“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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“Miss Harper sent word, Sir, that Miss O’Brien will be dining with her this evening.”
Under the circumstances, it was welcome information. Scott had thanked Fredericks and inquired as to his aunt’s whereabouts. Learning that she was believed to be in the sitting room adjacent to her second floor bedchamber, Scott grimly mounted the stairs.
At least now he knew the identity of one of those three unfamiliar names listed as beneficiaries in his grandfather’s will: M.F. Mathieu. He’d spent considerable time talking with the young woman while James slowly drove the carriage through the streets of Beacon Hill and along the boundaries of the Common. When the awkward conversation reached its conclusion, they delivered Mrs. Mathieu to a boarding house near the train station.
Outside the door to Cecilia Holmes’ sitting room, Scott paused for a moment to gather himself before knocking, then entered at his aunt’s invitation.
“Oh, Scott dear, you’re home---did you have a pleasant day?” She smiled warmly and set aside the book she had been reading.
“Yes . . . I left Teresa at the Harpers’; she’s dining there this evening.”
“And how did our Miss O’Brien find the Parker House?”
“Fine.”
Suddenly at a loss as to where to begin, Scott moved around the perimeter of the small room and stopped in front of the seascape hanging above the white marble fireplace. Although he was avoiding meeting her eyes, he could feel the older woman’s intent scrutiny.
“Well, something isn’t fine. Come now, sit down and tell me what’s wrong.”
Scott turned to face her, but remained standing. His aunt leaned upon the arm of the blue wing chair, fingering the jet brooch pinned to her bodice with one hand and looking up at him with concern. But for her expression, she might have been posing for a portrait, in her elegant black dress, with every upswept grey hair perfectly in place.
“When I returned earlier this afternoon, there was a woman waiting outside to speak with me. I believe you know her-- Mrs. Mathieu.”
Immediately, his aunt’s gaze fell away, her raised hand also dropping to the armrest. While her lips formed a thin line of displeasure, her fingers curved over the fabric, the nails tapping against the carved wooden end piece. Scott crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
“I left word that there was no need for concern. If only she had been patient---”
“You can hardly blame her for being impatient, when it involves the welfare of her child.”
Cecilia silently considered him, her expression more wary than surprised.
“The welfare of my child.”
“So she told you everything.” It was a cold flat statement.
“Reluctantly.” His own voice was equally cool. “And I’m grateful, since no one else saw fit to tell me anything.”
He saw it then, a spark of anger in her eyes.
“Well, Nephew, you can hardly expect that I would be eager to discuss your indiscretion.”
At the uncharacteristically imperious tone, and the biting emphasis placed upon the word “indiscretion,” Scott felt his face flush, his own grievance forgotten for the moment. It occurred to him that he couldn’t recall his beloved aunt ever being angry. At least not with him.
“I’m sorry to have disappointed you.” Scott turned away and stared unseeing at the daguerreotypes arrayed on the mantel. The words sounded stiff, resentful, and he didn’t intend them to be. He sighed and resolutely faced her again.
“I am sorry, Aunt Cee.”
“You were young,” Cecilia said softly, looking down at her hands, adjusting her rings. “Much too young to be going off to war---”
“I was irresponsible.”
Her head came up. She uttered one emphatic “Yes,” her agreement propelling Scott into motion. He stepped away from the mantelpiece, but hadn’t gotten far before her voice arrested him.
“You’re pacing again. Please, Scott, do sit down. Let me try to explain.”
Scott reluctantly complied, perching on the edge of the chair facing her, a twin to the one in which she was seated. He rested his forearms on his thighs and waited while his aunt smoothed her dark skirts and reached for a cup of tea in a saucer on the small table between them. While she sipped, Cecilia regarded him over the curved china edge, then made a business of carefully returning the teacup to its place.
“After you left, the girl managed to keep her condition a secret until it was too late to do anything about it. Fortunately, Harlan was able to make arrangements.”
“He must have forgotten to mention it to me.”
There it was again, that flash of anger, this time ignited by his own dry response.
“And when should he have told you, Scott? What would you have had him do, send a letter of announcement to you, on the battlefield? Offer his congratulations? It was hardly a cause for . . . celebration.”
“I would have taken responsibility--”
“How? What would you have done, left the army? Returned here, to marry my French maid? Tell me, how often did you think of her, once you’d left?”
He bowed his head beneath the barrage of pointed questions. Of course he would never have deserted his post, but it was the last query that hit the hardest. The truth was that he had forgotten Marie-Flore very quickly, once he’d set out from Boston and joined up with his regiment.
Although Marie-Flore looked older now---she’d said something about having been ill, but hadn’t elaborated—she was only a few years his senior. But a few years had meant a great deal at that age, and he’d always considered her pretty. And then there was that beguiling French Canadian accent. They’d carried on a lengthy, harmless flirtation, smiles and suggestive comments leading to furtive kisses in darkened hallways. He was certain that neither of them had seriously expected things to go any further.
But as the time for his departure drew near, their encounters had intensified. Those last weeks, he’d gone out often with friends, partaking in what passed for the ritual of young men preparing to go off to war. Although he was eager to enlist, the drinking, the women, the combined air of celebration and fatalism seemed at odds with his idealistic desire to serve his country bravely and honorably. When he slipped in, well after midnight, there were times he'd found Marie-Flore waiting to offer her own farewell.
Not exactly something he wished to discuss with his great-aunt.
“I used poor judgment. I’d been drinking---”
“Not enough, apparently.”
Taken aback by the blunt comment, Scott was unable to form a reply. Cecilia sighed, then resumed speaking.
“When she confessed her situation, I had no choice but to believe her, particularly since Mrs. Carrier had seen the two of you together. The girl did make it clear that she hadn’t been forced, she assured me it had been only once. But these French women, they breed so easily; it seems all of them have six, seven, eight children or more.”
Scott remembered that Aunt Cecilia had come to stay with them, with him and Grandfather, when Uncle Elwood went off to fight. Mrs. Hudson had been called away for some reason, so Cecilia had brought the cook with her, Madame Carrier, as well as a driver and her maid. While it was true that Marie-Flore had been willing, it had been more than ‘only once.’ He ascribed his aunt’s disparaging reference to the size of French families to her present displeasure with him.
“She has just one child, a daughter.”
“Yes, and they’ve been well-provided for, you can be assured of that.”
“In exchange for a promise not to contact me.”
“That is correct.”
Frustrated by his aunt’s matter-of-fact response, Scott rubbed at his face with one hand, then took a deep breath before allowing himself to respond. “I’ll need to go back to Brunswick, to see -----”
“You cannot claim this child, Scott.”
Cecilia Holmes drew herself more upright, her posture as resolute as her words.
“She is my daughter---”
“No, she is not, not legally. Harlan arranged all that, complete with a marriage certificate, to give her a name and---”
“To avoid scandal?” Scott asked bitterly. “Or to protect me?”
“No! It was to protect the girl. And her child. At my request.”
Despite his aunt’s assured response, Scott was still skeptical but he decided that he needed to hear her out. He sat back in the chair.
“I’m listening.”
Cecilia arched her eyebrows, but rather than reprimanding him for his tone, simply resumed the story.
“As I said, when Marie-Flore finally told me, I believed her-- but we could have simply rejected her claim, dismissed her, washed our hands of her. She would have had nowhere to go; she could hardly return to her family, unmarried and carrying a child. It would have been a disgrace; Solon Beaulieu would have disowned her.”
Beaulieu, that had been her name, Marie-Flore Beaulieu. It translated into “beautiful place.”
“She said that Grandfather somehow arranged a marriage . . .”
“What Harlan obtained was a certificate of marriage; I’m not sure how. He had a gardener who was from a family of French-Canadians, and this man had a cousin who had been killed in the fighting. Once the baby came, the child was taken to a priest and this Mathieu’s name was placed on the baptismal record.”
“Marie Christine Mathieu.”
“Yes.” Cecilia regarded him uneasily for a moment before continuing. “After the child was born, Marie-Flore contacted her family to tell them the news. She begged their forgiveness for keeping her marriage a secret and relayed the sad news of her ‘husband’s’ death. As we expected, when she returned home, her father demanded proof of the marriage before he would even allow her under his roof.”
Scott considered all this for a few moments; Marie-Flore had been reticent, but the information she had shared matched his aunt’s account.
“And Grandfather was sending her money . . .?”
“Indirectly, yes. And I kept an eye on them, of course. Once the child was old enough, I helped Marie-Flore find a new position. She hasn’t had to work hard, thanks to that small income from Harlan. And he most likely provided for the funds to continue, but until his will is finalized . . . ”
At least Scott knew that his grandfather had indeed made some provision. However small the sum, Marie-Flore had clearly come to depend upon it.
“I need to –”
“You do not *need * to do anything, Scott. They are fine. The child has a name, and a father.”
“On paper. I’m her fa---”
She cut him off, impatiently. “Scott, do listen to reason. If you claim this child you will proclaim her to be illegitimate. Une bâtarde, as they say. And her mother will be known as a liar and an adulteress. It would shame the family. Is that what you want?”
Of course not. He shook his head.
“I understand that Marie-Flore is keeping company with Alphonse Morin, a widower with children of his own.”
“I’d like . . . to see her.”
There was a silence, during which Scott considered that perhaps he should clarify that he meant the little girl, not her mother. But his aunt seemed to realize this.
“To what purpose?” Cecilia asked gently. “Travel all that ways so that her mother can make the introductions and you can shake the child’s hand? You are a stranger to her.”
Scott studied his aunt intently, but could see no sign that she recognized the significance of the scenario she described.
“These people are not stupid, Scott. If you were to take an interest in the child, they would wonder at it.” His aunt hesitated. ““I will say that while Marie Christine lacks your coloring, there is . . . some resemblance,” she confessed. “Believe me, Nephew, it would be best for everyone if you simply stayed away.”
It still seemed wrong, but at the moment, Scott had no rational counters to his aunt’s arguments. He remained slumped against the back of the tall wing chair. The initial shock of learning that he had fathered a child had worn off, and Scott was left with the stark fact that he had a daughter. But there were no mental images to go along with it, and he possessed few details other than a name: Marie Christine. There was little to accompany the thought of her other than feelings of guilt and shame ----and a burgeoning sense of responsibility.
With no outlet for it. Apparently, the little girl had gotten along just fine without him. She was eight years old and had a loving mother, as well as grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. And, since the unknown man named Mathieu was a dead soldier, a hero for a father.
