Captain of Her Heart: Captain of Her HeartA Father's Sins

by Lily George

  On the bedside table, laudanum rested too near the edge. The bottle was fresh, at least according to Rose, but nearly two-thirds of the contents were already gone. Afraid the glass might fall over and break, Harriet scooted it closer to the bed. She poured fresh water from the decanter into Mama’s drinking glass. Then she straightened the bedclothes and tiptoed out of the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Harriet stirred in bed, stretching stiff and sore limbs from riding in the carriage for long days on end. The first rays of daylight filtered in through the curtains. Beside her, Sophie slept, her breathing deep and silent. A metallic rattle from downstairs signaled that Rose was awake and already making breakfast. How lovely to keep resting, but home meant a return to duty, and allowing Rose to do all the work was most unfair. She rose and began dressing.

  Rose’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, and then her voice echoed in the little hallway. “My lady? My lady, please wake up!”

  At the cry of alarm, Harriet tossed her half-braided hair over her shoulder and ran into Mama’s room. Rose leaned over the bed, frightened tears streaming down her face. “Harriet, she won’t stir. She’s already cold.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Harriet strode over to her mother and laid a palm on her face. She drew back in horror. Mama’s skin was cool, too cool to the touch. She grabbed a handheld mirror from the dressing table and placed it under Mama’s nostrils, waiting for the telltale fog announcing life. The glass remained clear. Harriet dropped it onto the bed and took a step back.

  Mama was dead.

  Rose sank onto the bed, sobbing. Harriet stood, her back pressed against the wall for support. What had happened? The laudanum bottle lay tipped over on its side on the bedside table. Not a drop clung to the amber glass.

  Her knees gave out, and she slid down the wall and onto the floor, her head bowed.

  Sophie ran into the room, still in her nightgown. “Whatever has happened?” she gasped.

  “Mama is dead,” Harriet replied in a voice unlike her own. Indeed, she could not tell if Sophie heard her.

  “Mama is dead?” Sophie screamed, and flung herself on the bed beside Rose. “Oh, it is my fault. I was too cruel. I should have married Brookes.”

  Harriet covered her ears with her hands. Sobbing would not help. Hysterics would only worsen matters. She must keep her head and assume control of the situation.

  Harriet knew that Mama had been too careless with the laudanum. She had always taken just a little more, and then a bit more. As she wasted further away, she must have taken just that extra too much. Mama hadn’t been suicidal. But she had been too dependent on a potent medicine to solve her troubles.

  There was no time to grieve. She must care for Mama in death with dignity. She stood, her legs trembling so that her knees knocked together. “Rose, I think it would be best if we said the twenty-third Psalm.”

  Rose nodded, blowing her nose. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…” she began, her voice thick with tears.

  Harriet and Sophie joined in, their shaky voices blending together. After they finished, silence held the room for a moment, punctuated by Sophie’s weeping. Then Harriet moved into action. The family had so much to do. “Rose, run to the village and tell Dr. Wallace what happened. He will know what to do. I can prepare Mama for burial but he may wish us to have an undertaker do so. If he insists on an undertaker, stress to him we can only afford the plainest of funerals.”

  Rose looked at her, the pain she felt reflected in her bloodshot eyes. “With what money, dearie?”

  “I sold Papa’s books in Bath. I was going to use the money to pay my publisher. But this is more important. The sum was not much, so we must use it as carefully as possible. Sophie—” Harriet placed a gentle hand on her sister’s shaking shoulder. “You must dye all of our clothes for mourning. We have a few dresses left from after Papa’s death, but everything we own must be black again. The large washtub will do—you can fit several of our gowns in it at one time.” She hesitated, and then continued in a lower tone. “And Sophie, you must make a shroud for Mama. Perhaps we can fashion one from her bedsheets.”

  Sophie bit back a sob and nodded.

  “I will take the horse and ride to the church at Crich. I will ask Reverend Kirk if he will consider coming here to perform a simple ceremony for Mama. It would be a great balm to all of our souls to have him here, I think.”

