhood experiences hunting and fishing in Maine; more than most city dwellers, he was accustomed to being on horseback and comfortable with firearms.
What would his reception have been, had he lacked those particular qualifications?
He could easily think of several young men of his acquaintance who wouldn’t have lasted more than a few days at the ranch: Freddie Harroway or Lowell Jones or Cousin Wade. Most likely they would have been packed home soon after the $1000 interview. Murdoch would never have signed over one-third of his property to any of them, since of course, they couldn’t have earned it. Perhaps the reason why his father had never sent for him was because all that Murdoch expected from Boston was a “fancy dan” or Eastern dandy.
He’d had no right to expect anything else.
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Scott turned to the first page of Murdoch’s letter; he needed to re-read it, slowly and carefully this time, and he needed to keep his emotions in check in order to be objective. He exhaled slowly. This was, after all, what he’d always wanted, wasn’t it? Answers.
Well, Murdoch had provided them. Some at least. The tone of the letter was both regretful and matter of fact. Murdoch was ashamed that he hadn’t done more, he said it was “unforgivable” but asserted that the “loss was all mine.” Rather than attacking Harlan Garrett, Murdoch seemed to make an effort to be scrupulously fair to his former father-in-law, even stating that he could find no fault with the manner in which Scott had been raised.
Murdoch began with a simple statement that it was time “to clear the air”--- not that he apologized for taking so long to do so. Then he started writing about Catherine. Except that Murdoch referred to her as “your mother” rather than by her name.
“I want you to know how very much I loved your mother. You remind me of her.”
Even the second time through, Scott found he had to swallow hard. He imagined hearing his father’s voice saying the words even though they had never had this conversation; in truth, they’d hardly ever spoken of her at all. Murdoch enumerated Catherine’s fine qualities, many of which he seemed to believe she had somehow transmitted to her son. Scott was skeptical, but at least it was clear that for Murdoch, these perceived similarities were entirely welcome reminders. The resemblance between his grandson and his beloved daughter had often seemed a two edged sword for Harlan Garrett.
While he didn’t share any stories about her, Murdoch expressed his intention to “talk more about your mother” in the future. He did make a point of saying that the ranch had been a dream that they both had shared and how proud she would be that her son was contributing to its success.
Scott managed a grim smile at his father’s choice of words. Unlike Catherine, hadn’t he found that his ‘contributions’ were unwelcome if they involved Garrett money?
While Scott assumed that Catherine had been a supportive wife, he also suspected, reading between the lines, that after her death, Murdoch had thrown himself into ranch work to assuage his grief. He’d seen signs of such behavior from his father first-hand, a tendency to channel difficult emotions into physical labor. Murdoch may have told himself he was continuing on in her memory, but from what Scott knew of Catherine, and of young women in general, her ambitions would more likely have centered around home and family, rather than hundreds of acres of ground or heads of cattle.
The fact remained that Murdoch had chosen to concentrate upon building their ranch, allowing someone else to raise their child. Oh, he frankly explained that he hadn’t felt capable of taking care of an infant; he’d been relieved to know that Scott was safe and well provided for in Boston. Murdoch did acknowledge that the people back at the ranch had assumed both mother and baby had died, and confessed to being ashamed of not setting the record straight as soon as he realized the misunderstanding.
Little was said about the second Mrs. Lancer, and nothing of Johnny’s birth, and Scott had to guiltily admit that he was glad of that. He’d always told himself that it didn’t matter that his brother had been born at Lancer; he was glad that Johnny had lived there for a time and fervently wished it could have been longer. But it was hard to read Murdoch’s admission that he hadn’t truly felt like a father until he’d held Johnny in his arms.
It was honest. It made sense—after all, Murdoch had no idea what his other son even looked like. That didn’t make it any easier to read.
Murdoch wrote that after Johnny’s birth, “I wanted to bring you home.” But it had been “complicated” because of the cost and the length of time needed for a trip to Boston. He didn’t add that Maria Lancer had been unaware that her husband had another child, and he never mentioned her leaving. He didn’t need to. Scott had long ago figured out what the timing must have been. Murdoch had arrived in Boston for his fifth birthday, which meant that Maria Lancer had already taken her young son and fled.
It was a relief that Murdoch’s spare account of his visit to Boston closely matched the details that Scott had already obtained from his grandfather.
“Harlan introduced us and that’s when I laid eyes on you for the first time. We said hello and you shook my hand.”
