“You can’t possibly understand, not if you can sit there so calmly! My dear young woman, the Haversalls have systematically stripped you of your inheritance. I don’t have the exact sum here with me, but I know it was no small fortune, and well beyond what the Haversall estate contains now. They used your inheritance to buy these expensive things.” He waved his hand about the exquisite room. ‘The Dresden figurines, the rich carpets, the original oil paintings. They went to Europe every year, while they left you here to manage the household. They had dinner parties. They went to concerts, plays, and charity banquets, where they gave away your money. Marcella Haversall spent a fortune on her gowns. And you....” He stopped, looking disparagingly down at my mauve gown. He flushed slightly and shook his head.
“And what did they do for you, Miss McFarland? They did take you in. They did feed you and clothe you and give you an education.” His tone was derisive, and then it rose again in indignation. “But you were entitled to the most expensive gowns, the finest Paris could offer. You were entitled to the most exclusive schools, the Grand Tour. Anything. Everything. Instead, Charles Haversall robbed you of everything but a paltry sum. He and his wife treated you as a penniless waif they took in through the goodness of their cold-blooded hearts. They trained you to serve them like some brainless lackey. And now they leave you without even a stipend in their will, without a mere mention, almost destitute. When I think of their deception, it utterly appalls me. And yet you sit there.” He looked at me, his face lined and white. “Don’t you understand? All this should, by rights, belong to you. But Charles Haversall left his entire estate to an indifferent and insensitive nephew in Maine.”
I remembered once Marcella had suggested that if I wanted to leave, Charles could arrange for me to work at the factory. Even now, the thought made me shudder. The people there were heavily overworked and grossly underpaid. I had once overheard Roberta talking to one of the maids about a child who had gotten caught in the machines. Nothing had stopped, and the child’s broken body had been pulled free. He had died several days later. The fault had been the lack of safety precautions, but even the child’s death had not altered anything. Everything remained as it was. From Roberta’s tone, I knew that it had not been the first time something of that sort had happened. Yet, Charles Haversall always maintained that there was not enough money to improve conditions, and if the workers did not like it, they could go elsewhere for work. The workers in Haversall’s factory were as bound there as the slaves had been before the war.
I had always sympathized with the workers. I had much in common with them. My life depended on Charles Haversall, and though I longed to be free and independent, each year seemed to make me less so. I had no money and nowhere to go. And I knew the sordid truth. If I had known it years ago, would it have changed anything? Bradford Dobson said that Charles Haversall had carried out the letter of the will. How could I have fought him?
And what about now?
The numbness was wearing off. I began to feel angry, not so much at the Haversalls as at myself. All the years I had allowed myself to be used, when I might have broken away and established my own life. I had hung back from gratitude and loyalty to the Haversalls. Or was that really the truth? Wasn’t it more the truth that I had been afraid to leave my dull but secure existence here in this old brownstone? I had seen little of Boston and nothing of the world, and it was frightening to think of setting off on my own.
“I’ve been such a fool,” I breathed, and Dobson’s face softened.
“There was no way you could have known what they were doing, Miss McFarland. And even if you had, I doubt if you could have stopped them.”
“I should have left years ago before I allowed my life to pass me by!”
The solicitor smiled then. “At the age of twenty-three your life has hardly passed you by,” he remarked with some humor.
"You said yourself that most women my age are married with families of their own,” I countered with wryness.
“You are a very attractive young woman—”
“Please don’t be kind, Mr. Dobson,” I said quickly, embarrassed that he should feel he needed to say such a thing. Marcella Haversall had been most clear about my limitations in that area.
“Kindness has nothing to do with it, Miss McFarland,”
Dobson insisted. “With the right clothes and hair style….”
He stopped and spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. “I overstep myself. I do apologize.”
“You spoke of my guardian’s nephew,” I primed.
“Yes. I’m afraid Wendall Haversall wants this house and all his uncle’s holdings sold.” Dobson lowered the final blow.
