Gray turned his back on his mother and picked up his carpetbag. Without a word he strode out of the kitchen.
Moments later they heard his footfall on the steps as he climbed the stairs to his room.
In the silence that followed Broderick clasped Fiona’s hands, and noted that they were as cold as death. “I’m so very sorry about your mother, Miss Downey.”
She said nothing as she bowed her head.
Broderick glanced at his wife, who stood with arms crossed over her chest, staring blankly out the window. “Our young guest has suffered a grave shock. She needs something to warm her.”
Rose didn’t turn. “And what about my shock?”
He sighed and crossed to the stove, spooning cabbage soup into a bowl. When he placed it in front of Fiona, she merely looked at it. Placing a spoon in her hand, he said gently, “Eat.”
She dipped the spoon into the bowl and lifted soup to her mouth.
“Good.” He sighed. “Again.”
She did as she was told, as he’d known she would.
He continued coaxing her until the bowl was empty. Then he helped her to her feet and said, “Go to your room now, Miss Downey, and read your mother’s letter. It will help you to deal with your loss.”
He led her out of the kitchen and waited until he saw her door close. Then he returned to his wife’s side, wishing he could force Rose to behave the way he’d just now forced their young houseguest.
But perhaps it would be easier for Fiona Downey in the long run. She was merely dealing with death, while Rose was facing something far worse. The waste of all those fine, bright dreams for her favored young prince had now gone up in ashes and smoke.
Dearest Fiona
With every breath, I feel my strength slipping away. I hate the thought of leaving you. But you will never be alone. You have your father’s sure and steady purpose, and his fine mind, and his strength of will. Know also that you have all my love. Your father and I will remain with you in spirit always.
Gray knocked on Fiona’s door and waited. When he heard no response from inside her room, he tentatively opened her door. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, so as not to muss it, holding a single piece of paper.
“I’ve brought your mother’s things.” He crossed the room and set down a trunk.
When he straightened, she barely glanced over. “Thank you, Gray.”
He knelt in front of her and could see that her eyes were dry. She was sitting perfectly still, as though holding herself together by a mere thread. He could see the effort she was making to dam up all of the feelings threatening to break free.
He took her hand in his. “Your aunt wanted you to know that your mother didn’t suffer. She just closed her eyes and went to sleep.”
When Fiona said nothing he added, “And she particularly wanted me to tell you that your mother’s last words were about you, and how proud you made her.”
Despite her efforts one big wet tear slid from the corner of her eye and spilled down her cheek.
She wiped at it with her free hand until he stopped her. “Let the tears come.”
She turned her head away.
“Don’t be ashamed to cry.” He drew her up and gathered her against his chest. “When we lose someone dear to us, we have a right to our grief.”
“Oh, Gray.” The cry was torn from her lips before her slender body shook with great, heart-wrenching sobs.
Now that she’d begun, she wept from the depths of her soul, letting all the pain and anguish of the past months mingle with the razor-sharp pain of this latest loss. She cried for the father she had adored, and the gentle mother who had been her angel. She wept for all the fine, loving memories of her past that could never be repeated in the future. And she wept for herself, giving vent to all the loneliness of the past months, and her fears for the unknown that lay before her.
Finally, when the tears had run their course, she took a deep, shuddering breath and stepped back. “I got your shirt all wet.”
“It doesn’t matter. It will dry.” He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.
She dried her tears and began twisting the pale linen square around and around her finger. “Thank you, Gray.”
Now that he’d offered his comfort, he looked ill at ease. “I’ll leave you now to go through your mother’s things. Papa said you should come later and eat something more.”
“How is your mother?”
He paused in the doorway, amazed that even now, in the depths of her own grief, she would care about another. “She’s in her room. Papa is with her.”
“Gray.”
He turned.
Fiona took a deep breath. “I’m truly sorry for all that you had to go through. It must have been horrible for you, not only learning about my mother’s...” She swallowed. “My mother’s passing, but then to have to deal with Flem living in that horrible place and refusing to come home.”
His expression never changed. But there was a softness in his tone. “You believe me?”
“Of course I believe you, Gray. Why would you lie about your own brother?”
He merely stared at her for long silent moments before saying softly, “Thank you.”
He spun away and closed the door.
Fiona stood listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps, before turning her attention to her mother’s trunk. Now that she’d shed her tears, her mind seemed dearer, sharper—as was her pain.
She sat back on her heels and thought again about that scene in the kitchen between Rose and her son. Though Fiona could sympathize with Rose’s loss, her heart went out to Gray.
She admired his stoic acceptance, even while she cringed each time he was forced to endure yet another lashing of his soul at the hands of his own mother. What kind of man could survive such torture without once striking back? And what, she wondered, would happen if he should finally reach the end of that long-suffering patience?
She hoped she would never have to learn the answer.
NINETEEN
Fiona shook snow from her hair as she climbed the steps to the farmhouse. Inside the kitchen, she was assaulted by the smells that had become so familiar to her. Bread baking. Wurst simmering in a pot. The air redolent with rich spices and seasonings.
