Vickie drew in a great ragged gasp of pure pain, and then another.
“Have you been hurt somewhere, child? Is there a cut, or a broken bone to tend?”
Tears were falling in a slow cascade by the time she was at last able to straighten, to sit upright without her aunt’s support. “Oh, Aunt Sophie,” the whisper came from white-hot agony.
Sophie managed to get several paint-stained fingers under her niece’s chin, to turn her enough for a full look-see. “You’ve been bothered by something for a long time, Vic. Whatever it is, you’ve kept it locked up good and tight. It looks to me as if the dam has finally broken. Now you must let me know what’s going on.”
“S-S-Sam…”
“Sam. Sam Marsden, that young man with whom your sister had her secret arrangement all this time? Which is, thanks to Buckley Marsden, now out in the open?”
Vickie managed a small nod of the head that still seemed to be floating on top of her shoulders. If she were to shake it instead, in negative fashion, would it fly right off to the ground?
An interesting aside: should she experiment to see what might happen?
“Vickie,” her aunt, seeing the distant wandering look that still indicated shock, said sharply. “Pay attention to me. Is that it?”
Another tiny nod.
“Very well. We have that much decided. What about him, then? Is he not a suitable future husband for Jess? Do you have some objection to his joining the family?”
A whimper. “M-M-Mine…”
“Your what? Your family?” Sophie sighed. This truly was an uphill battle. “Sweetheart, if you’d only—”
“She can’t marry him,” Vickie gathered strength to burst out. Eyes suddenly blazing from a sea of blue tears, she gripped her aunt’s shoulders with both desperate hands to emphasize the point. “Before he—before he ever went away to war, Sam—Sam asked me to marry him. I’m the one with the—the clandestine betrothal…not—Jessie—!”
Sophie’s mouth opened into a silent O as her jaw dropped.
“It’s true! He is my fiancé!”
Haltingly, she explained. Their meetings, some in public, some in private. All very proper, of course. All very respectable, just the sort of behavior anyone would expect from a gentleman. Even if his feelings toward her were growing deeper and stronger, even if it was getting more and more difficult, during a few clandestine encounters, to keep his eager hands off her. Or so he had confessed.
“He came home once more, after he enlisted, with his brothers,” said Vickie miserably. She had squared about on the bench to face her aunt, who was listening with a troubled expression and a troubled heart. “To collect his things. To tell his family goodbye. To wish me farewell. And to ask me to be his wife, once he returned.”
“Just—the words? No letter confirming he’d proposed? No ring or some other token?”
She shook her head. “I have so few letters from him. In the beginning, his company was moving about so much that he was hardly able to find some post office, or someone traveling, to carry them along to me here. He always closed with reminding me to—to remember my promise to him. And that we would be together—for always—once this hideous war was over.”
“And then—he was captured,” realized Sophie. “I see.”
“Yes. And all mail stopped. And my life—my life nearly did, too…”
Sophie reached out to smooth the girl’s tumbled hair, messier than normal with the distress of the day. “Oh, my dear. Holding all that inside, never letting on… Why, it’s a wonder you didn’t come down with some summer complaint, and take to your bed. I’m so sorry you were left so much all on your own. I had no idea, other than the fact that you seemed quieter than usual…”
Blinking away more tears, Vickie nodded. “I think—I think I’m making up for it now. I’ve never felt so weak and vulnerable, so—so discombobulated.”
“All right.” She drew in a deep breath. All her life, capable, compassionate Sophie had tackled every problem that came along with fairness and resolution. Here was another, and somehow she would see it through, and help her niece see it through, however she could. “I simply find it hard to understand why he would not acknowledge your betrothal, Vic. It sounds as if he meant every word. Have you had a chance to talk to him?”
“Not directly. We chatted, just briefly, yesterday, before—” Her throat worked, as she swallowed and began again, “—before Jessie—got in the way.”
“To be fair, sweetheart, she was dragged into the whole affair by that dreadful Marsden character,” Sophie protested.
“But you recall she didn’t stop it!”
“Noooo…However, it’s possible she was so caught up with everything going on—the excitement of the moment, if you will—that she couldn’t have stopped it if she’d wanted. Like trying to call a halt to some runaway locomotive.”
“It doesn’t matter. If she goes through with this, knowing what passed between Sam and me, I shall never forgive her. I shall hate her forever!”