“In other words, the new Mr. Haversall wants me out of this house almost immediately,” I said, somehow managing to not allow the fear that was beginning to prey wantonly on my nerves to show. Where could I go? What could I do?
“Yes. He already has a prospective buyer.”
“He didn’t waste any time. My guardian has only been dead ten days.”
“What will you do. Miss McFarland?” Dobson asked as delicately as he could.
“I don’t know. I... I don’t know,” my voice shook in spite of my efforts. “Find a position, I suppose,” I said with more control. “That would be the most sensible thing to do.”
The first thing that popped unwelcome into my mind was the Haversall factory, that looming gray edifice that blighted the landscape of Boston. In my imagination I could hear the men and women moaning as they dragged themselves exhausted to labor in the bowels of the rat-infested building. I could hear the children screaming as they were caught and ground in the merciless machines. I shivered, and my mouth twitched.
“What kind of position, if I might ask?” Dobson pressed.
“I... I don’t know,” I admitted, licking my dry lips and determinedly pressing away the picture of the factory. “House service... I don’t know.” The despair of my situation was beginning at last to sink in, and I started to shake.
“You completed your secondary education, did you not?” Bradford Dobson asked, reaching across to pat my hand with his own. Mine were ice-cold and clutched tightly in my lap.
“Yes,” I nodded, staring into Dobson’s clear, intelligent gaze.
“Would you consider teaching?”
“I’m sure I lack the necessary qualifications, Mr. Dobson,” I said with near-certainty. “Boston requires—”
“I wasn’t thinking of Boston.” He smiled.
“No?”
“No.”
“Then where?” I asked, curious now.
“Perhaps out West someplace. Their requirements are not nearly so rigid. You could make a life out there for yourself, Miss McFarland,” he suggested.
A quick rush of excitement pushed my gray thoughts away. “I’ve always had a great interest in California,” I admitted.
Dobson’s eyes moved assessingly over my face. “You look quite different when you smile like that, Miss McFarland.” I was not sure what he meant, and I chose not to answer. “Do you like children?” he asked.
I laughed slightly. “I don’t know, Mr. Dobson. I’ve never been around many young children.” I thought of maid Ann’s three boys and frowned. “Those I have met hardly qualify as children.”
“What do you mean?”
“Annie Callaghan’s three boys have been working since they were six. They seem very old. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of them laugh.”
“Factory work.”
“The Haversall factory,” I clarified. Dobson muttered a sound of disgust.
“The world is well rid of that man.”
“That’s hardly a Christian thing to say,” I commented, but smiled. “If what we are taught in church is true, Mr. Dobson, Charles Haversall should be pitied now that he is dead.”
“Perhaps,” the solicitor said without conviction. “But it’s been my experience to see the takers reaping the rewards of this world while the good Christian me
n and women suffer. They say the devil takes care of his own. My vision of hell is not one of fire and brimstone, but rather a place that reeks of greed, lust, and every kind of evil. Charles Haversall will probably relish his eternity.”
I stared at him round-eyed with surprise. Then I laughed. “Well, to be completely honest, Mr. Dobson, I hope Charles and Marcella Haversall are not too happy wherever they are.”
“In that we heartily agree,” he answered. “Now, let’s see what we can do about your future.”
Chapter Two
The carpetbag grew heavier with each step. I shifted hands, but that afforded me little relief in the heat of the afternoon sun. My mouth tasted of dust. Pausing alongside the dirt road, I dropped the bag and pulled a handkerchief from my drawstring purse. Taking a deep breath, I dabbed at the perspiration that beaded my forehead. I discarded the prim bonnet, pushing it back to rest between my shoulder blades. Then I loosened the top three buttons of my high-neck blouse. It plunged daringly, exposing more than just a little swelling and cleavage above the camisole. I debated rebuttoning it and then gave a shrug. There was no one about to notice my décolleté, and I was too hot to worry about propriety at the moment.
