Twenty-four hours in a day.
Twenty-four hours of held breath. Twenty-four hours of waiting. Twenty-four hours of ripped insides missing her.
Seven days in a week.
Four weeks in a month.
One month of agony and Leonora would still not be on America’s soil.
Two months.
The telegram was brief and did not list a sender.
I love you.
The letters were bold against the open space of the paper. James read the three simple words again. I love you. He could live through the seconds and the minutes and the hours and the days and the weeks and the months until Leonora returned to him. I love you. And it was enough.
CHAPTER 60
Owen Fairfield was a ghost as he dragged the heavy chains of grief. The white suit sagged from his limbs; his potbelly drooped over his belt like a deflated balloon. The skin of his cheeks and jaw clung to the bones beneath and the white hairs of his beard stuck out prickly and sharp, the softness gone. The once sparkling, alert and wise eyes stared to distant points, their focus inward to memories that flowed and brought absent smiles to his lips and, an instant later, hanging frowns and a quivering chin.
In turn, Alex swelled. He met with lawyers and accountants, arranged the details of the funeral and burial. He supervised the steel mills. His ear was red from overseas calls, his voice steady and intent as he kicked Owen’s worn loafers from the business with his own Italian calf ones. The Great War was over. Shipping lines opened and flowed like unclogged veins, the blood seeming to pump straight into Alex’s arteries. And between the tasks of business, Alex hovered around his father-in-law and catered to his needs, stayed closed to the Fairfield ghost in case the folly of philanthropic inclination might cloud the man’s slow, grief-stricken mind.
On the day of the funeral, they were escorted by police motorcade. The church bell swung wide and deafening. The cathedral could not hold the crowds that flowed to its wide wood and wrought-iron doors and so the people lined the steps and carried into the street. The casket was closed, the embalmers having to hold the body until Leonora and Alex arrived. The sermon was long, with devout words espousing the goodness and generosity of a rare soul, of the wide arms of the Lord that awaited Eleanor Fairfield in Heaven. And Leonora listened to the words as one listens to the hammering of nails onto brittle wood and eventually found grief—the grief of a cold and unloving childhood bestowed by this praised woman.
It was a few days later on a cold December day, an ashen day without the comfort of snow, when she escorted her uncle to the cemetery. They walked between silent rows of granite stone, their footsteps crunching the frozen grass. Leonora buried her chin into the wool coat, thrust gloved hands deeper into pockets. Her uncle walked with open, unbuttoned overcoat and did not seem to notice the cold. They did not speak.
The Fairfield headstone towered in height and girth above the others. Even in death, the woman had a way of minimizing those around her.
“I’m not long for this world, Leonora,” Owen reflected.
She took his elbow. “Please don’t talk like that.”
“I’m not being morose, dear.” He tried to smile but failed. “Quite the opposite.” His Adam’s apple rose in his thin throat as he swallowed. “I miss my wife.”
He stared at the grave for quite a while before stretching out his neck. He gave a quick rise to his chin and then nodded as if the stone had conversed. Then he turned to Leonora; the alertness, though not as sharp, had returned. “Sit down, Leonora,” he instructed. “I have some things to tell you.”
The chill from the frostbitten ground inched up her boots. She followed her uncle to a limestone bench and sat upon the ice-cold slab, waited. Owen reached into his coat and pulled out a brown envelope and handed it to her. The back was not sealed and she raised the flap, unfolded the parchment paper inside. Leonora passed her eyes over the words, the legal jargon and raised seals. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“It’s a deed,” he explained. “For a thousand acres in New South Wales. It’s yours. Eleanor wanted you to have it.” Owen looked down at his hands. “Alex doesn’t know anything about the property.”
Leonora looked over the document again. A name that she did not recognize inked bold and black. “Who is Elizabeth Granby?” she asked.
Her uncle paled. “The property was originally set aside for her. When Eleanor was”—his voice faltered—“was dying, she asked that the deed be transferred to your name.” The man sighed deeply and added, “Granby was Eleanor’s maiden name.”
