His Brother's Bride

by Nancy M Bell

  It wasn’t until later that night Annie had a chance to open Peter’s letter. The words wavered in the lamp light. She forced herself to read it twice before letting it lie in her lap, eyes staring blankly at the night pressed against the window.

  Dear Annie,

  There is no easy way to say this. I have no way of knowing if Mister Miller has contacted you or not, so I thought I should write to you as soon as I could.

  Here, she stopped and pressed a hand to her chest. What on earth would Mister Miller be writing to her for? Her heart beat erratically against her palm. She dropped her eyes to the paper.

  Since I last wrote you I have returned to active duty, albeit a little worse for wear. Just before I left the convalescent home I received a message from George’s captain.

  The writing ended in an ink splotch before continuing on a new line.

  I’m sorry, Annie. I am finding this very hard to write. George’s company was engaged in the big push at Amiens in the beginning of August. From what I can find out, the weather was very bad and prevented the backup that should have supported the infantry. It was near the little town of Marcelcave, maybe you’ve read accounts of the battle in the newspaper by now? It was a great victory for the Allieds.

  Annie clenched her fingers in the quilt. “What aren’t you telling me, Peter? George must have been injured, that’s it and he just doesn’t know how to tell me,” she whispered.

  Annie, I’m so sorry. George was one of the first over the top if the information I have is true. The fighting was fierce and at first he was listed as Missing in Action.

  Her heart tripped in her chest and she swallowed hard. Like Steve, like Steve. No, not like Steve. George is fine, he has to be.

  I just got official word today that my brother was killed in action on the morning of 8th August, 1918. It still doesn’t seem quite real and I regret the time it will take for this letter to reach you. I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but George made me vow to take care of you if something happened to him. He worried that he shouldn’t have made you a promise before enlisting but no one imagined the war would last this long. It was a cause of unrest to him that you were waiting for him and would most likely be considered an old maid if he didn’t return owing to the fact you discouraged interest from other men.

  I have a confession to make, which may seem ill conceived at this point in time. I have always admired you but put my own feelings aside when it was so apparent how you and my brother felt for each other. I am hoping that with time, you will come to feel some affection for me, as I mean to live up to my promise to my brother.

  I will understand if you don’t feel disposed to replying in the near future. In the event I don’t hear, once the war is over (which I pray will be soon) I am headed to British Columbia with a couple of my mates who assure me there will be work for us, one of their uncles being a foreman at Fraser Mills. My address there is below and I will be in touch once things are settled. For the foreseeable future I will be here defending King and Country.

  In closing, I regret being the bearer of such sad news, please know I share in your grief. I have lost my only brother and am quite alone in the world, apart from yourself.

  With much admiration and regret

  Sapper Peter Richardson

  788629

  9th Canadian Rail Troops

  She forced herself to read it twice before letting it lie in her lap, eyes staring blankly at the night pressed against the window. Her dreams lay in shatters around her, scattered like the diamond points of the stars tossed across the ebony sky. George couldn’t be dead, he just couldn’t. Wouldn’t she have known? Felt something? Mother always said I was cursed with the Second Sight, a legacy of her Scottish heritage and Father’s Irish. Why didn’t I feel something? At first the hurt was too deep to allow the tears to come. Bottled up inside her, it cramped her limbs and hobbled her thoughts. Evan’s words about his mates lying in the mud bleeding to death and crying for help plunged her into an almost trance. Images, blurred and erratic skipped across her inner eye, pain, blood, anguish and hopelessness swept over her. Dear God, let it have been quick. If it had to happen, let it have been quick. No solace in any official notice, according to Evan, they always said it was quick and how the loved one died a hero. Even if that was the farthest thing from the truth.

  George was dead, killed in action on some God Forsaken foreign battle field, alone. It was more than she could bear. Brave. Strong. I need to be strong for George. He’d want me to be strong. Annie bit her lip and sat up straighter. She could do this. She could. There was Peter to think about, yes, think about Peter. Poor lad must be heartbroken, the brothers were so close. Annie hugged the knowledge she’d written back to George by return post assuring him of her promise to look out for Peter. Please let that letter have reached him before whatever happened…well…happened. She spent the night sitting cross-legged and dried-eyed in her bed, letter in her lap and her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders.

