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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 13.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is. . .”
--Latin proverb
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“This is Miss O’Brien, my father’s ward.”
Scott had introduced her that way, so many times now.
Teresa set her embroidery aside and looked out at the trees visible through the second story window of her very comfortable guest bedroom. “Beacon Hill” that’s what Scott had called it, an area of beautiful homes within the city of Boston larger than many of the towns she’d been in. When the carriage had pulled up in front of the imposing three-story brick mansion four days ago, she’d been more than impressed. There were graceful arches over the first floor windows and the front door, with wide stone steps leading up to the entrance. Every one of the windows was trimmed in white paint with black shutters on either side. As soon as they had walked through the gate of the elegant wrought iron fence that surrounded the front lawn, the door had opened to reveal a white haired gentleman dressed in black. For one startled moment, Teresa had thought that it might be Mr. Garrett himself; she’d even uttered a surprised “oh!” Thank goodness Scott hadn’t seemed to notice, since it was not, of course, his grandfather, but Mr. Garrett’s butler.
Scott had greeted the somber-faced man as “Fredericks” and once they’d reached the entry, had been about to respond to the butler’s formal words of condolence when they’d been interrupted by a feminine voice murmuring Scott’s name. Fredericks had discreetly stepped aside to allow the approach of a woman in a long black dress, with silvery upswept hair.
Scott’s Aunt Cecilia had hurried forward to grasp her nephew’s hands. He kissed her upraised cheek and they quietly exchanged a few words before Scott turned to make his introduction. Smiling through her tears, Mrs. Holmes had pulled Teresa into a welcoming embrace.
Then Fredericks had led them through the foyer to a wide hallway that opened onto an area where the entire household staff stood assembled in a row beneath the curving banister of a magnificent staircase. Scott moved along the line, greeting each man or woman in turn. He’d listened to their expressions of regret, paused to console the cook, Mrs. Hudson, and engaged in lengthier conversations with the senior employees. And he’d introduced her to each one as his father’s ward.
The number of people, the size of the house—Scott had taken her through it before supper---- it had all been rather overwhelming. Teresa was glad to be off the train. Truthfully, she’d become weary of sitting and having altogether too much time to think. The first evening in Boston they’d shared a quiet meal with Mrs. Holmes, but since then, the days had been a constant flurry of activity. Neighbors had come by to visit, including Will Hayford’s mother and older brother. Many other people had left cards when they found that Scott was out.
Scott had been “out” a good deal, running errands, having fittings for the suits he’d ordered from Sacramento. Scott had also been spending a great deal of time at his grandfather’s office, consulting with his cousin, Wade Garrett.
Actually, it was Scott’s grandfather and Wade Garrett’s father who were cousins, although Wade had apparently worked for Mr. Garrett for quite some time and referred to him as “Uncle Harlan.” A stocky, bearded young man, Wade Garrett had accompanied Scott home to dine with them their second evening in Boston. Scott had still been attired in his black Western clothes, but Teresa had worn a very pretty, deep violet colored dress on loan from Melissa Harper. Mrs. Holmes had been kind enough to arrange for a message to be sent to Melissa, Melissa had sent a carriage and Teresa had spent a few hours visiting with her that afternoon.
Both young men complimented her, and then Wade Garrett posed several polite questions about the trip east while Scott talked quietly with Mrs. Holmes until Fredericks appeared with a stack of letters. The butler was also carrying a small tray filled with cards that he presented to Scott. Apparently visitors turned down one corner of the card to indicate the purpose of the call. Mrs. Holmes had explained earlier that a folded lower right corner meant “Condolence.”
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Teresa watched Scott smile as he considered one of the larger calling cards, saying that he’d known the man well at Harvard, but hadn’t heard much from him since. He quickly shuffled through the rest until he came to one that gave him pause. Scott studied the card and then looked up at Mr. Fredericks quizzically.
“Fredericks . . . Mr. John Dennison was here today?”
<<Dennison.>> That had been Julie’s name.
“Yes, Mr. Lancer, he was here this afternoon. Accompanied by a Mr. William Prescott.”
“That’s Julie’s husband, Scott,” Wade Garrett said helpfully. “You did know she was married?”
“Yes, I knew.” Scott turned his attention to the remaining cards.
“Going to have a baby too, I hear. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I’d heard,” Scott responded, with a glance at his aunt. Cecilia Holmes frowned at Wade Garrett, gently reproving him for his “indelicate” remark.
“Well, perhaps there’s one thing you haven’t heard yet, as I did ask Aunt Cecilia not to say anything.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m engaged to be married myself.”
Scott looked surprised and mechanically offered his congratulations. He glanced downwards briefly before turning to address the butler with a smile. “Fredericks, perhaps you might select something special from the wine cellar to toast my cousin’s news.”
“Very good, Sir. Also, if I may point out, amongst your correspondence you’ll find a telegraph message. The boy didn’t wait for a response, so I presumed it wasn’t urgent.”
The butler departed and Scott sifted through the envelopes until he located the one containing the wire. When he shot her a glance across the room, Teresa knew the message was from Lancer. Scott’s neutral expression didn’t change as he quickly scanned the few lines.
“It’s from Mur—my father. It seems he and Johnny won’t be making the trip.”
“Well, now, that is too bad, Scott. I would’ve liked to meet them.”
Mrs. Holmes murmured something sympathetic as well. Before Teresa could decide what to say, Scott had already folded the slip of paper and placed it in the pocket of his black jacket. “Perhaps another time,” he said evenly. “Now, Wade, when will I have the honor of meeting the future Mrs. Garrett?”
It was impossible to tell whether it bothered Scott that Murdoch and Johnny weren’t coming, not that she would have expected him to show it. The news certainly hadn’t been a complete surprise, although in light of what he’d recently learned about his father, Teresa was worried that Scott might even be glad.
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He found the letters first.
They were his own letters, pages of neat script posted from California, full of detailed descriptions of his new life, filed along with copies of his grandfather’s replies. Recent enough that they seemed reassuringly familiar, when he skimmed through them.
Initially, Scott had avoided the study; he’d allowed himself only a quick glance inside when he’d given Teresa a tour of the house the first evening. Walking through the upstairs hall past his grandfather’s bedchamber, seeing the unoccupied chair at the dining room table--- there were already stark reminders of Grandfather’s absence at every turn.
This evening, Wade had joined them for supper and Scott had assumed the place at the head of the table. Finally, after his cousin had departed and Teresa and Aunt Cee had both retired for the evening, Scott entered the room that had been his grandfather’s sanctuary. He had deliberately refrained from asking any questions about where and in what condition Grandfather had been found, but it was impossible to look around the study without wondering. Shaking off those thoughts, he moved directly to the desk with a determined step. Once seated, Scott took a moment to gather himself, and then arbitrarily selected one of the lower drawers, only to find the well-organized collection of correspondence.
After spending an hour looking over those recent communications, Scott removed a second folder from the same drawer, and found another series of letters. They were older ones, shorter messages, many hastily scrawled beside some campfire. Some of his carefully self-censored accounts were so badly smudged or mud stained that they were difficult to read. In the file as well were meticulous copies of his grandfather’s missives to “Lt. Scott Lancer,” many of which Scott had never received.
Those were lengthy letters, most of them, the evidence of Grandfather’s futile attempt to maintain a line of communication effectively blocked by the walls of Libby Prison. Scott could almost hear his grandfather’s typically perfunctory, matter-of-fact tone as he dispensed with the standard openings, bluntly informing his grandson that he expected to hear from him soon. The detailed descriptions of all the activities his grandfather had planned for him upon his return would have been a great comfort, had Scott read about them while at Libby. As Grandfather went on to relay various bits of news, Scott easily imagined the older man’s enthusiasm or harsh disapproval, depending upon the topic. What he could neither hear in the words nor see on the pages were indications of worry or deep concern.
He didn’t need to. That first day at the train station, it had been clearly displayed on Grandfather’s face, just how hard that year had been.
Not long after the hall clock had chimed the eleventh hour, the door to the study swung open. Startled by the movement, Scott looked up, half expecting his grandfather to enter.
Instead, a handsome grey-striped tabby paused in the doorway, staring at him with large, unblinking eyes. Quickly losing interest, it proceeded to rub its neck vigorously against the edge of the door. Scott watched with mild amusement as, tail high, the solidly built feline next padded purposefully around the perimeter of the room, from time to time slowing to sniff at a spot on the carpet or to twine itself around the leg of a piece of furniture.
The cat had surprised him at breakfast, brushing against his leg and leaving a sprinkling of light colored hairs on his trousers as Scott served himself from the sideboard. Apparently Aunt Cee had brought the pet from Maine well over a year ago He’d been just a kitten then she’d said. She also claimed that her brother had become “quite fond” of it, something Scott found difficult to believe. But apparently Grandfather had given the animal a name. Napoleon.
Eventually Napoleon advanced around the corner of the desk, to stand beside the chair gazing upwards with pale green eyes. After another moment, he gracefully lifted up onto his hind legs and placed his white front paws on Scott’s thigh.
When Scott reached out to rub the stripes on Napoleon’s forehead, the cat pulled away, plunking all four feet to the floor. Seeming to reconsider, he raised up again, forcefully nudging Scott’s hand with his nose and chirruping softly. Scott scratched the animal behind the ears and then gently stroked the white bib.
“I miss him too,” he admitted softly.