Scott couldn’t help but look for parallels to his own situation with Murdoch, but the lines were skewed. He hadn’t willingly neglected the girl, since he’d been unaware of her existence. She couldn’t feel abandoned by him, for the same reason; as far as the child was concerned, her father was dead. And while there was no question that Marie Christine was being lied to, along with every one else, it wasn’t exactly similar to Teresa’s situation either. Paul and Angel had been married, as had Catherine and Murdoch. He and Marie-Flore had barely known each other. There was little he could do without risk of conjuring the specter of illegitimacy.
Scott was distantly aware of Aunt Cecilia rising from her seat, moving to a table against the far wall and silently filling two glasses----- sherry was not Scott’s drink of choice, but it would do. He drained it quickly and then sat studying the facets of the small glass as he rotated the stem between the fingers of his left hand.
His aunt continued to move quietly about the room, as if she didn’t wish to disturb him, though in truth he would have welcomed an interruption of his jumbled thoughts. Skirts swishing softly, Cecilia carried a small bell to the door of the sitting room, summoning Fredericks. Scott could hear her instructing him to bring their supper upstairs. “And a brandy please, Fredericks, for Master Scott.”
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While Fredericks and Jane arranged the table and served the meal, Scott sipped at the brandy. Although he anticipated that once the servants had departed his aunt might wish to move on to other topics, he wasn’t quite finished yet.
“Grandfather should have told me, when I returned.”
“Oh, I quite agree.”
Again, Scott couldn’t conceal his surprise.
“Harlan, I believe, regarded it as a problem which had been completely taken care of; however, I was concerned that you would learn of the situation from someone else---there were others who knew, or might have guessed.”
"It was unlike him not to . . . comment on such a transgression."
“But Scott, when you first came back from that place, he was so very worried about you, we all were. Then time passed and you were engaged to Miss Dennison. I suppose he felt it best not to bring it up.”
“I’m finding that he kept me in the dark about quite a few things.”
Cecilia lowered her silverware. “What sorts of things?”
Scott sighed. “Well, he never told me just how badly the company was affected by the fire.”
His aunt lifted her fork once more. “Harlan was always circumspect about his business dealings,” she said reassuringly.
Scott nodded, and tried to turn his attention to his meal. He had little appetite for Mrs. Hudson’s hearty pot roast and reached for his glass instead. Contemplating what was left of the liquid as he swirled it in the snifter, he considered that while he had no wish to distress his aunt by airing a litany of grievances against her deceased brother, it was possible that Cecilia might be able to help him try to understand. He carefully set the glass down again.
“Aunt Cee, I grew up believing that . . . that my father had no interest in me. That he never came here to Boston, that he never sent any letters. But now Murdoch tells me that years ago he wrote asking if I might visit for the summer. Grandfather refused--- and he never said anything about it.”
Cecilia frowned. “He never mentioned it to me either. But I’m not a bit surprised that he would refuse to allow you to go so far away, to California.”
Not only was she “not surprised,” it sounded as if she heartily approved.
“It was where he lived,” Scott pointed out.
“It’s also where your mother died.”
“It wasn’t ‘California’ that killed her,” he said slowly.
“No? It certainly seemed a violent, lawless, place. Those men drove your mother from her home. Catherine might have survived, if she’d had a proper doctor.”
“Yes, but apparently she had a difficult time. Even here in Boston, there would have been no guarantees--”
“Yes, I’m quite familiar with difficult births.”
Stung into awareness by his aunt’s sharp tone, Scott hastily apologized for his thoughtless comment. “Of course. I’m sorry, Aunt Cee.”
“It was such a tragic loss, for all of us. Catherine was his only child, Scott, and Harlan loved her dearly. I cannot begin to imagine what it was like, not to be able to do anything, to watch her slip away.”
“He blamed Murdoch.”
“It was Murdoch Lancer who brought her there, to California, to that ranch. And then sent her away when it became too dangerous. Much too near her time to be traveling. It was a miracle that you survived, that Harlan was able to get you safely to civilization.”
“Did you know that Murdoch came for me, when I was five?”
“Oh, yes. Elwood and I were here, to celebrate your birthday. Harlan told us that the man wanted to take you with him. Of course, Harlan couldn’t allow it.”
“He was my father. Murdoch . . . came a long ways to see me.”
“Only after that Mexican woman he married left him, and took their child. That’s when he came for you. And then ---and then he just turned around and left. We never wanted you to know that, dear, that he didn’t care enough to stay.”
“If he hadn’t cared, he wouldn’t have come.”
“Perhaps. But if he cared so much, then where was he for the first five years of your life? It was Harlan who raised you, Scott. Most men try very hard to avoid having anything to do with infants, but your Grandfather doted upon you. You were often ill, and he worried so. Harlan sought the best medical care, hired a fine nurse----and still he sat up with you. He told me he wrote to Murdoch to report your progress, and your father barely acknowledged his letters. No, Scott, I’m afraid Murdoch Lancer made his choice.”
“His choice?”
“Yes. What was there, after all, to hold him to that ranch, with Catherine gone? What sort of man chooses to remain thousands of miles away from his son?”
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It was a fair question. One that Scott hadn’t ever truly considered. Of course, he’d long ago deduced that among the several factors that had led Murdoch Lancer to leave Boston so hastily and return to his ranch empty handed had been the need to resume the search for his runaway wife and the son she had stolen. But before Johnny, before Maria, what had kept him there?
By all accounts, the property had suffered extensive damage at the hands of Judd Haney and his raiders. His wife was dead, buried in a desolate grave far from Lancer. In his letter, Murdoch had written sparingly of his grief while admitting that he hadn’t felt capable of raising a child there, not alone. What then had stopped him from cashing in and returning East?
Stubbornness was undoubtedly one ingredient, but had it been pure pride or a grim determination to pursue the dream he and Catherine had shared? Whatever had caused him to stay, the pull had been stronger than anything--- or anyone--- that might have drawn him Eastward.
“Scott?”
His aunt’s tentative voice interrupted his musings.
“I always wondered if perhaps he left so quickly because he simply realized you were better off here, with Harlan.”
Scott shrugged wearily. That was one area where Murdoch had failed to offer much insight into his reasoning; there were always other, less favorable, explanations.
“I never knew your father then. My brother certainly didn’t approve of him, but then, he wouldn’t have thought anyone good enough for Catherine.”
“She loved him.”
“Yes, yes, she did, very much. And our Catherine wasn’t some flighty, love struck debutante like so many of these young girls today. She always knew her own mind.” Cecilia shook her head fondly at the memory. “I told Harlan many times that he had only himself to blame---he raised her to be quite independent.”
Scott smiled ruefully. “Grandfather always encouraged me to make my own decisions as well—but he didn’t always approve of them.”
“I suppose he should have learned,” Cecilia said with a light laugh. She reached across the small table to pat his hand. “Oh, Scott, he was always so very proud of you. You must know that.”
He bowed his head. “Yes.”
“As were Elwood and I. Although I cannot begin to understand how your father could stay away, I am so very grateful that he did leave you here, with Harlan. We treasured the time you spent with us.”
“So did I, Aunt Cee. And please don’t think that I regret growing up here, with all of you. I don’t.”
She favored him with that familiar, loving smile. “We did try not to spoil you completely.” Then her expression turned serious once more. “Whatever his motives in the past, people do change, Scott. It was quite clear to me that your father does care, now. And I believe that you have become fond of him. Isn’t that what’s important, after all?”
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They continued talking while the unappreciated pot roast grew cold. Teresa came in while they were reminiscing about their shared past, talking and stirring generous quantities of cream and sugar into their after-dinner coffee while recalling stories in which Harlan Garrett and Elwood Holmes figured prominently. Aunt Cecilia returned to her wing chair and Scott joined Teresa on the settee facing the unlit fireplace. While Jane quietly finished clearing the table so that Fredericks could efficiently remove both dining table and chairs from the sitting room, Aunt Cee quizzed Teresa about the morning’s shopping expedition and inquired as to her impressions of the Parker House.
Teresa was her gentle, cheerful self, but Scott couldn’t help noticing that his aunt appeared to be tiring. For his part, it was an effort to attend to the women’s conversation, let alone contribute to it. Fortunately, they seemed willing to accept—or to politely ignore—his distracted silence. He’d removed his black jacket and tie and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt; it was comfortable to sit there between them, with their words flowing past and Teresa’s head resting against the arm he’d stretched along the back of the small sofa. Scott was surprised to hear the mantel clock chime the ninth hour. Teresa squeezed his hand and smiled a reluctant good night and Scott reminded her that he and Cecilia would be away the next morning; meeting with his grandfather’s attorney would occupy most of the rest of his day. She assured him that she would be fine on her own and said she would see them both at breakfast. While Aunt Cee escorted Teresa to the door, Scott slowly roused himself from the settee to retrieve his garments from the back of the wing chair. After the ladies said their good nights, Cecilia turned to regard him appraisingly.
“Scott, are you all right?”
“I will be.”
“Of course,” she said briskly. “However, I fear you’ve had a trying day---and tomorrow is likely to be a difficult one as well.”
“We’ll get through it together,” Scott replied. He wanted to thank her, to tell her once more how sorry he was, but the words failed and he simply bent down and kissed her cheek instead. He was holding his jacket draped over one crooked arm, and Aunt Cee reached out to clasp his hand in both of her own. After a moment, she released him, looking up with a smile.
“Have I mentioned Nephew, that I find your Miss O’Brien to be a delightful young woman?”
“Yes, I believe that you have.” Although he noticed the use of the possessive pronoun, Scott decided not to comment upon it. Determined not to give anything away, he attempted to maintain a neutral expression.
“You seem to be quite fond of each other.”
“Fond” was not an especially strong term; certainly there was no sense in trying to deny the truth of it.
“Yes, we are.”
“Good.”
It was disconcerting that she both looked and sounded inordinately pleased, as if some pet theory had been confirmed at last. As if she’d known it would be, all along.
“Well, good night, Aunt Cee.”
“Good night, Dear. Oh, and Scott---”
“Yes, Aunt Cee?”
“The conversation you had today, with Mrs. Mathieu--I see no reason to trouble Miss O’Brien with such things.”
Scott nodded in acknowledgment of her opinion, although it was too soon to know if he agreed with it or not. When he left his aunt’s room, instead of retreating to his own bedchamber, Scott found himself wandering down the staircase and moving restlessly through the darkened first floor rooms.
He wasn’t ready yet for sleep, knew he couldn’t concentrate on a book. When he reached the music room, Scott briefly considered sitting down at the piano, but decided against it for fear of disturbing the household. He wasn’t hungry, told himself he didn’t need another drink, knew that he had no desire to enter his grandfather’s study. Finally, Scott dropped onto the sofa in the front parlor, beneath Catherine’s portrait.