Murdoch revealed nothing about how he’d felt during that encounter. Since he couldn’t recall the incident at all, Scott wished that his father had said more to indicate how memorable it had been for him. In contrast to Scott’s purely hypothetical grievance that Murdoch would have rejected him as an adult, had he been nothing more than an Eastern society fop, the possibility existed that the rancher had simply lost interest after he’d shaking the hand of a polite, well-dressed city boy ill-suited to the rough and tumble life out West, who like the mother he resembled, might not be strong enough to survive.
No, Murdoch Lancer could be a hard man, but he wasn’t that hard. Giving Murdoch the benefit of the doubt, more likely he’d been reluctant to uproot a child and deprive his son of the advantages he was enjoying. But if that was the case, Murdoch didn’t say.
He did say that he had been angered and discouraged by Harlan’s threats to use the courts to maintain custody. However, Murdoch blamed himself for having waited too long to make the trip East and then giving up too easily. He regretted not having pushed to see how far his former father-in-law would go, but explained that he’d lacked the resources necessary for a prolonged legal battle. He said that he needed to get back to the ranch. Murdoch didn’t say that he needed to resume the search for Johnny and Maria.
Murdoch freely admitted that he should have done more, tried harder. He confessed that he’d been reluctant to tell Scott anything about that trip to Boston for that very reason.
He assumed responsibility for his subsequent inaction, quickly describing what little else he’d done, primarily the letters he’d intended to write, the gifts he’d meant to send, prevented from doing so by “damned foolish pride.” Apparently, Murdoch had been certain that Grandfather would withhold anything he sent, and therefore had sent nothing.
As Scott had already deduced, based upon his father’s comments to Melissa Harper, Murdoch had journeyed once more to Boston, “a few years later.” He said that he’d stayed with his friend James, and that he’d learned that Scott had been “up north.” As far as he knew, Harlan had not even been aware that he’d been in town.
Murdoch’s account seemed strictly factual, nothing like the blistering indictment of Harlan Garrett that Scott had dreaded. Of course, Scott recognized, and appreciated, why Murdoch avoided criticizing the older man; it wasn’t out of deference to his grandfather.
And then there it was, that one sentence.
One sentence, in the brief account of what Murdoch Lancer had done, one sentence that formed a small part of his litany of not having done enough. The one phrase, more wounding than anything else to be found in the six pages of closely spaced script.
“A couple years after that, I wrote to Harlan and invited you to the ranch for the summer. I’d waited too long, and he replied that plans had already been made, for a trip to Europe, I believe. After that, I’m ashamed to say I stopped trying, Son.”
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<<“Invited you to the ranch.”>>
Reading those words, even the second time, was worse than being punched in the stomach. This, this was more how Scott imagined it would feel to be run through with a sword. One that was so razor sharp that a man couldn’t even feel it slicing in, not right away. Much as that phrase had initially taken a moment, to register.
<<He did want to see me.>>
An actual invitation had been extended, not just a summons relayed second or third hand. His father had sent for him, and his grandfather . . . his grandfather had spurned the request. Worse, Grandfather had never said one word about it. He’d allowed Scott to grow up believing that his father had abandoned him, ignored him. That Murdoch didn’t care.
It was another betrayal, and unlike Grandfather’s attempt to use Julie to lure him back to Boston, or to force his return by threatening him with the Degans, this action had never been revealed. Until now.
“What he did, when he was here . . . he’d never done anything like that before. Not to me.”
He’d said that, to Johnny, and believed it. And he’d willingly forgiven his grandfather for what he’d tried to do, long before being asked.
The pages of the letter slipped from Scott’s hands and fluttered to the cupola floor, falling like the proverbial house of cards he’d constructed in an attempt to explain his grandfather’s betrayal, to excuse his deceit.
But no, Scott corrected himself, as he wearily leaned down to retrieve the scattered papers, there had been sound reasoning to each of his arguments. Certainly his grandfather had many good reasons for being firmly convinced that his heir was “better off” in Boston. Grandfather had favored the marriage with Julie, and thought it would make his grandson happy to be reunited with her. For years, his grandfather had believed the worst of the man who taken Catherine away, including those reports suggesting Murdoch’s culpability in Degan’s death. And since his only daughter had died in California, it was understandable that he particularly mistrusted the place. Added to all that, Grandfather was old, he was lonely and under stress due to the lingering effects of the devastating fire.
The defenses had been arranged so meticulously, like setting up a protective stockade.
Grandfather had always been the one constant presence in his life, their relationship an integral support, central to Scott’s very foundation. Now, that foundation had shifted once again, leaving those carefully assembled pickets tilting crazily in all directions.
