by Amara Royce
When she turned to face Daniel again, he was conversing with Vanessa, whose demeanor had brightened considerably. Now she couldn’t help but suspect her young niece had balked about the coach for reasons other than safety. She’d have to watch carefully. Surely, Mr. Lanfield could be trusted to behave honorably, but Vanessa’s wayward emotions had prompted her mother to send her on this trip. Surely it was only her niece’s well-being that made her tense at the sight of them laughing together. She consciously unclenched her jaw, readjusted her grip on her bags, and pasted a smile on her face. “It seems we are to continue imposing on your good will, kind sir. Climb aboard, Vanessa. By all means, let us be on our way.”
Daniel handed Vanessa into the cart and then turned back and offered to assist Helena. “I told you,” he said in a low voice, “I keep my promises.”
She should have felt affronted by his high-handedness—and she did—but there was another undercurrent of feeling as well. The tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. It had been so long since someone else was in charge. While she couldn’t stomach a total loss of autonomy, there was something comforting about not having to make every single decision, not having to weigh all the consequences all the time. Isaiah hadn’t been overbearing, but with him gone, everything was on her head. The house, the boys, the money, every responsibility large and small was heaped on her. She’d felt guiltily relieved when Bartholomew had joined the Navy; as much as she worried for his safety, his fate was no longer solely in her hands. Her sister and the rest of the Needlework for the Needy ladies certainly assisted her in more ways than she could count, but they had their own families, their own burdens.
Ignoring his hand, she clambered onto the cart. “We shall see.”
Chapter 8
The second day of travel passed tensely, and Vanessa could see that her aunt was furious with Mr. Lanfield. Yet she couldn’t understand why, nor why Aunt Helena had been so unreasonably insistent that they take the coach. What sense would that have made? It had been filled to bursting, and some of the passengers had appeared . . . questionable. And it had been filthy. Riding in the cart was a dusty mess, to be sure, but really. That coach was entirely unappealing. On the other hand, Mr. Lanfield’s cart was at least roomy and comfortable, and he was a perfectly nice man with an almost fatherly manner. She felt sure they could trust him to watch over them, which she could not have said of the coachmen. He was the kind of man she could picture Billy becoming in a few short years. Billy was nearly as tall and as broad, but his body hadn’t the same confidence that Mr. Lanfield’s conveyed. But she could see Billy growing into that man as he climbed through the ranks at Dyson’s. He wouldn’t be a clerk forever, and she would be proud to stand by his side, as a good woman should.
“Hold tight,” Mr. Lanfield called over his shoulder. A moment later, the whole cart bounced and shook as they rumbled over what must have been enormous ruts in the road. The straw bales might not be the height of comfort and luxury, but they were enough to cushion the blow. The coach’s wooden benches would surely have been less forgiving.
Several uneventful minutes later, she couldn’t help but notice that Auntie Helena still clung to the side of the cart rather desperately. Her aunt’s face was pale and blotchy, and she stared into the distance with a strange, empty look.
“Mr. Lanfield! Please stop! Something is wrong!” she shouted. Auntie didn’t react at all. Her eyes were open, unblinking, and her breathing was rapid and shallow. She followed her aunt’s gaze but saw only the same road, the same landscape, she’d seen for miles. What in heaven’s name was the matter? Her skin prickled with anxiety. What should she do?
Mr. Lanfield glanced back from his seat and immediately eased the cart to the side of the road. He would know how to help her aunt!
“What’s happening?” he asked, turning in his seat.
“I don’t know! Before we hit that rough patch of road, she was fine. Now she seems to be in some sort of trance.” She cringed at the alarm in her own voice. Don’t be a child, Ness. But this wasn’t like Auntie’s previous spells in which she slipped into unconsciousness. Now she looked horribly awake but seemed to be experiencing something unconnected to her actual time and place. Something was happening in her mind to cause that terrified—and terrifying—expression. “What can this be? What do we do?”
Quickly, he secured the cart and climbed into the back. He knelt before her aunt, his brow furrowed.
“This one of her spells?” He clapped his hands directly in front of Auntie’s face, but there was no change.