  The sky was still dark when she heard Evan stirring in the kitchen below. Mechanically, she dressed, after smoothing the letter and placing it in the pages of the Bible by her bed. She went about the usual morning chores of stoking the fire in the cook stove. Evan had already made tea, but not built the fire under the wider part of the stove. Methodically, she sliced bacon off the side in the icebox. Father slaughtered a hog only a week ago, so there was plenty of fresh meat.

  Her brother went off to feed the animals and throw down hay from the loft. Annie turned the rashers of bacon and scrambled a half-dozen eggs in the grease when the meat was done. Sliding the plate into the warming oven, she made a fresh pot of tea and set it on the trivet on the cast iron stove top. Pulling on her coat and stomping into her boots, she headed off to do the morning milking.

  “Annabelle!” Father’s voice hailed her from the kitchen as she entered the mudroom with a pail of fresh milk in each hand. She sighed and set them down. Whatever did he want this early in the morning and her with the cheese still to make.

  “Yes, Father.” She hung her bonnet and coat on a hook, kicked off her barn shoes and smoothed her hair before slipping on her house shoes. Pausing, she took a deep breath before pushing open the door.

  He sat at the kitchen table across from Mother holding a letter in his hand, the London papers spread out before him. The expression on his face puzzled her, a mix between vexation and sympathy.

  “Yes?” She moved toward the stove intending to fetch the plate of bacon and eggs to the table. “Would you like me to toast some bread? Fry up some taters?”

  “Leave that for now, Annabelle. Come sit down,” Father commanded.

  A thread of trepidation skewered through her. What is going on here? She crossed the floor and sat on the edge of a chair.

  “What do you know about this?” Father waved the papers in his hand.

  “I’m sorry?” Annie frowned. “What do I know about what?”

  “I have a letter and a telegram which has taken a while to reach me.” He paused and regarded her thoughtfully. “The telegram is to inform me that George Richardson was killed in action. The letter is from his brother Peter, informing me of the same and in the same breath asking for your hand in marriage. Some promise he made to his dead brother. What do you know of this?”

  “I had a letter from Peter that arrived yesterday informing me of George’s death.” She was proud her voice didn’t break. “Why did the telegram take so long and why in heaven’s name was it sent to you?”

  Father heaved a long sigh. “It seems your friend listed me as his next of kin, but didn’t give the army our new address. This telegram went first to Renfrew, then to Eganville and finally routed here.”

  “Oh,” Annie’s voice was faint.

  “I gather you have, I beg your pardon, had, an understanding with George Richardson before he enlisted and went overseas.” Father fixed her with a gimlet eye.

  “That’s true. I just found out last night he isn’t coming
home.” She blinked hard and willed back the tears stinging the inside of her nose.

  “And what of this proposal from the younger Richardson boy? What do you know of this?”

  Annie glanced at her mother, who refused to meet her eye and poured more tea into her cup, stirring in sugar with a small silver spoon.

  “The first I heard of it was in his letter which I received only last night. I did promise George that I’d look out for Peter if anything happened to him and he didn’t come home. But marriage…?”

  “I see.” Father pursed his lips and tapped a long finger on the table regarding her as he might a horse or cow he was considering purchasing. “I see,” he repeated. “And what do you think of this idea, Annabelle?”

  “Why I’ve barely had time to accept that George isn’t coming home. I haven’t given the other matter much thought,” she admitted. Marry Peter? Well, I suppose I could do worse.

