He would know what to do. She laboured over a
letter, trying to choose her words carefully and present a calm,
dignified appearance.
Then all sense left her as she imagined her fate,
married to Dearborn, his skeletal hands on her...! and panic set
in. Nibbling her thumbnail, Caroline scrawled a quick missive.
Ian, I have spoken to my uncle and I’m afraid for
the future--mine, and certainly ours, if anything is to pass
between us! Please call on me at your earliest convenience. Yours
most sincerely, Caroline Reid.
Was it too melodramatic, she wondered. Perhaps, but
she felt the need for drastic measures. She wanted to take action,
and at once. She craved salvation.
Caroline knew better than to trust any of her
uncle’s household to deliver the message, so she paid a boy in the
street a penny to take it to Ian’s house, and return as quickly as
he could with the reply.
She sat by her window, her forehead pressed against
the cool glass, watching the street below. The little season was
almost over, and the leaves were tinged with red. Caroline had
heard of America’s harsh winters, and she suppressed a shiver.
The fire in the grate had turned to ashes, but she
was too highly strung to bother with summoning a servant to tend to
it.
Finally, as dusk was beginning to settle, Caroline
saw him, his smudged face half hidden by a dirt cap, dragging a
stick along the iron fence.
She threw a shawl around her shoulders and hurried
outside.
“
Well? What news have
you?”
“I took the letter, mum, as you told me,” the urchin
said. “But the lady in the house said the master had gone away, on
business, to Hartford.”
Caroline’s spirits sank. She’d
forgotten that Ian was away on business... all the way to Hartford!
He could be gone for days, weeks, perhaps even longer. Surely,
though, he would have told her if he intended to stay away for very
long?
“Did Eleanor--the lady--say when he would return?”
she asked.
The little boy nodded. “Sorry, mum. Not for a
fortnight at least, she said.”
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.It would happen to them
all, Harriet thought, as it had happened to so many before them.
She stood in front of the little trio of headstones, a wave of
sadness sweeping over her.
First Archie, then little James, taken when he was
but a bairn, and now Sandy. She leaned back on her heels, the
ground hard with frost beneath her.
Sandy had clung to life for six weeks since the
accident, six long weeks of Betty seeming more like a ghost than a
living woman, of Harriet wondering what the future held--could
hold--for any of them.
She rested a hand on her middle. Six more weeks for
this new life to grow, to one day be welcomed into a world that was
both harsh and wondrous.
Harriet rose and headed back to the farmhouse. She’d
promised Betty, since Sandy’s death two weeks ago, that she would
tend his grave since Betty was too weak to do it.
She sighed wearily, wondering if Betty would be in
better spirits today. They had to move forward from this place.
Winter would be coming on, and Allan had boarded up their own house
for the season. It broke Harriet’s heart to think of the home she’d
made for them all now empty and lifeless, but she knew it was for
the best. It was how it must be.
“Mama, you look tired.” Maggie, looking older than
her years, gave her mother a worried frown.
Harriet tied her apron around her waist and smiled.
“A bit, but it’s for a good reason, Maggie.”
Maggie shook her head in confusion, and Harriet held
a finger to her lips. “I’ll tell you soon. I must talk to your
father first.”
She did not find a moment alone with Allan till that
evening, when the children and Betty had gone to bed. It was a
ritual of theirs to sit in front of the fire after the other had
retired for the night. It was often the only time they had alone,
where they could talk honestly and quietly.
“I think we’re mostly set up for winter,” Allan said
as he stretched his feet towards the fire. “What with this early
cold spell, I reckon it’s a good thing I closed up our own stead
early.”
“Yes.”
He glanced at her, his eyes shadowed with concern.
“I know this has been hardest on you, Harriet, taking the burden of
the household along with Mother...”
“It’s not that.” Harriet sighed. “Well, partly
perhaps, but I know needs must. There’s something else, Allan...
good news, I hope, if unexpected.” Self-consciously she rested her
hand on her middle, and Allan started in surprise.