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With a soft sigh, Teresa approached the cheval glass and slipped on her new jacket, inspecting the decorative silver filigree embroidery she’d added. The jacket was to be worn over a silvery-grey taffeta walking skirt, an extravagant and unnecessary purchase that she couldn’t imagine ever wearing again once she returned home. Melissa had talked her into buying it.
Teresa had expected that she would need to purchase something to wear on the day of Mr. Garrett’s memorial service, but seeing the wreathes on the doors, the mirrors draped in crape and all of the household staff in their black uniforms, she’d quickly realized how few of her own garments were suitable. She knew she would feel conspicuous in either of her best dresses, wearing light lavender or deep rose in this house so obviously in mourning.
And it hadn’t just been the colors, Teresa reminded herself, as she adjusted the stylishly well-tailored jacket. Melissa had taken her shopping, armed with a list compiled after careful consultation with Mrs. Holmes. Scott’s aunt offered many tactful suggestions and once at the shops, Melissa had repeatedly reminded her that her appearance would reflect upon Scott. The shop girls had echoed Melissa’s recommendation that she wear vests or fitted jackets that would accentuate her figure, though of course they hadn’t joined in her friend’s bland assurance that “Scott will appreciate that too.” Melissa had certainly made much of the fact that Scott had invited her to accompany him to Boston. It had been a bit embarrassing, but knowing Melissa, Teresa had decided it best not to say anything at all in reply.
Everyone had agreed that as she was not related to Mr. Garrett, black would only be necessary for the service itself. After selecting a two-tiered bombazine skirt and a blouse with black lace yoke and cuffs, Teresa willingly considered other colors. In addition to various items of clothing that Melissa had deemed essential-- a few skirts, a white blouse trimmed with Venice lace and two more casual but still feminine tops in striped cotton-- they’d also selected the clothing she was wearing today, a skirt and matching blouse in a rich shade of plum.
At Melissa’s insistence, and to Teresa’s further embarrassment, they’d also bought petticoats and a quantity of other undergarments, including a corset. And, at Mrs. Holmes’ direction, the bill for the entire wardrobe was to be sent to Scott. When Teresa had protested that she had money of her own, money that Murdoch had given her, the older woman had merely smiled and suggested she might keep it to spend on gifts for people back at the ranch.
But apparently Mrs. Holmes had also had some discussion with her nephew as well, because before he’d left that day, Scott had stopped to make a point of telling her that he expected to pay for all of her clothing purchases “whenever you and Miss Harper undertake your surprise assault upon the shopkeepers of Boston.”
In addition to “assaulting” the stores, Melissa had also shown her a bit of the city. Yesterday, they’d attended a concert in the Boston Music Hall, listening to the great organ there. According to Melissa, it had been shipped all the way from Germany, where it had been built. Since one of her topics of study at the institute she’d attended in San Francisco had been music, Melissa knew something about the pieces played as well as the instrument itself. Cased in dark wood with brightly burnished pipes, the organ sounded impressive indeed.
The only disappointment was that Scott hadn’t accompanied them. Since he was in mourning for his grandfather, it would also be inappropriate for him to join them at the theater this evening, or any other social gathering. Teresa sighed again, and slowly removed the jacket.
Thanks to her new wardrobe, the mirror reflected the image of a young lady who could move easily and comfortably in Boston society. Meeting her own gaze in the glass, Teresa suspected that anyone looking into her eyes would know that wasn’t true.
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Two days had passed since Scott had stayed up past midnight reading and rereading pages from his grandfather’s cache of letters. Although he’d been busy going over business concerns with Wade, Scott couldn’t help thinking about those letters, especially the ones that he had sent to Boston during the War. After his release from prison, Grandfather had welcomed him home; the older man had been solicitous at first, but had clearly expected his grandson to quickly put the War behind him. It hadn’t been long before he’d grown impatient with Scott’s difficulties in doing so. That had caused considerable tension between them, to put it mildly, but now Scott felt more sympathy for his grandfather’s inability to comprehend how much he had changed. The letters were proof of how little he’d shared of his wartime experiences; after his return, Scott had never said much at all about his time in the field and even less about the ordeal at Libby.
Just as Grandfather had never told him very much about the fire that had, less than a year ago, decimated much of Boston’s commercial district. Scott had only just learned some of the details from Wade, who had proudly taken him through the renovated areas of construction along newly widened streets. The fire had started one evening in early November and raged through the night, destroying over seven hundred buildings, including several Garrett warehouses located near the wharves. Grandfather’s office on Milk Street, a considerable distance from the waterfront, had been spared, just barely. Wade said he and “Uncle Harlan” had spent most of the night there, watching the flames.
Lives had been lost, homes destroyed, but most of the burned buildings had housed businesses. Many formerly wealthy men had been ruined financially. Grandfather had once sat on the board of directors of several now bankrupt insurance companies. But, regrettably, he hadn’t shared much of that information with Scott.
Reconstruction had begun almost immediately and his grandfather had been an active participant. According to Wade, this had not been without risk, necessitating the sale of some stocks as well as real estate elsewhere in the city. Grandfather must have worried a great deal about his finances, but when he’d visited the ranch, he hadn’t talked about it.
It was just another one of the many things Grandfather had chosen not to discuss.
This afternoon, Scott intended to focus some attention on the household records. But he had also thought of trying to find information that might help to explain those unknown people mentioned in his grandfather’s will. On the list of bequests, amongst the familiar names of long time employees, there had been a few he had failed to recognize: Mrs. Edward Pierce, Bertram Bennett and M.F. Mathieu.
Looking through one of the upper drawers, he soon came across the ledger for the household accounts, but continued to survey the contents of the other desk drawers. Although Scott had yet to identify those mysterious recipients of Grandfather’s monetary gifts, he did find a very interesting file. It was a Pinkerton file, although the report inside didn’t much resemble the more recent ones Murdoch had given him to read soon after he and Johnny had arrived at Lancer. This one dated from 1850, the very first year of operation for Allen Pinkerton’s Chicago– based agency.
Seated behind his grandfather’s mahogany desk, studying the pages in front of him, Scott saw that like many of the others he’d read, this “report” mentioned his younger brother, although the focus of the investigation had been Murdoch Lancer.
It wasn’t entirely a new discovery; Scott was actually rediscovering it, since he’d found it once before, many years ago when he was just a child. He must have been nine or ten years old, and well aware that Grandfather’s study was “off limits”. He wasn’t supposed to be in the room at all, let alone seated in his grandfather’s chair. But that day he was, and he’d spied a folder on top of the desk. It had the name “Lancer” written on the front of it. Curious, he’d started to look at the pages inside, seen the word “California.” Scott knew that his father lived in that far off territory, but what had really captured his interest was the part that told about a baby being born, a baby named John. But then, a page later, the baby was gone, and exactly where was “UNKNOWN“.
Scott recalled hoping that the baby was coming to Boston; he had been turning pages searching for another mention of the child when he’d heard the front door open. His Grandfather was returning home with some dinner guests. Scott had raced from the room, running to greet him. He had never quite dared to ask any questions about what he had read and Scott had never found that folder again. As time passed, and he grew older, Scott had no longer been quite sure if he’d remembered it correctly.
He’d always wished for a brother. During summer visits with his aunt and uncle in Maine, he had spent many afternoons combing the beaches with his little brother Johnny at his side. And, back home in Boston, he had devoted hours to aligning tin soldiers in endless battle formations, and placing the blame squarely on Johnny if any of the men toppled over. His childhood fantasy of another blond-haired blue-eyed child joining him in Boston had clearly been prompted by that forbidden glimpse of the Pinkerton report, further embellished by the vivid imagination of an occasionally lonely little boy. Scott had never completely forgotten its origin however, and en route to California he’d wondered whether he would soon meet a stepmother or half-siblings. “Do I have a brother?” would surely have been one of the first questions directed to his father, if the answer hadn’t crowded in next to him on the stage to Morro Coyo.
Scott was not at all surprised that his grandfather had gathered information on his absent father; Harlan Garrett was a man who liked to be well-informed, even if the intelligence wasn’t put to immediate use. “Knowledge always gives a man the advantage, Scotty,” he’d often said, though clearly he’d seen no need to offer this particular advantage to his grandson. Murdoch Lancer had always been an awkward topic of conversation. Grandfather had rarely voiced any direct criticism of his former son-in-law, he hadn’t had to, but he’d also never had anything good to say about the man.
At least there was no indication in his grandfather’s papers that he’d ever had any further information about “John Lancer,” let alone “Johnny Madrid.” It was hard not to feel resentful that knowledge of his half-brother’s existence had been withheld, but it was at least somewhat understandable that Grandfather had never told him about a small child who had seemingly vanished so long ago.
It was more difficult to excuse his grandfather for some of the other details contained in the file labeled “Murdoch Lancer.”
Here was the evidence that Grandfather had known about the incident with the Degans’ father all these years. At least when he’d finally used it, it had been to threaten rather than actually bring a murder charge. Scott found some comfort in that. His jaw clenched at the painful memory of his grandfather’s introduction of the Degan brothers as part of a “more pressing reason” for him to return to Boston. Scott forced himself to read through all of the material about the Degans, including the more recent efforts of the Pinkertons to track down the two brothers, and was relieved when he did not find anything to directly contradict his hope that his grandfather had considered the accusation against Murdoch might possibly have merit. That was nonetheless a two edged sword; either Grandfather had been willing to see a man he knew was innocent face such an accusation, or he had kept silent about Murdoch’s possible guilt. Of the two possibilities, Scott much preferred the latter.