Rose looked up from the stove and cast a disapproving glance at Fiona’s boots, dripping on the floor. Without a word Fiona removed the boots and set them on a rug before hanging her coat.
More than two weeks had passed since Gray’s return from Chicago, and though Rose continued to cook and clean, she had exchanged less than a dozen words with her oldest son.
Broderick spent all his time in the barn, hiding out from his wife’s seething anger. Gray had begun chopping trees before dawn, and then hauling them to town, returning in time for supper. Fiona often heard the rattle of the wagon as it passed her windows while she was just getting out of bed.
In order to overcome her grief, Fiona immersed herself in the classroom. She had paired each of her older students with a younger one, to assist in reading and sums. To her delight, everyone seemed to benefit from this, with the older ones taking pride in the accomplishments of their partners, and the younger ones working even harder to please their tutors.
Her greatest pride came from the way these diverse children had begun to accept one another. The friendship between Will and Edmer had spilled over to the others. Afton and Luther Dorf had begun forging a bond of trust, with Afton helping Luther with his words and accepting his help figuring sums.
Just as Broderick stepped into the kitchen they heard the rumble of Gray’s wagon.
“Bitter out there tonight,” Broderick muttered. He turned to Fiona. “You must be half-frozen after that trek across the hills.”
“I am, yes.” She held her hands over the open burner to warm them, and glanced up when Gray entered. He went through his ritual without a word, kicking off his boots, hanging his coat, rolling his sleeves and washing his hands.
Broderick had just uttered the blessing when they heard the jingle of harness.
Rose clapped a hand to her mouth. “The train. I thought I heard it earlier. Fleming’s come home. This must be Fleming.” She shoved back her chair and rushed across the room while the others got to their feet and watched.
When she yanked the door open, Gerhardt Shultz was standing on the porch.
In her disappointment it took Rose a moment to remember her manners. “Come in, Gerhardt.”
He stepped in and stared hard at the floor. “I’ve come... with news.”
“Of Fleming?” Rose turned to her husband with a look of triumph. “I told you. Hurry, Gerhardt. What is it?”
“There’s been an accident in Chicago.” The stationmaster cleared his throat.
“Fleming’s been hurt.” She caught the end of her apron and twisted it around her hand. “What happened?”
“Now, now.” Gerhardt held up a hand. “We don’t know if it was Fleming. I just thought you ought to know that someone, a young man, was hit by a train in Chicago.”
“A train? But how? Oh, my poor darling.” Rose clapped a hand to her mouth. “How bad is it?”
The man turned to Gray and Broderick, avoiding the look in Rose’s eyes. “The engineer said there wasn’t a thing he could do. He saw several men weaving in and out along the tracks. He blew the whistle, and one man deliberately dropped down until he was lying right in the path of the train. Like he was daring the train to hit him.”
“No. No. No.” Rose spoke the word like a litany of denial. “It wasn’t Fleming. I would know if he had died. I would feel it here.” She pressed a hand to her heart and closed her eyes, listening to the steady, throbbing beat. “It wasn’t Fleming, Gerhardt. You’ve made a terrible mistake.”
The stationmaster hung his head. “I hope you’re right, Rose. The authorities will do their best to identify the young man. They went through his clothes, but found nothing.”
Rose’s head came up sharply. “Then why did you bother to bring us this news?”
The stationmaster shrugged in discomfort. “Someone said that Fleming had been seen drinking whiskey while playing the piano in a beer garden nearby.”
“A beer garden?” Rose huffed out a breath. “Fleming found work playing music in a gentleman’s club.”
“I only know what I’m told, Rose. A young man reported that Fleming often challenged his friends to lie down on the tracks, and one or two had done so on other occasions. But this night they were too drunk to know whether Fleming had actually joined them, or if he’d had time to jump to safety. Someone saw a man running away just before the train struck, but he didn’t come back to volunteer any information.”
“If Fleming’s friends had been in peril, you know as well as I, Gerhardt, that he would have been the first to come to their aid.”
The stationmaster looked hard at the floor. “Yes, well... as soon as I know more, I’ll come by with the news.”
“Thank you, Gerhardt.” Broderick offered his hand and the stationmaster awkwardly accepted it before turning away.
When the door closed behind him, the others stood in silence, listening to the jingle of harness as the horse and wagon departed.
“It wasn’t Fleming. It wasn’t.” Rose stood twisting her apron around and around her hand. “They’ve made a terrible mistake. I would know if my own son was dead.” She looked at her husband. “I would.”
Broderick lay a hand on her shoulder, his voice gruff with feeling. “You aren’t the only one who’s worried sick, Rose. He’s my son, too. And Grayson’s only brother.”
“Grayson!” She stepped away from her husband’s touch, her eyes narrowed on her older son. “I suppose you’re satisfied now.”
“Rose.” Broderick reached out for her. “Stop this.”
