by Lynn Austin
“I know it’s going to seem small compared to this mansion,” she said, “but it will be just right for us. It’s in a lovely neighborhood on a quiet street, not too far from the tannery or the center of town. Come with me after dinner and look at it with me. Please, Horatio?”
“If you wish.” His voice sounded flat and toneless. She saw none of her own excitement mirrored in his expression. But in spite of his lack interest in the venture, he went to see it with her after dinner. His face fell when he saw it.
“That little cottage? It’s much too small, Beatrice. I want something better for you. Why won’t you let me build you a proper house? We can hire the same architect that Father used.”
“Because it will take too long. I want our own place now. Please? I like this little house.”
He was quiet for such a long time that she thought he would refuse. She saw lines around his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before, and his face looked strained as he stared at the house. She reached to take his hand, but he held it tightly clenched into a fist. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Everything’s fine. If you’re certain you want this place, I’ll go to my lawyer’s office tomorrow and ask him to buy it for you.” His lack of enthusiasm worried her.
“If . . . if you’d rather not, Horatio—”
“I said I would buy it!” He raised his voice with her for the first time. Tears sprang to her eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice. They rode home in silence.
At breakfast the next morning, Horatio still seemed preoccupied. He hadn’t said another word to Bebe about the house, and she was afraid to raise the subject again. She watched him poking at his eggs while his father silently read the newspaper and decided not to remind him of his promise. Maybe he would be in a better mood that evening.
Mr. Garner folded the newspaper and rang for his carriage. “You ready?” he asked Horatio. He nodded and pushed away his untouched plate.
Bebe gave his arm a gentle squeeze as he rose to his feet. “I’ll see you tonight,” she whispered. She remained at the table to finish her tea as the men headed toward the front door. A moment later she heard a loud thud, as if someone had dropped a sack of grain.
“Father!” Horatio shouted. “Help! Somebody, help!”
Bebe ran out to the foyer and saw that Mr. Garner had collapsed to the floor. His face was the color of ashes, his arms and legs splayed lifelessly. Horatio dropped to his knees beside him and lifted his head. “Father? . . . Father!”
Bebe flung open the front door and called to the waiting carriage driver. “Fetch the doctor! Hurry! It’s an emergency!”
But moments after he’d collapsed, Mr. Garner died in Horatio’s arms.
Bebe stayed close to Horatio’s side for the next three days, throughout the wake and the funeral. His spirits had plummeted into a depression that was as deep and dark as the grave they had dug for his father. Horatio barely spoke. He closed his eyes as the men lowered the casket into the ground. Bebe gripped her husband’s hand, trying to will her own strength into him. They rode home in the carriage together after the graveside service, but he wouldn’t come into the house.
“I need to go to the tannery,” he said. “Father left some unfinished business that I need to take care of.”
“Let me go with you, Horatio. I’m sure it will be hard for you to go into your father’s office all by yourself and—”
“I would prefer to do it alone. I’ll be home shortly.” She released his hand reluctantly and climbed down from the carriage. When she looked back to where he still sat, he seemed to have shriveled in size, like bread dough that had been punched down, releasing all the air.
He arrived home after midnight. Drunk.
Bebe’s anger kindled when he staggered into their bedroom, bumping into a chest of drawers, knocking over a chair. “How could you, Horatio! You promised me you wouldn’t start drinking again and—”
“He was my father!” he shouted. “And he’s gone!”
The anguish in his voice tingled through her. Bebe laid aside her own anger to offer Horatio comfort instead of condemnation. “Thank goodness you made your peace with him, Horatio. Your father was so glad to have you working with him these past few months, wasn’t he? At least you had that time together.”
Horatio stood with his fists clenched, just as he had when they’d looked at the little cottage together three days ago. His eyes looked dull and lifeless. “My father fell down dead right beside me . . . I couldn’t do anything for him.”