There were just a few more sheets of paper, but before Scott could turn to them, there was a gentle knock on the door. In response to his invitation, it swung open to admit Teresa. Scott closed the file and carefully returned it to its drawer. He tried to put his memories and mounting resentment aside as well.
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“So what have you been working on, Scott?”
“Oh . . . just going through some of Grandfather’s papers.”
Teresa couldn’t help but notice that the papers in question seemed to disappear as soon as she entered the room. She really didn’t mean to pry. Scott had been so busy lately, and today he’d spent the entire afternoon here in the study. He did always take the time to inquire as to how she’d spent her day, made sure to compliment her on her new clothes, reiterated promises to show her the city. And he would, she was sure, once the memorial service was over and other things were attended to.
“I’m sorry, Scott, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” She turned to leave, thinking of going to her room, perhaps finishing the work on her jacket.
“No, wait, Teresa. Stay, please. Just give me a few minutes to look over these household expenses, and then we can talk.”
It was silly, she told herself, how very happy that invitation made her feel, how much she enjoyed the prospect of just staying in the room with him. She forced a deliberately casual “All right,” over her shoulder, and tried not to imagine Melissa Harper’s knowing smile.
While Scott directed his attention to copying some numbers from a ledger, Teresa strolled around the study. In addition to the large desk, the room was furnished with chairs and tables of dark wood and leather.
The walls were lined with shelves, many of them containing books, but others displaying various objects that Mr. Garrett had accumulated over the years. There were a few large fish mounted on plaques on the walls; Teresa recalled that Scott had mentioned going on fishing trips as a boy, usually with his uncle, Mrs. Holmes’ husband, but sometimes with Mr. Garrett himself.
Noticing that there were some photographs displayed on the shelves along the wall facing the desk, she moved towards that corner of the room. One of the pictures most certainly had to be of Scott as a child. He must have been about five or six; a pair of serious eyes stared back at her from under a thick fringe of pale hair. She reached out to pick up the photograph, then looked over at Scott and lowered her hand, turning her attention to the other image on the same shelf instead. Teresa easily recognized the subject of the small daguerreotype. It was “the Lady,” Scott’s mother, Catherine Lancer.
The face was younger in this image, but it was the same woman depicted in the photograph that had stood on Murdoch Lancer’s desk for as long as Teresa could remember.
Her guardian’s desk was usually covered with stacks of papers, except for an island of space in one corner, near the pen stand. “The Lady’s” picture had always been there. Growing up without a mother, doted upon by her father, and by Murdoch Lancer as well, young Teresa had spent hours in the Lancer Great Room, either curled up in a chair reading, or doing needlework and listening to her father and Murdoch. She’d always been fascinated by that portrait and had often daydreamed about the pretty blond woman with the half smile and those eyes which could look either happy or sad, depending upon Teresa’s own mood. Not having a picture of her own mother, for a time the two had even become intertwined in her mind. When she’d asked her father about “The Lady,” Daddy had explained that Murdoch Lancer had been married to her a long time ago, and that she had died.
The photograph still stood on Murdoch’s desk back at Lancer. In order to remedy the awkwardness of having on display an image of his first wife, but not of his second, her guardian had given his only portrait of Maria Lancer to Johnny shortly after his son had returned home. Johnny had been happy to have a picture of his mother, and kept it on a shelf in his room.
Teresa picked up the daguerreotype and studied it, noting once more the marked resemblance between Scott and his mother. Something else came to mind, something that Paul O’Brien had said when a teenaged Teresa had asked him “What was she like, Daddy?”
Her father had responded first with a physical description—the blue-grey color of Catherine’s eyes, her petite size, her graceful laugh. Then, with a touch of envy, Daddy had said that she had been Murdoch’s support, his partner. More than that, Catherine had been his “safe harbor,” a “calm port in the storm” through the challenges and difficulties of life on the ranch.
Carefully returning the elegantly framed daguerreotype to its place on the shelf, Teresa next turned her attention to a photograph on the shelf below. It was an image of Scott in uniform, standing beside an older officer, very similar to the one that stood on his dresser in his bedchamber at Lancer. She liked to look at the picture whenever she was in Scott’s room putting laundry away, and often stopped to use the hem of her apron to wipe away the fine film of dust covering his youthful face. “General Sheridan” –that’s how he’d identified the older man when she’d asked him about it. Then she noticed the small flat box resting on the shelf beside the photograph, a wooden square with a glass front.
“Scott, did your grandfather serve in the army?”
“Hmm?” he asked absently, his attention on the pages in front of him. “Grandfather, in the army? No . . . he wasn’t a military man.”
“Then the medals in this case must be yours.”
Scott sighed softly, barely glancing up. “I was awarded a few medals,” he said reluctantly. “Grandfather always felt they should be properly displayed.”
“What’s this piece of cloth?”
Scott’s head snapped up at that. “Cloth?”
“Yes, there’s a piece of fabric here, inside the case with your medals.”
It was placed in the center of the flat box, with the medals arranged around it. The fabric looked to be a dark blue silk; one edge appeared torn, but the other had a piece of gold-colored fringe attached.
Hi expression unreadable, Scott carefully set down his pen, slowly sat back in the chair and extended his hand. She hurried across the room to give him the box. He sat motionless for a moment with his head bowed, holding the flat case in two hands.
She dropped to her knees on the carpet beside him. “Tell me about it,” she urged softly.
Scott shook his head, a distant look in his eyes, and for a moment she thought he meant to refuse.
“It’s a piece of our flag,” he said finally, resting his fingers gently on the glass. “Our regimental colors. We knew we were about to be captured, so Dan ordered us to tear up the flags--- to prevent them from falling into enemy hands.”
He looked down at her then, his gaze intense. “I kept this with me, the whole time, at Libby.” Scott’s eyes slid away again, she knew he must be remembering that place, and without thinking, she reached out and took his hand.
“When I came home, I still had it. I’d caused him so much worry and I wanted . . . to give him something.”
Scott smiled sadly at her, and she smiled encouragingly back.
“I never thought he understood. It seems I was wrong.”
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Author’s notes:
For this chapter and the ones that follow, I’m indebted to a number of different websites for descriptions of period clothing and houses, as well as details of mourning rituals.
For more information on the Great Boston Fire of 1872, please see the following:
http://www.damrellsfire.com/index.html
Scott safeguarding a fragment of his regiment’s flag is based upon an actual event resulting from the 16th Maine Infantry Regiment’s attempt to hold off the Confederate line on Oak Ridge at the Battle of Gettysburg. The Virtual Tour at the Gettysburg National Military Park website makes reference to the regimental flag being destroyed so that it would not be captured when the unit was forced to surrender. During the summer of 2005, newspapers reported the donation of one of the flag remnants to the Maine State Museum. A cloth fragment handed down in the family of Pvt. Isaac Monk of Turner, Maine was donated to the museum’s collection by his great grandson.
http://morningsentinel.mainetoday.com/news/local/1761284.shtml
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 14.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is. . .”
--Latin proverb
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“My father is an old, sick man.”
Julie had been truthful there at least. John Dennison was clearly in very poor health. The man was close to Grandfather’s age, and looked older, his daughter the product of a late second marriage.
Although the folded corner of Dennison’s calling card had marked his visit as “condolence,” Scott had reason to suspect that there was more to it than that, so he’d escorted Mr. Dennison and his son-in-law into the privacy of Grandfather’s study. Once his guests were seated on the sofa and the formalities completed, Scott sat back in his armchair and waited.
The ensuing silence was interrupted by a harsh, hacking cough from John Dennison. Scott rose to pour a tumbler of water from the pitcher on the side table, which the older man gratefully accepted. Dennison also accepted the offer of a cup of coffee, although William Prescott declined. Fredericks was summoned and the beverage requested. Scott returned to his seat and regarded Mr. Dennison expectantly.
“Don’t grow old, Sc—Mr. Lancer,” he said in a quavery voice. “Don’t grow old. That’s what I tell William here.”
Scott smiled politely.
“My daughter . . . was most insistent that we should pay you a call.”
“I trust she’s well.”
It was Prescott who responded. “She is.”
Prescott’s lips were pressed together in a thin line, barely visible between the straw colored beard and moustache. His hair was the same pale, dull color, what was left of it; Prescott was Scott’s age, but had a prematurely receding hairline. Scott had known William Prescott socially--- which was to say that he’d barely known him at all. Julie’s husband was from a well regarded, but not especially wealthy family. Scott politely extended much belated congratulations on their marriage; Prescott thanked him. The awkward moment concluded, the two younger men promptly returned their attention to John Dennison.
Julie’s father heaved a great sigh. “Well, Scott, it’s a disagreeable matter, damned disagreeable. But there is a bit of business needs to be discussed.”
Since it all had been undertaken at his own request, Scott was well aware that his grandfather had funneled clients in the man’s direction in addition to lending him money. Despite an oft-expressed opinion that such a poor businessman deserved to go under, Grandfather had, in the end, reluctantly agreed to help and had taken steps to keep John Dennison solvent. He could hardly have refused since Scott and Julie had been engaged at the time.
Going through his grandfather’s records, Scott had learned that even though that connection had ended, even though it had been his daughter who had, in fact, ended it, John Dennison had nonetheless approached Harlan Garrett directly, asking for assistance both before and after the devastating fire.