  The two women nodded, raising tear-streaked faces to Harriet for guidance. She racked her brain, trying to think of any other task that must be performed. The Handleys would not help them; in fact, they would only rejoice at Mama’s demise. If only there was someone she could turn to, who could share the burden. But he remained in Bath. And he didn’t love her. Even so—Harriet recalled Aunt Katherine, warm and secure and independent. Surely Auntie would help.

  “I am going to write a letter to Mrs. Crossley, who has offered to help us often. Our hour of need is upon us.” She looked at Rose, and determination stiffened her spine. “Rose, after you have fetched Dr. Wallace, take the letter up to Brookes Park with instructions to send it to Bath. Her servants are returning to fetch them back home anyway. Perhaps one of them can ride ahead with the message.”

  Rose nodded. “That sounds like a sensible plan.”

  “Sophie, you must dress and start the washpot boiling. It does no good to cry. Mama is at peace. What happened is not your fault, not in the least. I beg of you, stay occupied today and do not give in to hysterics. We must be strong.” She pulled Sophie up from the bed and looked her square in the eye. “We have too much to do.”

  “All right. Hattie—would you cover Mama? I cannot bear to.” Sophie fled the room, her face buried in her hands.

  Harriet and Rose stretched the bedsheet over Mama’s body. Then they tiptoed out of the bedchamber and closed the door with a quiet click.

  “Rose, I will compose my letter and then ride over to Crich. I will leave my dispatch on the mantel in the parlor. Be sure to take it as soon as you can.”

  “Right away, dearie.”

  In the parlor, Harriet grabbed the first sheet of foolscap she found. She had no more of the black-bordered stationery left from Papa’s funeral—they used it for shopping lists and general housekeeping notes over the years. This would have to do. She opened the inkwell, but her hands shook so badly she had a difficult time dipping the pen. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she wrote her plea to Aunt Katherine.

  Dear Aunt Katherine—

  Desire to pour out all of her troubles overwhelmed Harriet, forcing her to put her pen down. As though the sheet of paper were Aunt Katherine’s shoulder, she longed to rest all of her burdens there. But she could not. She must keep her message brief and practical. Very well. What was necessary to convey to Auntie—and to John? She hastily scribbled the news, and halted, biting her lip. She must tell the truth, no matter how humiliating:

  I know not what the future will bring. As yet I have not settled Mama’s affairs, so I am unsure of our means of living. I must prepare myself and my sister that we may have to seek employment. I would like to have your advice on this matter upon your return.

  Please inform the captain that I must spend the money I have raised on Mama’s funeral. If he has not contacted the publisher yet, please ask him to refrain from doing so until I have secured proper funding again.

  I must go; there are many preparations to be made. I must thank you in advance for your help and consideration.

  Harriet sanded the pages and folded the letter, placing it on the mantel. Now she must make the journey to Crich and back. She wound her way through the hushed cottage. Amazing how her mother’s death already touched the confines of the little house. She paused on the back step. “I am off to the church, Sophie. I should be there and back by dark.”

  Sophi
e looked up from the fire she built and nodded. “Hattie, I will stay outside if I may. I do not wish to be alone in the house with Mama’s body.”

  “Of course.” Harriet embraced her tightly. “Dr. Wallace and Rose will be here soon. Be brave, my dear.” With a final pat on her sister’s shoulder, Harriet strode over to the barn.

  The family lost all of their carriages, with the exception of a light gig, which Harriet and Sophie once drove around their father’s estate for fun. Now the gig functioned as their primary mode of transportation. Harriet hitched Esther, their aging but faithful nag, to the tiny conveyance. Esther had a ewe-neck, considered of poor enough conformation none of the duns wanted her, so Harriet managed to keep her for their use.

  She climbed into the gig easily and gently flicked the reins across Esther’s swayed back. A moderate pace would be best. She didn’t want to press Esther too much.

