ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 25.
“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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<<“I wore the same clothes every day, for the better part of a year.”>>
The words came to her now, what Scott had said back in his room at Lancer, when she and Johnny had been watching him sort through that trunk full of clothes. Those heavy woolen and flannel shirts, as well as the elegant evening attire--the top hat, the gloves, the silk lined vest--all representative of his former life, here in Boston.
Neither of them expected Scott to say anything about that time period, when he was imprisoned during the War. Johnny had teased his brother about always having a spare shirt in his saddlebags, about having so many shirts at all, and asked Scott if he’d ever worn the same clothes two days in a row.
Teresa could still picture it, the tell-tale tightening of Scott’s jaw, and still hear the way his words had been strung out taut, and left hanging in the air.
She’d been stunned into uncertain silence, hoping that Johnny would say something. He had, finally, and the painful moment had passed, smoothed away by the usual sort of joking remark that left both brothers smiling.
Sitting on the bench so close beside him yesterday in the sunshine, she’d been able to fend off ugly images of Scott as a prisoner. She didn’t want to imagine Scott thin and hungry, or cold and sick, or dirty. Now, sitting on the edge of her bed, alone in the dark, she remembered what Scott had said, and wanted to cry.
It was silly, she knew. That terrible time was long since past. Still, here she was, shedding tears because Scott hadn’t had clean clothes.
Determinedly whisking them away, Teresa closed her eyes to see him as he’d appeared today, utterly handsome in his dark suit and pristine white shirt. She hugged herself as she remembered walking alongside Scott in the moonlight and that first exhilarating kiss. Scott’s hand gently lifting her chin, Scott’s lips . . . and then, Scott’s voice.
<<“It seems I’m falling in love with you.”>>
Hearing a declaration of that nature from him had once been the climax of her romantic fantasies. She’d never conceived of talk about “crossing lines,” never imagined private moments in enclosed carriages rolling through city streets. Their public strolls past the Boston shops, and through the grounds of Harvard College, had been pleasurable as well, connected as they were, with her arm tucked through his.
It had been a different sort of thrill, when Scott had confided in her.
Followed by feelings of contented satisfaction, particularly when their conversations had seemed to offer Scott a measure of relief. Despite Teresa’s early apprehension that it was all too wonderful to be true, the exciting alteration in their relationship seemed almost natural now.
<<I love you Scott.>>
Long before she’d said it aloud on the beach at Popham, the phrase had been familiar. Whether distinctly thought or furtively murmured aloud, the oft-repeated words had echoed longingly in her heart.
She’d meant the words, the first time she’d said them to him. But since then they had undeniably acquired a new depth of feeling previously beyond her comprehension.
And she was still learning.
Lately, her imaginings had centered upon the two of them together at Lancer. Surely everything, even tedious chores and commonplace activities, would all be enjoyably different now. She pictured the two of them riding side by side on horseback, attending local dances, visiting San Francisco. Someday they would return to Boston, perhaps even sail to Europe.
That was the sort of pleasant dream she should have had tonight.
But sleep had cruelly betrayed her, presenting instead an image of Scott, his once white shirt covered with dark splotches, then turning grey and finally completely black. She’d watched helplessly, holding a stack of folded shirts, beige work shirts with checks, freshly washed and ironed. Scott stared back at her, shook his head and walked away.
When he disappeared, she felt sad and horribly alone. And then came the nightmarish scene that had finally wakened her, leaving her staring at the darkened ceiling and clutching the covers. Teresa shivered, chilled by the memory.
It had started with the distant sounds of gunshots intermingled with agonized screams and desperate shouting. She saw a tall, shadowy form; she knew it must be Scott. He clutched his shoulder with one hand, a hand that was covered with blood, brighter than any she’d ever seen. A fiery scarlet.
There more loud bursts of too vivid color, and he dropped silently to the ground. The gunfire stopped, the shouting stopped and even in the silence she couldn’t scream out his name. She could only stand there, unable to move, unable to speak.
Then without taking a step, she was beside him and although the man was still in shadow, it was unquestionably Scott’s profile. He turned to look at her with sorrowful eyes.
“I didn’t want you to know.”