In response, Grandfather had extended a series of loans totaling a considerable sum of money. Scott had discovered the records of those particular transactions filed away here in the study rather than down at the office on Milk Street. The terms of the notes indicated that payment-- in full-- could be demanded at any time.
“May I assume that you’re referring to business between my grandfather and yourself?”
“Yes, that’s right, my boy. Harlan and I had . . . dealings.”
The conversation halted when Fredericks entered bearing a coffeepot and accoutrements on a tray. Scott looked on silently while John Dennison was served.
A few questions to Wade had revealed that Julie’s father had been among those unfortunate men who had lost the majority of their holdings in the fire. Scott couldn’t help recalling Julie’s assertion that if she hadn’t gone along with Grandfather’s attempt to lure him back to Boston, her father would have been bankrupted. Clearly, it would have been easy enough for his grandfather to do.
Ever since hearing Wade’s account of the fire, and then seeing for himself the impact, both upon the Boston landscape and upon the Milk Street ledgers, Scott had wondered to what extent anxiety and overwork had contributed to the stroke that had felled his grandfather. Scott also believed that worries over business concerns might account at least in part for Grandfather’s desperate actions during his visit to the ranch.
Although not particularly surprised, Scott was nonetheless saddened to learn that Harlan Garrett had been so circumspect in sharing details of his own financial setbacks. Yes, Grandfather had extended numerous invitations for Scott to return home, but he’d never offered him any reasons other than Boston being “where he belonged.” If his grandfather had only said that he needed him, how could he have refused? It would have been impossible. But when Grandfather arrived at the ranch, it had been with blackmail rather than persuasion in mind.
No, that wasn’t exactly true. Blackmail had been the second option, persuasion the first choice ----and Julie had been the “persuasion.” Grandfather had callously tried to take advantage of his persistent feelings for Julie, use those against him.
And Julie had gone along with the scheme.
She hadn’t gone through with it, but she’d gone far enough. Impassively regarding John Dennison and his son-in-law, Scott wondered how much they knew about the purpose of Julie’s trip to California.
“I came across the records just yesterday,” Scott informed his visitors, once the butler had left the room. He rose and invited the other two men to join him at the desk. Positioning himself in his grandfather’s chair, Scott retrieved the file labeled “Dennison” while William Prescott assisted his father-in-law to one of the seats opposite. “Though Ju—Mrs. Prescott did mention it, when she accompanied Grandfather to California.” He watched for Prescott’s reaction. There was none.
So he knew.
“It is a considerable sum,” Scott added coolly.
John Dennison looked aggrieved. “I’d never have agreed to her traveling across the country otherwise. Harlan insisted. Then sending her back alone. A bad business, that.”
William Prescott sat forward in his seat. “Remember, Father, we thought that Mr. Lancer might appreciate assurances of our discretion regarding . . . Mr. Garrett’s . . . actions.”
“My grandfather, as you well know, Mr. Prescott, is deceased,” Scott replied coldly. “But there are others upon whom the tale will reflect badly, if it’s told.”
John Dennison coughed, nervously this time. “Ahem. Exactly what are you saying, Scotty?”
Again, Prescott intervened. “I think, Sir, that Mr. Lancer may have a proposal for us.”
Scott studied Julie’s husband carefully. It had been some time since he’d played this game, but he knew that emotions had no place in negotiations. How often had Grandfather reminded him of that?
Clearly, these men were aware of what his grandfather had tried to do. Of course it would be better for Harlan Garrett’s reputation, if the story were not widely known. Scott tried to distance himself from that flash of anger at Prescott’s slighting comment and the realization that Julie must have told him what had happened. Scott wondered if she’d mentioned how happy he’d been to welcome her, how he’d even asked her to marry him and stay at Lancer.
Scott knew what they would think if he required immediate payment be made; it would look as if he was acting out of revenge, or jealousy. He was sure that’s how it would seem to members of his grandfather’s circle, once it became known. That’s how it would appear to Julie.
“Now, although it might be expected when settling an estate, I have no intention of calling in the notes at this time.”
John Dennison smiled. Scott quickly held up one hand to forestall whatever expression of gratitude the elderly man was preparing. The truth was that even if he were inclined to do so, he wasn’t prepared to simply forgive the loans. The sum was too significant and he hadn’t yet conducted a thorough enough study of his grandfather’s finances to fully understand how things stood.
“What I propose, gentlemen, is that we consolidate the debt to one figure and that you present a schedule of reimbursement—whatever you deem to be feasible, and fair. If your plan is satisfactory, we might remove the stipulation of full payment upon demand.”
“I think you know we didn’t come here to discuss a schedule of repayment, Lancer,” Prescott began heatedly.
“Oh, I do understand that, Mr. Prescott. You came, as did Mr. Dennison, to offer condolences on my grandfather’s passing.”
Scott rose, and came around the desk to offer his hand to the older man. “Thank you, again, Mr. Dennison.”
Julie’s father remained seated, raising rheumy eyes in confusion to regard first Scott and then his son-in-law. It was only when Prescott stood beside him that he seemed to comprehend that the conversation about the “awkward business” had come to a quick and unsatisfactory conclusion, and reluctantly clasped Scott’s hand. Leaving William Prescott to assist his father-in-law, Scott moved to the door to summon Fredericks to see the two men out.
“I’ll hope to hear from you soon, Gentlemen.”
John Dennison managed a weak “Yes, of course, Sc—Mr. Lancer . . .” as he exited the room.
His son-in-law offered a grim “Good day.”
Scott considered it unlikely the two men would be at the next day’s church service. Of course Julie wouldn’t be there, not if Wade was correct and she was expecting Prescott’s child. Did it matter? He’d already forgiven her, forgiven his grandfather as well. At least, he wanted to believe so.
A few minutes passed, and then Fredericks returned to inquire whether Scott had need of anything.
“Yes, I believe I’m in need of some fresh air. I’m going to take a walk. If anyone else calls, take their card.”
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“Oh, Teresa, how I would have loved to have seen their faces!”
They’d spent the morning exchanging stories; Teresa telling Scott’s aunt about some of his adventures at the ranch, many of them featuring Johnny. Mrs. Holmes in turn had shared numerous tales of her nephew as a young boy. They’d sworn each other to secrecy, promising not to breathe a word of what they’d learned to Scott.
Cecilia Holmes had a musical laugh and relaxed manner that belied her elegant appearance. Though they appeared to share similar coloring, there was only a slight family resemblance between Mrs. Holmes and her niece Catherine, and less between Mrs. Holmes and Scott. His aunt’s eyes were nothing like Scott’s in either color or shape, but they did have the same delighted sparkle that his took on, whenever he found something highly amusing.
Teresa turned her attention to the tatting shuttle and thread once more. Mrs. Holmes had been teaching her this new skill, and while it was proving less difficult than expected, Teresa still found that she couldn’t ply the shuttle and tell a story at the same time.
They were interrupted by Jane, one of the maids, who had been sent from the kitchen with a few questions. Teresa listened while Mrs. Holmes gave directions concerning the day’s menu.
“Scott won’t be joining us for lunch?” she asked, after the maid had left.
“No, dear, he’s meeting Will Hayford. I believe the two of them intend to visit Mount Auburn.”
Teresa knew that Mr. Hayford had arrived in Boston the previous day, but she was puzzled by the reference to “Mount Auburn.”
“Is there really a mountain here in Boston?”
“Oh no, Teresa, I’m sorry. Mount Auburn is a cemetery in Cambridge. It’s where my brother is buried.”
Ever since they’d arrived, Mrs. Holmes had been most considerate about explaining things that she thought might be new or unfamiliar; it made it easy to ask her questions. In turn, the older woman had posed a great many inquiries of her own about life on a cattle ranch. At first, Teresa had hesitated to let this proper Boston lady know that she actually kneaded biscuit dough with her own hands and helped with the laundry, let alone divulge how well she could sit astride a horse and load a rifle. Mrs. Holmes had assured her that her own life was much simpler at home in Maine than it was here on Beacon Hill, and revealed that she herself had even been known to wear trousers and cast a fishing line upon occasion.
Based upon Scott’s descriptions of her, Teresa had expected his “Aunt Cee” to be a wonderful woman, and she truly was. Teresa had liked her almost instantly, and Mrs. Holmes seemed to reciprocate the feeling, often addressing her as “dear” or “my dear,” just as she did Scott.
Only Mrs. Holmes pronounced it “de-ah.” And, since Scott had introduced them, his aunt also called her “Teh-RAY-sah.” That was how Scott had pronounced her name when he’d first come to Lancer. It hadn’t been long before he’d realized that everyone else called her “Tah-REE-sa.” He’d apologized and assured her he would make the change. But she’d told him she liked “Teh-RAY-sah,”--- and then she’d told him again and again, each time he corrected himself. Now he rarely seemed to notice, and when he did catch it, he’d simply give her that wry look, with a lift of the eyebrows accompanied by a slight smile.
Now, after a few more few days in Boston, she was actually starting to feel like a “Teh-RAY-sah,” rather than plain old “Teresa O’Brien.” Scott was probably too pre-occupied to notice anything different. Which at least meant that he was probably also too pre-occupied to notice that because the two of them had traveled so far alone together, people seemed to make certain assumptions.