  “I’ve been concerned about your social standing in the community for a while now. I’ve had certain gentlemen express, shall we say an interest, in you, but you’ve rebuffed them all. If you keep on this way you’re going to end up an old maid. Why Hetty was saying just the other day how you were rude to Clarence’s brother when he asked you to dinner—”

  “Hetty!” Annie surged to her feet. “What does Hetty have to say about my private life?” Anger flared through her, lending her courage to speak her mind. “I’d sooner die an old maid than have anything to do with that dry stick of a man, Frederick Lucas. For that matter, what Hetty sees in that husband of hers is beyond me, but that’s her business.”

  “Sit down, Annabelle. And mind your tongue when you speak to me,” Father commanded her. “Sit!”

  Reluctantly, she sat. “Yes, Father.”

  “Now, your mother and I have spoken this morning, and all in all, we are of the mind that I shall respond to Mister Peter Richardson’s letter in a positive manner.” He held up a hand to forestall her protest when she opened her mouth. “Although, he is admittedly below our social standing, he has acquitted himself admirably in the defense of King and Country. And given your rebuttal of any eligible male in the vicinity, your prospects are, to say the least, limited. We feel it is in your best interest to accept this proposal. We must make the best of a bad situation. I will respond post haste with an affirmative, and then we can iron out the details once the boy returns to Canada.”

  “Do I get a say in this?” Annie glared at her father.

  “Not really, no. You are unmarried and living under my roof and protection, so no. You have no say.” Father picked up the newspaper signalling the end of the conversation.

  Annie knew better than to push the situation when he was in that mood. She’d hadn’t had time to even think clearly about Peter’s idea. And, she did promise George to look after his brother. In silence she got the bacon and eggs from the warming oven and filled a plate for her parents and then added two for Evan and Ivan when they came through the door after chores. Taking a handful of biscuits from the larder, she went out the door.

  “Annie! Aren’t you going to have breakfast?” Ivan called after her.

  “Leave her be,” Father’s voice followed her.

  She walked stiff-legged toward the barn. Once there, she broke into a run and raced pell mell down the lane toward Doe Lake. The breath burned in her lungs and her vision blurred with unshed tears. Her bare feet hit the soft sand of the Sprucedale Road then she was past it and pelting down the track leading to Dean’s cottages. Just before she reached the buildings Annie angled off to the left following a deer path to a granite promontory shaded by a stand of white pine. She dropped to her knees in the soft bed of shed needles, hands digging into forest loam. White lights flared before her eyes while she fought for breath, forcing her tight muscles to draw oxygen into her starving lungs. Finally, her emotions settled, having run their course for the moment. She had no idea how long she’d laid on the forest floor; long enough to be stiff and cold. Annie crawled from the piney shade out onto the sun warmed granite out crop overlooking the mirror still water of the large lake.

  Willing herself not to think, not to feel, Annie tracked the journey of the sun across the cerulean blue October sky. She squinted at its position and reckoned it was just past noon. Time seemed to have no meaning at the moment. The air cooled as the afternoon waned, forcing her to attend to the needs of her body. At some point, she’d have to return to the house. Face the music, so to speak. She sighed deeply and gave in to the anguish battering to be set free. Later, how much later she wasn’t sure, Annie’s tears of grief subsided and she was left with a terrible emptiness where the anger and grief had resided. How am I to go on? All the dreams, dead and gone, with George. Should I go along with it and marry Peter? What does it matter? What does anything matter? I suppose I must marry someone, so why not Peter. I’ll sleep on it, maybe things will be clearer in the morning.

  “Are you well?” The man’s voice speaking broken English startled her to her feet.

  “What? Oh, hello, Aapeli. On your way home from work are you?”

  The tall broad shouldered Finlander nodded. “You alright? You sure?” His gaze took in her rumpled clothing and dishevelled hair. “You no hurt?” Aapeli glanced around, looking for a possible assailant, she supposed.

  “I’m fine, Aapeli,” she assured him. “I just received some bad news, is all.”

  The big man set down his lunch container and sat cross-legged on the stone looking out over the lake where the sun turned the waters to molten gold. “You come sit. Tell Aapeli. Grief shared is grief halved.” He patted the warm granite at his side.