I wondered if the stage had been repaired yet. At the rate I was going, it might come along and pick me up before I was able to reach my destination. Ten miles had not seemed like such a long walk this morning. But it had been cooler then, and the excitement of reaching the end of my journey had been great.
A faint smile twitched as I thought of the picture I made now. Good heavens! If anyone got a look at me at this moment, I would look like a dust-covered recalcitrant of the worst kind. Perhaps I would come by a stream where I could freshen up a bit before arriving in Sycamore Hill. Otherwise I would arrive just as I was: hot, dusty, and exhausted.
Looking up, I was greeted by a cloudless, crystal-blue sky that under other circumstances would have been wonderful. Now I would have welcomed a few clouds. Around me the hills were golden, the only green relief being the waxy spined leaves of huge scattered oaks and other native trees. Not far away was a line of imported eucalyptus trees standing like straight-backed sentinels. There were no flowers about, but the stagecoach driver had assured me that these same dry-grassed hills were covered in spring with golden poppies, blue lupines, sunburst-yellow mustard flowers and red paint brushes.
I might have had more sense, I told myself for not the first time in the past hour. I must have already covered six or seven miles, but I had no way of really knowing. Distances in this hot, dry world of great spaces and few people did not seem the same as in Boston.
Perhaps if I had not run into so many delays before the stage had broken down, I would not have been so precipitate in hiking the last ten miles. The worst delay had come in Sacramento, where my trunk with all the books and teaching materials had been found missing. Central Pacific personnel had not been unduly alarmed, for it seemed such an event was not uncommon. However, the three days it had taken to locate the trunk in Placerville had caused me sleepless nights and an agony of nervous tension. That did not begin to mention my feelings when I was forced to spend three days boarding in a local hotel and paying money I could little afford to spend.
As soon as my wayward trunk arrived in Sacramento, I had boarded the next train to Oakland. Once there, I intended to take the train on to Sycamore Hill. However, as the Fates had it, that train had already departed, and the next would not go for another three days. The station manager had mentioned an old stage line that was still in business. He also warned me that the line had a reputation for frequent breakdowns.
Forty miles lay between Oakland and Sycamore Hill. After traveling a continent, that small distance seemed negligible. I decided to take a chance and ride the disreputable stage. I might have known it would break down not once, but several times. The last time, the coach had lost a wheel ten miles from town. The driver said it would be several hours before he could effect the repairs. So I had taken to the road with the assurance that my trunk would be dropped off at the general store in Sycamore Hill. Perhaps I would have been wiser to stay with the stage and take my chances on arriving in town. At least then I would have arrived looking like a lady and not something even a cat would hesitate about dragging in.
In spite of all the mishaps, I was filled with trembling excitement. Only at odd moments had I felt real resentment at the Haversalls. Bradford Dobson had been surprised that my attitude had remained so mild. I realized after his disclosures that I had never really known the Haversalls at all, in spite of living under their roof for 18 years. They were strangers to me. Having never become accustomed to luxuries, I did not miss them. Yet, I could not say I did not have moments of bitter resentment about my stolen inheritance. The worst moments were when I realized what a fool I had been to remain out of mistaken gratitude. How they must have laughed at me!
But now I was free. I wondered sometimes if I would have felt so free had I possessed that fortune Bradford Dobson had spoken about. Money carried heavy responsibility. Had I inherited Haversall’s factory, I could never have overlooked the despicable conditions of the loathsome place. As it was now, I had nothing but a few dollars remaining from my father’s fortune, and ahead of me a position as a schoolteacher for a rural community.
I wondered if I would have that position after the school-board representative had a good look at me. I stopped long enough to brush down my doe-brown skirt. The dust made a soft cloud around me. Sooner or later the sun had to begin its descent, and the noon-high heat would have to dissipate.