It had been no surprise when Melissa Harper had made much of the fact that Scott had invited her to join him, but even on the train, there had been other passengers who had seemed to assume that they shared a special relationship. The Miss Harringtons, for example, had left a very nice note expressing thanks for their hospitality in sharing the use of the compartment on the parlor car. The message had ended with “Best Wishes to a Lovely Couple.” Teresa still had the note, but she hadn’t ever shown it to Scott.
Now Mrs. Holmes seemed to be making the same sort of assumption, though she hadn’t said it in so many words. And Teresa wasn’t quite sure what to do about that.
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Since Scott had been absent at noon, his aunt announced that she was expecting his company for afternoon tea. Scott was more than happy to oblige his “favorite” aunt as he often fondly, teasingly, referred to her. His Great-Aunt Cecilia was, so far as he knew, his sole relative who could lay claim to the title of “aunt.”
He’d had few opportunities to spend time alone with her, but this afternoon Teresa was with Miss Harper and as yet no visitors had come to call. The two of them did have a great deal to discuss, first reviewing the plans for the next day’s memorial service and the gathering afterwards. They also talked about possible activities for the remainder of the week. The official reading of Harlan Garrett’s will had been delayed until the following week, but Scott had already been working from his own copy.
“It seems Wade’s not happy about the terms of Grandfather’s will. That so much control is in my hands.”
Aunt Cecilia frowned at that. “He forgets Scott, how hard you worked, before you left. Still, Wade will be a partner, you said?”
“Yes. But he’s hinted he might not stay, that he could find more lucrative employment elsewhere.”
“I suppose it is something he should investigate, in view of his upcoming marriage to Miss Sturgis.”
Scott sighed. “Of course, if Wade is the one here running things, he should be generously compensated; we’ve already talked about a substantial increase. But the commissions still aren’t back to where they were a year ago, before the fire. I have some ideas as to what we should do about that.”
Cecilia smiled. “Oh Scott, you do sound like Harlan. Now, don’t look at me like that, Dear, I mean that you sound so . . enthused. Determined. Just as he always was whenever he spoke about his business endeavors.”
"Well, I am determined that everything that Grandfather worked so hard to build isn’t going to simply fall apart, now that he’s gone.”
“Perhaps Wade will come around. He worked so closely with Harlan for so long.”
“Yes, he did.”
Cecilia sipped thoughtfully at her tea, before turning the conversation in a slightly different direction. “Now tell me, Scott, what did you think of Miss Sturgis?”
Scott poured himself another cup of coffee---Aunt Cee was well aware that he preferred it to tea. Cousin Wade’s fiancée had joined them for dinner the previous evening, and Scott had had to forego an invitation to dine with the Hayford family in order to meet her. Miss Mary Sturgis was a round faced, solidly built young woman. Not unattractive, but she’d been difficult to talk to, her interests apparently few and tending towards the pedestrian. She simply lacked the ‘spark’ and the lively sense of curiosity that a young woman like Teresa had.
“She and Wade seem well suited, I suppose.”
“Ah.”
Scott grinned. Of course Aunt Cecilia had seen through that, so he cast about for something more generous to say about the future Mrs. Wade Garrett. But evidently Aunt Cee wasn’t particularly interested in Miss Sturgis after all.
“Now, Miss O’Brien is a most delightful young woman.”
“Yes, she is.”
“And she seems quite fond of you.”
Scott exhaled, lowering his gaze as he realized instantly where his aunt was going with this. Best to clear things up right away. “Has she told you anything about Johnny?”
“Your brother? Oh yes, a great deal.”
“They’ve always been very ‘fond’ of each other.”
With a puzzled expression, Cecilia Holmes carefully placed her cup and saucer on the table in front of her. “Why do you think so?”
Scott considered that for a moment. “Well, they are of an age. That counts for quite a lot, I suppose.”
“Now Nephew, that’s not what I meant. But, tell me, do you truly believe that age makes such a difference? After all, my Elwood was nine years older than I. Did you know that your grandmother Elizabeth was seven years younger than Harlan? She was just twenty- one when they married. And dear Catherine was---”
The litany of ages stopped abruptly, when the butler appeared in the doorway.
“Do excuse me, Ma’am. Mr. Lancer?”
“Yes, Fredericks?”
“There are two men here to see you. It’s a Mr. Nell and the Reverend Grimes.”
“All right, please show them in.”
“They suggested, Sir, that you might wish to come out to them.”
Scott quickly made his apologies to his aunt and excused himself. But before he left, Cecilia Holmes informed her nephew in no uncertain terms that she meant to continue this particular conversation.
The Reverend Leonard Grimes and Mr. William C. Nell were both free-born Negroes who lived on the “North Slope,” often referred to as “Black Beacon Hill,” as well as other more derogatory terms. Both men had been effective leaders in the abolitionist cause; the Reverend Grimes was the minister of the Twelfth Baptist Church and had served as one of the “conductors” on the Underground Railroad. Mr. Nell was a postal clerk and the first Negro to ever hold a federal government position. A published historian, Nell had led the fight to successfully integrate the performance halls and public schools of Boston and continued to spearhead the efforts to achieve racial equality.
Scott was surprised that the two men had come to call; Harlan Garrett had been an active supporter of the anti-slavery movement and had made significant monetary contributions, but since the War’s end, he had parted ways with many of the former abolitionists.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Mr. Nell. Reverend.” Scott shook each man’s hand and then led the way towards the front parlor. “Please come in and sit down. Could I offer you some coffee, or tea?”
Both visitors declining the offer of refreshment, Fredericks departed. Once seated, each of the callers offered condolences on his grandfather’s passing. Scott listened gratefully as they went on to praise Harlan Garrett’s involvement in the effort to eliminate slavery.
“Of course, it went well beyond a financial contribution to the cause, since he sent his own grandson off to the fight,” Mr. Nell concluded.
Scott smiled ruefully at that. “I think, Mr. Nell, you may perhaps recall that he wasn’t exactly in favor of the idea.”
“Yes, but in the end, Mr. Garrett’s opposition to bondage did require him to support your enlistment,” the Reverend Grimes pointed out.
Scott nodded. It was one argument with his grandfather that he’d actually won outright.
“I trust you’re both aware of the memorial service tomorrow at Old West. I’d like to invite you to come back here afterwards . . .”
The two men exchanged a glance. It was Mr. Nell who answered.
“We do plan to attend the service, Mr. Lancer, along with a few of our colleagues. But, as you’re aware, Mr. Garrett did not invite any of us here when he was alive.”
Scott bowed his head in recognition of the hard truth being tactfully expressed. The Garrett household had, from time to time, employed colored servants, but Negroes had not been entertained here as guests. Grandfather’s stubborn stance on issues of race had always been dismaying.
“You don’t have to remind me, Sir, that for my grandfather opposition to slavery did not, unfortunately, translate into support for equality. I regret that.”
“He did what he could do, Mr. Lancer. It was more than many.”
Scott tried, and failed, to find comfort in the minister’s words. Mr. Nell must have seen that.
“Do you, Mr. Lancer?”
“Do I . . .?”
“Do you support equality of the races?”
“Yes, Sir, I do. I would hope that you know ---”
“And surely Mr. Garrett was aware of this?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Did he make a particular effort to persuade you otherwise?”
Scott considered that. They’d strongly disagreed but there’d been surprisingly little argument. “No, I can’t say that he did.”
“So, despite his own feelings on the subject, your grandfather did not impart them to you. Something which, given Mr. Garrett’s force of will, I believe you must concede that he might have succeeded in doing, had he tried.”
“In this world, it’s best not to dwell upon the faults and failings of others, Mr. Lancer, since we all possess them,” added the Reverend Grimes. “That is why forgiveness is such a great virtue and our Lord directs each and every one of us to forgive, and to do so from the heart.”
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The morning of Harlan Garrett’s memorial service dawned bright and clear. When Teresa, still in her robe, ventured downstairs, she found Cecilia Holmes taking tea in the sunny breakfast room. Mrs. Holmes was also still in her dressing gown, but Scott had already had some coffee and gone out for a walk.
The two women lingered over their poached eggs and toast. Finally, Mrs. Holmes suggested that they should allow Jane to clear the breakfast things away, so that she and Mrs. Hudson could finish in the kitchen. All of the household employees would be attending the service; hired carriages would transport them to the Old West Church. A cook, butler and maids on loan from the Hayfords and other neighbors would serve at the reception that would take place here following the memorial.
Mrs. Holmes sent her own maid, Marguerite, to Teresa’s room to assist her in getting dressed and doing up her hair. Teresa had donned a crinoline upon occasion, but was unaccustomed to wearing the bustle that Melissa Harper had insisted was necessary to support the draping of her new skirt. Marguerite’s assistance was also required to do up the row of tiny buttons on the lace-trimmed blouse. Teresa’s long dark hair was pulled up and back, and then curled; her new black bonnet was cut away to allow the hair to hang freely behind. It seemed that almost all of the ladies here in Boston wore their hair up in some fashion; only young girls allowed it to fall down upon their shoulders. Marguerite had a particular talent for dressing hair; the young French-Canadian woman with the strong accent had experimented with a number of different hairstyles over the past few days and this one had been deemed both “lovely” and “appropriate” by Mrs. Holmes.
It seemed to take quite some time this morning before Marguerite was finally satisfied with her handiwork. “Très jolie---very pretty.”
“Thank you, Marguerite, thank you very much.”
“You arh ver-ree welcome.”
As Marguerite departed to attend to her mistress, Teresa remained in front of the mirror, eying her reflection. Marguerite paused at the door.