“No! It’s never been like this before! I have no idea what this is.” Her head felt full to bursting with the stress. She hated feeling so helpless, so incompetent. She dug into her satchel for the bottle of salts her mother had given her for emergencies. “Here. Perhaps this may work anyway.”
He took out the stopper and waved it under Auntie’s nose. Vanessa held her nose to block out the pungent smell, but it still took several moments before her aunt reacted.
“Don’t let them!” Auntie’s whole body tensed even more. Her eyes opened even wider, but whatever she saw wasn’t in the here and now. The terror in her voice was chilling. “Isaiah, don’t leave me! They’re not our concern! Please, I beg you, drive on!”
“Wake up, Helena,” Mr. Lanfield said forcefully. “Where are you? Come back. You’re safe, Lena. Now come back to us.” His voice rumbled like thunder. He shouldn’t talk so familiarly to her aunt! He shouldn’t look at her so—an ear-piercing whistle from him made her wince and made Auntie jump. Perhaps she couldn’t fault him for his approach, if it worked. Aunt Helena blinked a few times and then stood shakily, nearly knocking the bottle from Mr. Lanfield’s hand. Her aunt’s eyes darted around, and she looked confused and wary. She looked like a stranger. Mr. Lanfield rose too but was careful not to touch her. He made soothing noises until she sat back down, appearing deflated and so very sad. Vanessa wrapped her arms around her aunt’s shoulders, and the tremors running through this woman who was a second mother to her alarmed her even more. A sick feeling spread through her stomach. This was so much worse than the previous spells.
“What happened to your husband, Mrs. Martin?” he asked softly. Vanessa rested her head on Auntie’s shoulder, hoping to hear her response but, at the same time, dreading the answer.
Aunt Helena shook her head. “It was a long time ago.”
“Not so long in your mind, I’d bet.”
“Auntie,” she said cautiously, not wishing to send the delicate woman into a relapse. “Uncle Isaiah wasn’t truly in an accident, was he?” No one in the family ever talked about it, but she remembered when he had been brought home. A freak accident, her mother had said. He’d never woken. She could picture Auntie trying to spoon broth into his mouth, could see him fading quickly in just a few days. She could still hear the muffled weeping when her aunt had shut the door on everyone near the end. A terrible tragedy no one could have foreseen, her mother had repeated in the months that followed. Uncle’s death had devastated everyone. It was no wonder Aunt Helena hid away in her house, shrouded by grief.
But this reaction, Auntie’s trance-like state and abject terror—this was something else entirely.
The trembling eased, and she felt her aunt straightening, pulling away, and then their positions somehow switched, with her aunt’s arm around her, supporting her.
“Dearie, your uncle is gone, and nothing can bring him back,” Aunt Helena said. The flatness of her tone was at least a marginal improvement over fear. “The particulars are in the past.”
“If I may say, Mrs. Martin, the past can be a stubborn beast, rearing and bucking long after you thought it domesticated.” He seemed about to say more, but shut his mouth when Auntie looked directly at him. There was something inscrutable in that look. She was surprised Mr. Lanfield could speak so vividly, so succinctly poetical. He’d been so cold to her aunt, but little glimpses of compassion like this one reassured her. Now if only Aunt Helena would sof
ten a bit, perhaps this journey would be less of an ordeal.
“You’ve given me more than enough warning, sir, about how Marksby clings to my past transgressions,” Auntie snapped at him, “and I am well aware of how persistently the past forces itself into the present . . . and the future.”
This agitation couldn’t possibly be good for her aunt, whose face had gone from chalky white to an uncomfortable redness.
“Shall we get down and walk a bit, Auntie, if you’ve a mind to? A turn in the air could do you good.”
“That sounds like a fine idea.” Her aunt patted her shoulder and stood, more solidly this time, then climbed down from the cart with efficient, confident movements. Pray God there would be no more of these episodes. If they’d taken the train as Auntie intended, she would have been at a loss about what to do, and they wouldn’t have had Mr. Lanfield to rely on. After a brief stroll, they all agreed that Aunt Helena had returned to normal and didn’t appear to be at risk of relapsing. At least not immediately. Still, it took many miles before Vanessa felt the tension leave her body, and a nagging voice told her things would only get worse.
