Even as she ran, she watched events unfold as if living out a bad dream. She recognized the exact moment the adults of the party became aware of what was going on. Their mouths dropped open—first in shock, then in horror—as the pony and its rider bore down on them like a cavalry charge. Shrieks from several women rent the air, joining the cries of the excited children behind her.
The low fieldstone wall lay directly in Clarence’s path. Melanie redoubled her speed and called his name again, knowing as she did so that he couldn’t possibly hear her over the pounding of the creature’s hoofbeats and the mingled screams.
Melanie continued moving forward, although something seemed to be dragging at her limbs, as if she were trying to run through the waters of the Muskingum. For one moment, she felt sure Clarence was going to guide the pony away at the last second. Instead he kicked the animal’s ribs and leaned forward, urging it to jump the low wall. But rather than jumping, the pony shied away and slid to the right.
As in a haze, she watched Clarence part company with the pony and tumble through the air over the wall. The pony skidded to a stop, allowing Melanie to hear the thump when Clarence landed on the turf. His body bounced slightly upon impact; then he lay still.
On the other side of the wall, Mr. Deaver ran toward his son, his wife only steps behind him. A handful of servants brought up the rear.
The Deavers reached the boy a few seconds ahead of Melanie, who had to slow down to climb over the wall. Clarence’s mother took one look at her son’s still form, let out a shriek, and fainted dead away. Her husband caught her before she hit the ground and scooped her up in his arms.
“Arthur,” he barked at one of the footmen, “carry Master Clarence inside, and then send for the doctor. Bertram, go get smelling salts for Mrs. Deaver.”
Turning to leave with his wife in arms, he caught sight of Melanie. His anxious features froze into an icy mask. “Miss Ross, see that the other children are dealt with. As soon as you’ve done that, report to Clarence’s room.”
2
By the time Melanie calmed her frightened charges, returned them to their equally distraught parents, and gave Olivia into the care of one of the housemaids, the doctor had arrived and been ushered upstairs to Clarence’s bedroom.
She ascended the back stairs and made her way along the third-floor hallway, feeling her feet drag more with every step. What would she find when she reached the boy’s room? She shuddered, remembering Clarence’s landing on the unforgiving ground, the thump, the bounce . . . and the awful stillness that followed.
Dark thoughts tumbled through her mind. Was Clarence still alive? Alive, but crippled? Dread gripped her, and she stumbled. Young Clarence was a mischief-maker—no doubt about it—never happier than when stirring up trouble for the servants, for his sister, and for Melanie herself. But he was still a child, a much-loved son.
And he had been in her charge.
She reached the end of the hallway and paused outside the open door, taking a moment to gather her courage. Low tones filtered from the bedroom into the hall.
“Will he live?” Distress sharpened Mrs. Deaver’s voice.
“Of course he’ll live, Eleanor.” Melanie recognized the doctor’s gruff tone. “A sprained shoulder never killed anyone, at least not in my experience. As far as I can tell, a few bumps and bruises are the only other injuries he has. Your son is a very lucky young man.”
Mrs. Deaver’s grateful sobs echoed the relief in Melanie’s heart. Feeling somewhat reassured, she took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway.
Clarence lay on his bed, his face nearly as pale as the starched white sheets. Strips of bandage wrapped around his body, binding his right arm to his side. His mother knelt at the far side of the bed, clutching his free hand and weeping. The doctor stood with his back to Melanie, returning his instruments to his black leather bag.
At the foot of the bed, Clarence Sr. loomed like a bird of prey, his features taut with anger. “How did this happen, son? That’s what I want to know.”
“Don’t be too hard on him, dear,” Mrs. Deaver pleaded. “He needs to rest.”
Her husband ignored her, never taking his eyes off the boy. “What were you thinking? How could you be so foolish as to get on that pony, especially after your mother gave you strict instructions not to?”
Clarence’s lips trembled as he met his father’s stony glare, and he spoke in a piteous tone. “Miss Ross told me I could.”
