The Love Letter

by Rachel Hauck

  “All of my possessions?” She studied her father. The morning light falling through the open door cast a ghostly light on his sallow complexion. “Why would I need them? I’ve only packed enough for a few months with Mother.”

  “Esther, I asked you to take all of your things.” Father sat in a nearby chair and appeared to fade before her eyes. “Sassy,” he called with a great effort of breath, “did you not see to her packing?”

  Sassy came down the hall, tugging on her gloves. “Yes, sir, Sir Michael. I packed most everything. I’ll have to ship some of the gowns.”

  “Everything? Father?” Esther knelt beside him, cupping her hand on his arm. “I am returning to Slathersby Hill, am I not? When the war is over? Hamilton will wonder—”

  “Hamilton Lightfoot is a cripple who cannot walk!” Father found his voice with enough energy to boom at her like a war cannon. “He is not for you, Esther. Please, you must come to your senses. You are not a schoolgirl running the fields with your playmate. You have obligations and a right, a right I tell you, to marry well. To be established in society. Besides, you heard Mary Lightfoot. Hamilton will not hold you to any commitments or declarations. Nor will he honor any of his.” Father shoved up from the chair, escorting Esther to the veranda. “Now hurry. Climb into the carriage. You have no time to delay.”

  But she could not take the first step toward this new venture. She shivered, locking her hands together at her waist. Mother had once abandoned her, and now Father was leaving her as well. Sending her away. His heart felt so distant from her, a sensation she’d never experienced with him.

  He held her gently and kissed her forehead. “Give my love to your mother. I’ll see you soon.”

  As Father started back to the library, Esther turned to Sassy. “What has he said to you?” She held herself in reserve, fearing she’d simply fly apart. “Am I never returning?”

  “My dear girl, I’m not sure there will be a Slathersby Hill in the future.” Sassy shuffled out the door, two large cases in hand, calling to her husband. “Come, take these, my dear.”

  Esther charged through the foyer and burst through the library’s closed door. “Father, you must tell me. What is going on?”

  “You are traveling home, to be with your mother, to be safe.”

  “Father! Tell me!” She slammed her fist down on his desk. “I will not leave until you—”

  “Esther!” He stood, toppling his chair, his ire flaring. “Will you leave me with some dignity? Can I live out my failings without you demanding an intimate account?”

  “Failings? What failings?”

  “If only the world were as simple as you see it.” His eyes brimmed, and she pressed her cheek agent his chest.

  “What is it? Tell me.”

  His hand settled tenderly on her back. “Keep your innocence, my dear. Guard the kindness and tenderness of your heart. Let not fear nor greed or selfish ambition take hold.”

  Warm tears slipped down her cheeks. “How can I leave you now? You are my father, my dearest friend. You need me. Whatever you face, we shall face it together.”

  “I need you to go. To carry that case to Wallace Hobart.” Father held her at arm’s length now, his pale cheeks flushed and his breathing labored. “Please do as I bid, Esther, and do not let the case from your sight.”

  She rested her forehead on his broad chest, her heart breaking, her thoughts wild, searching for a solution. “Send Isaac with the case—”

  “Esther! I am sending you.” He touched her chin and raised her face. “You know full well I cannot send Isaac alone. Would you risk his life to make yours more at ease? To win this argument?”

  “Then when am I coming home?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Will Slathersby Hill remain? Sassy said—”

  “Mercy, I’m worn to the bone.” Father squeezed her hand. “Can you not just do as I bid? That will greatly ease my burden.”

  Well, then, there was nothing more to say. Her pleading was of no consequence. “I will do as you bid, Father. I love you.”

  “And I you, Esther. And I you.”

  “Esther?”

  She whirled at the sound of a masculine voice. A man stood at the library door. The same one she had encountered in Hamilton’s room at the surgeon’s. “It’s time to leave. Come, follow me.”

  Startled, she peered at Father. Did he know this man? This intruder? But her father remained undisturbed, staring toward the window, his hand slowly slipping from Esther’s.

  She turned back to the mystery guest. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “For you to follow me.”