  Annie joined him, watching the sunset spread across the lake and surrounding bush. It was so very beautiful it seemed unfair such wonder should exist in a world that saw fit to take George from her. They sat in companionable silence while the evening wind stirred the pine boughs behind them. She’d often spoken with Aapeli and his wife Ana when running errands for Father. The Finlanders came up to the house whenever someone was injured or ill, and Annie was often pressed into service to deliver Father’s potions and medicines. A small community lived in the cottages Gordon Dean owned clustered on the shores of the lake. Gentle waves lapped at the sandy beach in front of the small cabins. Already smoke drifted from the chimneys.

  Annie poured her heart out to the silent man beside her. Aapeli was one her favourites, he often helped her doctor wild creatures she found in the bush. Nothing dangerous of course, but orphaned raccoons and squirrels, baby rabbits. The big man had a heart as big as his girth.

  When she finally fell silent, Annie felt marginally better, although no less confused about how to go forward.

  “You love him, this soldier who comes no more?” The tone was soft, his gaze never leaving the play of light on the lake.

  “I did, I do.” She sniffed and wiped her nose on the hem of her skirt.

  “And this brother of his, the one who asks for your hand? What feel you for him?”

  “I don’t know! That’s more than half the problem,” she cried, throwing up her hands. “I’ve known him as long as I’ve known George. He’s closer to my age than his brother, and of course I feel affection for him. But enough to marry him? Spend my life with him?”

  “What of this promise you spoke of? This Peter, he made promise too?”

  “Yes, I suppose he did,” Annie admitted. Tipping her head to the side, she looked up at him. “What would you do, Aapeli? What would you do?”

  “Me? I am simple man. I would feel honour to keep promise made to dead man.” He shrugged. “But that is me.” He got to his feet and offered Annie a hand up. “I go now, Ana will worry if I late come home.”

  Annie took the proffered hand and scrambled to her feet. “Yes, don’t cause Ana any worry on my account. Thank you for listening, my friend.”

  The big Finlander smiled at her and ruffled her hair. In her haste, she’d forgotten to take her bonnet from the hook in the back room. “You go too, dark comi
ng. You alright home alone?”

  Annie nodded and Aapeli disappeared into the gloom under the pines. The light was fading and Annie hurried her steps back to the track leading toward the Sprucedale Road. All manner of hunters were out once the dark fell under the trees. None of them would mean her any harm unless she stumbled across them, but she had no wish to run into a bear, or a pack of coyotes or wolves. By the time she reached the barn gate the sun was behind the trees.

  Entering the barn, she was surprised to see the milking was already done. Evan or Ivan must have taken care of it for her. Pulling the double doors shut again she walked up the path toward the house.

  Annie went about the motions of helping with supper and the clearing up afterward. Outwardly calm, or at least she hoped that was the case, her emotions were in turmoil. Nothing would ever fill the void left by George’s death, of that she was sure. She was fond of Peter, but was fondness strong enough to build a life on? For the life of her, Annie couldn’t come to a decision. One part of her wanted to crawl into a hole and die; another part thought living out her days as a spinster would be just fine. But, that would mean living under Father’s roof and she was pretty sure if she didn’t go along with his demand she take Peter up on his offer her life would be a living hell. Not to mention Hetty needling her every chance she got. The thought of Hetty distracted her for a moment. Rotha’s last letter from Trenton included the information she had met a certain young man who more than caught her fancy. Perhaps there would be another Baldwin wedding to distract her parents, other than Annie’s, of course. It didn’t look as if Evan and Frances had any immediate plans at the moment.

  She fell into bed exhausted and barely remembered pulling the quilts up. Instead of restful sleep, Annie walked in a green wood, frothy white apple and choke cherry blossoms gleaming against the brilliant spring leaves. The earth under her bare feet was warmish and gave off a pleasant loamy scent. Everything was so tactile and alive; it was unlike a normal dream. Annie recognized the strange feeling of a sending or as her grandmother explained, a vision of sorts brought on by the Second Sight.