“You mean... a child? You’re expecting?”
She nodded. “April, I think. Perhaps May.”
Allan moved to her side, putting his arms around her
shoulders. “But that’s wonderful news! How could you doubt? I’m
delighted, my darling.” He kissed her, and Harriet rested her head
against his shoulder.
“I know we’d always hoped for more children, but in
these times...”
“This is but a season, Harriet. Now that Father has
died...” Allan’s face darkened for a moment, before he smiled
tenderly. “There is no reason not to sell this farm, and bring
Mother home with us. We can weather the cold season here, and
return home in spring. It would be better for us all.”
Harriet wondered if Betty would agree, but she was
too eager to grasp this thread of hope to dwell on it for long.
“Yes,” she said, smiling, “in spring.”
The next day Harriet decided to tell the others her
news. The children were delighted, as she expected them to be, but
it was Betty’s reaction which surprised her the most.
Her worn face broke into a smile, and it was if the
sun had finally broken through a dense fog. “A child! A wee bairn!
Oh, Harriet, how glad this makes me.” Betty bent her head. “I
thought there was no life within me, and yet...”
Harriet knelt next to her mother-in-law, her hand on
her shoulder. “You see, there is much yet to live, and to give
thanks for.”
“Yes.” Betty patted her hand. “Yes... and it
comforts me so to think of a child again in this house. Sandy would
be delighted, I know it!”
Harriet held her tongue, not wanting to spoil the
first moment of Betty’s happiness. Secretly, though, she hoped they
would be back at their own farm come spring. Would Betty be willing
to go?
Harriet knew the woman, fragile as she was, could
dig in her heels. Perhaps she would not want to leave the house she
and Sandy had built together. Perhaps Allan would be tied here, as
he had been so many years ago. Perhaps they all would.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The trees outside Rupert’s window were blazing with
color, and it suited his mood perfectly. In the four months since
he’d been in Henry’s employ, he felt he’d shown himself
admirably.
The other clerks in the office were reluctantly
accepting him, due to his relentless friendly cheer and good humor,
even though they had initially resented his presence.
Henry had been careful not to show Rupert any
favoritism in the office, even though Rupert dined regularly at the
Moores’ residence and was treated as a brother there.
In the office, he was but another clerk, adding sums
and checking figures, finding a way to prove himself.
And the time had come, Rupert thought, to prove that
he was capable of more than playing with numbers on a page. He
didn’t want to be a clerk forever, hunched over a desk in a cramped
office, toiling for his dollars. No, he wanted to be a business
man, to make his own fortune in this new age of opportunity and
enterprise. He just had to find a way to get started.
With a sigh, Rupert opened the cash box. One of his
duties was to tally the amount in the cash box with the figures on
the page, and make sure they were equal before depositing the money
in The Massachusetts Bank.
He knew most people mistrusted banks, reflected in
President Jackson’s recent decision not to renew the Second Bank’s
charter. As Rupert feared, the loss of a national banking system
had to led hundreds and even thousands of state banks creating
their own notes, with different designs, shapes, and denominations.
Even worse, many of these banks did not have gold or silver backing
their paper.
The Massachusetts Bank was dependable, fortunately,
and Henry believed in keeping his money there. Rupert looked
forward to the day when all banks were safe and reliable, instead
of rogue operations that the average man was wary or even
frightened of.
Rupert paused in his counting of the various bills
and coins. Henry was usually meticulous about only accepting proper
coin--silver, gold, or dependable notes. It was becoming more and
more difficult to keep such standards, however, and lately Henry
had started accepting notes from various state banks.
With narrowed eyes, Rupert examined a note from the
Bank of New York. The ink on the bottom left corner looked slightly
smeared--or was he imagining it? Would Henry appreciate his concern
about possibly forgeries, or consider it so much meddling?
“It’s getting late, MacDougall,” one of the other
clerks said in a surly tone. “The bank will be closing. What are
you doing there--wool gathering? Or perhaps you’re considering
taking a bit for yourself?”