A great tiredness washed over her body with the riddles. Leonora looked at the name again, rubbed the tight spot between her eyebrows. But then she remembered. “Elizabeth Granby is her sister, isn’t she? The one that died in the hospital in Sydney.”
Her uncle shook his head then—long, low, wide swings like the church bell that had chimed at the funeral. “There was no sister, Leonora.” He clasped his eyes shut. “Elizabeth Granby was her daughter.”
The cold disappeared; sweat beaded under her wool coat. “What?”
He brought his hands to his face and bent forward, sobbed into his fingertips. Leonora was helpless as he crumbled under grief, too shocked to offer comfort, too confused to do anything but stare at the side of his face.
With a final, waning cry, Owen pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his nose and his eyes. “I met Eleanor when she was sixteen. I was in my early twenties,” he began, his voice raspy. “I had just graduated from Stanford University and was traveling through California before I started my first geology assignment.” The tears dried, left white streaks across his cheeks. “Along the way, I stopped at an inn to stay the night. I can’t even remember what the name of the town was. Isn’t that funny?” he said, mystified. “That’s where I met your aunt. She was changing the bedsheets in my room. She was the maid.”
Leonora did not hear correctly. The grief had left him senile. Eleanor Fairfield had never been a maid.
Owen read her mind. A small grin curved his lips. “Doesn’t seem possible, does it? But it’s true. And I fell in love with her that very moment.” The grin grew and he chuckled. “Eleanor didn’t want anything to do with me. Can’t say I blame her. I was eight years her senior. But I was relentless. I stayed at that inn for a week trying to woo her. Even postponed my new job.”
The half smile faded and he rubbed his slack jaw. “On the day that I finally gave up and had my bags to leave, she grabbed me by the hand and took me to the tiny basement room where she lived.” He paused. “That’s when she introduced me to her daughter.
“When Eleanor was thirteen, her father passed away. They weren’t a wealthy family but had lived comfortably, were well respected in their community. The local priest performed the rites and stayed with the Granbys for a time after the funeral.” Owen’s cheek shook violently. His voice became shrill. “That man, that priest, raped her.”
Leonora’s eyes burned; hot tears dripped down her cheeks, ran down her neck.
“Eleanor became pregnant, and when she told her mother the woman called her a whore, said her lies would ruin them. That bastard and her mother sent her away. They put that child, pregnant and without a nickel, on a train to California to fend for herself.” Owen’s lips were hard and white. “Eleanor got a job as a maid, delivered that baby by herself, hid her from the world and cared for her as best she could.” His eyes flickered to Leonora and he said quietly, “The baby . . . Elizabeth . . . was severely disabled, both mentally and physically.”
His mouth opened for more air before he continued, “I married Eleanor Granby a week later. And I promised that woman that I would take care of her and keep her demons away. I promised her that I would never, never let anyone hurt her again.” The deep breath of air now left his lungs. “And I kept my promise.
“Over time, over the first years,” he went on, “I acquired money quickly. We traveled. Once I bought the steel mills, we decided to settle in Pittsburgh. It was
then that she sent the child away.” Owen shook his head. “Eleanor lived in constant fear of someone finding out about the child. Lived in terror that her past would be realized and put on display. Part of her always thought I would leave her—that she would be alone again, on her own, poverty-stricken. She sent Elizabeth to the farthest civilized spot she could find—Sydney, Australia.” He nodded with conviction. “It was a good place—a good hospital. We paid the nurses and doctors very well. They took care of that little girl better than we ever could.” A long pause stretched. “But a piece of Eleanor froze when she sent that child away; a part of her died the day she put her child on that ship. She found herself talking out loud to people about Australia, made up a story about her sister and niece to cover up the sentiment that teared her eyes. Then, Elizabeth died.” Owen stared up at the gray, soot-filled sky. “Eleanor was devastated. Wouldn’t speak a word about it, not even to me. She was just a shell, her eyes blank all the time. I didn’t think the light would ever come back to my Eleanor. But it did.” He turned to Leonora. “The day she met you.”