Melanie’s gasp announced her presence. All three adults in the room swiveled their heads in her direction, awaiting an explanation. Robbed of speech, Melanie could only stand rooted to the spot, shaking her head.
On the opposite side of the bed, Mrs. Deaver caught her breath in a loud sob. “After we placed such confidence in you? How could you?”
Trying to shake off the sense of unreality, Melanie tore her gaze from their accusing faces and looked down at Clarence, who stared up at her with guileless blue eyes.
His shameless duplicity loosened her tongue. “Mr. Deaver, that is not the way it happened. Tell them the truth, Clarence.”
With a quick glance to make sure the adults were not looking at him, Clarence met Melanie’s gaze straight on and gave her an insolent grin, the same kind she’d seen the time he denied putting spiders down the neck of his sister’s dress.
He’d gotten away with that misdeed, but she wasn’t going to let it happen again.
Mr. Deaver’s harsh tone cut across her musings. “And what exactly is the truth, Miss Ross?”
Melanie felt a rush of heat flood her cheeks. “I was tending the children—all seven of them—as directed, making sure I kept the boys away from the stable. I turned around, and Clarence was gone. The next thing I knew, he was on the pony, heading straight for you and your guests. I tried to stop him, but he kicked Prince in the sides and made him run even faster.” She spread her hands. “You saw what happened next.”
A little of the starch went out of Mr. Deaver, and he turned his attention back to the bed. “Is this true, son?”
Clarence twisted his face into a grimace and manufactured a plaintive moan, which elicited another sob from his mother.
“Is it true?” Mr. Deaver repeated. “Did you take your pony out without Miss Ross’s knowledge?”
Clarence pushed out his lower lip and blinked his eyes until tears appeared along the lower lids. “I know I wasn’t supposed to, Father. I just wanted to show you how well I could ride so you’d be proud of me.” He whimpered again. “I was doing fine until she came running after me, waving her arms and shouting. That’s what made Prince shy like that. That’s what made me fall off. It never would have happened if she hadn’t scared us both.”
Melanie stared openmouthed at the little prevaricator, her mind in a whirl. She cast her thoughts back to the moment she’d spotted Clarence on his pony. In her mind’s eye, she could see it all clearly—the way she’d run across the grass at top speed, skirts bunched up in her hands, calling the boy’s name and demanding he stop.
A sick feeling washed over her, and her assurance wavered. Had she been responsible for the accident?
Mr. Deaver seemed to read the uncertainty on her face, and his lips tightened. “We entrusted our children to your care because we believed we could rely on you. Obviously, that confidence was misplaced. This afternoon’s debacle is an example of a deplorable lack of judgment at best . . . and extreme negligence at worst.”
“But . . . but . . .” Melanie struggled to find her voice. She stretched out her hand to Mrs. Deaver. They had always been on cordial enough terms. Surely she could count on her as an ally now.
The look she received in return showed Melanie she had miscalculated. This was no longer the face of a woman who wanted someone to mind her children while she flitted from party to party, focused on bolstering her husband’s political aspirations. This was the face of a mother tigress whose favorite cub had been injured. Mrs. Deaver gathered Clarence to her bosom and fixed Melanie wi
th an icy stare. “I can never trust you with my children again. Ever. You obviously have no idea what you’re doing.”
Melanie reeled as though she had received a physical blow.
Mr. Deaver pointed toward the door. “Pack your things, Miss Ross. I want you out of this house today.”
Melanie fumbled for the doorframe and gripped it hard. Her vision went gray, but she heard his voice clearly enough through the fog that seemed to have settled into the room. “I’ll see to it that you never again find employment as a governess in Marietta—or anywhere in the state of Ohio.”
Melanie pushed away from the doorjamb and blinked back the fog. The mist cleared in time to see a triumphant gleam in young Clarence’s eyes as she turned to leave.