“Why? Why should I stop?” She drew back, her face twisted with pain and rage. “It isn’t fair. Fleming is my whole life. My beautiful, talented son. Everyone knows that it’s so. And now his reputation is being destroyed by these vicious, evil rumors of beer gardens and drinking whiskey. Why?” Tears spilled over, streaming from her eyes. “Why would anyone say such a thing about Fleming? Oh, why did he leave me? He never should have gone away.” She jabbed a finger in Gray’s chest, then doubted her fists and began pummeling him. “Why did it have to be Fleming? Why? Why? Why couldn’t it have been you?”
In the stunned silence that followed her outburst, Gray grabbed her wrists, stilling her movements. His eyes were as dark as thunder.
Like one who’d been clubbed, Broderick stumbled across the room and slumped into a chair, staring at his wife with a look of horror and revulsion, unable to believe the words that had come from her lips.
Fiona pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out.
Without a word Gray released his mother and walked to the backdoor where he retrieved his coat and boots. He walked out the door without looking back.
As the door slammed behind him, Fiona turned away and fled to her room to hide the bitter tears that were scalding her eyes.
* * *
Just before dawn Broderick was sipping his tea in silence, while Rose sat across from him at the table, looking pale and drawn.
Fiona hadn’t managed any sleep. She’d huddled in her bed, listening in vain for the sound of Gray’s footsteps on the porch.
Where had he gone? Was he out there somewhere in the bitter cold, too proud and too battered to return to the shelter of his home? And what of his poor shattered heart? For surely his heart must have been slashed to pieces by the hateful words flung in anger by his mother. What son could endure such pain from the one who’d given him life?
“Tea, Miss Downey?”
She glanced over at Broderick, who looked suddenly old and drawn. “Thank you, no. I couldn’t manage a drop.”
She laced her boots and was busy pulling on her coat when she heard a horse’s hooves. Without realizing it she clutched a hand to her heart, whispering a prayer that it would be Gray. As if in answer, he stomped up the porch and stepped into the kitchen.
For one long moment he looked at her, before looking away. But in that brief second she saw, not defeat, but something very like pride and fierce determination.
Broderick scraped back his chair and stood, laying a hand on his son’s sleeve. “I’ve been worried.”
“No need.” Gray carefully removed his boots and hung his coat. “I’ll stay only long enough to pack my things.”
“Your things?” Rose shot him a challenging look. “Where do you think you’re going?”
He ignored her, choosing instead to address his words to his father. “It’s time I made my own way. I’ve bought Herman Vogel’s farm. I made him an offer last night, and he accepted. He said as soon as he can make arrangements, he’ll leave to join his daughter. In the meantime, I’ll move in and give him a hand with whatever he needs.”
Broderick nodded. “You chose well. He has a fine, sturdy house. Rich soil. It’s a good farm. All it needs is someone to work it.”
“And what about this farm?” Rose was on her feet now, slamming down her cup for emphasis. “How are we supposed to survive with Fleming missing and no one but a crippled old man left to work the land?”
Gray saw his father wince at his mother’s cruel choice of words. “Don’t worry, Papa. With my farm adjoining yours, I’ll be able to plow and harvest your fields along with my own. You know I would never desert you.”
“I know, son. This is the right thing to do. You deserve a place of your own. A chance to follow your own dream.” Broderick surprised them both by drawing an arm around Gray’s neck and drawing him close to mutter thickly, “You have my blessing.”
“Thank you, Papa,” Gray kissed his father’s cheek before walking out of the room and up the stairs.
When Fiona left for the schoolhouse, Rose was slamming pots and p
ans around the kitchen, while Broderick stood by the window, staring off into the distance.
A short time later, as Fiona drew near the school, she saw a horse and wagon heading across the field toward the Vogel farm. Running alongside was Chester, the sound of his baying shattering the morning silence.
She knew that she ought to feel happy for Gray. He would finally be free of his mother’s constant harping. Free of the hateful comparison between himself and his brother. Free, finally, to build something all his own.
It was pure selfishness on her part, she knew, but the joy she ought to feel for him was marred by the knowledge that she would no longer be able to see him, sleepy-eyed, brooding, first thing in the morning, or to watch him, sleeves rolled and shirt straining across his shoulders as he washed before supper each night.
How would she bear not hearing his voice? Not seeing those big, work-roughened hands wrapped around a cup of tea after a day in the fields?
She wanted to be happy for him, and was, she told herself firmly. But as she began another round of morning chores, her poor, battered heart refused to cooperate.
TWENTY
Quiet as a tomb.
Fiona shivered at the thought. Grief seemed to surround the Haydn house like a shroud. If she’d found the loneliness difficult before, it was now oppressive. Without Gray to act as buffer, his parents rarely spoke, except when it was absolutely necessary.
At first she’d tried to break the uncomfortable silence at the supper table with talk of her day. She’d shared little stories of her students, of their misadventures and silly pranks. Gradually she realized that no one was listening. Not Broderick, who ate quickly and silently, before fleeing to the parlor, where he sat in front of the fire smoking his pipe and staring morosely into the flames. Not Rose, who more often than not shoved her plate aside and busied herself at the stove until the others were driven away, leaving her alone with her gloom.
Though both their sons had left them, their ghosts remained, separating these two lonely people into prison cells from which there seemed no escape.
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