by Lynn Austin
‘‘You did? I don’t understand. How is it that you still have them?’’
‘‘I gave one set to Matthew and Samuel to read and kept the other set for myself. The boys loved reading them when they were young.’’ She smiled, remembering.
‘‘I did, too,’’ Gabe murmured, still leafing through one of them. ‘‘I grew up on these books. They’re one of the reasons I decided to make writing my life’s work.’’
‘‘Well, isn’t that a coincidence?’’ Aunt Batty exclaimed. ‘‘These are Herman’s life’s work! You remind me a little bit of him.’’
‘‘You knew Herman Walters?’’ he asked in amazement.
‘‘Oh yes. Very well. In fact he wrote every single one of these books in my little stone cottage down by the pond.’’
I decided it was time I jumped into the discussion. ‘‘That’s a little hard to believe, Aunt Batty. He was a very famous writer, and—’’
‘‘Wow!’’ Gabe cried, interrupting me. ‘‘You have all of Betsy Gibson’s books, too?’’ He had pulled himself over to the edge of the bed and was sorting through a second box of books. ‘‘I didn’t realize Miss Gibson had written this many!’’
‘‘Yes, she wrote sixty-two of them down in my little cottage.’’
‘‘Don’t tell me you knew Betsy Gibson, too?’’ I said skeptically.
‘‘Yes, she was a very close friend of mine—but you won’t tell anyone, will you, Toots? It can be our little secret.’’
Gabe and I both stared at her, unsure whether to believe her or not. As a girl, I had read every Betsy Gibson book that I could get my hands on. They were wholesome tales of spunky young girls who went looking for adventure and love—and usually learned an important moral lesson along the way. I had convinced myself that I could be as brave as one of her heroines the day I stepped off the train in Deer Springs. But could Aunt Batty really have known the author of all those books? I remembered the desk that took up her whole dining room and the huge typewriter, big as you please, sitting on top of it. I dug into a third box of books.
‘‘What about all these other authors,’’ I said, testing her. ‘‘Jack London, Mark Twain, Charles Dickens. Did they write all their books down in your little cottage, too?’’
‘‘Don’t be silly! I never met thosepeople!’’
‘‘But you knew Betsy Gibson andHerman Walters?’’ I asked.
‘‘Oh yes. Quite well. But to tell you the truth, I always liked Mr. Walters just a wee bit better. He was the more adventuresome of the two.’’
Gabe leaned back against the pillows and laughed. ‘‘This is unbelievable! Your cottage was a writing haven for Herman Walters? Now I can’t wait to repair that roof.’’
I remembered the information that Gabe had just let slip and saw my chance to learn more about him. ‘‘I couldn’t help noticing that you carry around a typewriter, Gabe. It seemed like a very unusual thing for a hobo to have. You say writing is your life’s work, too?’’ His grin faded away.
Aunt Batty clapped her hands in delight. ‘‘Oh, are you a writer? How wonderful! What kinds of things do you write?’’
I could see Gabe was reluctant to answer, but as he gazed from the book in his hand to Aunt Batty in obvious awe, he finally confessed. ‘‘I’m a journalist. I do free-lance work for the Chicago Tribuneand sometimes for the Saturday Evening Post.’’
‘‘And are you down on your luck at the moment,’’ she asked, ‘‘or is this your disguise?’’
‘‘I was doing research, Aunt Batty. I’m writing about the hobo life, and all the interesting people I’ve met who ride the rails.’’
‘‘I never would have guessed!’’ she said. ‘‘You look just like a real tramp with all that shaggy hair—and you even smell like one!’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ he said, smiling slightly. ‘‘Actually, I’ve been on the road for quite a while and my story is nearly finished. I was working my way back to Chicago to submit the piece to my editor when I had this little mishap with my leg.’’
‘‘Well, as long as you’re going to be laid up awhile,’’ Aunt Batty said, ‘‘why don’t you type up your story and mail it from here? I’ll be glad to give you a hand. What do you need, some typing paper? Maybe a little table to set your typewriter on? We can fix everything up for him, can’t we, Toots?’’
‘‘I guess so,’’ I said. Aunt Batty made it sound like such a simple matter that it was pretty hard for either Gabe or me to turn her down.