Oh, what a tangled coil! Could Vickie but read her aunt’s mind, she would undoubtedly see a whole warp and weft of intertwined complications. Two sisters drawn into bitter enmity, each with apparently a valid reason for such feeling; a man in the middle, who had cast aside one for the other without giving good cause; a father who remained still blissfully unaware of the foment in his own household; an aunt who was now desperately seeking a solution to what might destroy family relationships forever.
Where to go from here?
How could anyone see a way out of such a convoluted mess?
“Vickie, dear, it sounds to me as if you need to have a very serious, very private conversation with this young man. I don’t know him, other than from yesterday, but I will be happy to lend you moral support and accompany you, should you—”
“No.”
The tears were finally beginning to dry, the shaking was under control, and the full lower lip had jutted out mutinously.
“But, darling, you won’t be able to resolve any of these problems if you don’t—”
“No. Absolutely not.”
Sophie shook her head and gave a heavy sigh. “I’m only trying to help. I don’t see any other way out of—”
“Dear Auntie.” Speaking over the lump in her throat, Vickie moved to take the woman’s hand in her own, held tightly. “I know. I understand what you’re telling me, and I love you for it. But I cannot. I simply cannot go to him and demand to know why he refused to honor his promise. If he cared so little for me, when I have been true to him in every way, then I—well, I just can’t, that’s all. I have some pride!”
A loving, bemused gaze; another heavy sigh. “There may be reasons…”
Vickie shrugged. “I suppose. Are there any that count, other than his utter and complete betrayal of what we vowed to each other? It was as if he couldn’t get rid of me quickly enough.”
Considering, Sophie murmured, “His father certainly seems a less than stellar individual. But his mother…would you contemplate speaking with his mother? Mariah seems a decent person. And she obviously loves her son. Perhaps she might know what has happened.”
By now, overwhelmed by emotion, Vickie was drooping like a wilted lily in the heat of summer. She was exhausted, sick at heart, and stripped of any desire to carry the matter further. “I don’t know, Auntie. I simply do not know.”
The strength and joy of a good, solid relationship between like-minded family members, or friends, do not lie alone in continuous conversation. Normal dips and curves must occur, momentary silences, for a true meeting of the minds and the communion of understanding hearts. Touch helps; a sympathetic glance helps. Both of which Sophie employed now.
“Perhaps you need some time to put all of this into perspective.”
“You think so? How much time? An hour? A day? A week?”
“Whatever it takes. In a way, you have to deal with this possible loss as if it were a death to you. That may very well be how it feels. A
nd, like all grief, you will have to deal with it, and somehow come through on the other side with your sanity intact.”
The girl uttered a short, bitter laugh. “You sound so rational, Aunt Sophie. And I don’t feel rational at all. I am just feeling such pain, such despair, and such rage at the unfairness of life, that I want to strike out and hurt someone, very badly.”
“I don’t blame you, honey. You have every right to all of that. Ah—except for the striking part, that is. I have found that usually, you are willing to remain on the sidelines of any crowd, instead of marching forward to stand up for yourself. You have pride, dear, even though you don’t mention that fact very often. Just—I beg of you…not too much. Too much pride can lead to a real downfall.”
Peaceful barnyard sounds intruded here in this garden spot, on this quiet Sunday afternoon. Several of the ranch hands were enjoying an enthusiastic game of horseshoes, and the ringing out of iron against iron, and either clapping or catcalls after each pitch, could be heard from near the bunk house.
She added an occasional delighted bark of his own. Someone else was oiling a squeaky gate hinge, to the accompaniment of such a grating noise that one could only hope the job would be finished soon, before every eardrum on the place was shattered.
“You sound as if you speak from personal experience, Aunt Sophie.” Brought temporarily outside of herself, and her cascading woes, Vickie observed curiously.
“Oh, I do, child, I do. Once I was young and fresh and dewy, just as you are today. And I was in love. Oh, yes, I was in love with a fine Boston man. A lawyer.”
Musing, the older woman was gazing somberly out over the gardens. Several butterflies were dipping in for snacks at their favorite flowers. Come dusk, the fireflies would put in an appearance, sprinkling their magical fairy lights from stem to stern. Plenty of spider webs, and their residents, decorated outer bushes; later, with night time moisture, the silken strands would glitter under the moon like miniature ropes of pearls.
Vickie was surveying her aunt with a new appreciation. And some awe. “I never knew that. And he loved you, as well?”
“He said he did. We, too, were betrothed. Not secretly; both of our families heartily approved, and we seemed to be a golden couple, with a golden future.”
“But—but, what happened? Why aren’t you there, with your own husband and children, instead of here, taking care of us all these years?”