“Mis-terre Scott, he eez downstairs. Een the front parlerh room.”
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When she found “Mis-terre Scott,” he was standing near one of the windows, gazing out towards the street. Chestnut Street, it was, one of several named after trees, though if Teresa had had to guess, she would have said that Scott wasn’t seeing the street or the trees or anything else. He seemed a thousand miles away.
“Hello, Scott,” she said hesitantly.
He looked up and smiled. He was wearing a black double-breasted frock coat and dark grey trousers with a darker stripe. The frock coat was a longer length than the jackets he’d been wearing, accentuating his height.
“Good morning, Teresa.”
He studied her for a moment. “You look quite . . . elegant.”
She twirled about for him and he stood very straight and still, with his right hand clasping his left wrist, considering. “You are beautiful,” he amended.
“Thank you.” Pleased by his assessment, as well as a bit embarrassed, she tried a small curtsey. “Thank you, Kind Sir.” He smiled again, but Scott’s eyes remained disconcertingly serious.
There was a large wing chair just inside the doorway. A black top hat finished with a black silk mourning band rested on the seat cushion, along with a pair of dark gloves. Teresa picked up the items, but then hesitated to sit down. She looked over her shoulder at Scott instead.
“I like your new hat.”
She hadn’t thought he’d remember, but even before he spoke, the answering grin told her that he did. Scott glanced down, and when he looked up again, although he was trying to keep the smile from his face, the amusement still shone in his eyes.
“Well, this one was a bit more easily acquired.”
“Really? I think it’s much simpler to go shopping in Morro Coyo compared to Boston.”
“You may be right; there is only the one store.”
Scott strode across the brightly colored carpet—from India, he’d said, when he’d given her the tour the first day---to accept his things from her hands. She suddenly found herself at eyelevel with silk covered black buttons, below the black cravat tied in a Windsor knot, below the stiff white wings of his collar, below his clean-shaven chin. Standing close enough to take in the light scent of him, a blend of starch and soap and Scott. With just a hint of bay rum. She stepped back as she relinquished the hat, and met his eyes.
“I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”
He smiled down at her. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget those first few days.”
Scott set the gloves and hat down on the side table and indicated they should move to the sofa. It took a moment to get her skirts settled, but it wasn’t as difficult as she’d feared.
“How are you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
She stifled a sigh at the flat response; it was no more than the tentative question deserved. She would hardly have expected him to say otherwise. He and Johnny were alike that way.
Recollections of that day at the riverbank led to thoughts of Johnny riding up, the brothers fighting, hearing the horrible things that Johnny had believed about Murdoch and his mother. She’d tried to explain it, how it had really happened, but Johnny hadn’t wanted to listen, hadn’t seemed to believe her--- and then the alarm had sounded and they’d all ridden away.
Later, when Johnny was still recovering from his wound, he’d surprised her by bringing up the topic. “I talked to Murdoch,” he’d said. “Looks like it happened the way you said.” And he’d thanked her, for “bein’ straight” with him.
This time the sigh escaped. Scott had thanked her too, of course, for being truthful. The difference was that with Johnny, the news about his father had been good.
“Teresa . . . there’s something else I haven’t forgotten.”
“What’s that?” she asked with a guilty start.
“What my grandfather did, what he tried to do, when he came to the ranch.”
She had no idea what to say; fortunately, Scott didn’t seem to expect her to say anything.
“When I speak about him today, I won’t mention any of that. You’ll be the only one there who knows.”
“I’m sorry Murdoch and Johnny couldn’t come.” She immediately realized that didn’t sound quite right.
“That came out wrong. I didn’t mean because they know about your grandfather, I just meant---”
“I know. I’ve been thinking about them too.”
For a moment they each contemplated the hearth opposite the sofa, its elaborately carved mantelpiece adorned with a gold-faced clock. A large painting of Scott’s mother hung above the fireplace. She wore a white lace dress and held a bouquet of pink roses in her lap. She was smiling, gazing off into the distance, her face in three-quarter profile. On canvas, “The Lady’s” face was petite and soft and feminine, while Scott’s own features were strong and sharp and masculine. But the likeness was there, nonetheless. Scott called her “Catherine” and he’d said that this portrait of her was his favorite.
“Scott, when we go home, perhaps you should bring this painting with you.”
He looked surprised by the suggestion. “I’d never considered that,” he said slowly. “It’s hung right here for as long as I can remember.”
Teresa watched as Scott absently rubbed one hand over the smoothly polished wooden armrest.
“Teresa, there was something else . . . when we do go back, we’ll be traveling with the Hayfords---”
“Yes, and so we might not stop in St. Louis and some of the other places we talked about.” Will Hayford’s mother was planning to go with her son to pay him a visit when he returned to Sacramento, and she had proposed to Scott that they travel together. Mrs. Holmes had heartily endorsed the idea, and Teresa had the distinct impression that it might even have been Scott’s aunt who first suggested that Mrs. Hayford undertake a journey west.
“Perhaps . . . but Mrs. Hayford might appreciate a break in the travel. It’s just that . . . there’s a possibility that I won’t be going with you. There are still things I need to settle here, but you should still go, and keep Mrs. Hayford company.”
<< “You just make sure and bring him back.”>>
Johnny’s voice. He’d whispered the words in her ear, but in her mind she could imagine his face, how serious he’d been. Teresa tried not to show her dismay, but it was difficult, especially when she could feel Scott watching her, waiting for a reaction. She swallowed hard.
“How much longer do you think you’ll need to stay, Scott?”
“That’s hard to say.”
She nodded her head, without looking at him. She knew she couldn’t ask if she could stay here with him, she knew how it would sound—childish. She certainly didn’t want to cry, and she knew she couldn’t ask the question she most wanted to ask without risking tears. She couldn’t ask if he was ever coming home.
“I did think we might take a trip north with Aunt Cecilia.”
She looked up then, feeling hopeful, but not yet able to trust her voice.
“Will’s brother George Hayford was grandfather’s attorney; he needs to be out of the city for the remainder of the week, so the reading of Grandfather’s will has been delayed. Aunt Cecilia has invited us to go up to Maine with her.”
“I would like that, very much.”
“She has a house—a cottage--- in Popham, on the ocean. It’s been years since I’ve been there.” He smiled and added, “I’d like to show it to you, Teresa.”
She knew she only sat there smiling back at him for a moment, but it was a wonderful moment. Then Scott was squeezing her hand and rising to his feet in response to Fredericks’ appearance in the doorway.
“Mr. Lancer? There is a gentleman here to see you.”
“And who is calling here---”
Her own cry cut off Scott’s question, as she spied the tall figure stepping into view behind Mr. Fredericks. More quickly than she would have thought skirts and bustle would allow, Teresa hurried across the room to fling herself into her guardian’s outstretched arms.
“Murdoch!”
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Author’s note: William C. Nell and the Reverend Leonard Grimes are real people and the very brief biographical information included here is true. Their words and characterizations however are intended to be entirely, and respectfully, invented. For further information, please see:
The Heritage Guild:
http://people.bu.edu/wpeebles/TheHeritageGuild.html
The Boston African-American National Historic Site:
http://www.nps.gov/boaf/home.htm
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 15.
“How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart . . .”
----E. Cook
“Home is where the heart is. . .”
--Latin proverb
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<<“He belongs in the world he grew up in.”>>
The unwelcome thought pressed forward, pushing aside other ideas and intentions. The words that came to mind were Harlan’s most likely, but the voice uttering them inside his head was Murdoch’s own. He didn’t want to believe the sentiment was true, but the young man moving towards him was the very image of a Boston gentleman; at this moment it was difficult to picture Scott in what had become his trademark attire of non-descript work shirt, worn leather gloves and sweat-stained hat.
The eyes at least were familiar, and the slow smile seemed genuine enough, though his son had clearly been taken by surprise. Murdoch tucked Teresa under his left arm, not yet ready to relinquish his darling girl, but eager to accept his son’s firm handshake.
“We weren’t expecting you, Murdoch. Your wire ---”
“Well, there was a change of plans, Scott. I wasn’t sure I’d make it here in time.”
“Johnny didn’t come with you?” Teresa asked, concern evident in her tone. “You traveled all that way alone?”
Scott’s expression became serious once more, releasing the handclasp. Reluctant to relinquish the physical connection, Murdoch gave Teresa another little squeeze, but kept his eyes fastened upon Scott.
“Your brother . . . drove through the night to get me to the train.”
Scott gaze dropped to the floor, another smile playing about his lips as he absorbed this news.
“Johnny offered to stay behind, take care of things at the ranch. We have that drive ---”
“I know,” Scott said, looking up again. “And, I expect Johnny will say that I ‘owe him.’”
Murdoch chuckled softly. “Yes, Scott, he probably will.”
“It is good to see you, Sir---”
“Oh my goodness, now ---you must be Murdoch Lancer.”
Murdoch turned towards the approaching voice in time to see an elegant older woman glide through the doorway. Teresa slid away from his arm and Scott quickly stepped up to supply the introductions, but Murdoch already knew who the woman in the tasteful black gown had to be.
“That’s right Aunt Cee. This is my father, Murdoch Lancer. Murdoch, may I present my Aunt, Mrs. Holmes.”
“It’s a real pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Holmes.”