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 21.
“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
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“It was Mr. Lancer who had two.”
He’d let Scott ask the obvious question, and when Teresa had answered, it had taken all of his concentration to cover up his stunned surprise with his best trademark cocky grin. Johnny smiled now as he surveyed the dusty street, the spot in front of the stage depot where it had all happened. Never in a lifetime of guessing would he have figured the fancy dressed gringo for his brother—even if he’d known he had one.
Sure, he’d considered the possibility that Murdoch Lancer had taken up with some other woman, started a new family after he’d shown Mama the door. But Johnny hadn’t wasted much time thinking about the man having a wife and kids, since he’d been determined not to let anyone get in the way of what he might have to do.
But at that first meeting in the Great Room, when Murdoch had recited their histories-- the short versions anyway-- Johnny had discovered that the Easterner was his older brother; Scott was the elder son. Not that it mattered any more, but at the time, Johnny hadn’t been very happy about it. Of course, that smaller concern had faded pretty quickly in light of what Murdoch had said about Mama taking off.
It hadn’t been until long afterwards that he’d taken time to wonder about what Murdoch had said to Scott about his own mother. It sure had sounded as if Scott had been born back East and Murdoch had just left him there. Now he knew there was a whole lot more to the story. Well, maybe Scott and Murdoch had talked some, while the Old Man was in Boston.
Johnny set the brake on the buggy and settled in to wait. “Arrive noon stage,” that was all the wire had said. He was expecting Murdoch to be alone, though he sure wouldn’t mind if Teresa and Scott were with him. <<Don’t get your hopes up, Madrid,>> he told himself, but he couldn’t help it. He missed them.
Funny, how he’d shown up here in Morro Coyo for the money, or maybe for revenge-- or both--- and ended up staying for a home and family. When he’d gotten off the stage, he hadn’t owned anything, except for his rig, of course, and his saddle—although he hadn’t even had a horse to put under it. And now he was part owner of a 100,000 acre spread. But family, that was the important part, and ol’ Boston had maybe turned out to be the best part of the package---though Johnny never would have believed that when he was sitting squashed in beside the stiffly mannered dude on the stage---or when he’d sat there grinning while Scott went on about “simple military problems.”
Of course, even before Scott had called him on it, he’d known the man wasn’t too impressed with him either. When he’d announced that what he had in mind was a “one man deal" his new brother had just smiled.
He’d mostly always worked alone, though over the years Johnny had signed on with a few crews, even ridden for a while with a couple of gun hawks. But being a gunfighter was a pretty lonely business most of the time.
Now, he’d gotten used to having a partner, a compadre, and it felt pretty good. He didn’t even mind when Scott tried to act like a big brother sometimes. Even though he hadn’t recognized it as quickly as he should have, Scott was a good man, one of the best. A man you could trust to watch your back. Which meant that maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all that Scott had been away, because when it came down to it, Johnny wasn’t sure he could have trusted his brother to stay clear.
<<Now, ‘course if Scott was here right now, he’d be the one driving this buggy,>> Johnny thought with a grin. Lieutenant Lancer sure liked to take charge. Johnny preferred to lounge in the front seat and “supervise,” or, better yet, ride escort on horseback.
Knowing that the noon stage hardly ever showed up at noon, Johnny slouched down and tried to angle his body into a more comfortable position on the seat. He’d been pushing pretty hard the past few days, so the thought of having himself a little siesta was tempting. The sun was blazing high straight overhead, which meant there hadn’t been a shady side of the street to stop on. Johnny could feel the drops of sweat rolling down his back. Not a cloud in sight either, but he’d already decided to avoid the saloon, even if it was likely to be pretty empty this time of day. He took one last careful look around the quiet main street. Just before easing his hat down over his face, Johnny caught a glimpse of a couple of ranch hands coming out of Baldemerro’s store across the way and loading boxes into a wagon. For some reason, it made him think of Scott putting his suitcase into the buckboard that day he left with old man Garrett.
Heading back to Boston, just like that. Johnny had gone through a lot of different thoughts and feelings after Scott’s announcement, but by morning mostly what was left was cold anger all coiled up inside like a diamondback ready to spring. He’d been waiting out front with the rest of them when Scott finally appeared, carrying his case and dressed in traveling clothes, and Johnny had made a strike at him first thing. Instead of coming back with his own verbal bullets, Scott just calmly mouthed some stupid bull---- about how he “wasn’t cut out” for ranch life. But what had wired Johnny’s jaws shut was when Scott said something about how they’d all gotten along without him before and they’d be just fine without him again.