She lugged her great big typewriter up the hill to my house that very day, insisting that it was much better than Gabe’s little old rickety one, along with a stack of typing paper. Gabe worked on and off all that week, as often as his fever allowed. He still tired very easily, and he would have to stop every so often and sleep, but then I’d hear him typing again, sometimes in the middle of the night.
By the time I drove into town for my appointment with Mr. Wakefield, Gabe’s story was all finished. Aunt Batty wrapped it all up in a package and I took it with me to the Deer Springs post office and mailed it off to Chicago.
We have a problem, Eliza.’’ The first words out of the lawyer’s mouth sent a shiver through me. I didn’t need any more problems. I had more than enough problems as it was. How could God even think about heaping any more on me?
‘‘Are you aware that your father-in-law was speculating rather heavily on the commodities market?’’ Mr. Wakefield asked.
‘‘I don’t know anything about his business dealings. Is that like playing the stock market?’’
‘‘It’s similar, but it involves speculating on farm commodities rather than on corporate stock. Unfortunately, commodities traders can lose a great deal more money than they’ve invested—and it seems that Frank lost his entire life’s savings.’’
‘‘So there’s no money at all? How will I pay back Mr. Preston at the Savings and Loan?’’
Mr. Wakefield’s mournful face reminded me of a heavyhearted bloodhound. ‘‘I’m sorry, but that money will still have to be paid within ninety days or the bank’s creditors will take possession. Some folks are holding auctions and selling off their equipment to raise funds. But I have to warn you, with this economic depression we’re in, they’re not getting anywhere near what the equipment is worth. That goes for farm acreage, too, I’m afraid.’’
I was much too shocked and stunned to cry. ‘‘So...so you’re telling me that...except for the orchard and all the equipment— I’m broke?’’
Mr. Wakefield closed his eyes for a moment before he continued. I wondered if he was praying. ‘‘I’m afraid it’s even worse than that, Eliza. Now, I know that Sam intended for the farm to go to you and the children, but your husband passed away before his father did, so Frank’s will has priority. I’m sorry to tell you this, but Frank willed everything to his elder son, Matthew Wyatt. The estate would pass to his second son, Samuel, and his family only in the event that Matthew died without an heir. Frank’s will makes no mention of you or your children. Evidently it was drawn up quite some time ago.’’
‘‘What are you saying?’’
‘‘Matthew Wyatt is the legal owner of Wyatt Orchards, not you. Until Matthew renounces all claims to his inheritance, we can’t transfer the title to anyone else.’’
‘‘Matthew! But he’s dead, isn’t he?’’
‘‘Well, I don’t know. It’s my understanding that Matthew enlisted in the Army around 1916 or ’17 and fought over in France, but Frank never mentioned anything about him dying. In fact, the memorial plaque at church lists the names of all the local boys who gave their lives, and Matthew Wyatt’s name isn’t on there. I hoped you knew where he’d settled after the war so I could contact him.’’
I shook my head. ‘‘Neither my husband nor his father would ever talk about him. Not one word. I always figured it was because they were too grief-stricken. I figured Matthew was dead and—’’ I stopped, remembering how I’d made the same assumption about my mother.
; ‘‘Perhaps he is dead, Eliza. But according to the law, I’ll need to see a death certificate before I can transfer the deed over to you.’’
‘‘So now what do I do?’’
‘‘Well, I suggest you go home and try to locate some family records. See if the army sent a death notice for example, or if there’s been any other correspondence with Matthew over the years, perhaps with a return address. In the meantime, I’ll write to Washington. Their records will tell us if Matthew was killed in action or if he was discharged.’’
‘‘How long will that take? The bank wants the money in ninety days.’’
‘‘I’m sorry, but this may take some time. And I can’t move forward with Alvin Greer’s offer to purchase since the orchard isn’t in your name.’’
I was relieved to finally hear at least one bit of good news. I didn’t want to sell the orchard to Alvin Greer, even if he would let us live there.
‘‘But from what I can tell after looking through Frank’s papers,’’ Mr. Wakefield said sadly, ‘‘everything belongs to Matthew— the house, the land, the tractor, and all the other equipment...even the truck.’’