  His voice, his countenance, his presence purchased her deepest fears, and she knew at once he must be obeyed. Gone were the cold emotions from the war, the house, and Father. She embraced a radiating peace.

  “To where, my Lord?”

  But he did not answer. He merely turned and walked away. This was going to be a journey of faith.

  Father said his final good-bye at the library door. At the carriage, Esther bid Sassy a tearful good-bye, then drew Kitch into a sisterly hug. “You are the closest thing to a sibling I’ve ever had. Take care and stick to your learning.”

  He squeezed her tight. “I’ll miss you, Miss Esther. Won’t be the same without you.”

  “Off with you now, Kitch,” Sassy said, wiping her cheeks. “Let Miss Esther and your pa go. They must meet the second coachman along the way.”

  But Esther had a detour in mind, and as Isaac aided her into the carriage, she whispered, “Quill Farm, please. I must say goodbye.”

  The carriage swayed from side-to-side, hitting every rut in the road as Esther imagined what she might say to Hamilton.

  She’d not seen him since the day at the surgeon’s. Mrs. Lightfoot had kept him away, healing, for nearly six weeks. They’d only just returned to Ninety Six.

  Hamilton had not written to her, and Esther battled with the truth. He meant to put her off. He’d withdrawn his love. The war had changed him.

  “Whoa.” Isaac drew the horses to a halt at the front of the Lightfoots’ home.

  “I’ll only be a moment,” she said, squeezing his hand as she exited the carriage.

  Her three short raps on the door were answered immediately by Mrs. Lightfoot.

  “Esther.”

  “Good morning. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’ve come to say good-bye.”

  “Oh?” She did not flinch or move aside to invite Esther in. She appeared weary and worn, her hair uncombed and her apron stained. “Where are you bound?”

  “London. Father is sending me home. To tend to some business on his behalf.”

  “Hamilton is sleeping.”

  The peace deposited in Esther by the divine visitation began to wane. “Can you tell him I’ve gone away? I sail from Charles Town on the Glorious packet in five days.”

  The woman regarded her for a tense moment, then stepped aside for her to enter. “Do you care to leave a note?”

  “Do you not hear me? I am leaving. For England. No, I do not want to merely leave a note.” Esther pressed past the woman into the small sitting room, the highs and lows of the morning tugging her every which way. “Hamilton! Where are you?”

  “Esther, hush. He’s sleeping. Which he desperately needs to do.”

  “Upstairs? In his room?” Esther glanced at the stairwell, then darted toward the steps. “Hamilton!”

  “Esther! Leave him be!” Aunt Mary ran after her, their footsteps hammering in alternating rhythm.

  She knocked on the closed door, then burst inside. Dark and warm, the air was depressed with the scent of human waste in the pot and unwashed flesh.

  “Hamilton,” she said, trembling, unable to move forward or turn in retreat. “Are you awake?” He did not stir. “I’m leaving. Father is sending me to England. He fears the rebels. Or so he says. But I rather think he’s in some trouble with Lord Whatham. I dare say Quill Farm is somehow involved.” His shoulders ro
se gently as he breathed, but he did not turn toward her. “Hamilton!” Esther hammered the floor with her heel. “Do you not hear me? I am leaving. Going away. Who knows when I will return?”

  She waited. Please answer me.

  “You best go, Esther.” Mrs. Lightfoot touched her arm.

  “Will you not speak to me? After all we’ve meant to one another? You claim to no longer love me, but I do not believe you. Hamilton?”

  One second. Two. Then three.

  “You heard my aunt. Go.”

  “I will go only if you turn over and face me.”

  “Esther! I said go!”

  She whirled out of the room and tripped down the stairs, bursting from the house into the clean, morning air. Isaac stood ready at the carriage door.

  How could he treat her so? Is that all her friendship, her love, meant to him?

  “Esther, wait, please.” Mrs. Lightfoot ran after her. In the sharp, morning light, her weariness was evident. Her tired eyes, unkempt hair, faded dress, stained apron. “Forgive him, he is not himself.” She pressed a tightly folded letter into Esther’s hand. “God bless you, my dear. Truly. God bless you.”