Glancing up into the sky again, I thought it must be well after two. Another hill stretched out before me. I prayed that this one would be the last, and beyond it would lie a nice shady community. Sycamores were trees; so surely that meant the town had an abundance of them. Nice, tall trees to cast cooling shadows over my sunburned brow and cheeks and nose by the feel of it.
I was so deep in my thoughts that I failed to notice the gopher hole right in front of me. Stumbling, I fell headlong into the road. Only momentarily stunned, I stood up quickly, straightening my blouse and brushing down my skirt.
“Of all the ridiculous things to do,” I mumbled to myself, checking that I had not tom something or scraped anything. “You don’t need the Haversalls to make a fool of you. You do such a great job of that yourself.”
Then I started to laugh thinking of the picture I must have made a second earlier. It started with a mere jerk of my mouth and then opened into peals of sound. A voice behind me cut it off as effectively as a noose around my neck.
“This is hardly a day to be out pleasure-walking.”
Jumping with frightened surprise, I whirled around to face a man sitting above me on a buckboard. His face and expression were shadowed beneath the rim of his hat. In quick perusal I took in the rest of his appearance, noting the clean white shirt that covered a set of decidedly broad shoulders, the leather-and-brass-work belt that circled a lean, hard waist, the brown pants that indicated long, well-muscled legs. He sat comfortably with those legs apart, one booted foot raised on the brake. His hands were relaxed with the reins. I noticed those hands, work-callused but clean even unto the trimmed nails. I felt even more disheveled beside the man’s crispness, and a surge of unreasonable resentment stiffened my spine.
With a careless movement, the stranger took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his arm. I was sure it was the heat that made me feel suddenly flushed and light-headed.
He was young, not more than 35, and very attractive in a rugged, tanned sort of way. He had thick, tawny hair, sun-streaked blond in the front. But it was his eyes that caught my immediate, if dismayed, attention. They were the bluest I had ever seen, and they were filled with laughter.
With sudden understanding I realized he had witnessed my ungraceful collapse into the dirt. My face turned an unbecoming beet-red, and the resentment altered to growing irritation.
“You could give a person some warning,” I flared, “with
out sneaking up behind her and scaring her half to death!”
There was the slightest narrowing of those blue eyes, but the smile changed to a wide grin that disclosed even, white teeth.
“Now, little lady,” he drawled, lazily mocking. “You aren’t going to pretend it was my presence that brought on that little dance routine you just did.”
I deserved that unkind reminder, I thought, immediately regretting my rude outburst. Then I became acutely aware that the man’s gaze had dropped to the part of my anatomy that Marcella Haversall had tried to bound. Instinctively I raised my hand only to come in contact with bare skin. Humiliated to be caught in my misdemeanor of propriety, my fingers flew to repair the oversight.
“I liked it better the way it was,” the man commented, not intending to spare me anything. I glared up at him. Insensitive, he continued his embarrassing scrutiny of my form.
Snatching up the carpetbag I had dropped, I began to march down the dusty road again. I did not hear the buckboard moving and chanced a quick look back over my shoulder. The man was sitting there watching me with an enigmatic expression. I jerked my head back around, afraid that if I did not watch where I was going, I would stumble into another gopher hole and make a worse fool of myself.
I heard the buckboard move behind me.
“Why don’t you sit down and take a load off your feet. You look as though you’ve walked for miles,” the stranger observed unkindly when he drew up next to me. I did have some feminine pride, and I bristled at his blunt assessment of me. I knew I looked a mess, but I did not appreciate his telling me so.
“Thank you very much for your kind observations,” I said dryly without looking at him or slowing my pace. Maybe he would take the hint and keep going. I could feel his eyes on me and hoped he blamed the heat for the rush of color. He flicked the reins again, guiding his two sorrels toward the side of the road. They came very close, and I side-stepped. He kept on his path, herding me like an unruly cow until I was pressed off the road.
Sycamore Hill Page 2