I’d never hated Frank Wyatt as much as I did at that moment. He had not only robbed my children of their father, but now he was robbing them of their inheritance, giving everything that rightfully belonged to them to an ungrateful son who’d left home years ago.
‘‘What about all those years that my husband worked for his father,’’ I cried, ‘‘slaving away in all kinds of weather to help him run that place? What about all the backbreaking work Sam did while Matthew was who-knows-where? Doesn’t that count for anything? My husband diedworking for his father, and you’re telling me his children get nothing?’’
‘‘I’m sorry, Eliza...Iunderstand how you feel....’’
‘‘No, you don’t! That orchard is my home, my children’s home!’’ I battled my tears, determined not to cry, but a stray drop rolled down my cheek in spite of my efforts. Mr. Wakefield’s eyes seemed a little watery, too.
‘‘Once we find Matthew Wyatt,’’ he said, ‘‘I’ll do my best to convince him that you and your children deserve fair compensation for all the work Samuel did. But realistically, Mrs. Wyatt, you know you would never be able to run Wyatt Orchards by yourself. Perhaps Frank knew that, too.’’
The only thing Frank knew was that I was an outsider, and he hated me for it. This was his way of punishing Sam for not marrying well and adding even more land to his little kingdom. I understood that. But what I couldn’t understand was how any man could disinherit his own grandchildren—his own flesh and blood.
When I reached home I sat out in the driveway in the truck— Matthew’s truck—letting my emotions simmer down before going inside. I felt like spitting on Frank Wyatt’s grave. It was so unfair! I was more determined than ever to hang on to this land and this home that were rightfully mine. I had to find out what had happened to Matthew Wyatt. But the way I felt right now, if it turned out Matthew was alive, I was angry enough to murder him myself.
I started off by searching Frank’s office. He’d kept careful records of every business transaction, every invoice, every receipt for the past twenty years, it seemed. But there was not so much as a scrap of paper with Matthew’s name on it—let alone a letter or a mailing address.
When I finished that search to no avail, I got a stepladder and climbed up to the attic. As I looked around at the piles of discarded furniture, dusty boxes, and old steamer trunks, I couldn’t help thinking about the comment Aunt Batty had made at Frank’s funeral: ‘‘There’s a huge load of grief up in the attic of this house.’’She didn’t know the half of it.
I dug through a mountain of stuff, searching for old photo albums, letters, or any other memorabilia I could find that might mention Matthew. It was much too cold to stay up there for very long, so I carried any box that looked promising downstairs to the parlor.
‘‘Well, will you look at this,’’ Aunt Batty said, pulling an old beaded purse from one of the boxes. ‘‘This belonged to my sister, Lydia. Oh, I can see her now—this purse on one arm and a beau on the other. My, how that girl loved to dance.’’
‘‘Aunt Batty, will you please look through these pictures with me?’’ I asked when I unearthed a family photo album. ‘‘Maybe you can tell me who all these people are.’’ Some of the pictures had captions below them, written in white ink on the black pages, but most did not. I realized that I not only had never met Matthew Wyatt, I’d never even seen a picture of him.
‘‘Wait, let me get my spectacles first.’’ She retrieved them, then sat beside me on the sofa with Becky perched on her lap. The three of us paged through the album together. ‘‘A lot of these are Frank Wyatt’s relations,’’ Aunt Batty said as we studied the first few pages.
‘‘I never knew he had relatives here in Deer Springs until the other day,’’ I said. ‘‘Mrs. Greer surprised me when she said she was Frank’s cousin.’’
‘‘Oh, there are still a few of them around. You know Julia Foster, the sheriff’s wife? She’s another Wyatt cousin.’’
‘‘Is there a picture of Lydia in here?’’ I asked, leafing ahead through the book. My mother-in-law was another mystery I’d never understood. Both Sam and his father would clam right up if I tried to ask questions about her. But then, I didn’t want to answer any questions about my own past either, so I’d learned to let sleeping dogs lie.
‘‘Let me see....Here, this is my sister, Lydia.’’