“It wasn’t your fault that he died. There was nothing you could have done.” But Horatio stared straight ahead, not at Bebe, and she saw the gleam of tears in his eyes. He looked as fragile as glass, as though he might shatter if tipped the wrong way, if she said the wrong words. “Horatio, talk to me,” she begged.
“Did I ever tell you about my friends? Jacob Miller and Peter Griffin? We met during the war. . . . One day we were all charging forward with our bayonets fixed, one fellow on either side of me. . . .” Horatio held up an imaginary rifle and stumbled forward a few steps to demonstrate. “Then they both fell down dead, just like that . . . and I was left standing. I don’t know why God would do that, do you, Beatrice?”
“That’s something only He can know.”
“So do you know what I did that day? I wasn’t wounded, but I dropped down on the ground, same as them. . . .” Horatio sagged to the floor. “And I covered my head, and I . . .” He fell facedown, weeping, his arms folded over his head. Bebe leaped from the bed and sank down beside him to comfort him.
“It’s all in the past, Horatio. It happened a long time ago. There was nothing you could have done—”
“Yes there was!” He raised his head to glare at her. “I could have stood up and fought like a man. But I was a coward, Bebe . . . and my father knew it, too. I didn’t want to go to war, but he made me go. He refused to pay the money and forced me to go!”
“Shh . . . shh . . .” She pulled him close and sat with his head on her chest, stroking his hair.
“Your brother Franklin wasn’t a coward. He wasn’t afraid of anything. But when Franklin fell . . . when the Rebels shot him in the leg, I—”
“Hush now!” Bebe put her hand over his mouth to cut off his words, afraid of what else he might confess. He pushed her hand away.
“First thing tomorrow, I’m going to go down and enlist. I’ll go out West and fight the Indians and prove to my father that I’m not a coward.”
“No, Horatio. Tomorrow you’re going to go down and run the tannery in your father’s place. You can prove yourself to him that way.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think I can. Running that place is . . . is too much for me . . . and I . . . I feel like I’m drowning.”
Bebe could see how overwhelmed he was. No wonder he had started drinking again. Horatio had never liked working at the tannery in the first place, and now he was in charge of it. She hugged him tightly, rocking him. “You can do it, darling. I believe in you.”
He clung to her like a child. “I’m so sorry, Beatrice, but having a drink was the only way that I could cope. You understand, don’t you? Just one drink . . . ?”
“We’ll start all over again tomorrow.” She held him until he relaxed and his breathing eased, then helped him to his feet to undress.
“I never bought that little house you wanted. I promised I would, and now—”
“That doesn’t matter right now. Let’s get you into bed.”
“But don’t you see? Now I can’t keep my promise. My father is dead, and I own this house.”
Bebe froze. “Doesn’t it belong to your mother?”
He shook his head. “It’s mine . . . yours and mine.”
“But what about your mother? Where will she live?”
“She’ll live here, too. We have to take care of her from now on.”
Bebe fought the urge to moan. She wanted her own house, far away from Mrs. Garner. She wanted Horatio all t
o herself. She hated this monstrous house and the three years of bad memories that it held. She had hoped to move out soon so she wouldn’t have to see her mother-in-law anymore. For the past three days, Mrs. Garner had been insufferable as the grieving widow—more so because Bebe had never seen any sign of affection between the Garners, much less love.
As Bebe’s anger and bitterness sprouted and bloomed, she tried to recall the advice her mother had given her. Mama would say that she needed to change her attitude toward her mother-in-law and learn to love her. She would tell Bebe to let go of her plans and make the best of her situation. Again.
Wasn’t that what she had been doing all her life?
Horatio passed out quickly once she helped him into bed. But Bebe lay awake for a long time, unable to sleep.
Bebe wasn’t surprised when Horatio was too ill the next morning to get up and go to work. He didn’t seem to recall last night’s conversation or that he had confessed to being a coward. She left him in bed and went downstairs to eat breakfast alone. The dining room looked the way it always had, with the chafing dishes on the buffet, but now Bebe was the only one at the table. The room was so quiet that she could hear the case clock ticking out in the hallway and the low rumble of the servants’ voices in the kitchen. She looked at Mr. Garner’s empty chair and marveled at how quickly life could change. Why did he have to die now, just when she and Horatio were going to move out of this place and away from his mother?