Thirty minutes later, Melanie set the last of her neatly folded blouses atop the other clothing in her small trunk and fastened the latches. Retrieving her crumpled handkerchief from the dressing table, she dabbed at her eyes, but the sodden linen square did little to wipe the moisture away. She reached into her open carpetbag to pull out a fresh handkerchief and swiped at her face again.
Catching sight of herself in the oval mirror, she took in her red-rimmed eyes and swollen cheeks and shook herself. Tears wouldn’t remedy her situation. If they could, the number she had shed since leaving Clarence’s bedroom ought to have made a drastic change in her circumstances. But nothing had altered since Mr. Deaver gave the order to leave. Her fate had been sealed.
From the reactions of the other servants she’d encountered on her way back to her room, she suspected one of the maids had been listening outside the door and wasted no time in spreading the word of her dismissal. A sympathetic smile from any of the staff would have been a welcome balm, but their stoic expressions and downcast eyes, averted as if she were some sort of pariah, denied her even that small comfort. Once again, she was reminded of the distinction between a governess and the rest of the household staff—not ranking high enough to be considered part of the family but too high to have any friends among the other servants.
Melanie cast a glance around the small room that had been her home for the past year, wondering if she had forgotten anything in her haste to pack. She had no way of leaving a forwarding address, so if she left anything behind it would be gone forever. Her abrupt sacking left her with no time to make plans, and she hadn’t the slightest idea where she would spend that night, let alone what place she would call home in the future.
Mr. Deaver had made his position clear enough: Her days as a governess were over. He prided himself on being a man of influence, and his vow to blacklist her had been no idle threat. He had the clout to do exactly as he promised, and Melanie had no doubt he would follow through on his threat. Any hope of employment in Marietta was closed to her.
But where would she go? She clamped her hands against her mouth and caught her breath in a ragged sob. How she longed to pour her heart out to her beloved grandparents, whose wise counsel had never failed to bring relief during her growing-up years. But if her grandparents were still living, she wouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place.
A low moan escaped her lips. With no family or close friends to call upon, her options weren’t just limited, they were nonexistent. What was she to do with her life now? Melanie felt another spate of tears coming on and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.
The thought of family reminded her of the few treasured keepsakes she had tucked away in the bottom of her carpetbag. Rummaging under her toiletry items and a lawn nightgown, she pulled out the slim box and spread its contents on her dressing table. Her throat constricted when she looked at the meager collection: her mother’s cameo brooch, a pair of blue hair ribbons, a packet of envelopes—reminders of a hope-filled girlhood and happier times.
Melanie slipped the top envelope loose from the ribbon holding it in place and smiled despite her misery when she looked at the familiar handwriting. The last letter from her cousin George, written a year ago, just after she had come to work for the Deavers. Her last living relative at the time, George had gone to his reward only eight months after writing the letter, making this final missive doubly precious.
Though knowing she ought to finish packing her carpetbag instead of reminiscing, Melanie slid the thin sheet of paper from the envelope, filled with a longing to relive her last connection with someone who loved her.
Dear Melanie,
It has been far too long since I wrote. I have no excuse for ignoring you, other than things have been busy here in Cedar Ridge. Staying on top of business at the mercantile keeps both Alvin and me hopping like a couple of old bullfrogs.
You sounded a mite lonely in your last letter, Melly-girl. I know life has handed you some hard knocks, but remember that as long as I’m around, there’s someone in this world who loves you. What’s mine is yours. Anytime you want to shake free of Ohio and come out here to Arizona, there’s a job and a place to stay waiting for you. Your pretty face would do a lot to brighten up the store, and we could always use your help.
Next time I see you, I’ll have some new ribbons for your hair, unless you’re too grown up to use those any longer. If that’s the case, you can have your pick of anything the store has to offer. Nothing is too good for my Melly-girl.
Your loving cousin,
George
Melanie pressed the letter to her chest and stifled a sob. The son of her father’s oldest brother, George had been closer to her parents’ age, more of an uncle than a cousin to her. How she had treasured his infrequent visits while she was growing up, when he would hold her spellbound for hours with tales of his travels and adventures in mining camps around the West. Even after he settled down to run a mercantile with his longtime mining partner, Alvin Nelson, his letters had been a bright spot in her life.