As he studied her eternally serene expression, he recalled Cecilia’s comment about how her niece had “always known her own mind.” Even as a boy, he had never done anything so fanciful as to seek answers from a painting; although this favorite portrait was the last one that had been made, Catherine didn’t appear old enough to be anyone’s mother. Scott had, in fact, already surpassed her in years. Not that age necessarily mattered; Teresa had offered him good advice in regards to his grandfather. Remember the good things, the good memories, she’d said. But when Teresa had asked questions about the trip he and Grandfather had taken to Europe, Scott had felt as if he was reading to her from a detailed itinerary lacking in illustrations. It was unsettling that he was having difficulty doing that now, bringing those fond images to mind once more.
After raising still more questions pertaining to Murdoch, his aunt had encouraged him to focus on the present. But would he be able to do that, prevent those questions about the past from crowding into his thoughts, avoid dwelling upon those unsatisfactory answers?
And then there was the revelation of the present consequence of his own past actions. Scott dropped his head into his hands, raking his fingers through his hair. What did he know about children, let alone eight year old girls? It still didn’t seem real, more like a puzzle to be solved. He didn’t know how tall a child that age might be, didn’t know what sorts of things this particular little girl needed or liked to do. And if he followed his aunt’s counsel, he wasn’t likely ever to find out.
Still, he had to do something. Scott sighed, straightened and pushed to his feet. At the very least, it was one more addition to the list of questions he had for George Hayford.
“I’ve read it,” he’d told Teresa, when she asked about his grandfather’s will. “There won’t be any surprises.”
He hoped he was right.
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 23.
“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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“To my Beloved Grandson, Scott Garrett Lancer, I do hereby bequeath . . .”
The amount of money was still considerable, despite the cancelled debts and the other financial losses attributed to the fire. There were the expected restrictions upon the ownership of the house on Chestnut Street; it could not, for example, be sold during his aunt’s lifetime without her consent. Cousin Wade received a partnership in Harlan Garrett’s business, with the controlling share going to Scott.
There were no surprises. The document that George Hayford painstakingly reviewed exactly matched the copy that Scott had read by lantern light on the hill overlooking the hacienda, the evening he’d learned of Grandfather’s passing.
It was still damned difficult to listen to, so Scott sat with his head bowed and arms folded across his chest. Beside him, Aunt Cecilia remained composed; Wade Garrett sat solemnly on her other side. Wade’s parents, Harlan’s cousin Walter and his wife, Adella, were in attendance, along with a few other more distant Garrett relatives; the majority of the people in the room were his grandfather’s past and current employees. In the far corner, Mrs. Hudson sobbed quietly, as she had done since George commenced the reading.
Not everyone mentioned in Harlan Garrett’s will was present and M. F. Mathieu was among the missing. Scott wondered if anyone, other than Aunt Cee and himself, would recognize the name. While riding in the carriage on the way to George Hayford’s office, Scott had asked his aunt if she knew the identity of the other two beneficiaries who were unknown to him: Mrs. Edward Pierce and Bertram Bennett.
After answering in the negative, Cecilia Holmes had posed a question of her own: “Will she be there?”
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Scott studied his aunt, seated across from him in the enclosed carriage. She looked wan and tired, and, judging from the tone of her question, she would much prefer not to see her former maid today. At least he could ease her mind on that score.
“No. Marie-Flore was planning to take the train back to Brunswick this morning. She said that she trusted me . . . to take care of things.”
“I hope that’s true,” his aunt replied meaningfully. “Harlan arranged things quite well; you should consider carefully Scott, before you take steps to alter any of that.”
Scott nodded, and turned his attention to the view of the street from the carriage window. He was still resolved to have a candid, private conversation with George Hayford, the sooner, the better.
Although Harlan Garrett had often consulted with other attorneys on business matters, his personal legal affairs had always been handled by his friend and neighbor Charles Hayford and now by his son George, who had been in practice with his father until the senior Hayford’s untimely death. The eldest of the three Hayford brothers, George was someone Scott had been acquainted with all of his life. As boys, Scott, Will and John had been practically inseparable, but there had been enough years between them that George had held himself aloof from the activities of his younger siblings and their friends. Even now, after they’d lost John at Gettysburg, George and Will were not what one would call particularly close. Like his brothers, George was tall, with the Hayford men’s trademark curly brown hair. Scott knew that George was married—Will was “Uncle Will” to two boys—but little else about his good friend’s older brother.
Scott wondered how much, if anything, George knew about his grandfather’s arrangements for Marie-Flore and her daughter, or if it would be necessary to start at the beginning. He glanced across at his aunt, who was leaning back against the seat with her eyes closed.
“Aunt Cecilia . . .”
She was instantly, warily, attentive. “Yes, Scott?”
Scott hesitated, considering the wisdom of reintroducing the uncomfortable topic, especially now, en route to the reading of his grandfather’s will.
“If you have a question, Nephew, then please go ahead and ask it.”
He did have questions, several of them, although it was doubtful his aunt would be able to answer them all.
Cecilia frowned at his hesitation. “Should I assume it has to do with Marie-Flore?”
“The topic has been on my mind.”
She lifted one eyebrow, but refrained from comment.
“It’s just that it seems Grandfather went to a great deal of trouble----”
“Yes, he did.”
“ . . .went to a great deal of trouble to obtain legal documents which are not in fact legal---”
Scott raised one hand to forestall his aunt’s anticipated defense. At the moment, the documents themselves were not his concern, or even their illegality; what was important was that Grandfather’s actions had protected Marie-Flore and her daughter, and however he’d done it, Scott was grateful. Still, it came as a surprise that his grandfather had expended so great an effort to assist a young woman who was, after all, merely his sister’s maid.
“Now . . . Marie-Flore was here, with you in Boston, not home in Maine. Her family would never have known if she’d . . . well, if arrangements had been made for her to . . . deliver the child and then . . .”
His aunt rescued him. “We considered that, of course. She couldn’t have stayed here, but we thought of sending the girl out of the city, finding someone willing to adopt the infant. I believe that’s what she expected.”
“Then why . . .?”
“It was Harlan who convinced her that she should raise the child, insisted that he would provide the means to do so.”
“That surprises me.”
Aunt Cecilia looked at him sadly. “It shouldn’t,” she said softly. “You’d gone off to fight in the War, Scott. And, as much as he tried to dissuade you, Harlan was proud of your decision. But he was also afraid, so very much afraid, of losing you.”
Scott bowed his head, studying the hat he was holding in his hands. “Before I left, he made me promise that I’d come home safely.”
“I believe that is the one and only thing that he could never have forgiven you for, Scott----- if you hadn’t survived.”
Scott nodded, without looking up. He appreciated that his aunt was trying to be reassuring, attempting to offer absolution on her brother’s behalf. However . . .
“I’m sure Grandfather was angry and . . . disappointed-- when he found out . . .”
“Yes, of course. He expected you to be more . . . responsible.”
“I’m sure he did.”
In the face of his aunt’s aggrieved tone, Scott felt the returning flush of shame. It was Marie-Flore who had suffered most as a result of his irresponsibility, much more so than his grandfather or his aunt. Still, even if he couldn’t alter the past, he fervently wished that Aunt Cecilia might have been spared the intelligence of it. And that he in turn could have been spared the embarrassment of her knowing.
Even when he’d finally gone upstairs to bed, Scott had been unable to sleep. He’d heard the chorus of household clocks chiming the early morning hours, the number of tones multiplying as they’d echoed through the silent rooms. Scott had tried to remember the time he’d spent with Marie-Flore, but it seemed another lifetime ago, and it had been, in a sense, since it had taken place “Before the War.” He knew that the encounters had been momentous ones for his seventeen-year-old self, but the truth was that with the intervening years they had long ceased to be memorable. Scott did recall that the young woman had informed him that she knew about “preventatives.” It was something that had given him pause, particularly since the subject had never come up with any of the working girls. In his eagerness, Scott hadn’t pressed her on it, and so lacked even that feeble degree of ‘responsibility.’ Of course, making reference to such things would not only be indelicate, but might appear to cast blame upon Marie-Flore, with no hope of redeeming himself in his aunt’s eyes.
Clearly, the purported preventative measures, whatever they might have been, had failed.
<<“You cannot claim this child, Scott.”>>
Despite his efforts to use the sleepless hours to consider what he might do, what steps he might take, he’d kept hearing those words instead. The gentle, weary-eyed woman seated across from him in no way resembled the stern, implacable aunt of his late night imaginings.
In the darkness, Grandfather’s ghost, or rather the elderly man’s disembodied voice, had joined forces with his aunt’s image. Scott had endured numerous angry one-sided conversations with his grandfather, harsh lectures which made Harlan Garrett’s now even more understandable ire over the incident with Barbara Otis seem mild in comparison. Listening to that other voice, Scott almost missed what his aunt was saying.
“But he also realized that the child would be a connection to you if . . . if the worst happened.”
“A connection to me . . .?”
“His greatest fear was losing you. Who could blame him, after Catherine?”
For a moment, Scott glimpsed his grandfather’s face, the way he’d looked that day at the train station. How much he’d aged. “I know it was . . . difficult for him.”
Cecilia sighed. “Harlan wanted you to make your own decisions, and he also wanted to keep you safe, keep you with him. That’s why he went to such lengths.”
“He went too far, Aunt Cee. More than once.”
“Perhaps,” she conceded. “After he returned from California this last time, Harlan came north, to visit me. He said that he’d done something foolish—what he didn’t say. He was very much afraid that he’d lost you then.”
“He nearly did.”
“He needed you, Scott.”
<<“My grandfather can take care of himself.”>>
It hurt to hear her say otherwise. He didn’t want to believe it.
“If he’d said he needed me, Aunt Cee, I would have come.”
“Harlan was too proud for that. He wanted it to be your choice, though I suspect he took some unfortunate steps to persuade you. He did say that he couldn’t ask for fear you’d think it merely ‘another ploy’ to convince you to come home.”
“I did write Grandfather saying that I’d be back for a visit . . .”
“Yes, Harlan mentioned it in the last letter I received from him; he said it made him feel almost forgiven.”
“I have forgiven him, Aunt Cee, for what he tried to do when he came to the ranch. But there were other things, in the past----”
“Concerning your father.”
Scott nodded. And now his daughter too, though he didn’t say it.
Aunt Cecilia looked away for a moment, appearing to gather her thoughts as she gazed out the window.