She tried to help him, but there was nothing she could do. Scott’s shirt was torn away, leaving his back exposed and she could see the marks clearly, far worse than she remembered. The scars became cuts, oozing pain against pale skin, until the surface erupted into that awful, glistening red.
Shocked by the sudden intensity of color, Teresa’s eyes flew open, seeing nothing but soothing blackness.
“Just a dream,” she’d whispered aloud, the words barely audible over the pounding of her heart. “It was just a dream.” Then she’d pushed the bedclothes aside and sat up.
It hadn’t been like that, she reminded herself. He’d been shot once, in the leg, he’d said. All of it, the escape attempt, the marks on his back, it had all happened years ago. Teresa pressed her folded arms more tightly against her chest, squeezing with her fingers, refusing to envision Scott forced to endure such brutal treatment.
Needing to get away from this room and this bed, she decided to go downstairs to the kitchen, perhaps get some milk to drink. After feeling for her slippers with one foot, Teresa stood and slid her feet into them.
<<A uniform.>>
The thought came to her as she drew on her robe. Scott would have been in uniform when he was captured, something similar to what he was wearing in the photograph with General Sheridan. The same picture she’d seen on the shelf in his grandfather’s study also stood on the dresser in Scott’s room back at Lancer. She’d often studied that youthful face, so serious and proud, before his capture.
<<“Scott’s okay, Teresa, what he’s got inside, they couldn’t take it from ‘im, even with a year of trying.”>>
Johnny was right, Scott was okay, more than okay; he was brave and strong and he’d survived. Still, somehow she thought it might be reassuring to slip into the study and look at Scott’s medals again, view the tattered remnant of that battle flag, all safely preserved under glass.
Teresa tied the fabric belt of her robe about her waist as she moved to the door. When she opened it, she looked immediately down the hall; the door to Scott’s room stood ajar. Quickly glancing in the opposite direction, she saw a band of light at the end of the corridor, extending from the doorway of Mr. Garrett’s bedroom.
She was drawn towards that slanting bar of light, her slippered feet whispering along the hall carpet. A peek around the half-opened door revealed Scott seated on the edge of his grandfather’s bed, absorbed in examining the contents of a black wooden case. Various other items were scattered across the rumpled white counterpane. Scott was mostly dressed, wearing dark trousers and a fresh white shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the starched collar standing open. His hair was a burnished gold in the lamplight. Teresa sighed in relief as she gazed fondly at that familiar profile.
Scott looked up, startled, when she softly breathed his name.
“Scott?”
“Teresa--” As she stepped into the room, Scott stood, the width of Mr. Garrett’s bed forming a barrier between them. Scott’s shirt hung loose and untucked over his trousers.
“What are you doing up at---” Scott looked down at the watch he was holding in his hand. “Teresa, it’s four in the morning.”
The clock on the mantel showed it was twenty minutes past the hour.
“I didn’t realize what time it was, Scott, I . . . I woke up, and I thought I’d go downstairs . . . for something to drink.” She couldn’t help being curious and drew nearer to the bed. “You’re still going through your grandfather’s things?”
Scott nodded, then carefully closed the cover on the very large rose gold pocket watch he identified as his grandfather’s favorite. It hung from a heavy chain of the same metal, and as she came nearer, he extended it towards her. Closer examination of the engraved case revealed a scene of ships in a harbor on one side; the other side had writing. The watch had been presented “In appreciation” to Mr. Harlan Garrett by a Boston business association, and it gave the date.
“I thought Mr. Merrill might like that watch,” Scott said, gesturing towards the object in her hands. “He spoke at the memorial service; he was one of grandfather’s closest friends.”
“Yes, I remember him.” Teresa sat down on the near side of the bed, and gazed worriedly up at Scott. “You have slept, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” he assured her with a faint smile. “I’ve slept. Now I’m awake, I was thinking of some calls I might return after breakfast . . .”
“Your cousin and Miss Sturgis are coming here for lunch,” she reminded him.
“I know. I plan to be back by then.” Scott resumed his seat on the far side of the bed. “But there are some people I really should see before I leave--- a few of Grandfather’s oldest friends and closest business associates.”