Since she hadn’t been living in Boston at the time, Murdoch had never been introduced to his wife’s aunt, though even after the move to California, Catherine had kept up a correspondence with her. He’d been disappointed that he’d never heard from the woman when Catherine died, not even after Harlan returned here with Scott. Of course, he’d never communicated with Mrs. Holmes either.
“Scott’s told us a great deal about you,” Murdoch said, as he took her hand. “May I offer my condolences on the loss of your brother.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lancer. I’m so very pleased to meet you as well. It’s good that you could be here,” she added meaningfully. Turning towards Scott, she placed one hand on her nephew’s arm. “Scott, dear, why don’t you take your father to the sitting room? Teresa and I will join you in a few minutes.”
Cecilia Holmes looked up at Murdoch appraisingly. “There’s a rather well stocked liquor cabinet in the sitting room, Mr. Lancer. It’s early yet, but I believe I could do with a sip of sherry; I’m counting upon you gentlemen to join me.”
One quick glance at Scott’s face and the young man’s affection for his great aunt was evident. But Murdoch was only vaguely aware of the sound of Scott’s voice agreeing with Mrs. Holmes’ suggestion, because over his son’s shoulder he saw her.
Catherine.
He heard Scott speak his name, heard the note of concern, but Murdoch still couldn’t pull his eyes away from the image.
“That’s a . . . beautiful painting,” he forced out, his voice low.
“Yes it is, Sir.”
Murdoch rested one hand on his son’s shoulder as they both faced the portrait. “Your mother was a beautiful woman, Scott. In so many ways.”
Scott crossed his arms over his chest, acknowledging the statement with a nod. His wife’s pastel shadow gazed serenely upward, while their son stood beside him, head bowed. Murdoch suddenly felt overwhelmed by all he wished to say---and couldn’t.
Thankfully, Cecilia Holmes gently intervened.
“We’ve quite a long day ahead of us,” she reminded them softly. “You two go along now and do some catching up; Teresa and I will check on the staff.”
The four of them exited the front parlor, Murdoch casting one last glance over his shoulder at that portrait.
“It’s always been my favorite,” Scott murmured.
Murdoch nodded mutely as they moved together along the corridor. The painted double doors he recognized, but once they’d passed through them to the elegantly appointed sitting room, nothing inside seemed familiar. Murdoch tried to make himself comfortable in one of the large wing chairs while Scott set about pouring drinks, first a couple half tumblers of scotch and then a finger of sherry in each of two small stemmed cordial glasses.
“The service is at noon, Miss Harper tells me.” Noting Scott’s puzzled expression at the reference to Miss Harper, Murdoch reluctantly explained. “I arrived yesterday, late yesterday, and decided to impose upon Jim.”
“Yesterday? Murdoch, you should have---”
“Well, I didn’t want to interrupt you Scott, you weren’t expecting me and I wanted to be sure nothing had changed . . .” Murdoch accepted the glass of scotch with a fleeting wish that it was more full. On the long trip East, it had crossed his mind that the plans could have been altered or that he might have gotten the date wrong and missed the service entirely, but once he’d arrived at the Harpers’, he’d learned that wasn’t the case. The truth was, he hadn’t been eager to return to this house.
“I came by this morning to let you know I was here.”
“You are coming with us to the church?” Scott had remained standing and looked down at him now with a searching expression.
“I thought I might slip in the back, Son.”
Scott pressed his lips together, and studied his glass for a moment. “If you’d rather not attend . . .” he started slowly.
“No, Scott, no-----I have every intention of being there. It’s just that . . . well, I’ve been told I’m not suitably dressed.”
Scott examined him then, appearing to notice his attire for the first time. Murdoch was wearing his dark grey jacket over ordinary black trousers, with a white shirt and simple string tie. At least his boots were polished, thanks to someone in the Harper household. The Garrett butler had relieved him of his Western style hat, also black. A bit uneasy under his immaculately attired son’s scrutiny, Murdoch furthered his explanation. “Jim Harper didn’t think so, but he didn’t have anything to fit me. Not even a hat.”
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Scott had to smile at that, recalling the pompous Mr. Harper. Of course the Bostonian’s clothes would never have fit, not the way that Murdoch towered over his friend. But then, Murdoch towered over most everyone.
“I think you’ll do just fine, Sir. And I hope you’ll change your mind and sit up front with us---- that is, if you’re willing to take my opinion over that of Mr. Harper.”
Murdoch laughed amiably at the jibe directed towards his friend.
<<“This ranch, your mother----you--- wouldn’t be here without him.>>
That’s what Murdoch had said, when he’d informed his sons that he was sending them off to mining country to find the elusive Melissa Harper. It had been one of the very few times that Scott had heard Murdoch utter that phrase “your mother” in reference to himself. He and Johnny had left so quickly that Scott hadn’t had an opportunity to ask his father any questions. After they’d returned with Melissa in tow, there had been the entire episode with Johnny’s impulsive decision to help the young woman return to her unsavory fiancé. They’d had to rescue her once more, and it had been a close call. After the Harpers had departed, they’d quickly fallen back into the daily routine and become occupied with other things. Even when Melissa had paid a return visit, that particular aspect of Murdoch’s friendship with Jim Harper in Boston, the part that involved Catherine, had never been mentioned again, though Scott had thought about it from time to time.
It was surprising how little he’d thought about the ranch and the people there since he and Teresa had arrived in Boston. Now Scott realized how much he missed Johnny; of course Teresa had clearly been greatly disappointed by his absence as well. This reunion would have been less awkward if his brother were here to lighten the mood, although it was difficult to actually picture Johnny in this house. It was hard enough to believe that Murdoch was sitting here.
“I’d like to hear about Mr. Harper sometime, about how he helped you.”
“It’s a good story.”
And Murdoch seemed willing to tell it, but just then Aunt Cecilia came in with Teresa to announce that the carriages were pulling up in front of the house. Scott handed his aunt a glass of sherry and Teresa one as well. They all lifted their glasses in a solemn, silent toast before they drank.
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As the carriage wound it way through the tree-lined streets of Beacon Hill to the Old West Church, Teresa asked after everyone back at the ranch. Both she and Mrs. Holmes had questions about Murdoch’s trip east as well. Scott, Murdoch noted, seemed initially attentive when his brother, Jelly and Maria were discussed, but as they neared their destination, his son grew ever more distant, his attention focused upon the passing scenery.
Murdoch also noted that he and Teresa were the focus of considerable attention themselves, as he escorted his ward down the main aisle. Barely audible beneath the organ music, the faint murmuring of whispered speculation amongst the assembled mourners followed them the length of the church. Not that it mattered, let them say and think whatever they liked. If he’d had any doubts about the wisdom of being here, Scott had laid them all to rest. Just before they’d entered the huge front doors, his son had turned to him and said, “Thank you for coming, Sir. I’m glad you’re here.”
That simple expression of gratitude made it all worthwhile, all of it--- the uncomfortable night in the buckboard, the tedious week on the train. Even the painful memories associated with being here in Boston.
Murdoch clung to that thought as the service progressed. He’d been prepared, he supposed, to hear his former father-in-law’s praises sung, but hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to listen when some of the speakers went well beyond extolling Harlan Garrett’s legendary business sense and contributions to the community to mention his devotion to his daughter—and to cite raising his grandson as one of the man’s crowning achievements. While Murdoch couldn’t disagree with the complimentary things said about Catherine and Scott, it was hard, damned hard, to hear his son’s virtues credited solely to his grandfather’s guidance. One man, apparently an old friend of Harlan’s, even went so far as to describe Scott as Garrett’s “greatest legacy.”
For different reasons it had to be difficult for Scott to attend to all of it as well, but his son’s solemn profile gave nothing away. They were seated in the first row, the four of them; Murdoch had Teresa on his left and Mrs. Holmes on his right. Scott was positioned on the other side of his aunt, next to the main aisle.
Following a brief and somewhat repetitive talk by a bearded young man identified as “Wade Garrett,” the minister introduced Scott as the final speaker. Scott’s expression was determined as he rose to his feet, pausing to shake hands with his Garrett relative before striding confidently to the podium.
Murdoch drew in a breath and steeled himself for what was to come.
As had previous speakers, Scott carefully enumerated Harlan Garrett’s accomplishments, but Scott’s eulogy of his grandfather was matter of fact, devoid of the lofty words and flowery phrases that had embellished the other addresses. He also described some of the more personal experiences he had shared with his grandfather over the years. It was a well-written piece that Scott delivered while calmly looking out over the congregation. He spoke clearly, with assurance, but without looking down at the faces of those friends and family members seated in the nearest pews.
For the first time, Murdoch wondered if his own presence here might be awkward for his son. But if Scott was uncomfortable lauding the man who had raised him while his father listened in the front row, he gave no sign.
“For everything that my grandfather did for me, I feel a tremendous gratitude . . . ”
The already silent gathering hushed still further in response to the slight catch on the word ‘gratitude;’ it was the first time Scott had faltered. The quiet anticipation was palpable. Murdoch felt himself nodding encouragingly, even though Scott’s eyes were fixed on the pages in front of him.
Then Scott looked up, and completed the sentiment in a strong voice.
“. . . and more than mere gratitude, affection and esteem as well.”
After a deliberate pause, Scott continued.
“My grandfather expected me to be independent and to make my own decisions----- something that he came to regret on more than one occasion, as many of you know.”