“Please consider this.” She regarded him intently for a moment, then continued speaking, carefully, deliberately. “Your grandfather’s every action, whether wisely taken or sadly misguided, was meant to be in your best interest. It’s too late now Scott to change the past or even to question it. But Harlan never planned to cause you pain. And if he did things with which you cannot agree, or which *have * hurt you--- well, you simply must believe that was not his intention. Even though he wasn’t the sort of man to say it very often, Scott, he did love you.”
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“And to Mrs. Edward Pierce, in memory of her husband, a gift of . . .”
Suddenly it occurred to Scott that Mrs. Pierce must be the widow of Ned “Smudgy” Pierce, the weathered Mainer who had taken him on hunting expeditions into the north woods with Uncle Elwood. Grandfather had accompanied them as well on several fishing trips and Scott couldn’t help smiling at the image of the dapper businessman standing in a stream, determined to catch the largest fish.
Mrs. Pierce’s inclusion in his will was a clear indication that Grandfather must also have held fond memories of those times. It was good to know.
Scott managed not to react as George recited the provision that had been made for M.F. Mathieu. The identity of Bertram Bennett, however, still remained an elusive mystery. The name seemed vaguely familiar, or perhaps it was merely the result of having pondered the problem for so long. It might be a question that George Hayford could answer; if not, Scott felt he would be little inclined to press the point.
At last, Attorney Hayford reached the final page of the document. There was a respectful but uncertain silence after he read the date and Grandfather’s full name: Harlan Reuel Garrett.
Scott closed his eyes, swallowed hard. Beside him, Aunt Cecilia quietly choked back a sob.
Finally, the lawyer addressed the room. “Thank you all for coming. You will be hearing from me.”
And so it was over. Scott escorted his aunt outside, where they accepted renewed condolences and attended to laudatory remarks from the grateful recipients of Harlan Garrett’s largesse, most of them deserving long time employees. James maneuvered the carriage to the curb, and Scott helped his aunt inside; she suddenly seemed so frail that he offered to ride back with her. Cecilia rallied then, briskly ordering him to go back upstairs and accusing him of trying to avoid his meeting, before giving his cheek a fond pat.
Scott watched until the carriage turned the corner, then headed back inside to discuss business with George Hayford and Cousin Wade.
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“Ah, there you are, Scotty. Are you ready to go over some of the particulars?”
“Yes. Is Wade still here?”
“He’s waiting in my office. Still chafing a bit, but coming around I think.” George Hayford turned and led the way down the hallway.
Two leather padded wooden chairs were arranged in front of a massive desk, one of them already occupied by Wade Garrett. Scott nodded to his cousin and lowered himself into the remaining seat, regarding George expectantly. Once the attorney had settled behind the desk, he reached for a pen and began writing furiously on a piece of paper. Eventually, he looked up, his attention on Scott.
“Now then, what are your long term plans, Scotty?”
While there was no indication that George was choosing the diminutive deliberately, or that he was even aware of using it, Scott couldn’t help reacting to this second use of the name. No one called him that . . . at least not any more.
“It’s Scott now,” he corrected the older man mildly, briefly acknowledging George’s swift apology before responding to his question. “I intend to return to California, once things are settled here.”
Beside him, Wade straightened in his seat as Scott continued. “I’m comfortable leaving Wade in charge of the company, but we need to finish working out the details.”
“Well, my concern up to this point has only been to insure that there are sufficient funds to fulfill the terms of Mr. Garrett’s will. But I understand that the two of you have been going over the business accounts.”
“Yes, and I’ve also reviewed the household expenses as well.”
“Of course, the house will need to be maintained. If you are not planning to remain in Boston, then perhaps that’s something you wish me to handle?”
Scott nodded, then turned slightly to include Wade. “Beyond what was necessary to resume operations after the fire, I found no indication that Grandfather was forced to spend significant amounts from his personal funds. Which means that presently the company profits are sufficient to cover the payroll, including both the office and household staff, as well as other household expenses.”
Wade nodded. “Yes, that’s true, but barely. Included in the payroll is the additional income above those costs, income Uncle Harlan took for himself, and which I presume will go to you as owner. However, we talked about hiring another man . . .”
“Which would be another salary---”
“Yes. I’ve already advertised and interviewed several candidates, offering the wages we agreed upon.” Wade hesitated, rubbing at his beard, before forging ahead. “And then there is the matter of my own income, Cousin. I am, as you know planning to be married in the spring . . .”
“A significant increase would be commensurate with your increased responsibilities,” Scott acknowledged. But when he quoted a sum that could be easily managed, Wade was clearly displeased.
George leaned back in his chair, making a tapping sound with his pen. “Are there areas where expenses might be cut? Surely a full time staff at the Chestnut Street house will not be necessary, Scott, if you’re not in residence.”
“At this point, I’m reluctant to let anyone go.”
“That hardly seems practical---”
“Releasing some of the household employees may be necessary,” Wade stated firmly, cutting George Hayford off in mid-sentence. “It would hardly be wise to draw off profits from the company, money that could be better used to expand our operations, simply to staff an empty house.”
“Mr. Garrett, however, intended for it to be at Mrs. Holmes’ disposal,” George pointed out. “And I do see a problem in offering the hired help only sporadic employment.”
“I have a proposal,” Scott announced quietly, and then focused his attention upon his cousin. “Something for you to discuss with Miss Sturgis. It seems more appropriate to use company proceeds to maintain the house if the man in charge is living there.”
“Excellent idea, Scotty. Scott,” George amended quickly. “It would relieve you of the expense of setting yourself up elsewhere, Wade, and benefit your business by allowing you to entertain in proper fashion.”
Wade had looked startled by the suggestion, then pleased; now he appeared to rein in his enthusiasm. “Have you discussed this with Mrs. Holmes, Scott?”
“It was Aunt Cecilia who proposed it to me. We talked about the house on our way to Maine but I haven’t had an opportunity to speak with you since our return.”
Wade’s eyes narrowed in thought. “So, I wouldn’t be personally responsible for the basic household expenses—or the wages of any of the current staff?”
“No, all of the present costs would continue to be covered. I would like to see the staff invited to stay on.” Out of the corner of his eye, Scott glimpsed George Hayford writing furiously. “I can give you each a copy of the household budget, so that we are agreed upon what will be paid by the company.”
George glanced up. “I would think that routine maintenance would be taken care of?” When Scott nodded in the affirmative, the attorney recorded the information. “And the house is already well furnished, so new furniture, beyond any essential replacement, would be at Wade’s expense and thus belong to him . . .”
“That’s fair,” Wade agreed. “Any items we no longer wished to use, would be stored for safekeeping, of course.”
“And I’ll arrange for personal items to be packed up before I leave, particularly from Grandfather’s bedroom, and my own.”
“Now Scott, that’s not really necessary----”
“Well, if you’re going to live there, you should have the freedom to use the house as you wish. Aunt Cee even indicated she’d be willing to occupy other chambers, but I’d prefer that we try to avoid that . . .”
“Of course. As to your own room, and Uncle’s, we don’t have to decide that right away.”
“Scott has offered you the option, Wade. I’m trying to get this all down, what you’ve discussed. It is always best to get things in writing.”
Wade nodded approvingly. “That’s what Uncle Harlan used to say.”
It was true. How often had Grandfather told him to “get it in writing, my Boy.” The man had been meticulous, a master accountant, which was why his records were in such good order, not only the business accounts, but his personal ones as well. And Grandfather had kept years of business correspondence arranged in files in his Milk Street office, along with copies of his replies, in the same way that he’d saved letters in the drawer of his desk in the study at home.
Close on the heels of that thought, Scott recollected that he’d never quite finished going through the folders of his grandfather’s correspondence, not even the communications concerning Murdoch. He sighed. Considering the number of personal papers in the study alone, perhaps he shouldn’t have been so quick to assure his cousin of a timely removal of his grandfather’s effects. It would have to be done, however, and while he could probably count upon his aunt for assistance, Scott certainly couldn’t leave the difficult task to her while he returned to California. But things were falling into place, and since it now seemed at least remotely possible that he might be able to leave with Will and Mrs. Hayford at the end of the week, Scott willingly returned his attention to George and Wade.
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They moved on to the practical topic of how to conduct business once the primary owner returned to the opposite side of the country. Other than an annual accounting, Scott had a very short list of areas in which he would expect to be consulted, being content for the time being to leave the day to day operations in Wade Garrett’s hands. George proposed to draw up the tentative agreements regarding the house and to also consult with a colleague more versed in business partnerships. Saying that he had another appointment, Hayford encouraged the two younger men to continue their conversation over lunch and to keep him informed of any other decisions.
Scott quickly suggested that he would like to stop by the next morning, to discuss some “personal matters. ” Once George had designated a time, the cousins headed for Union Street, to dine at the Oyster House.
The restaurant was the oldest in the city, famous for its seafood, particularly its titular specialty, as well as for the wooden toothpicks provided for patrons at the end of each meal. After a few glasses of beer, the tensions of the morning had begun to fade and the conversation became more relaxed. Wade announced that they had the entire afternoon to talk about business and that he’d be damned if he’d do so during lunch. Scott smiled and obligingly acceded to his cousin’s demand to “tell me about this ranch of yours.”
Eventually, however, the conversation worked its way back to what Scott would be leaving behind in Boston. Wade confided that he was more than certain that Miss Sturgis would be thrilled by the prospect of residing in the Chestnut Street house, as his fiancée had been very much impressed on each of the occasions upon which they’d been invited there to dine.
“I thought of giving the staff some time off, and then you can move in whenever you wish.”
“Now that’s a most agreeable idea.”
Scott smiled; Wade still resided with his parents, as did most unmarried men their age.
“You’ll be leaving at the end of the week, you say, Scott?”
“If I want to travel with the Hayfords, I’ll need to be ready by then, yes.”
“Well, then, once we get to the office, I’ll have word sent round to Kooistra, the man I was telling you about, the one I’d like to engage for the position. You should meet him.”
As they finished their meals, Wade filled Scott in on the admirable qualities of the candidate in question, one Marten Kooistra, an experienced commissions merchant from Philadelphia. Listening to the description, it appeared that the identified strengths of the man Wade was eager to hire seemed to be precisely in what Scott privately considered to be his cousin’s areas of weakness.
“I’m anxious to meet him. It sounds as if the two of you should work well together,” Scott observed diplomatically.
Wade drank the last of his beer, and then regarded him intently. “I was looking for someone whose capabilities would be complementary to my own. I’m good with details and organization, but negotiations aren’t my strong suit.”