Which sure as hell wasn’t true, not then and not now.
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Johnny must have dozed a bit, because the clatter of the stage arriving burst in on him all of a sudden instead of growing gradually out of the usual sounds of the street. He lifted his hat as he pushed himself upright, watching the coach and its trailing cloud of dust. When the vehicle came to an abrupt halt, the dust just kept rolling on past the big horses standing and blowing with their sides heaving. The wheels had barely stopped moving when the door swung open. And even though he had expected to see only Murdoch, Johnny still felt a twinge of disappointment when he realized his father was alone.
Johnny settled his hat back onto his head and jumped lightly down from the buggy. He paused, knee deep in his own minor dust cloud, adjusting his gun belt and sliding the tail of his damp shirt back into place while the particles spread out and floated away in the sunlight. He ambled over to the stage, arriving just as Murdoch finished saying goodbye to a middle-aged female passenger, not anyone Johnny recognized.
“Murdoch.”
His father turned around, his face widening in a smile as he said his name. “Johnny!”
It appeared that Murdoch was glad to be home—or glad to be off the stage. But that didn’t mean that his trip had gone well. Johnny stuck out his hand as the Old Man stepped towards him; Murdoch accepted the handshake, but also dropped his other hand heavily on Johnny’s shoulder.
“How’ve you been? Everything going well?”
“Yeah, that first group of drovers got to Modesto and back no problem. Cip and the main herd headed to Stockton this morning, right on schedule.”
“Good! Any problems come up while I was gone?”
Murdoch tightened his grip, and Johnny lowered his head for a moment. But it wasn’t hard to give the man the answer he wanted.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Murdoch released the handclasp and captured Johnny’s other shoulder.
“Johnny--?”
“I figure with some fast horses, we can catch up with the drive in a couple days.”
His father’s hands fell to his sides. “A couple of days? Johnny, we’ll leave tomorrow—”
“Mr. Lancer---here’s your bags.”
Murdoch turned to look up at the outrider perched on top of the coach waiting to hand down his traveling cases. Freed from his father’s grasp, Johnny moved swiftly, stepping around to position himself to catch the first one.
“I got it---thanks, Pete.”
“No problem, Johnny.”
The second, smaller bag followed, and Johnny silently handed that one off to Murdoch. Each toting a bag, the two of them headed side by side across the street towards the buggy.
“I just figured you might want to take a day before we headed out. You know, rest up.”
Murdoch shook his head. “No, Johnny, I’ve been resting for a week, staring at the scenery. Good meals though, ----slept well, too. I’ve been traveling in comfort—your brother arranged it.”
Johnny waited until they’d deposited the suitcases in the rear of the buggy before asking the question.
“So how’s Scott doin’? . . . and Teresa?”
“Teresa’s well; I take it she’s been spending quite a bit of time with Melissa Harper . . . and Scott . . . well, Scott’s got a lot on his plate right now. But he’ll be fine, Johnny. He’ll be fine.”
Murdoch sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. Feeling less than reassured, Johnny moved to the front of the buggy and sprang up to his seat, then waited while Murdoch climbed up more slowly on the other side. His father hadn’t gotten any smaller, and it took some work for the Old Man to fold his legs into the buggy. Finally, Johnny released the brake and set Zanzibar and Mozambique in motion. Doc Hildenbrand and Sheriff Gabe were standing on the sidewalk in front of the bank and Murdoch exchanged greetings with them as they rolled past; Johnny was relieved when his father didn’t ask him to stop. He still figured that even after they’d cleared the buildings of the main street, he wouldn’t be able to relax, since Murdoch would get back to asking questions, but Johnny was determined to beat him to it.
“So, when they comin’ back?”
Murdoch sighed, and took his time answering. He seemed to still be in the habit of staring off at the scenery, as if he thought he was back on the train. When he did speak, it was in a carefully neutral tone.
“Scott has things to take care of, Johnny. He thinks he’ll have to stay on a good while.”
Johnny pressed his lips firmly together while his favorite Spanish expletive exploded in his head. The echoes faded away without Murdoch expressing any opinion of his own.
“Well . . . then I guess it’s a good thing he’s got Teresa with ‘im.”
He could feel Murdoch staring at him. “Why do you say that?”
Johnny shot his father a grin. “Cause he’s gonna hafta bring her home sometime.”