If only he were still alive! Shortly after her grandparents passed away, she had considered going out to live with George. Instead, she decided to seek employment as a governess—one of the few occupations available to genteel young women of straitened means—thinking that by staying in the area where she grew up, she could maintain a sense of security among familiar surroundings. Melanie looked at her packed trunk and felt her throat swell. So much for security.
She dropped her hands into her lap and looked out the window. “Lord, why did you have to take him away?” If George were alive, she’d head west in a heartbeat.
A wistful sigh escaped her lips. She bent her head again and skimmed the letter once more, smiling at the way her cousin’s love for her showed in every line. Her lips curved even more at the mention of the hair ribbons. And the promise of work and a roof over her head—wouldn’t that be lovely?
Even though she’d never expected to take George up on his suggestion to join him, just knowing a home was there if she ever needed it had been a comfort on the days when her duties as a governess had become almost unbearable. In her present circumstances, it would be far more than mere comfort—it would be a lifesaver.
Sliding the letter inside the envelope, she pushed it back into the packet with the rest. Its edge caught on another envelope, forcing it out the other end of the stack. Melanie pulled the letter free and smoothed it flat on the desktop, her heart hammering when she recognized the return address.
Dated just after last Christmas, this one had been written by Alvin Nelson, George’s partner in the Ross-Nelson Mercantile, telling her of George’s passing and effectively severing her last tie to a living relation.
She scanned the first part of the letter quickly, remembering its painful news all too well. Then her eyes fastened on a paragraph farther down the page:
George was the best pard a man could ever have, and I mean to be as true a friend to him as he was to me. I know how much you meant to him. Every time he showed me that tintype of you as a little tyke, I could hear the pride in his voice when he called you his Melly-girl. I want you to know I’ve kept everything he left behind, and it’s all yours. I’ll be sure to keep it safe, should
you choose to come out and claim it—and I hope you do. I would be most pleased to make your acquaintance and get to know the young cousin he talked about so much.
Your obedient servant,
Alvin Nelson
In her initial grief at learning of her cousin’s passing, Alvin’s invitation hadn’t even registered, but now Melanie’s fingers tightened on the paper in her hand as she stared unseeing at the wall before her, phrases from the letter dancing through her mind.
“I’ve kept everything he left behind. . . . I’ll keep it safe, should you choose to come out and claim it.”
A seed of hope sent up a fragile tendril. Cousin George might have departed this mortal coil, but perhaps his promise could hold true after all. Alvin Nelson was a man George liked and trusted. A caring soul, from the sound of his missive. After all, he had extended an invitation for her to travel to Arizona to meet him and claim whatever George had left behind.
Melanie’s breath quickened. Once they met, mightn’t that invitation expand into an offer to stay on and work in the mercantile? George’s letter indicated they would be glad for some additional help. Wouldn’t that hold doubly true, now that Alvin Nelson was left to run the store on his own?
Her imagination soared, picturing her arrival at the mercantile and Mr. Nelson’s warm greeting. She could almost hear him asking her to stay on, offering her a job and a place to live. Everything would work out. It had to. And wouldn’t it be lovely? All she had to do was get to Arizona. . . .
The reminder of her circumstances punctured the happy scene she’d been imagining as effectively as a pin pricking a child’s balloon. Alvin Nelson might be willing to take her under his wing and give her a home as she hoped, but the fact remained that she would have to travel to Arizona before that could happen. And she couldn’t do that without money for train fare.
Tears filled her eyes once more. Her employment ran to room and board, plus a small monthly stipend for personal expenses. She didn’t need to check her small purse to know the amount there wouldn’t cover the cost of a train ticket. The purchase of a much-needed cloak in January had eaten up most of her savings, and the meager amount she’d managed to put by since then would barely cover a night’s lodging, let alone train fare for a cross-country journey.
Carol Cox Page 2