“That would hardly be wise,” Rupert replied curtly.
He turned back to his figures. The amount of cash in the stronghold
equalled the accounting books, which was fortunate, but Rupert
still carefully separated the Bank of New York notes. Each one of
the bills had a smeared corner--not impossible for a printing press
to create, he acknowledged, but still suspect.
“I’m going to the bank now,” he told the other
clerks, and with the box under his arm, he headed out.
He’d been given the job of taking the money to the
bank not because they considered him trustworthy or deserving of
special responsibility, Rupert knew, but because if the money was
stolen on the way to the bank, no one wanted to be blamed.
He sighed, wishing things could be different, that
the other clerks could accept him fully, but knowing they never
would. He was set apart by his relationship to Henry, even if he
worked hard at what he did.
Once inside the bank on Park Street, Rupert
deposited the money, accepted the slip, and then quietly asked to
speak to the manager.
“The manager, sir?” The clerk behind the grille
looked at him in surprise. “He’s quite a busy man.”
“I’m sure, but this is a matter of some import,”
Rupert replied easily, although his eyes were hard. “And of no
small concern to his own interests, you may be assured.”
Reluctantly, yet intrigued, the clerk left to find
the manager. A few minutes later Rupert was seated in front of the
man’s desk, spreading the notes out for him to see.
“You see that bit in the corner, smeared? It could
be a faulty printing press, of course, but perfectly legitimate, as
legitimate as any of these state banks are now,” Rupert said with a
little conspiratorial smile. “But I feared the worst, that they’re
counterfeit, and I thought it prudent to consult an expert before
speaking with my employer.”
The bank manager gazed through a monocle, examining
each note with careful precision. “A wise decision,” he said after
a moment. “These notes are indeed counterfeit.”
Eleanor carefully stacked the worn reading primers
on the desk. It had been another busy morning at The First School,
which was the rather innocuous name Margaret had come up with.
“I don’t want anything with ‘charity’ or ‘immigrant’
in it,” she’s said. “That will send them away in droves.”
“If they even come in the first place,” Eleanor
interjected, knowing she sounded a dismal note but unable to help
herself.
Yet they had come. Nearly a month into the school
year, the ground now touched with frost, and they kept coming. The
classroom was full of eager students willing to learn, little ones
whose parents were grateful to have them occupied during working
hours, and older children, even adults, whose faces were hungry for
knowledge as much as for food.
“Learning is power to them,” Margaret had said once.
“The difference, perhaps, between making matchboxes and making a
living. A life.”
And Eleanor had to agree.
“You will come to supper tonight, won’t you,
Eleanor?” Margaret asked as she tidied the classroom. Henry’s
manservant waited discreetly by the door. Despite the school’s busy
location on North Square, next to the sea mission, it was still too
close to Boston’s Murder District for Henry’s comfort. The man
guarded the school the entire time it was in session.
“With Ian away so much,” Margaret continued, “I
don’t like to think of you alone.”
“He sent a letter from Hartford. He should be home
in a few days.”
“Whoever imagined he’d stay away so long! He spoke
once of some experiments he was interested in, but I’d hate to see
his position at the hospital put in jeopardy.”
“You are a pioneer in your own field,” Eleanor
replied with a little smile. “Let Ian be one in his.”
“Oh, of course! Never let me one to stand in the way
of progress. I just don’t wish you to be lonely.”
“I’m not,” Eleanor said simply. Or at least, no
lonelier than she ever had been. In truth, she’d enjoyed being
mistress of her own domain, even if it was but a charade for a few
weeks. She was also grateful for a respite from the tension which
had thrummed between Ian and her, ever since she’d confronted him
about Isobel.
A situation, she realized with a suppressed sigh,
he’d done nothing to address before his departure.
“I shall come to supper, if the invitation is true,”
she added. “I fear my larder is empty, and your table is always
excellently laid.”
“Good.” Margaret could not resist a teasing little
smile. “Rupert shall be dining with us, you know.”