“Oh, my dear. Pride. Stiff-necked, hard-spined pride stepped in, and tore us apart.” Shifting a rueful gaze back to the center of attention during this tête-à-tête—namely Victoria, herself—Sophie, plagued by old, unpleasant memories, managed a rueful smile. “And it was the old story. We had a disagreement.”
“A disagreement?”
“Well, call it what it was—a fight. Things began with a disagreement but quickly escalated into a down-and-dirty, out-and-out fight, complete with my hurling a china figurine at his handsome head and his slamming the door as he stormed away.”
Vickie’s blue-green eyes rounded in shock. “This is incredible. And I thought we knew all about you, Auntie, and your background.”
“Vickie. What single person ever knows all the ins and outs of another’s life?”
“What were you arguing about?”
Again, the gaze shifted. This time, to the house that had sheltered her, and which she had overseen and supervised, for so long. “Now, that’s the thing. I haven’t the slightest idea, isn’t that silly? Something entirely inconsequential, I’m sure. Something I wanted Peter to do, and which he didn’t want to do, so I turned my back on him and let my temper fly. Oh, yes, Vic, I had quite a temper in those days. I’ve had to learn to considerably moderate it.”
“Then did you try to make up?”
“I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t. He roared out, vowing never to see me again until I was ready to apologize for my cutting words. But I—and my pride—well, I was never ready. I vowed I could be just as stubborn and unforgiving as Peter was.” Slanting sunlight glimmered upon a smudge of wetness beneath Sophie’s eyes. Weeping over the unchangeable past, at this late date?
Vickie couldn’t hold back a small gasp. “And you never saw him again?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, I did see him again. At his wedding. Within six months, Peter had found a girl much more tractable, much more knowing in the ways of life, and he and Camilla were married. They enjoyed a beautiful union which produced several children.”
It would be very easy to shed tears in tandem with this staunch, independent lady, who had given up so much and done her duty so well.
“Auntie.” Biting her lip, Vickie squeezed the hand, dabbed with paint and turpentine though it was. “I’m so sorry.”
“Of course you are, sweetheart, because you are a generous, unselfish child.” Sophie smiled tenderly. “But I will be the first to tell you that pride is a very cold bed fellow. Don’t let yours be the ruination of the dreams you hold dear. Think very long and hard about what you ought to do.”
Eyes at first downcast then slowly lifted to meet her aunt’s steady gaze. “Are they—that Peter, fellow, and his family—are they still living in Boston?”
“Oh, I have no idea. Very likely. But, my dear, as deeply sympathetic as I was to the loss of your mother, I was very much relieved when your father asked me to come here to live, to manage the house and you girls. It turned out to be an escape for me, and I was quite happy to leave all that behind and move elsewhere. And do you know what else?”
“What?” asked Vickie, fascinated.
“During that very lengthy train journey, from Massachusetts to Texas, I kept recounting all the little flaws I’d found in Peter and that I knew—I just knew—I would eventually come to hate. So perhaps, that terrible argument was the best thing that could have happened to me. It brought me here, and it made me independent.”
“Hmmph.” Not quite a sniff, not quite a snort. Totally unconvinced.
“Now.” Sophie touched the tip of one finger to the tip of Vickie’s nose. “Help me clean up this mess I’ve made here, and we’ll go inside. Much as you will hate hearing this, I must track down your sister so that she and I can discuss this surprising situation with your father. It’s only right that he knows what’s going on.”
* * * * *
Not surprisingly, once all her painting equipment had been collected, assembled, and returned to its place, Sophie allowed—nay, she ordered—Vickie to go to her own room.
“There’s no point your being present for what might be a very unpleasant, possibly painful, confrontation with your father.” She gave her niece an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “I’ll brew a good dose of willow bark tea for that headache—yes, I’m sure you have one, with all you’ve experienced today.”
“Oh, Aunt Sophie.” Vickie paused at the newel post, immeasurably grateful for the woman who had taken on a mother’s role with such grace and goodness. “Thank you. You are so kind.”
“Yes, well…that remains to be seen, with matters still to be settled. Go upstairs and soak in a nice cool hip bath. The tea and a cup of Epsom salt in that water will work wonders for your disposition. Once this—um—meeting is over, I’ll bring you a supper tray, and you can avoid seeing everyone and everything for the rest of the night.”
Suddenly the girl leaned forward, flung both arms around Sophie’s shoulders, and pressed a fresh young cheek against hers. Then she turned and made her way up the stairs, in a manner almost as slow and as wretched as her father’s usual struggle.
An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book Page 9