And with that wry comment, Scott took a half step back and appeared to depart from his prepared script. “My choice to enlist was one of those decisions,” he said slowly. “Several speakers have made reference to the fact that I was . . . captured and held prisoner during the War, and what a difficult time that was for him.”
Scott studied the top of the lectern for a moment, before looking up at the assemblage once more. “Before I left, Grandfather . . . my grandfather informed me that I was expected to return unharmed, and I promised him I would. Of course, we both knew the words offered no safeguard. I can only say . . . that there were times that it made a great difference, knowing that I had a home to come back to.”
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“This is Scott’s father, Murdoch Lancer.”
A great many people seemed to be eager to meet Murdoch. It was curiosity, she supposed, since so few of them had ever seen Scott’s father. As Scott and his aunt were occupied with their roles as host and hostess, Will Hayford kindly stood with her and Murdoch for a while, making introductions and telling them a bit about some of the guests.
She, of course, was introduced each time as “Miss O’Brien, Mr. Lancer’s ward.”
Melissa Harper came by briefly with her father; Teresa had seen them enter and stop to talk with Scott. Once the Harpers had made their way over to their corner of the sitting room, Mr. Hayford had left the four of them on their own and gone to mingle with the visitors.
Teresa found herself sitting alone after Melissa and her father had departed. Murdoch and Scott were conversing with a whiskered gentleman Will had identified earlier as one of Scott’s favorite instructors at Harvard. Teresa looked around for Mrs. Holmes, and spying her sitting with a cluster of older women, was moving in that direction when a group of young woman, most appearing to be around her own age, invited her to join their circle. The young ladies introduced themselves but Teresa found that she couldn’t begin to keep their names straight, other than Margaret Reid, the heavy set, auburn haired girl who had first drawn her in, and a Charlotte Cushing, who somewhat resembled her friend Corinna Cushman from Green River. The group wasted little time with pleasantries before they began plying her with questions about the ranch ---or, to be more exact, with questions about Scott and his life as a rancher. They seemed quite amazed to learn that he did indeed herd cattle and spend his time performing various forms of manual labor.
“Well, I can’t imagine why Scott Lancer would want to live there, it sounds so hot and dirty!” said an elegant looking blonde.
“Perhaps he’s come back home to stay,” added another of the girls hopefully. “That would certainly make a lot of young women happy.”
Margaret laughed and turned to Teresa confidingly. “I can assure you, Miss O’Brien, after he broke it off with Julie Dennison any number of eligible young women set their caps for Scott Lancer . . . isn’t that right Barbara?”
All eyes turned towards the tall blonde, who looked decidedly displeased by the comment. “Yes, there were a great many who were interested in him, as I recall,” she replied, pointedly looking around the circle. “Now, if you all will excuse me, I must go find my fiancé.”
Muffled giggles followed Barbara’s departure, though Teresa was at a loss as to why the young woman had seemed so angry or why the other girls found her displeasure so amusing.
Margaret asked a few questions about the towns nearest the ranch; the Bostonians were all dismayed to learn that the area lacked the theaters and concert halls and other entertainments they considered essential.
“It must be so tedious —whatever do you do for social discourse, Miss O’Brien?” asked one of the more serious of the group. Teresa thought her name might be Sarah.
“Well, sometimes there is a sewing circle or quilting bee in town, and often one of the ranches will host a dance or a social on the weekend. We don’t do much visiting during the week; there’s a lot of work to be done on a ranch, and everyone puts in very long days.”
“Surely you don’t have anything to do with the cows?” Charlotte Cushing asked, clearly horrified by the notion.
“Not a great deal, though I do have a large collection of recipes for beef,” Teresa responded with a smile.
Charlotte’s eyes grew rounder. “Oh, my. You don’t mean to say that you . . . cook?”
“Well, yes. . .”
“But the house---the ‘hah cee en dah’ did you call it? It sounded quite large--- aren’t there any servants?”
Teresa smiled encouragingly at Sarah’s attempt to pronounce the Spanish word. “We have Maria, our cook, but she’s like family, really. I like to work with her in the kitchen. And Juanita helps out with the cleaning and the laundry, and some of the other vaqueros’ wives---”
“Vah-care-o’s?”
“The ranch hands. Lots of the men who work on the ranch are Mexican so most of us speak both English and Spanish. Scott’s been learning Spanish too—Maria’s been teaching him.”
Amused laughter greeted this news. “Now I’m sure that’s been quite different from his classes at Harvard,” Margaret observed.
“Actually, I’ve found the Senora to be as strict a taskmaster as any of the professors there.”
Scott’s arrival was hailed with smiles and a chorus of “Hello, Mr. Lancer.” He smiled and nodded in turn, having already greeted each of the guests when they’d first arrived at the house.
“I’ve a long ways to go before I can hope to be as fluent as Teresa,” he added, smiling down at her.
“Miss O’Brien was telling us all about your ranch, Mr. Lancer,” Charlotte Cushing assured him eagerly.
“It all sounds so very exciting,” added another. Teresa didn’t recall her name, but remembered that earlier she’d voiced the hope that Scott was back in Boston to stay.
Scott smiled politely. “There’s a great deal of work involved in running a ranch.”
“Yes, Miss O’Brien was telling us that she sews and cooks!”
“Well, she is quite an excellent cook. But I assure you, she does a great deal more than that. She can drive a team of horses, load and fire a sidearm, rope a calf, tend a bullet wound---- ”
“Goodness!” “Oh my!” “Really!”
“Scott--”
Teresa wasn’t certain which was more embarrassing-- the young ladies’ startled exclamations or Scott’s admiring tone.
“Suffice to say, Miss O’Brien excels in many of the skills essential to life on a ranch. And,” he continued, “she ably represents Lancer in any number of community activities.”
Scott offered her his arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Ladies, it’s time to go in to dinner. So, Miss O’Brien, if you’ll do me the honor . . .”
As she slipped her own arm through Scott’s, Teresa noted the circle of envious faces watching them. She thought she knew what they might be assuming, and she didn’t mind at all.
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Murdoch had assumed that he would have an opportunity to chat with his ward over dinner; Teresa had said there was something she wanted to talk to him about. Murdoch had escorted Mrs. Holmes into dinner and now he could see that the seating arrangements would make that conversation with Teresa impossible.
Mrs. Holmes was seated beside him, with Scott on her other side. Teresa sat between Scott and Wade Garrett, who Mrs. Holmes had explained was the son of her cousin Walter, now seated across from them with his wife.
There were several other tables for the dinner guests; only relatives and Harlan Garrett’s closest associates and their families had been invited to stay. Several toasts to Harlan’s memory preceded the meal.
After Wade Garrett had offered his tribute, he turned to look directly at Murdoch and asked, sotto voce, if he wished the opportunity to speak.
Murdoch had declined, then regretted it, worried about disappointing Scott. Of course, since he had nothing prepared, he would likely have disappointed, and possibly embarrassed, his son anyway. After Wade had resumed his seat, Scott, ever the gracious Boston gentleman, had risen to eloquently toast the assembly and thank the guests. However, once the servants had started to carry in the first course, Scott had disappeared.
His son was absent long enough that Murdoch finally voiced his concern to Mrs. Holmes, who explained that Scott had gone to look in on the members of the household staff who were dining in the kitchen.
“The men and women who are serving here tonight are employees on loan by some of our friends and neighbors, so that our own staff could share the meal.”
“In the kitchen?”
“Yes . . . well, I’m afraid that things are done rather formally here, Mr. Lancer. Scott suggested that our people should be included amongst the guests, but Mr. Fredericks and I persuaded him that it simply wouldn’t be suitable. Or comfortable, for any of them.”
“He’s known some of them all his life,” she added with a sigh. “Which is why it’s going to be difficult when they have to leave.”
“Why do they have to leave?”
“I am only in Boston for a part of the year, Mr. Lancer. Unless Scott were to decide to live here himself, there simply is no need for a full time staff.”
“But if he sells the house, wouldn’t the new owner ask them to stay on?”
“Under the terms of my brother’s will, I am to receive a life interest in this house; Harlan wanted to provide for me, you see. Even if he wished to, Scott cannot sell it. Mrs. Hudson, I think, will be content to move in with her sister in Braintree and come back to cook for me here in the winter. But the others . . . the others will need to secure permanent positions. Of course, Scott will do all that he can to help them, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure he will.”
Murdoch made a show of sampling his meal, but his appetite had been considerably dampened. He’d realized, of course, that Scott was Harlan’s principal heir, and assumed that Scott would inherit the bulk of his grandfather’s estate, including this house.
Until now, Murdoch hadn’t really contemplated what that would mean to his son, but now it was clear that of course this house held a wealth of memories in addition to familiar furnishings and significant objects, like the portrait of Catherine he’d seen that morning. And in addition to his Garrett relatives, there were also the loyal employees, some of whom might, even here in Beacon Hill, be almost considered members of the family.
This house was the one that Scott had grown up in. It was his home, had been his home for twenty-four years.
And there was also the business; Scott must have inherited that as well. Teresa had mentioned that it had been Melissa Harper who had taken her shopping and shown her around the city, because Scott had been spending so much of his time at his grandfather’s office.
Murdoch couldn’t help remembering what Harlan had said when he’d come to the ranch, how he’d proudly announced that there was an estate, “a legacy of considerable worth” awaiting Scott in Boston.
In Boston. Where, some might say, he belonged.
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To see an image of Boston’s Old West Church:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_West_Church%2C_Boston%2C_Massachusetts
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