Bebe folded her arms on the table and lowered her head onto them. She didn’t want her love for Horatio to slowly erode again, but if he continued to drink she feared that it might. The only thing she could think of to do was to pray.
Her prayers, it seemed, went unanswered. Horatio’s one night of drinking turned into two, then three. Mrs. Garner was no help to him or anyone else. She remained in her bedroom, consoled by the laudanum pills that the family doctor had prescribed. Bebe felt utterly alone. When she could no longer stand the silence in the cold, echoing house, she decided to follow the maid upstairs when she took Mrs. Garner her breakfast, determined to offer comfort.
Bebe’s mother-in-law looked years older, lying in the rumpled bed with her hair loose and disheveled. “Leave the tray on the table,” she mumbled to the maid. The girl obeyed, then quickly left the room. Bebe cleared her throat.
“Mrs. Garner? Is there anything I can do for you? I’d like to help.”
Mrs. Garner rolled over to face her, frowning. She looked Bebe up and down for a moment, as if wondering who she was and where she’d come from, then pointed to the pile of condolence cards heaped on her nightstand. “You can write thank-you notes on the family’s behalf . . . and you can leave me alone.” Bebe scooped up the cards and backed from the room.
One week after her father-in-law’s death, Bebe was writing notes at the desk in the parlor when someone arrived at the door. “My name is Neal MacLeod,” she heard him say to the butler. “I’m the foreman down at the tannery. Might I speak with Horatio Garner, please?”
Horatio was still in bed, of course, passed out cold at eleven o’clock in the morning. Bebe hurried out to the hall, and when she saw a ruddy young man about the same age as Horatio standing in the doorway, she could only stare in surprise.
“Excuse me . . . did I understand correctly that you’re the foreman down at the tannery?”
“Yes, ma’am. Neal MacLeod.” He swept off his hat and bowed slightly.
No wonder Horatio had viewed MacLeod as a rival. No wonder he had been angry with his father for hiring him. He looked no older or more experienced than Horatio was.
“I’m Beatrice Garner, Horatio’s wife.” She offered her hand, and it seemed to disappear inside his large, freckled one. “I saw you at the funeral, but we weren’t properly introduced.”
Neal MacLeod reminded Bebe of one of her father’s yearling calves—sturdy and square and large-boned, with all of the latent power of a bull but none of the brashness. His round boyish face and gentle nature made her feel as comfortable with him as with her own brothers.
“My husband isn’t feeling well, Mr. MacLeod. May I relay a message to him?”
“I wouldn’t want to trouble you, ma’am. I understand that your household is still in mourning. I’ll come back another time.” He ducked his head shyly and began backing away.
“Wait. Please. It’s no trouble at all, Mr. MacLeod, I assure you.
Especially if it’s important. Won’t you please come into the parlor and have a seat?”
He seemed to step carefully as he followed her into the overstuffed parlor, as if picking his way across a stream on uneven stones. He gazed around uncomfortably at the abundant bric-a-brac just as Bebe had the first time, then sat down on the very edge of the sofa, gripping his hat in his hands. Why would her father-in-law, known to be a ruthless businessman, hire such a gentle, unassuming man to run his tannery? Could it be that MacLeod’s lumbering physique discouraged arguments among the workers or threats of labor unrest? Judging by his deferential manner and threadbare suit, he probably had grown up in The Flats alongside the other workers.
“Tell me what brings you here, Mr. MacLeod?”
“First of all, please extend my sympathy to your family once again for their loss. Mr. Garner was a very fine man and—” His voice faltered as he choked back his grief. Bebe had no doubt that it was genuine, and it surprised her.
“You were fond of him, weren’t you?” She saw his eyes glisten as he nodded.