  When the carriage pulled away, Esther slid from the seat to the carriage floor, weeping.

  Hamilton Lightfoot did not love her. He’d tried to tell her, but she refused to believe. Now she had no cause to doubt.

  Tousled by the rough road, she mourned her fading childhood, the present she could not control and the future she could not see.

  Father willed her to leave Slathersby Hill. Hamilton willed her to leave him. And the Man she’d encountered in the library—Jesus, to be sure—asked more of her than any woman could bear.

  To leave herself—her dreams, hopes, and desires—for Him.

  Love required her complete surrender. But in turn—oh, pray to heaven, in return—love would bring her everything.

  25

  HAMILTON

  He heard the clap of the front door and the hammer of horses’ hooves, the sound of a carriage disappearing down the road.

  Tears stained his pillowcase. He’d barely had the strength not to turn over and beg her to stay.

  But he could not, would not, ruin her life. Aunt Mary was right. He could offer her nothing. If her father was sending her away, ’twas for the best. She belonged in England with her peers.

  His door creaked open.

  “Hamilton?”

  “Leave me be.”

  “Are you sure this is how you want to part? She’s not far down the road. I can help you hitch Tilly—”

  “I am sure.” He sat up, shoving the blanket away. His leg had healed enough to practice walking with a peg, but he hated the sound of the stick against the floor. And in the yard, the blasted thing stuck in the dirt. Often after the smallest exercise, his leg ached and burned, the skin blistered and bled.

  As if the war had not robbed him of his last shred of dignity, now he was a man who must be a burden.

  “She came here to see you, to tell you how she feels. Do you realize what it cost her to stand here and—”

  “Do you not realize what it has cost me? I love her.” He snatched his crutch from against the wall. “I let my foolishness drive me to war, and now I have lost her.”

  “Lost? She was just standing here. Her perfume lingers. Go after her. Do not let foolishness, or your pride, keep you from the one you love.”

  “Why do you care? I’d rather thought you prefer me here with you. You said as much, did you not? ‘It’s best Esther is with her father. You and I will make a go of it, nephew.’ Were those not your claims?” He shoved aside the curtains, allowing in the light, and raised the sash, expelling the dank presence of the room.

  “Yes, those were my claims. I confess, I was scared when you were wounded. When she came to the surgeon’s to see you, I feared for us all. But now I cannot help but think—”

  “Aunt.” He moaned, perching on the edge of his bed, one eye toward the peg. “Please, I am in no mood for hyped optimism.”

  “Nevertheless, you will hear me out. You went to war, Hamilton, and lost your leg. A fact we cannot change. But you still have your mind, do you not? Your wits, your heart, and heaven above, your freedom. Your life.” She knelt next to his bed. “I cannot imagine your thoughts or feelings, or how it feels to have been a man so capable of doing whatever he wanted when he wanted without aid or even much thought. But you gave yourself to the cause and now—”

  “My bitterness, my desire for revenge, has left me maimed. As I deserve!”

  “So what are you to do? Lie around the rest of your days? Wallow in pity? To what end, Hamilton? What of your faith, your hope—”

  Her voice rose with cheer and confidence—which he found annoying.

  “In a Lord who took my pa and ma, little Betsy, Uncle Laurence, and my leg? Does He love me or consider me a toy to be trifled with, dangled over the tormenting fires of hell?”

  “Have you no sense? Have I no sense? Listening to your uncle all those years, preaching of a good God, a God of love.”

  “Preach not to me, Aunt, but to yourself.”

  “’Tis what they say of you in town. That you’ve left yourself. You’ll never recover because of your bitterness.”

  “Who is saying such about me? Who?” He slapped the crutch against the floor. “I most certainly will recover, but I am also a realist. I know when I’m defeated. But I will return to the fields. I’ll hunt, trap, perhaps start a venture in town. With any luck, I’ll wrangle the deed to Quill away from Sir Michael. Otherwise, we’ll buy a new and better place.”