  The stone steeple of St. Mary’s loomed in the distance, and nervousness gripped Harriet like a vise. She spent the hours-long ride trying to come up with solutions to their money woes. A post as a governess would be a sensible course of action, and she might earn the money to publish her book again. Though she plotted and planned for the future, she hesitated to prepare herself to speak of her mother’s death to Reverend Kirk. Could she bring herself to form the words? She might burst into tears, and that would never do. She couldn’t cry. She had to be strong—the foundation of her family.

  She pulled the gig around in front of a small stone house squatting beside the church. This must be Reverend Kirk’s residence. She alit, tying Esther to the hitching post in the deserted churchyard. Perhaps the reverend left on a call, and no one would be home to help her. She paused. She hoped only to come here and hurry home. She hadn’t counted on waiting.

  A stout housekeeper ushered Harriet into a pretty but plain sitting room. A bouquet of daisies burst forth from a yellow porcelain vase on his oaken desk, lending a cheery air. Harriet sank onto a wooden chair with a worn needlepoint cushion, her composure returning. At the sound of footsteps outside the door, she rose again. Seeing the reverend’s kindly face, her composure fled and she burst into tears.

  Reverend Kirk allowed her to cry, saying nothing, merely patting her arm while grief consumed her. Harriet’s weeping abated at length, and she wiped her nose with her sodden handkerchief. He handed his over to her, and she gratefully pressed the crisp linen to her face. She inhaled deeply, willing herself to calm down. Her eyes burned from the sudden flood.

  “Miss Handley.” He spoke in a gentle voice. “What has happened that grieves you so?”

  “My mother died this morning. Reverend Kirk, I would like for you to officiate at her funeral service. Only my family shall be there—three of us in all. But your presence would mean a great deal to us.”

  “Of course I will, my child. You live in Tansley, do you not? When is the funeral to be?”

  “The quicker the better. We are readying her body for burial today. Although I would rather bury Mama beside Papa, I think it would be better to inter her at the cottage. There are circumstances that make her quick burial necessary.” A sudden sob fought its way up her throat. She bit it back, forcing herself to remain controlled. The farce was over. She couldn’t lie to this sympathetic man of the cloth.

  “What are these circumstances?” His voice grew calm and gentle, helping to steady Harriet’s nerves.

  Harriet closed her eyes, praying for strength. “I—I believe my mother accidentally took too much laudanum. She was ill and in pain for some time, suffering from nervous hysteria. She must have miscalculated the dose last night.” The truth poured out in a torrent. She opened her eyes, unsure of the reverend’s reaction. Would he refuse to perform the service?

  He sat back in his chair with a gentle air. “My child, as a man of faith, I can assure you that Jesus is the savior of all mankind. He has forgiven our sins, even the transgressions of the past. Your mother’s soul will find peace with His forgiveness.”

  “Thank you, Reverend, for your help, and for allowing me to grieve. I have to remain strong in front of everyone else.”

  “Not at all, my dear. If a swift funeral is best, I can be there as soon as you need. Perhaps tomorrow morning?”

  She accepted the fresh spring water with shaking fingers. “Is that too soon for decorum?”

  “No, especially not among us country folk. I think an immediate funeral would be best for your small family. No intense mourning rituals, but a simple service followed by internment.”

  She nodded and opened her reticule. “I cannot afford to pay very much—”

  He waved his hands. “No need for payment, Miss Handley. I am only too happy to help.”

  Tears welled in Harriet’s eyes again.

  “No, no, my dear, don’t cry,” he interjected. “Consider it my tribute to your late mother.”

  A profound wave of gratitude rolled over Harriet, and she managed a watery smile. “Thank you, Reverend Kirk.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Brookes heard the rider before spotting him, as gravel scattered and pinged against the water fountain in the courtyard. “Give me a minute, Charlie,” he remarked to Cantrill. He strode out of the barn, where they had been examining his latest acquisition, a mighty black stallion named Samson. Cantrill followed a few paces behind.