Murdoch exhaled slowly, and dropped his gaze to his loosely clasped hands. Johnny had a pretty strong feeling he wasn’t going to like what the Old Man had to say next.
“Teresa may be here soon. There was talk of her traveling with Will Hayford . . . and his mother. Seems she’s coming out for a visit----”
“Dios, Murdoch. Is he comin’ back?”
“I hope so, Johnny . . .”
“Well, what did he say?” Johnny tried again, in a less edgy voice. “Did ya talk to him?”
“Yes, Johnny. I . . . I told him I wanted him to come home.”
Johnny nodded. That was something, at least.
“It’s his decision, Son.”
“Yeah, I know, Scott’s a big boy.” Johnny took his irritation out on the matched set of horses, slapping the reins even though they were already moving along at a good clip. Not as fast as a train though, and Murdoch was back to studying the damn scenery.
“He’s a man, with responsibilities. And you know as well as I do that your brother isn’t one to shirk responsibility.”
Johnny nodded again. Weren’t that the truth.
“However,” Murdoch added shifting in the seat so that he was half turned towards Johnny, “I did tell him that if he stayed . . . if he stayed too long, then . . .well, then I’d have to send you for a visit.” Murdoch kept a straight face, though he couldn’t hide the twinkle in his eye. But as far as Johnny was concerned, this was a serious business.
“Well, I guess I wouldn’t mind seeing the place. Maybe do me good ta get away for a while.”
Murdoch couldn’t hide his surprise, but before his father could ask any questions, Johnny started telling him about the cattle drive.
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Tired of looking out at the busy city street, Teresa glanced sadly over at Scott. He was staring out the window on his own side of the enclosed carriage. She’d been so pleased that morning at breakfast when he’d announced he was taking her shopping, and he had helped her pick out some very nice things as gifts for a few of the people back home. But it was easy to tell that his heart wasn’t in it.
“Scott?”
“Hmm?”
“You seem very far away.”
He shot her a confused look. “Oh, sorry.” Scott slid over to the center of the seat—not exactly what she’d meant, though of course she didn’t mind at all having him closer. It was even better when he leaned towards her, pointing out the window to identify some landmark. Not that she heard what he said, not with Scott so near. Not when she was so worried about him.
It was another bright fall day, and outside, the cobblestone streets were crowded with carriages. More people moved along the busy sidewalks, many of the women wearing clothing to rival the colorful changing leaves. As usual, Scott was somberly attired, in a well-cut black suit that fit his mood. He looked tired as he settled back against the seat, but seemed determined to resume his duties as host and guide.
“We’ll be going past Faneuil Hall soon; it’s where---”
“I know, Scott. You already told me all about it this morning.” She’d actually been listening then, when Scott had described the meetings that had been held there in colonial times and pointed out the famous grasshopper weathervane.
“Did I?” Scott shook his head with a rueful expression, then reached out to take her hand. She was wearing a new pair of gloves, ones that he had purchased for her just that morning. He appeared to be studying the raised design on the back of her hand.
“It seems I’m not very good company today.”
She squeezed his hand. “You have a lot on your mind, and a lot to take care of. I’m sure you have more important things to do than take me shopping.” Truthfully, she’d rather Scott took care of those other things if it meant that he might be on the westbound train at the end of the week. “Are you . . . worried about the reading of your grandfather’s will tomorrow?”
“No. I’ve already seen it,” he said flatly. “There won’t be any surprises there.”
Her left hand was still enveloped in his, so she used the right to smooth the folds of her silver-grey taffeta skirt while she considered.
“Scott, . . . did you read Murdoch’s letter?”
“Yes I did.”
She didn’t know what frightened her more, his tone, the set of his jaw, or the fact that he released her hand. Scott folded his arms across his chest, and she clasped her hers together in her lap.
“Were there any surprises?” She knew she sounded anxious. What if Scott was angry with Murdoch, angry enough to stay away from the ranch? He looked down at her speculatively, and she tried to calm herself. It helped when she remembered that they’d stopped in a spirits shop and Scott had selected several bottles of scotch whiskey, a costly brand that he said had been bottled near Inverness in Scotland. Glen Something, it was called, and he’d bought it as a gift for Murdoch.
Still, her apprehension increased the longer he delayed answering. Finally, Scott shifted his gaze to the opposite wall of the carriage.
“Much of what he wrote matched what I already knew,” he said slowly. “Though he did mention something that surprised me.” Scott exhaled. “He said that, years ago, he invited me to the ranch for the summer.”