Making on the spot decisions while dealing with buyers and sellers as a go-between, that had been the aspect of his grandfather’s business that Scott had most enjoyed. It had appealed to his competitive nature, since it was a game of sorts, attempting to arrange contracts with the highest prices for products and lowest costs for transportation and storage, in order to win by coming out with the largest possible profit. Successful negotiations required a man to have accurate information, use tact and diplomacy, and to be able to think on his feet. Sometimes it was difficult to predict the market, turning the game into more of a gamble, and he’d enjoyed that challenge as well.
“Most of us have an Achilles’ heel I suppose. It’s an advantage to know what it is.”
Wade smiled wryly. “Scott, I worked closely with your grandfather for years. Do you really think I could *not * know my own weaknesses?”
Taken by surprise, Scott had to laugh ruefully at the truth of his cousin’s comment. “He always said mine was being ‘too trusting;’ that I shouldn’t expect people to follow the rules.”
En route to Milk Street, they continued to share anecdotes, telling stories of Harlan Garrett that mingled amusement with admiration. Scott was favorably impressed with Marten Kooistra and the man was hired on the spot. Scott was also enthused enough about Kooistra’s ideas for increasing commissions to propose that his own personal share of the profits be put back into the company for the coming year. It would allow Wade and Marten to take a few calculated risks, while covering the inevitable losses that would result. It was also agreed that in the second year, any overall increase in the profit margin would be shared amongst the three of them.
The cousins continued working through the afternoon. When they finally returned to Beacon Hill after a late supper, Scott requested Wade’s driver to let him out so that he could stretch his legs by walking up Walnut Street.
Once he turned onto Chestnut, it wasn’t long before Scott glimpsed his grandfather’s house. A welcoming light shone in the entry, and the main floor was well lit. As he approached the leading edge of the wrought iron fence that enclosed the Garrett estate, Scott considered that Teresa would likely be waiting up for him.
Abruptly he turned back, towards the stately home located catercorner to his grandfather’s property. He let himself in through the heavy gate and strode along the brick walkway. As he mounted the stones steps leading to the massive front door of the Hayfords’ home, Scott told himself that he needed to stop in for a minute, just long enough to talk to Will about their travel plans.
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Author’s notes:
Toothpicks were first introduced at the Union Oyster House in 1869. According to the UOH website, Charles Forster hired Harvard students to eat in local restaurants and ask for toothpicks after their meals. Other sources indicate that Forster got the idea while on a trip to South America, where he saw natives using slivers of wood to clean their teeth.
The state of Maine claims the title of “Toothpick Capital of the World,” manufacturing 90% of the toothpicks used in the United States. The preferred wood is white birch and Forster’s factory still operates today, in Strong, Maine.
The Union Oyster House Website:
http://www.unionoysterhouse.com/>
ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 24A.
“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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“The Garretts haven’t exactly been . . . prolific, now have they?”
It was an opening, but one that Scott prudently let pass by. Although at the time, he’d been almost too startled by the blunt comment to fully appreciate the opportunity it presented.
“What do you mean, Will?”
“Well, Wade’s an only child. So was your mother. You can practically count your Garrett relatives on one hand, Scott. Though I guess there aren’t many Lancers either--- well, at least as far as we know.”
Will hadn’t really expected a response to his arch comment, which was just as well.
It had been Briggs, the Hayfords’ man, who’d opened the door. Scott asked for Mr. Hayford, deposited his hat on the carved mahogany hall tree and then followed Briggs down the familiar hallway to the sitting room. Two sofas faced each other, perpendicular to the fireplace. Scott had been glad to find Mrs. Hayford there too, seated opposite Will.
For their part, the Hayfords had seemed to welcome his unexpected visit, particularly Will. Scott realized guiltily that he’d last seen his friend the day of Grandfather’s memorial service, but had little time to indulge those thoughts as Mrs. Hayford was making polite inquiries about Mrs. Holmes.
Will’s widowed mother was an attractive woman, about Murdoch’s age, though except for some graying at the temples, Amelia Hayford’s hair was still the medium brown color she had passed on to her three boys. Rather than sitting on Will’s blind side, Scott joined Mrs. Hayford on the sofa facing her son, while assuring her that his Aunt Cecilia was quite well.
“Oh, no doubt the reading this morning was wearing—for both of you. I won’t ask how you are, Scott, since of course you’ll say ‘fine.’ But I am sure this has all been very difficult.”
Seated as he was beside Mrs. Hayford’s motherly concern and across from Will’s careful scrutiny, he’d merely murmured an acknowledgment that it all had, indeed, been “difficult.” Scott might have said more, had Will been alone, but even if he did undertake to unburden himself, where would he begin? With the gaping hole left by Grandfather’s passing, and his own brimming anger? With the lingering doubts and the unsettling discoveries, or with the nagging questions, now destined to remain forever unanswered?
Perhaps he might start instead with Murdoch---let Will know that Murdoch Lancer hadn’t actually sent that cold message, the one delivered by the Pinkerton agent: “your father wants to see you.” In fact, Murdoch hadn’t sent any message at all.
His old friend would certainly be interested to hear that he had, at long last, received a letter from his father. Then Scott could confess that the most painful paragraphs, those relating to Murdoch’s admission that he “hadn’t felt like a father,” had taken on a new relevance.
He could tell Will something about Marie-Flore, but other than the fact of her existence, he couldn’t tell anyone a damn thing about Marie Christine.
But that wasn’t entirely true. He knew the little girl was eight years old. He’d been unaware of her that long.
Of course he would never introduce any of those topics with Mrs. Hayford in the room. Although Scott had discussed painful personal subjects with Will many times before, it seemed as if that was all he had been doing lately, engaging in difficult conversations with one person or another. With Aunt Cecilia, with Wade. Not to mention the awkward encounters with Mr. Dennison, William Prescott and . . . Julie.
He was tired of dealing with the past.
Tired of questions. Tired of revelations.
Tired, period.
Teresa was still the only truly bright light. But since their return to Boston, with so many other things demanding his attention, their time together in Maine was in danger of becoming a faint memory.
Suddenly, Scott discovered that he was staring at the patterned fabric of the sofa upon which Will was seated. Forcibly rousing himself from his dark reverie, Scott realized that Mrs. Hayford was talking about Teresa, saying how much she was looking forward to traveling with “your” Miss O’Brien. A darting glance at Will revealed his friend’s worried expression; Scott quickly turned his attention to Mrs. Hayford, seated to his right.
“Teresa is looking forward to the trip as well, Mrs. Hayford,” he told her, then looked back across at Will. “Will, that’s why I wanted to stop in, to discuss the travel plans----”
“Now Scott, it’s understandable if you haven’t been able to get everything settled yet, but I’m afraid I just can’t postpone again; as it is, I’ve already stayed too long---”
“Will--”
“And booking the drawing rooms complicates things; we already lost the adjoining suites---”
“Will, it looks as if I will be able to leave with you on schedule.”
Mrs. Hayford was delighted. “Oh, that is wonderful, Scott.”
Will was clearly surprised. “You only just had the reading of Mr. Garrett’s will today . . .”
“Yes, but after all, I already knew what was in it.”
Scott quickly filled them in on that afternoon’s conversation with Wade and the likely arrangements to be made regarding the house and the company. Mrs. Hayford was most interested in the prospect of Wade and his bride taking up residence in the house across the street. Will listened carefully and raised several pertinent questions.
“Well, it seems as if you’ve covered everything, and the new man at the office sounds like an asset,” he observed approvingly. “I wondered if you and Wade would be able to work things out.”
“Well, I’ll have you know that Wade has asked me to be a member of his wedding party.”
Again, Mrs. Hayford smiled warmly, but Will’s expression turned sardonic.
“A ‘member’? Now, why not his best man?”
“He has someone else for that.”
“Really?” Will asked dryly. “You’d think the gift of a house on Chestnut Street would earn you the ‘coveted’ best man position.”
“Now, I’m still the owner of record, remember, so it’s not quite a gift.”
Will shrugged dismissively. “It amounts to one, for now. So . . . who did he ask?”
“A cousin.”
“Wade has another cousin?”
“On his mother’s side.”
And that’s when Will had commented upon the dearth of Garrett and Lancer progeny. Scott easily imagined that Mrs. Hayford’s fond smiles would fade all too quickly were he to reveal that he had, in fact, fathered a child.
Will would have been more understanding, but George was the Hayford with whom he needed to discuss Marie-Flore and her daughter. Fortunately, Will moved on to other matters.
“Scott, I’m having a few people in for supper Thursday evening--- you should join us. Harroway is coming---how long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“Freddie? I can’t say.”
“I caught up with Lowell Jones and Sumner Stearns at the memorial service; I’ve invited them as well.”
“Yes, I spoke with them, as well, but only briefly.”
Any rejoinder which Will might have made was forestalled by his mother suddenly setting aside her needlework. “It appears, Scott, that my son intends for you to wait until Thursday before offering any refreshment.” She smiled at Will indulgently, before turning back to Scott. “Might I have Briggs fetch you a cup of coffee or tea?”
“No, no thank you, Mrs. Hayford; I only intended to stop in for a few minutes. I’ve been away from home since early this morning.”
Mrs. Hayford rose from her seat and both young men instantly followed her lead. “Then I’ll leave you boys to finish talking over your plans. Good night, William.”
Will approached his mother and dutifully bent down to kiss her cheek. “Good night, Mother.”
Amelia Hayford fondly patted the undamaged side of her son’s face, before turning to Scott.
“Good night, Scott. I am so pleased that we’ll be traveling together.”
“Thank you, so am I, ma’am. Good night.”
Once his mother had left the room, Will resumed his seat, gesturing in the general direction of the liquor cabinet against the far wall.
“If you prefer something stronger than coffee, Scott, you well know where it is.”
Scott considered the offer, and couldn’t resist eying the cabinet, which had always been well-stocked. Back in the old days, it had been easiest to share their secrets with glasses in hand. Reminding himself that he was tired of revelations, Scott dropped onto the sofa, reluctantly foregoing the drink. Routine conversation, that was what he craved. He stretched out his legs and leaned his head against the back of the sofa, working his tie loose with one hand.
“So . . . Harroway, Jones, Stearns . . . anyone else?”
“I was thinking I might send word round to Snell and Batchelder as well, see if they’re free.”
“Orry? What’s he doing now?”
“Still working in his father’s printing business. Recently engaged too.”
Scott didn’t try to hide his surprise. “Orrin Snell?”
“Yes, he’s going to marry one of the Mortons. And you know that Francis Towle is already four months a husband. I sent a note to his house, but -----amazingly---- there’s been no answer.”