  Aunt Mary stood, arms folded. “Well then, there’s the door. What’s keeping you from even the slightest chore?”

  “Because!” He threw the crutch against the wall. “Without her, none of it has meaning. Because I am ashamed. I am weak. I have a stick under my thigh instead of flesh and bone. She does not want a man who must lean on her but a man on whom she can lean.”

  “You underestimate her. I underestimated her as well. Love works both ways, my boy. Did not your uncle lean on me in his final years?”

  “He was an old man. I am young. Besides, what can I offer Esther when any number of men in the upcountry as well as the low, even as far away as London, would long to court her? Men with means, with substance, if not wealth? Men with two legs, with industries, titles, and money.”

  “She does not love other men. She loves you, Hamilton. There is only one question you must ask yourself. Do you love her? Do you want her?”

  “With every fiber of my being.”

  “Then go after her.” Aunt Marry pointed toward the door. “Tell her. Don’t let her final thoughts of you be your silence. And if she rejects you, at least you will have given your love a chance.”

  He sat in the desk chair, rubbing the ache in his half leg. “I wonder if we are just not meant to be. Even my letter to her on the eve of battle was lost. When Ralphie came to visit, I inquired of my letter to Esther and he confirmed he had not delivered it to her. God must surely be punishing me.”

  He stared out the window, yearning to stand and run, to taste the wind and see the sun rise. Then he caught his reflection in the shaving mirror nailed to the opposite wall.

  He looked like a mountain man with his long beard and unkempt hair. Color had yet to return to his complexion, save for the pink scar running down his cheek and into his beard. His eyes sank into his gaunt expression. He was a sight to behold.

  “If God is punishing you, then He must also punish me.” With a sigh, Aunt Mary sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Surely not. You are good and kind. What could you have possibly done to deserve punishment?”

  “Plenty. One of which I’m most ashamed. But I was afraid . . . more afraid than I can ever remember.”

  He regarded her, her frame so slight, her posture so frail, her dark hair laced with gray, frayed with grief. “What do you mean?”

  “Esther left you a letter when she visited the surgeon�
��s.”

  When he didn’t respond, Aunt Mary continued. “I burned it.” Her shoulders shivered with her confession. “I feared you leaving me. Feared being alone. Feared she’d eventually tire of you, leave, and break your heart.”

  “I would never leave you. Esther would embrace you as her own. As for her leaving me, well, we cannot say, can we? We’ll never know.”

  “Sir Michael was so dead set against your uncle. Against you. I have such regret for signing his document without discussing it with you. What a fool I am.”

  “You must forgive yourself, Aunt.”

  “He came to Dr. Nelson’s and manipulated Esther away. And I aided him. He said with no hesitation he did not wish her married to you. Oh, Hamilton, I was awash with terror. What if she defied him, married you, then tired of caring for a cripple? Tired of life on the farm. Tired of chasing after the children, should there be any, on her own?”

  “So you and Sir Michael chose for us.”

  “The decision seemed prudent, even wise at the time. But these past months have given me time to think.” She smiled softly. “But, Hamilton, I still wonder. What would become of you, when after all you’ve endured, the love of your life forsook you? Abandoned you? Tell me? Then what, Hamilton? Then what? You can recover from a broken limb, but a broken heart? I feared for you . . . feared.”

  Her soft words carried a fierceness that reverberated in the small room.

  “Yet now you urge me to go after her?”

  “Because I am more ashamed of my meddling than my fears. I hear the sound of longing and love in her voice, and I know she is what you need, my boy. Her love will bring you back to life.”

  “What do you want of me?” He hobbled on one foot for his crutch and stared out the window. “Why do you torment me?”

  “Hamilton, leave your stubbornness behind and go after her. Be the man you are meant to be whether you feel it or not. Rise up and let your heart, for once, have its way.”

  JESSE

  He’d started an e-mail an hour ago, deliberating over what he was about to write. But the time for debate was over. He knew what he needed to do. Next to his computer in the Daschles’ guesthouse, his phone pinged. It was Becky, Jeremiah’s assistant.