Once the words were out, Scott turned his head, watching for her reaction. It took a moment for Teresa to register what he’d said, then a relieved smile spread across her face. She’d been so afraid he was about to air some serious grievance against Murdoch.
“Oh Scott, that would have been wonderful!”
Scott unfolded his arms, dropped the forearms to his thighs and studied his loosely clasped hands. “Yes, it would have been.”
“So why didn’t you come?”
“Apparently that was the summer Grandfather and I toured Europe. My plans were always made for me, well in advance,” he added dryly.
“At least . . . at least Murdoch invited you,” she offered slowly.
“Yes.” He was studying her intently. “That’s what he said. However, my grandfather never mentioned it.”
She understood then.
“I’m sorry, Teresa, I shouldn’t be . . . burdening you with this.” Scott looked away, through the window on the other side. “We’re just passing Faneuil Hall; the restaurant’s not far.”
Of course it was terrible for Scott, to learn that his grandfather had kept such a thing from him, but what was uppermost in her mind was that Murdoch had invited Scott for a visit. He could have met his father, years ago, if only Mr. Garrett had allowed him to come. They all could have met Scott. Teresa was glad, fiercely glad, that at least now Scott had proof that his father had wanted him, proof that Murdoch had cared. But she could hardly express that, not when Scott seemed so very unhappy.
“Your grandfather must have spent a great deal of time arranging your trip.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“He probably thought he was doing what was best for you.”
“It would have been best to tell me the truth.”
The words, which could have been either hard and cold or hot and angry, instead simply sounded weary. Teresa knew it must hurt to learn that his grandfather had lied; she knew all too well how it felt to make that kind of discovery about someone you loved and trusted.
Beside her, Scott exhaled slowly and then firmly changed the subject.
“I am looking forward to escorting you to lunch.” His expression remained serious, but there was an unmistakable gleam in his eye. “And, just in case I haven’t mentioned it, Miss O’Brien, you do look especially nice today.”
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And she did, with a stylish hat perched on her upswept hair. Without the long dark tresses framing her face, Teresa’s exquisite features seemed even more delicate, like a cameo. She was wearing a soft grey skirt and a fitted black jacket, with some sort of needlework in silver thread on the lapels. It only now occurred to him that she might very well have added the decoration herself. It was a simple design, pretty without distracting at all from the shapely silhouette.
The gloves had been the finishing touch, and they’d spent quite some time in the small shop selecting the perfect pair. The shop girl’s cheerful observation that it was best not to have the fingers too snug to “allow for a ring or two” had brought a pink flush to Teresa’s cheeks, but had served to remind Scott that she wasn’t wearing any jewelry at all. He resolved to do something about that, perhaps starting with a necklace or a pair of earrings.
He also resolved to be more attentive; he was supposed to be taking care of her, showing her the city, not dwelling on events long past, circumstances that could never be changed. When they pulled up near the Parker House, Scott called to James to stay up on his box, and opened the carriage door and handed Teresa down himself. She stood gazing up at him with those liquid brown eyes brimming with compassion, worry creasing her forehead despite her effort to smile. Scott tucked her arm through his own, gave James some final instructions and guided Teresa inside.
She was suitably impressed with the oak and crystal elegance of the main lobby, but there was still that sympathetic look in her eyes that warned him Teresa wasn’t likely to easily surrender her concern.
But she did, for a time—at least until they were well into the main course. Beforehand, Teresa admired the tableware, enthused over the menus, complimented the service, and seemed interested in the Parker House history. She asked questions and listened to the answers, albeit without her customary intensity.
Looking back, he had to admire how she’d done it, subtly directing the conversation. When the main course arrived, they’d discussed the meal; on Scott’s recommendation, Teresa had selected the scrod, while he had ordered quail. After Scott related the story of Harvey Parker, his German baker and his highly paid French chef, Teresa had asked questions about the different foods he’d eaten in Europe.
Because Grandfather had viewed the European tour as an essential part of Scott’s education, they had visited each of the capitals, as well as many of the major cities, of France, England, Spain, Prussia, Bavaria, Italy and Greece. They’d spent considerable time in Paris, since the older man, in addition to being fascinated by Napoleon, was also something of a Francophile. Even though his grandfather had been well read, he’d hired guides to take them to see the various monuments and lead them through museums. And in the evenings, they’d dined at the best restaurants, sampling the local cuisine.