Scott grinned. “Well, Louisa always thought you were a terrible influence on poor Fran.”
Will rolled his eye. “’Poor Fran’ was always more than willing to allow her to think so, when the truth was that--”
“The truth was that you and John and Fran were all a terrible influence on . . . Orry.”
“We were, weren’t we?” Will laughed softly. Will had actually thanked him once, for not going out of his way to avoid mentioning John, as so many others seemed to do.
“But we never quite managed to corrupt you, did we Scott?” Will continued. “It wasn’t for lack of trying, but Mr. Garrett was much too vigilant.” Will shook his head. “It’s still hard to believe he’s gone,” he commented, then studied Scott intently. “So how are you?”
“I’ve been busy, arranging things. Once we’re on the train, we’ll have time to catch up.”
He might want to talk about a few things, by then. Will nodded, started to speak, then hesitated and averted his gaze. Scott waited uneasily, wondering what difficult topic his friend was about to introduce.
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard that . . . Alice is married?”
Scott was taken off guard. Will knew full well that he himself would have been the most likely source of such information. “If I recall correctly,” he said slowly, “she moved to New York State, after the War.”
“Yes.”
“How did you hear?”
Will snorted. “I’ve been here nearly two weeks and Mother just mentioned it, this evening. Alice sent her a nice note, she said, beforehand.”
“That does sound like Miss Holley.”
Will stared at the floor and nodded.
Alice Holley had been engaged to Captain John Hayford, before the War. The young couple had been eager to be wed, but both families had protested, firmly discouraging the too hasty nuptials. On the Holleys’ side, there had doubtless been the unexpressed fear that their daughter would be left waiting. Although the young woman had departed before Scott’s return from Libby, he’d understood that Will and Miss Holley had spent considerable time together, mourning John.
“Did your mother say anything else?” Scott asked carefully.
Will looked up. “Oh, yes. She wants to know when I’m planning to marry. It seems that Mother is dissatisfied with only two grandchildren. Of course, I’ve told her many times that that she needs to be content with whatever George is willing to provide.” Will sighed softly. “My mother steadfastly refuses to acknowledge that I might have some difficulty attracting a suitable wife . . . do you know what she said to me?”
Scott shook his head, but couldn’t help a small smile of anticipation; Will had always been able to perfectly capture his mother’s patrician manner of speech.
“But, William, Dear, you are from Boston!”
Scott laughed.
“All Western ladies are sure to find an Eastern gentleman extremely interesting.” Will paused, then continued in his own voice. “She read it in a magazine.”
“Then it must be true.”
“Oh indeed, yes—it’s been difficult to fend them off, with one arm.” Will shook himself and stared at the empty fireplace. “However . . . since Mother is coming to California for an extended visit, I thought it best if I mentioned that there . . . well, that there is a lady with whom I’ve been keeping company.” The announcement made, Will met Scott’s eyes once more. “And you can imagine her reaction; you stopped by just in time to rescue me.”
“For now,” Scott observed dryly. But his curiosity was more than piqued. The last time that the two of them had talked of female companionship, Will had extolled the virtues of one ‘Miss Lorena’ in Sacramento, while Scott had countered with praise for Irene in Green River. But Will would hardly be mentioning a professional relationship to his mother.
“I assume you aren’t planning to introduce your mother to . . . Miss Lorena?”
Will eyed him balefully and Scott grinned. “I didn’t think so. So, go ahead, tell me about her.”
“She’s a fine lady, Scott. Warm, a good listener . . .”
“Does she have a name?”
“It’s Mary ----Mrs. Harding; she’s a widow. A few years older than I, not that it matters. Well, it does to her, she worries about it,” Will amended. “Needlessly.”
“A widow---are there any children?”
“A boy, Asa. He’s ten. They came west a few years ago.”
Something in his friend’s tone suggested there was more; instead of asking a question, Scott waited this time.
“Mary’s a southerner. From Georgia.”
Scott lifted his brow at that. “Her husband?”
“Wore grey.”
“Does that matter?”
“No,” Will answered firmly. “Not now. Not to me. Or to Mary. To the boy, . . . a little bit. But he barely remembers his father.”
“Will it matter to your mother?”
Will hesitated. “I’m afraid it might.”
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For the better part of the next hour, Scott willingly put aside his own concerns. Will’s Mrs. Harding worked in a bank, he’d met her there. She was quiet, had a “sweet disposition,” was an excellent cook. Scott readily agreed that he and Teresa would remain in Sacramento an additional day for the purpose of being introduced to Mrs. Harding and her son. Although Will needed little prompting, Scott did ask a few more questions, but for the most part, was content to listen.
When Will finally ran out of complimentary things to say about Mrs. Harding, Scott steered the conversation to Mrs. Hayford’s visit and Will’s plans for entertaining his mother while she was in Sacramento. It was late, and Scott knew he should be going, so he sat forward on the cushions, resting his elbows on his thighs as Will mentioned a few of the sights he wished to show his mother.
“Of course, after spending time in the city, she might be interested in seeing a cattle ranch, Scott; perhaps I’ll send her your way, after a bit?”
“I’d enjoy that,” Scott said sincerely, smiling inwardly at the notion of Amelia Hayford being “interested” in cattle. “How long is your mother planning to stay in California?”
“Well, that’s a problem. I’ll need to find a traveling companion for her trip back East, as I’d rather she didn’t travel so far alone.”
“Well . . .,” Scott ducked his head to hide his smile. “She could accompany me, when I return for my cousin’s wedding.”
When Scott dared to look up, Will was regarding him with mock horror. “The wedding isn’t until late spring. That’s the better part of year away.”
“Yes, it is.”
“My mother is a wonderful woman----”
“Yes, she is,” Scott agreed, emphatically. “And I’m sure she will get on well with your Mrs. Harding.”
“I hope you’re right.” Will was silent for a moment, and Scott was just about to say good night when he spoke again. “I should tell you that Mother is quite taken with ‘your’ Miss O’Brien, and has repeatedly sought my opinion of her---repeatedly.” Will regarded Scott appraisingly. “I finally had to tell her that I believe the young lady’s heart is already spoken for.”
Scott glanced down for just a moment, before looking back up at Will. “Yes, it is.”
Will smiled and nodded in satisfaction. “Finally.”
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George Hayford’s expression gave nothing away.
He was young to have his own firm, and, but for his father’s untimely passing, would have expected to be in partnership with the senior Hayford for many years. Like Scott, a cavalry officer during the War, George Hayford had since put on a good amount of weight, adding years to his features and increasing his aura of authority.
The attorney’s only comment upon M. F. Mathieu and Bertram Bennett was to acknowledge the obvious fact that they were indeed named as beneficiaries in Harlan Garrett’s will. When Scott explained his own connection to Marie-Flore, it was impossible to tell whether or not the information was news to George, who merely sat listening attentively, while stroking his carefully groomed mustache.
George didn’t react to any of it, not even to the account of Grandfather’s acquisition of a false marriage certificate for Marie-Flore. George simply allowed Scott to tell the story, and when he concluded with his aunt’s assertion that Marie Christine couldn’t-----shouldn’t -----be claimed as his daughter, George nodded in solemn agreement.
“So, Scott, what is it you want to do?”
A perfectly reasonable question.
What he wanted to do, was to leave. Leave Boston before he did something irrevocable, like travel to Maine to clasp that little girl’s hand. Not that the action would mean anything to her, as he certainly wouldn’t introduce himself. But Scott was afraid that once he saw Marie Christine, he might not have the strength to walk away.
Unlike his father.
“I’m afraid that I have to . . . concede that my aunt raises some valid arguments.”
“But?”
But, he hated the feeling that he was running away.
“But, I would still like to do something.”
“Mr. Garrett’s provisions are quite adequate, I assure you. I suppose that you could augment the amount. Or establish separate funds in trust for the child, similar to those which were set up years ago on your behalf.”
A reasonable, practical, safe suggestion. But then Scott would hardly have expected George to recommend booking a seat on the next train to Brunswick.
“It doesn’t seem . . . enough. Now, George, you have two children---”
“I’m married to their mother.” George Hayford sat back in his chair. “They know that I’m their father.”
“I realize it’s not the same . . .”
“No, it isn’t, not at all. Now, Scott, the girl, and every one around her—except for her mother, of course---everyone believes her father to be deceased, correct?”
“Apparently.”
“Well, there you are. It would be different if she were already known, or even suspected to be, illegitimate; under such circumstances, there might be some benefit to her in your acknowledgment. But that is not the case.”
Scott nodded wearily. George wasn’t saying anything new.
“Truly, if you wish to do what is best for the child, then you will do . . . nothing. Or very little. You really have no choice.”
Uncharitably, Scott wondered if that was the way Grandfather had wanted it. Instantly, he realized that was unfair. Far from acting out whatever feelings of anger and disappointment the older man might have harbored towards his grandson, he had expended considerable effort to do what was best for both Marie-Flore and her daughter.
“I can set up a trust fund, if you wish. And since I will be communicating with Mrs. Mathieu in regards to Mr. Garrett’s will, I could inform her that I represent you as well, and that I am authorized to act on your behalf. So if, for example, unusual circumstances were to arise, she could communicate with me, here in Boston. It would be easier.”
Again, it was all entirely reasonable.
“You may rely on me to take care of matters---and to keep you informed, of course.”
“Thank you, George.”
“Tell me, Scotty—sorry, Scott. Besides the two of us, Mrs. Holmes, and Mrs. Mathieu, is there anyone else who knows?”
Scott considered that. “My aunt’s cook . . .”
“Yes, well, it’s difficult to keep such things from the staff. But no other friends or relatives?”
“Not that I know.”
“I would advise you to keep it that way.”
Then George abruptly shifted topics. “You know, Scott, since you’re now in possession of significant assets, it would be wise of you to draw up a will of your own. Something simple and straightforward to start with, which of course would need to be revised as your own circumstances change, if you were to marry or have children. I could draw something up . . .”
Scott agreed, and soon George was firing questions and scribbling answers on his sheets of paper. He reminded Scott, unnecessarily, that as far as the Chestnut Street house and its contents were concerned, he was constrained by the restrictions his grandfather had set in place in Mrs. Holmes’ behalf. When Scott suggested that the title to the house might eventually pass to Wade Garrett, George objected, pointing out that if Scott’s legal heirs had no interest in ownership, the proceeds of sale, whether to Wade or anyone else, could still pass to them as a part of Scott’s estate. Scott accepted George’s argument, though in regards to his grandfather’s company, he was adamant that the business should simply pass to his cousin.