‘‘Oh, she’s beautiful!’’ The woman Aunt Batty pointed to was not at all the sturdy, hard-working farmer’s wife I had expected to see. Lydia was so lovely she took my breath away. I stared at my mother-in-law’s face for the first time, unable to take my eyes off her. Hers was a delicate kind of beauty that was both innocent and alluring at the same time.
‘‘You would never know we were sisters, would you?’’ Aunt Batty said, chuckling to herself.
I glanced at Aunt Batty and saw little resemblance except for the sisters’ arched eyebrows and delicate bones. I studied Lydia’s dark eyes and graceful brows, her irresistible smile, searching for a resemblance between my husband and his mother. But I couldn’t find any. Sam had been powerfully built, with his father’s chiseled jaw, fair hair, and blue eyes. Yet something about his mother seemed familiar to me, as though I’d seen her before, even though I knew that I hadn’t.
I saw Lydia in several of the pictures on the next few pages, usually surrounded by her three sons at various ages. It was hard for me to look at pictures of Sam when he was young and strong and healthy. I couldn’t get over how much my Jimmy resembled him. In nearly all the pictures, Sam stood as close as a shadow to his older brother, Matthew—the way Luke always hangs onto Jimmy’s shirttail.
I stared and stared at each picture of Matthew Wyatt. He had his mother’s dark hair and eyes, and looked as different from Sam as two brothers could look. But then, the youngest brother, Willie, looked altogether different, too. I knew for sure that Willie was dead. I’d seen his grave in the family plot beside Lydia’s and Frank’s—beside my Sam’s. According to the dates on Willie’s tombstone, he had died when he was nine—Jimmy’s age. Aunt Batty pointed to his picture.
‘‘This must be one of the last pictures they ever took of little Willie,’’ she said sadly.
‘‘How did he die?’’ I asked. ‘‘I’ve forgotten what Sam told me.’’
‘‘Poor child. He fell through the ice on the pond one winter and drowned.’’
I felt my skin tingle at the eerie coincidence, as if I’d just plunged into that icy water myself. It was the same way the youngest brother in Gabe Harper’s story had died.
‘‘Were you there when it happened?’’ I asked.
She stirred uncomfortably on the hard sofa. ‘‘Well, the pond is just beyond my house, you know. I hear an awful lot that goes on.’’
‘‘Did you hear what happened the day Willie drowned?’’
Aunt Batty carefu
lly slid Becky off her lap and gave her the beaded purse to play with on the floor by our feet. Then she pulled a flowered handkerchief from the sleeve of her yellow sweater and began kneading it.
‘‘The three boys had been sledding on the hill behind my house—just like your three young ones do. I heard them whooping and yelling, then it got real quiet. I thought maybe they’d gone home. But when I looked out my window I saw Matthew and Willie standing out by the pond. The boys liked to skate on it once it froze solid. I was afraid they’d try it that day and I knew it was still too early in December for the ice to be safe.’’
I felt another chill shiver through me as she repeated mirrored details from Gabe’s story.
‘‘I tried yelling out the door to them,’’ Aunt Batty continued, ‘‘but they didn’t hear me. I went to get my coat and boots—and I was always sorry afterward that I took so long bundling up. By the time I got outside, Matthew was hysterical, screaming that Willie had fallen through the ice and crying, ‘Save him! Save him!’ I had all I could do to keep that boy from jumping in after him. We got help as fast as we could, but it was too late.’’ I heard the tears in Aunt Batty’s trembling voice. ‘‘That poor child...and poor, poor Lydia.’’
I was sorr y I’d dredged up such painful memories, but I needed to know something else. ‘‘Was Willie Frank Wyatt’s favorite son?’’ I asked.
‘‘It was shameful the way he favored that boy and heaped abuse on the other two. They were as jealous as sin of him, and I couldn’t blame them. Poor Matthew felt so responsible for what happened to little Willie that he kept saying it was all his fault. I told him to hush up! Don’t ever say that in front of your father!’’
‘‘Was it true? Was the accident Matthew’s fault?’’
‘‘The truth is that Frank Wyatt killed Willie by playing favorites.’’
Only one other person knows and I don’t think she’ll ever tell,Gabe had written. My heart began to gallop like a race horse. What if, beneath all that shaggy hair and overgrown beard—what if Gabe Harper was really Matthew Wyatt?