Scott had described his travels many times before, and Teresa had always evinced a great curiosity in hearing about castles and cathedrals. But today she asked more questions about where “the two of you went” and what “the two of you” did, leading Scott to recall many enjoyable aspects of the trip, and pleasant memories shared with his grandfather. It was a surprise. He would have expected Teresa to side with Murdoch, to be angry on her guardian’s behalf that his invitation had been rejected.
It wasn’t until after they had been served slices of the famous Parker House Chocolate Cake that Teresa finally posed the question. Though it wasn’t really phrased as a question at all, rather more of a gentle assertion.
“You loved your grandfather.”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll have to find a way to forgive him, Scott.”
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He had to. It would eat at him other wise. Still, Teresa wasn’t sure how Scott would react to her saying so, especially when he’d made it clear, back in the carriage, that he didn’t want to talk any more about it.
Scott pressed his lips together and nodded, then turned his attention to stirring more cream and sugar into his coffee. His jaw tightened perceptibly, and when he spoke, it was without looking up.
“Some things are harder to forgive than others.”
“Scott . . . my father lied to me about my mother . . . ”
His head came up slowly at that, those blue-grey eyes softened in sympathy. “He was protecting you. He didn’t want you to know that your mother had left.”
Teresa carefully set her fork down on the edge of her plate. “She didn’t just leave, Scott. She . . . abandoned me.”
“And your father didn’t want you to know that. My grandfather . . . allowed me to believe that Murdoch didn’t care.”
“And that was wrong, because Murdoch did care. But . . . he didn’t ever send you any letters, did he?”
“No.”
“Daddy and Dr. Jenkins were always telling him he should. And I think—I know, *I know *--- he wanted to. But Scott, Angel sent me letters on my birthday, and Daddy never gave them to me.”
Scott’s face clearly registered his surprise. “I suppose he thought he was doing what was best for you—”
“But he was wrong. Even when I was older, he still didn’t tell me the truth. He would go with me to the cemetery and watch while I laid flowers on an empty grave.”
Scott glanced down for a moment, though she doubted he was seeing anything on the table. “I guess it’s hard to undo a lie, no matter why it was told,” he said slowly, meeting her gaze. “But he must have thought he was shielding you; it’s not quite the same---”
“What is the same is that they’re both dead and . . . and we can’t ever ask them why. They can’t ever try to explain, or say they’re sorry. Or ask forgiveness.”
The quaver in her voice on the last word was her undoing; somewhere along the way, her heart had started aching for herself as well as for Scott. It was still painful to think about it, any of it, even after all this time. Just saying that other word, that Daddy was dead--- it sounded so final and it hurt to say it, it made her throat start to close up tight and she could feel the tears starting in the back of her eyes. It didn’t help that Scott was looking at her so sadly; then he softly said her name and she looked down at her plate of forgotten dessert and swallowed hard.
Scott reached across the table, resting his hand on the snowy white tablecloth and she gratefully placed her hand in his. The connection, the gentle pressure, gave her the strength to continue.
“He was wrong, Scott, but I love him and I just can’t let myself stay angry. When . . . when I do start to feel hurt, or disappointed in him, then I think about all the good memories I have of Daddy.” Teresa paused, trying to gauge from the look in his eyes if she was convincing him, or only herself. “I remember the good things instead,” she concluded simply.
“‘It’s best not to dwell on the faults and failings of others’ . . .” Scott said thoughtfully. “A very perceptive man said that to me recently. And that it was important to forgive . . . from the heart.”
“Yes.”
She smiled at him, despite the tears threatening to spill from her eyes, but it was Scott who lowered his gaze. “I’m not sure that I can do it. Not yet, anyway.”
Teresa squeezed his hand. “I . . I don’t think it’s something that you do, exactly. You have to let it happen. But thinking of good memories helps, Scott, it really does.”
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They didn’t talk very much after that, other than a few comments about the coffee and the dessert. But it was a comfortable—a comforting—silence. His heart felt less heavy. When he helped Teresa from her seat, Scott murmured a “thank you” in her ear and was rewarded with a dazzling smile, which made it feel lighter still.
Once outside, he pointed out the City Hall and some of the other buildings nearby as they strolled along the busy street, enjoying the crisp sunshine.
“You’re happy to be here, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” he replied, looking down at her. “It’s a fine city. Does that surprise you, that I could feel about Boston the same way that you feel about Lancer?”
Her grip on his arm tightened noticeably, and her tone also changed, from an easy curiosity to taut concern.
“But you’re happy at Lancer too, aren’t you? It’s where you belong, Scott.”