Since Scott was sure to continue to accumulate possessions, George advised that it would not be feasible to enumerate specific items as bequests beyond a select few which held particular significance. Instead, the attorney recommended that trusted individuals be assigned responsibility: Mrs. Holmes to take charge of the household furnishings and other items in Boston, with Scott’s father or brother being designated to distribute his personal effects in California.
George also reiterated that funds rather than property would be a more discreet manner in which to benefit Marie Christine. He did explain that some men had been known to leave behind documents acknowledging their paternity, to be forwarded to the individual in question upon their deaths or simply held in readiness should questions arise after their passing. Stressing that he was neither recommending nor opposing such action, George merely stated that it was an option that Scott might consider.
Finally, he asked about Scott’s share of ownership in the Lancer ranch and whether the agreement specified what was to happen in the event of the death of one of the partners. As far as Scott could recall, there was no such provision. After further discussion, George agreed to draft a will and draw up proposals for trusts, assuring Scott that while he strongly urged completing the arrangements in a timely manner, it would not be necessary to delay his departure from Boston, since they could communicate by mail.
“And, I’d strongly recommend, Scott, that you carry through with your intention to return to Boston in the spring; enough time will have passed to make it worthwhile to review everything, particularly the company’s operation.”
They continued working on the draft of a will until Wade arrived, whereupon the three men turned their attention to the business agreements.
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 24B.
“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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<<“You just make sure and bring him back.”>>
There had been times when she’d recalled the words Johnny had whispered in her ear with a feeling of dread, afraid that Scott would continue to find reasons why it was necessary to remain here in Boston. Now, sinking into the down pillows in her comfortable guest room in Mr. Garrett’s house, Teresa could anticipate that they would be going home to Lancer soon. Both of them.
She’d spent the morning helping Jane, the maid, pack up some of Mr. Garrett’s things, the two of them working under Mrs. Holmes’ supervision. They had concentrated upon boxing up clothing, shoes and hats, leaving items such as jewelry, pictures and books for Scott to go through. Scott had spent the evening in Mr. Garrett’s room; she remembered how hard it had been, going through Daddy’s things.
But packing up the clothing was easy enough; as his aunt had pointed out, there really was nothing that would fit Scott, though they put aside some things to offer to Fredericks and Wade Garrett, as well as smaller objects like cravats, scarves and the like which others might appreciate as souvenirs of Mr. Garrett.
Apparently, Scott’s cousin Wade would be moving into the house, and his wife would join him after their marriage in the spring. Over breakfast, Mrs. Holmes made plans to invite Wade Garrett and Miss Sturgis to lunch the next day; when Scott reminded his aunt that they had yet to confirm their acceptance of his offer, she’d simply said that they would be “foolish” not to agree.
That would take care of one of Scott’s concerns, keeping the household staff employed during the months in which Mrs. Holmes was not in residence. From the conversations this morning in Mr. Garrett’s room, Teresa had learned that Jane would be assuming the vacant role of housekeeper, with Mr. Fredericks to instruct her. On the day of the memorial service, Scott had introduced Teresa to a Mrs. Lanham, saying that she had been their housekeeper as far back as he could remember. She was a sweet-faced, elderly woman, who still spoke in the accent of her native Suffolk. Mrs. Lanham had retired soon after Scott had left for California and her replacement, a woman Scott had never met, had unfortunately taken ill and passed away prior to their arrival in Boston.
Since they’d returned from Maine, Scott had been very busy and lately he’d been looking so very tired. When Mrs. Holmes had raised the question of a housekeeper over breakfast, his expression had been one of open dismay. Scott didn’t need anything else to do, and his aunt must have seen that as well, since she promised him she would take care of it. It sounded as if Mrs. Holmes already had someone in mind to fill Jane’s position as well.
Scott had been away all morning, meeting with his cousin and George Hayford at the lawyer’s office to work on business issues, which had evidently taken longer than expected, and so he’d missed lunch. As soon as Scott returned to the house, he’d disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
When Teresa found him there, Scott was seated at the kitchen table eating a sandwich, his black jacket draped over the back of the chair and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up. The cook, Mrs. Hudson, was just removing a tray of cookies from the oven; the kitchen was filled with the wonderful warm aroma of molasses.
As Teresa settled into a seat next to Scott, Mrs. Hudson anxiously wiped her hands on her apron, admonishing her. “Oh, now, Miss. I tried to tell Mister Scott to let me bring his lunch out to the dining room. There’s sugar and flour and who knows what else all over that table.”
“At the ranch, Miss O’Brien spends considerable time in the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson. In fact, she does quite a bit of the cooking.”
Mrs. Hudson smiled doubtfully at Scott, as she slid some of the warm cookies onto a plate and placed it on the table. “Such a fine young lady? I wouldn’t have thought.”
“It’s true,” Teresa assured her. “And I especially like to bake.”
The cook turned back to her work, placing dabs of sticky light brown batter on a second cooking tray. “Well, then, try one of those and see what you think. They’ve always been Mister Scott’s favorite and I should be giving you the recipe.”
Mrs. Hudson’s sugar-sprinkled molasses cookies were delicious and while Scott finished his lunch, Teresa recorded the recipe, as well as instructions for gingerbread and Boston brown bread and other favorites. Scott kindly asked after Mrs. Hudson’s family as he sampled the cookies; the cook continued tidying up the kitchen as she told him about her daughter, son-in-law and four grandchildren. When, clutching a handful of recipes, the older woman finally took a seat at the table opposite Scott, Mrs. Hudson kept her eyes on the slips of paper while she posed a question of her own.
“We’ve heard you’re not staying, Mister Scott.”
“Well, that’s true, I’m leaving for California in a few days. I plan to return though, for Wade Garrett’s wedding next spring.”
“But not to stay?”
“No. Though I am hoping that you’ll stay on, even though Grandfather’s gone. My aunt will still be here during the winter months and this morning Wade Garrett agreed to take up residence as well; his bride will join him, after they’re married. We’d like the entire staff to stay on.”
“Oh, now that’s good news,” the older woman said, smiling in relief. “Very good news. I’ve got another few years in me you know, but looking for another place now, at my age . . .” Tears welled in her eyes and she swiped at her face with a corner of the apron. “Bless you now, for putting an old woman’s mind to rest.”
Scott smiled as he rose from his seat and stood rolling down the sleeves of his shirt. “I should be thanking you, Mrs. Hudson, not only for your years of service, but most especially for those cookies. They’re exactly what I needed today. In fact, Miss O’Brien and I are going out for a drive this afternoon---- perhaps you might pack us up a box?”
Mrs. Hudson eagerly wrapped up enough cookies to sustain them through several entire days of driving around Boston.
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It was easy to see why autumn was Scott’s favorite season. Although the sun shown brightly and the colored leaves on the trees made everything seem brighter still, it was a cool day, and breezy. Scott had requested the open carriage, so they might enjoy the foliage and the brilliant deep blue of the cloudless sky. He’d removed his hat, and the breeze fingered his hair from time to time; she had to resist the urge to smooth it back into place. Teresa clasped her gloved hands in her lap and felt utterly happy to be riding along on such a beautiful day, with Scott.
They rode in comfortable silence, simply enjoying the weather, with Scott occasionally pointing something out along the way. Fallen leaves stirred across the still green grass of the Common as they rolled by, tumbling, then resting, before being swirled upwards again.
“Murdoch told me that he met my mother here, on Boston Common.”
Teresa smiled; she was happy to hear that Murdoch had spoken with Scott about his mother and it was a wonderful thing for Scott to know. She was so glad that Mr. Fredericks had arranged for the large portrait of Catherine Lancer to be crated up for shipment to California. After her niece’s death, Mrs. Holmes had commissioned a slightly smaller version of the painting and now proposed hanging her copy in the front parlor in place of the original. Despite initial resistance to the idea, Scott had agreed to it all rather easily, an indication of how much the picture meant to him.
“I think it will be wonderful to have your mother’s portrait hanging in the Great Room, Scott. And I know the perfect spot.”
Scott looked a bit wary. “Over the mantel won’t work,” he reminded her.
“No. But I think it’s time we replaced ‘Aunt Haggis.’”
The portrait of the grim faced lady in black had hung in the Lancer Great Room for as long as Teresa could remember, and no one knew who she was. Apparently the picture had belonged to a previous owner of the hacienda. When they’d first arrived, Scott and Johnny had assumed that the woman was one of Murdoch’s relatives back in Scotland; they’d refused to believe her when she’d told them it wasn’t true, teasingly insisting that they could see a very strong resemblance between their father and the stern looking lady in the painting. When Murdoch had been away one evening, they’d even lifted it down from the wall to examine the back of the frame, searching for some clue to the woman’s identity.
Finding none, they’d decided to give her a name. Scott had pulled a volume of Scottish history from the shelf and found a family tree of Scottish kings and queens. At first they’d wanted something that began with the letter “M”, and there were lots of Margarets and Marjories, but in response to each of the names Scott read, Johnny shook his head, saying it “didn’t fit her face.” Since he said he’d never had an aunt before, Johnny was insistent that the name had to be just right.
Then Scott suggested “Nessie,” in honor of Murdoch’s home city of Inverness. Scott showed them the map of Scotland, and there was both a river Ness and a lake of that name as well. All three of them had liked the sound of “Aunt Nessie,” until Johnny stood in front of the picture and said it out loud.
“Nope, that’s not her. She ain’t a Nessie, Scott.”
Scott had gone over to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother and together they’d silently studied the portrait. She remembered watching them, both standing with their arms folded across their chests, staring up at the painted features. After a moment, Scott had bowed his blond head, then swiftly moved to the liquor table to pour each of them a drink. She’d seen right away that Scott was struggling to hide a grin. The, lifting his glass, he’d proposed a toast to “Aunt Haggis.”
Johnny had thought it was perfect, even more so after Scott explained what a ‘haggis’ actually was, and so it stuck. Eventually, they’d used the name in front of Murdoch, and he’d informed his sons in no uncertain terms that the woman was no relation of his and that giving her that name was an insult to a good Scottish dish. Since then, however, even Murdoch had been heard to say that a misplaced item was “on the table beneath Aunt Haggis.”
Scott smiled now when she mentioned the name, but his expression soon turned serious. “We’ll have to check with Murdoch and Johnny first . . . they may not be willing to displace our old aunt,” he added lightly.