Chapter 9
From a distance, the village looked exactly as she remembered it. The houses, the storefronts, the chapel, all as sedate and tidy as she’d pictured in her mind. It wasn’t until they entered the main thoroughfare that she saw all the small indications of age and decline.
“Is that the Farington house? What happened to them?” The fine white exterior so vivid in her memory was now stained with spattered mud, overgrown with weeds that had taken root in cracks along the base of the house. A few of the windowpanes had been knocked out.
“After their eldest son died in India, they moved to Manchester.”
“Jack is dead?” He had been just a boy when she’d left, probably no older than Tommy. He’d grown up and joined the military and was already gone. A chill ran through her, and she said a brief, silent prayer for her own Bartholomew’s safety. She shook her head in disbelief and barely managed to catch the rest of Daniel’s explanation.
“. . . so the Faringtons followed their remaining sons to Manchester in hopes of starting fresh.”
Starting fresh. The way he said it sounded hollow, false, almost as if he were trying to soften the news. They passed more houses and shops that appeared abandoned and neglected. The fields beyond the village, in contrast, looked as though time stood still. Aside from some new structures and fences, the familiar hills and dales brought her surprisingly great solace. Lazily grazing sheep dotted the landscape, and a warm breeze gusted through the tall grass in the distance, making it undulate in waves. Keen, sweet nostalgia swept through her in a rush at the picturesque sight. How often had she stood, watching herds graze, watching the land breathe? How often had she run through those fields as a child? The warmth of memory drained abruptly. The Lanfield and Thorton properties were to have become one, just as their families had intended her and Gordy to be. She had to find a way to make amends.
Mr. Lanfield slowed the cart as it turned off the main road and followed a track that lodged her heart in her throat. She focused on the path behind them, fearing what changes time had wrought in this place she once called home. As the cart pulled to a stop, the luggage shifted in the back.
Vanessa had already hopped down from the cart. “Auntie, surely you don’t mean to unpack here in the lane. This looks like such a charming old place. I cannot wait to go exploring.”
“Just you wait, my girl. It shall be a whole new world for you. We’re not in London anymore.” As she turned to her niece abruptly, a zing of panic caught her by surprise. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the house now that they were stopped before it. From a distance, it had been exactly the home she remembered. She swallowed a sudden bitterness in her mouth. Of course her home wouldn’t be the same. But what changes had time wrought? “It is too soon to talk of exploring when we’ve only just arrived. Your great-grandmother may need a great deal of care. We must first see what we can do to ease the burdens of the household. Once we know what’s what, then we’ll start making plans.”
That was the suitably responsible course of action. It just happened to align quite nicely with the leaden ball of dread coalescing in her belly. Feeling suddenly heated and suffocating, she undid her bonnet and took a deep, fortifying breath. Then she looked up.
Blinking quickly against the telltale stinging of her eyes, she climbed down from the cart and stood before the great house. Her mind raced to take in everything at once: the sturdy brick, the hedges that her father would never have allowed to grow so random and riotous, the broken fencing around the barn. Her eyelids stung as all these concrete reminders spoke of one truth: her father was well and truly gone. Mother too. Long ago, she’d resigned herself to never seeing them again, and she’d mourned their deaths when the news came to her. But the Thorton house’s state of decay and neglect made the loss real. Without her parents here to care for it, all they had worked to build and nurture was crumbling.
“Do you wish me to bring your things in for you?” Daniel asked. It was a kindness she wouldn’t have expected at the beginning of their trip. Staring at the house with a lump in her throat, she appreciated the gesture more than she could say.
“No, Mr. Lanfield. You’ve been more than kind to allow us to travel with you. We can manage this last little distance,” she replied, attempting to smile.
He didn’t press. Instead, he looked at her strangely and nodded. Perhaps he understood. She needed to take this step without assistance. Once she and Vanessa bade him farewell, she suggested her niece wait at the bottom of the stairs with their things while she went up to the door and knocked firmly.