“Yes, I’m happy there, but I’m not sure how long it takes, to feel as if you belong in a place.”
“Do you want to stay here, in Boston?”
He abruptly halted their forward motion, drawing her in close to a shop window so that the flow of pedestrians could continue past. When she refused to meet his eyes, he gently used one hand to raise her chin.
“Teresa, I may have to stay. Are you willing to stay with me?”
“Yes,” she responded with a smile that started in her eyes and then widened those enticing lips. He prudently dropped his hand away from her face. Quickly, the happy expression transformed to one of determination. “Yes, I’ll stay, as long as you’ll promise to come back to Lancer with me in the spring.”
It was his turn to smile. “Well, I can hardly let you go back there without me, now can I?”
She lifted that chin. “To stay.”
He paused for a moment. It wasn’t an answer he gave lightly. “Yes.”
Apparently satisfied, Teresa captured his arm again and they proceeded some way along the sidewalk.
“But . . . you’ll still miss Boston.”
“Yes, I will. However . . . I believe that I could content myself with an occasional visit---as long as I had company.”
Finally, they came to where James had parked the carriage and Scott helped her up into the vehicle. Teresa sat in the middle of the seat and, after confirming their next destination with the driver, Scott settled in close beside her.
“Tell me, have I mentioned how beautiful you look today?”
Teresa laughed. “Yes, a few times now.”
Then she slid away from him, towards the window. Mystified, he watched as she very deliberately ran the edge of one gloved hand along the seat between them.
“Teresa, what are you doing?”
She smiled up at him, a warm and gently teasing smile. “I’m making a line.” Then she clasped her hands primly in her lap. “I’m waiting for you to cross it.”
It felt good to have something to laugh about. Scott moved in closer and reached past her to draw the small curtains on either side of the window.
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They arrived at the Harper residence far too soon, but Scott hardly felt that he could instruct James to take an additional turn around the block. Teresa smoothed her hair with her gloved hands and carefully replaced her hat, but the sparkle still remained in her eyes.
Melissa Harper was clearly delighted to see them while Scott was secretly relieved to learn that her father was not at home. They declined the young woman’s offer of refreshments and sat chatting for a time in the sitting room. Scott waited patiently until they had visited for a suitable amount of time before reminding Teresa that there were a few things he needed to attend to at the house on Chestnut Street.
Melissa quickly intervened. “Oh, Scott, why don’t you go on and take care of your business; Teresa can stay here with me. Don’t worry, I’ll send her back in our carriage when my father returns. Teresa, I want to hear all about your trip to Maine—everything!”
Since Teresa seemed agreeable to the suggestion, there was nothing for Scott to do but reluctantly prepare to depart alone. In the foyer, Teresa took advantage of the fact that Melissa’s attention was momentarily claimed by a member of the household staff to offer him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Teresa . . .”
“Don’t worry, Scott. Melissa doesn’t need to know ‘everything’!”
On the return trip to Chestnut Street, it occurred to Scott that despite the wisdom and maturity she often displayed, he still needed to bear in mind Teresa’s relative inexperience in “affairs of the heart.” Despite his own certainty, something could happen—Teresa’s feelings could change---he needed to insure that things didn’t develop too quickly for her. It might therefore be better if few other people were aware of their relationship. He could, however, foresee that it might not be easy to convince Teresa of that.
Finally, James pulled up in front of the main entrance and Scott stepped out. He had barely closed the door when he noticed a woman coming along the walk towards him. Since he didn’t recognize her, he politely nodded, then started to unlatch the gate.
“Mister Lancer! Please, I must speak with you. I have been waiting—”
He stopped. “Waiting?”
“Yes--”
“Well, you could have waited inside--”
She shook her head. “Mister Fredericks, he would have sent me away.”
Struck by the fact that the woman referred to Fredericks by name, Scott studied her more intently. She was older than himself, very slender and plainly dressed. Her light brown hair framed a too thin face, dusted with freckles and flushed with the exertion of hurrying along the sidewalk. There was something vaguely familiar about her hazel eyes, but still Scott couldn’t place her.
“You do not recognize me,” she said softly; either her French accent was becoming more pronounced, or his ear was becoming more attuned to it.
“No, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t, Miss . . .”
“I am Mrs. Mathieu now, but when you knew me I was—”
“Marie-Flore.”
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Author’s note:
Faneuil Hall is one of the sites on Boston’s Freedom trail :-)
http://www.nps.gov/bost/bost_lographics/faneuil.htm
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