Surely Scott couldn’t be worried that his father or brother would mind having Catherine Lancer’s portrait hanging in the Great Room. She’d just have to make sure they both knew how much the painting meant to Scott. Teresa hadn’t missed Murdoch’s reaction to seeing the image of his first wife; he’d said it was a beautiful painting, but he’d meant much more. Still . . . she hoped that everything was all right between Scott and Murdoch.
“Scott . . . you never said anything else about Murdoch’s letter. Just that he’d invited you to visit.”
Scott sighed. “Most of what he wrote, I already knew, or guessed. It was good to hear it from him, though.”
“But you still have questions?”
“A few.” Although Scott smiled down at her, his tone seemed to indicate that he didn’t intend to share any of them; in fact, as he often did, Scott smoothly changed the subject.
“Now, Teresa, you said the other day that Angel sent you letters, on your birthdays. You’d never mentioned that before.”
Teresa looked down at her lap, not eager to discuss the troubling topic. “Ye-es. It was in her last letter, the one that came while you were in Stockton.” In the past, she’d always shared Angel’s letters with Scott. “I . . . didn’t have a chance to look through Daddy’s things before we left. But, he may not have kept them, you know. And Angel did say that she hadn’t sent very many.” She looked up at him again. “I’m not sure I want to look, Scott.”
Scott nodded sympathetically. “It would be easier to believe her, if you found them.”
“It would mean that she didn’t . . . that she didn’t just forget about me.”
Scott reached over to take her hand; he seemed to understand her dilemma even before she’d finished explaining.
“But if she did write to me, then ---then that just makes what Daddy did seem even worse.”
Sometimes she still couldn’t believe that Daddy had done it, lied to her all that time. The headstone, the flowers . . .
“Perhaps not. If Angel only sent a few letters and then stopped, that might have seemed to him all the more reason not to tell you anything. And on Angel’s side, while she may have given up too easily, it would be good to know that she tried.”
“That is important, isn’t it? Trying?”
“Yes, it is.”
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They crossed the Charles River into Cambridge, since Scott wanted to show her Harvard College. It felt good to get out and walk around a bit and the grounds of the college were very pretty, with tree-lined walkways and handsome brick buildings. Scott identified some of them, mentioning the classes he’d taken, and she tried to imagine his younger self as one of the students passing by.
They stopped to sit on a bench in view of a building under construction. Scott identified it as “Memorial Hall,” intended to honor the Harvard men who fought for the Union. In the first few years after the war ended, a committee of fifty alumni had collected an incredible sum of money---over $350,000 ----and the cornerstone had been laid in the fall of 1870, shortly after Scott’s departure for California. Scott laughed when she asked if he’d been a member of the committee, saying that the group included some of the College’s most distinguished graduates, while he’d still been a student. He did admit that he’d recently made a contribution and he seemed to know a great deal about the building. The plans called for the transept to have large stained glass windows and a series of marble plaques listing the names of those who had died during “the Rebellion” ----which was how Scott said many people in Boston still referred to the war.
“We’ll have to come back to see it, when it’s finished.”
How she loved the sound of that ‘we.’ “Oh, yes, we will, it sounds as if it will be a beautiful building.” Teresa hesitated before asking the next question. “Will there be names of men you knew?”
Scott looked up at the building. “A few.”
Then he looked down at his gloved hands, the fingers laced in his lap and pronounced a name. “Joseph Fox. I never knew him well.” It took a moment before Scott identified the man. “He died in the escape.”
Teresa tensed. Scott sometimes spoke of the War, but rarely mentioned his imprisonment---- and she’d never heard him talk about the escape. Mrs. Cassidy had first told them about it; none of them had known, not even Johnny. It hadn’t been an escape, not really; sixteen men had been killed, all of them except for Scott
“I paid a call upon his parents, after the War.”
“That was . . . kind of you.”
Scott exhaled, and his mouth quirked up into a bitter smile as he gazed off into the distance. “I’m afraid they didn’t think so. I was alive, and their son was dead.”
Teresa’s eyes widened in sympathy. Dan Cassidy had blamed Scott, had somehow believed him to be a traitor, when in the end, it had been Cassidy himself who had given the men away. He’d done so unknowingly, unintentionally, in the midst of delirium, but still, how could he have thought that Scott would ever betray those men? It had never occurred to her that others might also have blamed Scott. She laid her hand on his arm, clutching at his sleeve more tightly than she’d intended.
“Scott, surely they didn’t blame you----”
His head came around, the sudden movement cutting her off. Scott looked sadly down into her eyes. “Teresa, I was the officer in charge.”
“But you didn’t know what Dan Cassidy had done,” she protested.
Scott turned his face away again. “No,” he responded, dragging out the word the way he so often did. “But I could have called it off, waited for Dan. I almost did.”
He sighed, and bowed his head. “The men might not have listened. Will pointed that out, and he’s right, they were----we were---- ready to go.”
Teresa could only imagine what a prison was like, how terrible it would have been to be locked up for an entire year. It must have been crowded and dirty and the captured soldiers wouldn’t have been given enough food or medicine or blankets or any of the things they needed. Clearly it had been so insufferable that the men were willing to risk dying in order to escape.
She knew Scott had suffered, because she’d seen the marks, cruel scars on his back.
The first time Scott had been hurt, by Stryker’s men, it had been “just” a graze; they’d ripped off his shirt-sleeve and Johnny had helped her clean and bandage the wound. When that Evans had shot Scott, Frank had tended to his injuries, while Murdoch was busy dealing with his friend Joe Barker. But when Cassidy’s men had put that bullet through his shoulder, it had been more serious; they’d taken Scott up to bed and sent for Dr. Jenkins. Maria had been away, so Teresa had been alone, taking care of Scott, while Murdoch and Johnny dealt with Cassidy and the men he thought might be coming after him.
When Sam arrived, she’d told him what had happened, all that she knew, at least. Scott had been too exhausted to say much and after he’d fallen asleep, she’d asked Sam about those scars. Sam had looked sad and speculated that the marks might be from some sort of punishment. Then his expression grew very serious.
“Teresa, sometimes when you’re nursing a man, you see things or hear things that you were never intended to see or hear. And, just like a doctor, you owe it to your patient to keep his secrets, even when he can’t. Do you understand?”
She’d understood that she shouldn’t say anything about what she’d seen, not even to Scott. But she would never understand how people could treat each other that way.
“It must have been horrible in that place, that they were all so desperate to get away.”
Scott seemed startled from his thoughts. His brow furrowed and he pressed his lips together as he considered what she’d said. “It was bad,” he said simply. “But that wasn’t . . . that wasn’t only reason why . . .”
“I’m sure you all wanted to get back home so badly . . .”
“Yes, many of the men had wives, and children,” he conceded sadly. “But . . . all of us . . . all of us wanted to get back to our regiments. We were . . . just sitting there, doing nothing . . .”
“You . . . you wanted to get back to the fighting?”
Scott opened his mouth to speak, then quickly closed it, and shook his head. “I’m not sure I can explain it, exactly. No one . . . no one missed the fighting. But we wanted to get back to our companies, where we belonged.”
They sat silently for a bit.
“What happened?” she asked softly, then tried to take the words back when Scott glanced over at her. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to talk about it, if you don---”
“Maybe I do have to,” he said, looking down at her with a crooked smile. Her hand had slipped off his sleeve at some point, and he reached for it now, threading it through to rest on his arm. He covered her hand with his own, and for a moment, it seemed as if Scott was comforting her. As if he knew how badly her heart was aching.
She knew it had all happened a long time ago. And that Scott was strong and brave and more than capable of taking care of himself. But when she looked up at his sad profile, it clutched at her heart and it hurt to think that he’d suffered so.
“This may be the best kind of day to talk about it,” he said, looking around at the colored leaves riffling in the now light breeze, the softly moving shadows cast by the tall trees. Their bench was still in full sun, and it was comfortably warm.
“The guards . . . were waiting for us. I was first, so I caught the first bullet—in the leg, and I went down.”
The chilling words were uttered so matter-of-fact, but she could tell he was remembering; his eyes as they squinted upwards were seeing something other than the rising Memorial Hall.
“The guards opened fire. Even when we shouted and tried to surrender, the shooting didn’t stop, not until every man was down.” Scott bowed his head. “They didn’t need to, they were waiting and . . . there was no need.”
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She hadn’t said anything; the words that came to mind, that it was awful, horrible, terrible-- the words weren’t enough. She’d wanted so badly to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but nothing could change the fact that Scott had been the officer in charge; he would always feel responsible. Somehow she’d managed to listen calmly, sitting close beside him on that bench in the sunshine, with students walking past, laughing young men who would never live such a nightmare. She’d just held onto Scott’s arm and listened.
Only now that she was alone in her bed, the tears came. She loved him so much, and if she could take away those memories, she would do it, she’d do anything. He didn’t need her to, she knew that, and it made her love him all the more. What was it Johnny had said? “What he’s got inside, they couldn’t take it from ‘im, even with a year of trying.”
And back in Sacramento, Will Hayford had said that traveling to Boston with Scott, she would learn all of his “deep dark secrets.” He’d been joking, she knew, but Scott had never shared the story of the escape before, not with her. He still hadn’t said much, not really, hadn’t told her anything about what the guards had done to him afterwards.
Teresa dried her eyes, and resolutely turned the dampened pillow. It was probably best, that she didn’t know it all. What mattered was that Scott had confided in her. He had always been so supportive, whether she was fretting about some little thing, or need to talk to someone about her father, and Angel. She’d felt so . . . privileged . . . when he’d told her about Mr. Garrett and Murdoch’s invitation. It had seemed strange to be giving Scott advice, but meant so much when thanked her.
And now Scott had shared a few of the dark memories he carried with him from that place.
At the beach house, Scott had asked her to trust him, and she did. After today, she felt certain that he trusted her.
They not only had love between them, but trust as well.
And they both knew how much lies and secrets could hurt.
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Link to Harvard’s Memorial Hall:
http://www.fas.harvard.edu/%7Ememhall/
The Link below leads to a listing of the names found on each tablet along with the date of death and where they fell; the site also contains translations of the Latin inscriptions.
The Memorial Transept:
This memorial space boasts a 2,600 square foot marble floor, a sixty foot high wooden gothic vault, two stained glass windows spanning 708 square feet each, black walnut paneling, stenciled walls and 28 white marble tablets bearing the names of 136 Harvard associates who fell on behalf of the Union cause during the Civil War. The youngest, Sumner Paine, class of 1865, fell at Gettysburg on July 3, 1863, two years before his intended graduation.
Joseph Fox was mentioned in my WMBday story “An Eastern Accent.” Mr. Fox is fictional, but there are two soldiers with that surname listed among the fallen Harvard men.
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