Teresa handed the watch back to Scott and he set it down on the counterpane. The flat black box in front of him held several other fine looking watches. Scott had a very handsome, engraved, gold timepiece of his own, a twenty-first birthday present from Mr. Garrett. When he’d first come to Lancer Scott had carried it with him all the time, even though it was far too elegant to use while herding cattle. At her suggestion, Johnny had given his brother a smaller watch for Christmas that first year; she’d helped him choose one with a plain case, the same nickel color as Scott’s belt buckles. Johnny had the Lancer “L” engraved on one side and Scott had taken to using it every day, putting aside the gold one for special occasions. Of course, Johnny endured some teasing, with Scott archly inquiring if the second watch was so that his brother could stop carrying his own when they were together----just as he’d stopped carrying money. Johnny merely grinned and said the watch Murdoch had given him was “kind of an antique” and that he planned on using it for a real long time. Murdoch had smiled and clapped his younger son on the shoulder, while Scott had assured Johnny that his gift would surely be an heirloom some day too.
At the moment, Scott sat surrounded by family heirlooms. He showed her several pairs of gold cufflinks; one set which he planned to keep for himself had a raised design of leaping fish, a gift from Scott to his grandfather. Other boxes held Mr. Garrett’s collection of stickpins and a few watch fobs. Scott identified the different gems; the fobs were set with darker stones, such as carnelian, bloodstone and carved hematite, while very small diamonds, sapphires or emeralds decorated the gold stickpins. During the day, Scott had been wearing his grandfather’s oval jet cufflinks, as well as a stickpin topped with a black horseshoe studded with the tiniest seed pearls.
While Teresa admired a stickpin in the shape of a small sword, Scott rose and stepped over to the dresser. He returned with a rosewood box covered with swirling brass inlay. Instead of setting it down, he carried it around the foot of the bed.
Scott’s feet were bare.
He walked past her and placed the miniature chest on the bedside table. When Scott opened it, she could see that the interior was lined with marbled paper.
“This was in the safe in Grandfather’s dressing room,” he explained. “There’s not much inside, but we think the pieces which are here belonged to my grandmother; Aunt Cecilia recognized some of them.”
Scott showed her a few items, including a beautifully carved cameo and another old fashioned brooch set with a large amethyst, both of which he said he intended to give to his aunt.
“Scott . . .” Teresa hesitated, not sure she should ask the question. “Could any of these things have belonged to your mother?”
He shook his head. “No. According to Aunt Cee, Catherine sold most of her jewelry before she headed west with Murdoch ----including some of what she’d inherited from her mother. But there is one box here . . .” Scott paused, then lifted out a very small container covered in dark blue velvet.
“Teresa . . .
Scott stood over her as he placed the little box in her hands. Her heart raced.
“I’d like you to have these.”
When she lifted the lid with trembling fingers, all Teresa saw at first was a slip of paper. Beneath it was a pair of earrings, each one a single large pearl on a short gold ear wire shaped like a shepherd’s crook. The piece of paper read simply “Catherine’s.”
“That’s Grandfather’s handwriting. I thought they might go well with your pearl necklace.”
“Oh, Scott, they’re beautiful.”
“They aren’t especially valuable . . .”
Overwhelmed, Teresa tentatively fingered the lustrous surface of one earring. “But . . . they belonged to your mother.”
“And now to you.” Scott smiled down at her, then he pressed his lips together as a ripple of concern crossed his face. “You can wear them, can’t you?”
“Yes---yes, I can now, thanks to Melissa—she pierced my ears.”
Scott bent lower to examine her left earlobe. “I see,” he said, with a bemused expression. Scott straightened, and gestured towards Mr. Garrett’s dressing room.
“There’s a mirror in there, perhaps you should try them on.”
She rose and hurried towards the small adjoining room, swiftly removing the threads from the recently added holes in her earlobes. When she and Scott had stopped to visit Melissa following their lunch at the Parker House, Teresa hadn’t been at all in favor of the idea of spending another afternoon with her friend while Scott returned to Chestnut Street alone. But then Melissa reminded her that her ears should be sufficiently healed, and the prospect of finally being able to wear earrings had been enticing enough to convince Teresa to stay for supper with the Harpers.