  “Ho, there, what have you?” Brookes called, before halting in recognition. ’Twas one of his own stable lads from Brookes Park. Brookes hurried his pace, furrowing his brow. “Daniel? What are you doing here? Is something wrong at the Park?”

  Daniel shook his head and dismounted, panting. “No, Captain. Trouble at Tansley Cottage, where the Handleys reside. Their servant brought this over for Mrs. Crossley about three and a half days ago. I rode as fast as I could.”

  Brookes snatched the letter away and patted Daniel on the back. “Go into the kitchens and have dinner and a rest. You are worn out. I will take this to my aunt. Stoames?” He strode over toward the barn, calling out, “Stoames, come and see to his horse.”

  Stoames poked his head out of the barn, glancing quizzically from the horse to the rider. “Trouble at home,” Brookes explained, gesturing with one shoulder at Daniel. “See his horse has a good rubdown, you hear?”

  “Of course, Captain.” Stoames rushed over to claim the reins, his boots crunching on the gravel.

  Charlie Cantrill held out his hand. “I’ll be going then. Sounds like an emergency. If you leave in a rush, try to send word before you depart, old fellow.”

  Brookes shook his hand firmly. “I will, Charlie. Thank you.”

  He crossed the courtyard as quickly as possible on his wooden leg. He remembered the old days when taking the stairs two at a time gave him no difficulty. Not so anymore. He resisted the urge to open the letter himself, but his hands shook with the desire to know what happened. Was Harriet hurt? She’d made it home, hadn’t she? Surely Daniel would have told him if the carriage overturned or if Harriet was harmed on the journey. He glanced down at the envelope, recognizing the graceful swirls and loops of Harriet’s handwriting. No matter what turmoil occurred, Harriet was able to send word herself, but this knowledge still did not calm his roiled nerves.

  He burst into the library, where Aunt Katherine sat at the desk, answering her correspondence. She glanced up, startled at his entry. “Whatever is the matter, John?”

  “A letter from Tansley, sent by special messenger. Open it at once, Aunt, and read what it says aloud.” He tossed the letter onto the desk and began pacing the room.

  She broke the seal and unfolded the letter, perusing it silently.

  “Read it aloud, Aunt,” he barked. “Is she all right?”

  She glanced up from the letter, her lips pursed. “Harriet is all right, but her mother is not. She died, quite unexpectedly, according
to the letter.” She extended the letter to him, and he snatched it from her grasp.

  He read through the few lines over and over, trying to absorb their meaning. Harriet wasn’t telling the whole truth. Harriet was always honest. The hesitancy in her letter caused a flicker of apprehension to course through his being.

  “Well, we must leave Bath at once, but I think tomorrow is the soonest it can be managed.” Aunt Katherine sanded the letter she had been writing and recapped the inkwell. “I will begin packing my trunks immediately. We can leave in the morning if you wish. If they’ve sent a runner up ahead to deliver this news, we shall hire a yellow bounder and meet my berlin halfway between here and Derbyshire.”

  “No.” His mind jumped ahead to Aunt Katherine’s leisurely pace of travel. How could he bear to wait? “I will leave immediately. I can begin riding now.”

  “John, calm yourself. There is nothing you can do at this point. Lady Handley is dead, and will likely be buried by the time we can reach Tansley. There is no sense in taxing your leg, and your horse, by riding out in this state of mind.”

  He began pacing the room again. “I cannot wait. I must have some occupation. If I am riding toward Tansley, I am at least accomplishing something.”

  Aunt Katherine pierced his soul with one of her searching looks. “Why are you so agitated? Why do you want to reach her so quickly?”

  He blurted out the first thoughts that came to his mind. “I am afraid she will leave. I am afraid she will become a governess and leave Tansley before I can see her.” His gut churned, and he turned away so Aunt Katherine could not read anything further in his expression.

  “Why would that matter? Surely she and her sister must have some means of survival. Harriet’s plan to earn a living by becoming a governess sounds very sensible to me.” The elaborately casual tone of her voice ignited his anger.