“He was like a father to me, ma’am. I will miss him. . . . Excuse me . . .” He cleared his throat.
Bebe waited, liking Neal MacLeod more and more every minute.
“I understand that your husband, Horatio Garner, will take over for his father according to the terms of his will. And I know that in the past he didn’t always agree with his father’s decisions and even argued against some of them. I’ve been running the tannery the same as usual for the past week, but I’ve begun to worry that I’ve been too presumptuous. I came here to ask your husband if I should continue with the plans that his father set in motion before he died, or if he—young Mr. Garner, that is—has different plans.”
Bebe’s stomach turned over in dread. Horatio wasn’t capable of running the business in his present condition—and perhaps not even when he was sober. His father hadn’t seemed to trust him and had hired MacLeod precisely for that reason. Nor had Mr. Garner promoted Horatio to the foreman’s position even after three months of sobriety. The fact that Horatio hadn’t always agreed with his father’s more experienced decisions made Bebe feel ill. Might his decisions sink the company, now that he was at the helm?
“I see,” Bebe murmured. “I’ll certainly convey your message to my husband, Mr. MacLeod. But in the meantime, I don’t see how it would be presumptuous of you in the least if you continued to operate the tannery the way you did when Mr. Garner was alive. I’m certain that Horatio would trust your judgment completely until he’s feeling better.”
And then what would happen? Would Horatio fire Neal MacLeod when he did return to work? Bebe feared that he would. The young foreman’s plain, honest face revealed that he had arrived here fearing the same thing. And she had done nothing to relieve those fears.
MacLeod rose to his feet, squaring his broad shoulders. “Thank you, ma’am. I will continue the daily operations as usual, for now. Please tell your husband that I hope he feels better soon. I know that there will be documents that will require his signature, and while I have the authorization to sign in some instances, I don’t in all of them.”
Bebe remained seated as another wave of fear washed over her. Horatio’s oversight would be required soon. If he didn’t pull himself together, the business could suffer serious consequences.
“You are welcome to bring the papers here for Horatio’s signature whenever necessary, Mr. MacLeod. I’m not certain how long it will be until he’s well.” Her future rested in his drunken, shaking hands. If only Horatio could go back to her family’s farm to
dry out again, as he had the last time. If only the farm wasn’t so far away. As she finally stood to walk the foreman to the door, Bebe struggled to think of a way to convince Horatio to make the trip.
“We may be leaving the city for a few days so that my husband can rest and recuperate in the countryside. It’s so much better for him, you see.”
MacLeod nodded. “I know that your father-in-law always enjoyed visiting his fishing cabin up on Iroquois Lake. I can see how spending some time up there might bring consolation. It shocked all of us when he died so suddenly.”
Bebe hadn’t known about the existence of such a cabin, but she nodded as if she had. “Thank you for coming, Mr. MacLeod.
I’m certain that Horatio will be back to work very soon.”
As soon as MacLeod left, Bebe hurried upstairs and began packing two satchels with clothing and toiletries for Horatio and herself. The foreman’s visit had fueled her rising fears for the future, but he’d also given her hope for a way to help Horatio. He heard her rustling through the bureau drawers and rolled over in bed to face her, squinting in the light.
“What are you doing, Beatrice? Must you make so much noise? What time is it?”
Time for things to change, she wanted to tell him. But she didn’t, aware that she needed to console him and coax him, not confront him. “Have you ever been to your father’s fishing cabin on Iroquois Lake?” she asked.
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“I think we should go there for a few days.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The factory foreman was just here. You’re needed at work. He says there are questions for you to answer and papers for you to sign, and you can’t do your work when you’ve been drinking this way.”
“I don’t think I can—”
“Nothing can bring your father back, Horatio. But if you loved him—and if you love me—then you need to take charge of the business that he worked his entire life to build. You need to stop drinking. And you need to keep all of your promises to me—” Fear and grief choked Bebe’s voice. She couldn’t finish.