She nearly burst into tears when Mrs. Weathers opened the door, her hands gnarled from years of domestic labor and gray hair escaping her cap. Oh, the dear sweet woman and her husband had served Gran for as long as she could recall. The scent of yeast and flour that wafted from the old woman shot Helena back to when she was a girl running around the kitchen, trying to sneak a bit of bread or cake for her sister or for the neighbor children. She suspected now that Mrs. Weathers had let her get away with it, at least some of the time. Judging by Mrs. Weathers’s shocked expression, Helena’s letter responding to Gran had never arrived.
“Saints preserve us, it’s you,” the housekeeper said breathlessly.
She bobbed her head, feeling as if she were fourteen again. “It is a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Weathers. I hope you have been well.” When the woman nodded, she turned to Vanessa and continued, “Please allow me to introduce my niece, Vanessa. She’s one of Elizabeth’s girls.”
Mrs. Weathers shifted her focus, and her expression immediately cleared. Elizabeth had always been her favorite. “Why, of course! The very image! Miss Vanessa, I’m happy to see you. Hard to believe your ma could have a daughter who’s now almost grown herself. Come in, lasses! It’s good you’ve come.”
After brushing crumbs off a faded, threadbare apron, the housekeeper moved closer, as if to embrace her, but then pulled back with a frown. The woman’s obvious pleasure at her arrival dissipated like vapor. They’d both been caught up in the moment. Crossing this threshold for the first time in a score of years, she’d felt at home again. But she’d forgotten Mr. Lanfield’s warnings. “Your grandmother is in quite a state,” Mrs. Weathers added, brusquely. “I’ll take you to her straight away. The rest can wait.”
She nodded and gestured to Vanessa, who stepped into the breach with her usual aplomb. Bright and cheerful, Ness chattered away as Mrs. Weathers led them upstairs to the room that had once belonged to her parents. As they came up to the closed door, she realized that she was holding her breath. Her whole body was tense, bracing as if her parents stood beyond that door, waiting to confront her for her abandonment. But they weren’t. They couldn’t be. With that realization came another. Oh, how sharply her heart longed for even their censure, if it meant she could see them again.
The housekeeper rub
bed her hands on her apron and reached for the doorknob, then said, “You should be prepared. She might not be very alert today.”
“Much has changed, it’s true, Mrs. Weathers. But I can only hope that she recognizes me at least a little.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. ’Tisn’t you. I knew you right away. Some days are particularly bad for her. You cannot tell her state just by looking at her, though. And her breathing doesn’t sound so good today.”
Another slip of time jolted her as the room assaulted her senses. The curtains were the same, the afternoon light making them glow. This room was so familiar, echoing with laughter and warmth. And yet it wasn’t, not anymore. The bedding was faded, and dust had accumulated in the crevices of the wardrobe and the shadowy corner beyond it. Even the smallest dust mote wouldn’t have dared defy Ma. Then the smell hit her. The scent of a sickroom, dank and tainted.
But it was the sight of the tiny, motionless woman tucked in the bed that made her heart seize. Gran had always been thin, but now she appeared gaunt and lifeless. She was never one to sit for a moment; to see the dear woman languishing pricked Helena’s heart with a thousand arrows. Gran’s hair had already been gray, but now it was patchy and fragile. Her grandmother looked so small under the covers, and it took every ounce of strength she had to keep from bursting into tears yet again.
“Grand-dame,” Mrs. Weathers whispered in her ear, “you’ve some bonny visitors. One of your lost lasses has come home.”
Gran coughed thickly as she opened her eyes. She struggled to raise herself to a seated position while Mrs. Weathers adjusted the pillows behind her. Helena tried to assist, but the housekeeper waved her away with a cursory, “I’ve got her.” She stepped back to stay out of the way, and when her eyes met her grandmother’s, she could see the dear woman’s eyes glistening. A single tear slipped as Gran said, “My Lena girl.” Awe and disbelief shone on her face. If Helena let slip a tear or two as well, it was no wonder. To see this precious woman who’d been such a great and vibrant light in her youth was something she’d never thought would happen again.