Leonora dropped her head into her hands, held her ears, shuddered to her toes.
“She loved you, Leonora,” he said, his voice drawn and plaintive.
She pressed her ears with her fists.
“She loved you.” Owen gripped her knee, his gaunt features begging. “Listen to me, Leonora. You didn’t know her before. I did. I saw her change with you. I saw the way her face softened. I saw the glint in her eye when she dreamed of you happy and secure, with babies and wealth. I saw the way she secretly kissed your photograph every night before she fell asleep. She loved you, Leonora, and a part of her thawed, healed, when you came into our life.”
“How can you say that?” she snapped, and pulled her hands away from her face. “You know how she treated me! All I did was try to please her. I made myself sick trying to please her! Don’t you remember? I never had any friends; I studied every day; I never spoke out of turn. And all she did was push me away, ridicule me.” The pain clouded every thought, came through every fiber like a physcial pain. She choked on her sobs, couldn’t breathe with the pain. “I was a child. A child! All I did was try to get her to love me and what did I get in return . . . ‘I’ll leave you, Leonora. I’ll leave you!’ And every time she said it, a part of me died and turned numb until I hoped—I prayed—she would carry out her promise.”
Owen covered his eyes, nodded painfully. “Yes, I know,” he agreed ruefully. “She was cruel to you—heartless at times. I suppose I should have done more to stop it.”
I suppose! her mind screamed. I suppose!
“But Eleanor thought she was protecting you.” Her uncle looked far away, as if he was trying to explain it to himself. “When she met you at the orphanage, when she saw that priest’s affection for you, all her old memories flooded back—the terror, the helplessness . . . the rape.”
“Father McIntyre was a good man!” Leonora screamed, horrified. “He cared for me more than almost anyone in my whole life.”
“I know.” He raised a hand in a sign to stop. “I know. But Eleanor didn’t trust priests. What I’m trying to say is that she tried to rescue you. She sent those tutors to protect you.” Owen rubbed his forehead. “It all came down to fear, Leonora. There was no logic with her actions, just pure, raw fear. Every time she threatened you, she thought she was protecting you. That was how she knew how to love.” He put his hand on her shoulder and looked into her wet eyes. “This is why she wanted you to marry Alex. I think Eleanor knew she was sick for a long time. She wanted someone to take care of you, to protect you in case she wasn’t around. But even after you married Alex, the old fear came back. Even marital securities can falter. And that’s why she wanted you to have this property. She wanted you to have something that was yours—something that no one could take away.”
Leonora’s stomach swirled with nausea. “I can’t think straight,” she cried.
“I know.” The ghost reappeared as the grief and remorse and demons wrapped their arms around the old man. “I’m sorry, Leonora.” His eyes drooped. “I can’t change the past. But I hope you might find a sliver of solace in what I’ve told you.” He rose, dragged his feet to the car.
The cold entered again. Her legs and fingertips were frozen and trembling. The tears numbed her face. Leonora turned her head and looked at the gravestone. Eleanor G. Fairfield. She stared at the block writing, at the hard, gray granite, and she thought about the woman. And she could see it now—the fear behind the pupils. She saw it for what it was, for what it had been—the ferocity of a mother pushing a child from a speeding bullet.
CHAPTER 61
Three months after the Ford had disappeared in a predawn haze and taken Leonora from Wanjarri Downs, the Ford returned.
The January day was one of the hottest on record. The flies were fierce, swarming in black tornadoes around any breathing, warm body. Tom watched the car approach dustily from the road, smacked at the fat, hairy flies; James remained still and absent to everything but the moving car that finally parked with a dead rattle. James walked briskly, forced himself not to run. Tom grabbed at his shirt, but James ripped his arm away. Alex stepped out first, looking bright and satisfied. A dark pit spread in James’s gut. So help me if he touched her . . .
Tom jogged up and greeted Alex before James had a chance to lay his hard eyes on the man’s face. “America, America!” Tom crooned. “God shines his grace on thee!”
Alex laughed. “Shed,” he corrected. “God shed his grace on thee.” Alex gave Tom a hearty handshake and slapped him on the back.
“Lucky I got ‘America’ right! Geography isn’t my specialty,” Tom joked even as his eyes watched James from the corners. Subtly, he turned Alex away from the car. “James’ll grab your bags. So, how was the trip?”
Leonora opened the car door and stepped out. His breath caught at the sight of her—of her pink lips, the smooth skin, the silken hair. She was here. And the torturous ticking of eternal seconds finally stopped—just stopped. His lips tingled to kiss her. Each nerve ending waited to touch her skin. He stepped toward her, but she shook her head. Not now, she mouthed.
He glanced at Tom, saw Alex’s back was turned. Keeping his eyes glued to Leonora’s face, he reached over her shoulder for the suitcase on the backseat. He brushed his lips against her cheek. The smell of her perfume wafted from her neck. He leaned into her hips and touched her waist. James pulled the suitcase out and stepped back.
“Come on, Leonora!” Alex hollered from Tom’s side. “I’m starving.”
Leonora couldn’t shake the seasickness from the rough ocean waters that had bullied the steam liner; she couldn’t shake the carsickness that had left her green over the endless straight roads. Sleep did little to revive her fatigue. Each day, she retired before evening had set and rose long after morning had begun. And she knew. She knew with heartbreaking joy and cold terror that it was not the journey that left her bones weak as jelly and her stomach retching.
She sat across from Alex at the table. He perused the newspaper without focus, rambled on and on about metals and labor and dollars. Her head was heavy and her forehead beaded with sweat. The monotonous words churned her stomach like a bad smell. Bile came quickly to her throat. She covered her mouth and gagged.
Alex inched down the newspaper and grimaced. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t feel well. . . .” Her stomach twisted again and she jolted for the toilet, knocking her hip into the table corner and clinking the teacups in the process.
After a few minutes, Leonora returned, her face white, hands shaking. A plate of scrambled eggs sat on the table, curled her stomach with fresh vigor. She covered the eggs with a napkin and pushed them away. Meredith refilled her tea.
“Feeling better?” Alex asked, his mouth half-full of food.
“Yes,” she lied.
Meredith set the teapot on the table. “Guess congratulations are in order, eh?”
Leon
ora’s stomach plummeted to her legs like a cut anchor.
Alex stopped chewing. “Congratulations for what?”
“Fer the baby of course! My mum had twelve children. Know a pregnant woman when I see one!” She winked at Leonora and left the room.
Crouching dread stretched like a waking cat. Leonora touched her belly protectively.
Alex’s fork hung suspended in his fingers. His eyebrows spread and his forehead softened. “Is that true?” he whispered.
“I-I don’t know,” she stammered.
In a strange, choppy dream, Alex neared, knelt before her, clutched her hands, his eyes glistening.
Her insides retreated with his joy. It was crumbling. James. The child. It was all turning to dust under Alex’s fingers.
“A baby?” Alex’s face bloomed with wonder. His lips stretched over his teeth. “We’re going to have a baby?”
Leonora stared at her hands, limp and dead in his grip. And she waited—waited as the sentenced wait for the slice of the guillotine. It would all register within his skull. There was no use lying. She would be showing soon. And so she waited, felt it all dissolve—for Alex only needed to calculate the days and weeks and months—a baby could have been conceived and born within their abstinence. Her body chilled, shivered uncontrollably. Tears pushed behind her eyes. And she waited.
His hands tensed. The waiting stopped. He knew. Leonora raised her eyes in surrender, met his black pupils. The tenderness, the joy, was hacked to shreds—only ice and hate and black ugliness remained. “Whose is it?” he growled.
“I . . . I don’t know.”
Alex squeezed her hands, dug nails into her skin. “Whose is it?”
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