When she’d returned to the Garrett home later that evening, Teresa found Scott and his aunt in Mrs. Holmes’ sitting room. Even though she’d been seated beside him on the sofa, Scott hadn’t appeared to notice anything different, but then he’d seemed rather distracted. He’d had so much on his mind—including the reading of Mr. Garrett’s will the very next morning.
Since then, she’d been wearing a simple pair of gold earrings Melissa had given her. Mrs. Holmes had commented favorably, but Scott hadn’t said anything, not even during the afternoon they’d spent at Harvard.
Now as she eagerly peered into the mirror, the gold ear wires slipped into place surprisingly easily, leaving the pearls perfectly positioned. Pleased with the effect, Teresa swept her long dark hair up on top of her head with both hands.
She was still holding her hair up and away from her ears when she turned to Scott--only to catch him watching her with such an odd expression. She held her smile in place, but faltered a bit over the light-hearted question.
“So Mr. Lancer, what . . . do you think?”
“They look . . . very nice,” he allowed, crossing his arms over his chest and continuing to study her.
Teresa quickly returned to him and, by reaching up, forced Scott to unfold his arms and accept her embrace.
“Thank you,” she whispered into Scott’s chest, closing her eyes against the bright white of his shirt, listening to the powerful rhythm of his heart, breathing in the scent of him. “I’ll take very good care of them.” She would always treasure “the Lady’s” earrings, first and foremost because Scott had given them to her.
“Teresa . . .”
When she looked up at him, he bent down to kiss her, firmly, but much too briefly; then Scott’s hands were grasping her own, unclasping them from about his neck, and he was stepping away. There remained something unsettled in his face as he gazed down at her, still gently holding her hands. She waited apprehensively, wondering what might be wrong.
Scott looked tired; the fact that he hadn’t yet shaved added to the effect. He shaved every single day.
Because he hadn’t been able to, in prison.
She hated the sudden realization and tried to push the accompanying image away. Scott had dropped his gaze, glancing downward momentarily, and when he looked up once more, there was a slight flush to his cheek.
“You should probably try to go back to sleep,” he said slowly. Scott finally released her, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers, hidden beneath the wrinkled tail of his shirt.
More than a mere thought, it was a distinctly physical awareness, as she suddenly recollected that she was wearing her nightgown and robe, that Scott wasn’t fully dressed and that they were standing here alone in Mr. Garrett’s bedchamber. The man she loved was so close and she needed to feel his arms around her, his hands stroking her hair. Scott’s hands . . . Teresa’s fingers ached to unfasten the buttons of Scott’s fine white shirt; instead she nervously tightened the belt of her robe. It was improper for them to be together like this, and Scott was doing the right thing, tactfully trying to send her back to her room.
With a shaky sigh, she recalled her original intention, to venture to the kitchen for that no longer desired glass of milk.
“Could I get you something, Scott? Some coffee?”
“No, thank you. I’ll do that later, after I’ve finished putting things away here.”
“All right, then. I’ll go back to b. . . my room.”
“I’ll see you in a few hours, at breakfast.”
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<<“I see no reason to trouble Miss O’Brien with such things.”>>
Aunt Cecilia had been referring to their discussion of Marie-Flore, and at the time, Scott had neither agreed nor disagreed. Since then, he had had further conversations with his aunt, and consulted with George Hayford on the matter, although he’d refrained from confiding in Will---for the time being.
Scott didn’t think of himself as one who tended to postpone necessary tasks. But he had to acknowledge that when it came to his daughter, he seemed uncharacteristically willing to do exactly that. Other than following through on George’s recommendations regarding a will, he’d essentially decided to do nothing for now, telling himself that he’d have another opportunity when he returned to Boston in the spring.
It would give him time to consider. But he already knew that he didn’t want to “trouble Miss O’Brien with such things.” He had recently talked to her about other difficult matters, including what had happened ‘that night,’ ----the night of the escape. Despite having maintained a careful silence on the subject for so long, the words had come almost easily.
It would have been very easy to do more than talk to her, just now.
With a long sigh, Scott closed the lid of Elizabeth Garrett’s jewelry box. Catherine’s pearl earrings were very becoming on Teresa and he smiled again to think of her wearing them. The fact that they were here meant that either Catherine had left them behind or that Grandfather had brought them back after her passing--- the latter possibility essentially confirmed by the simple gold band engraved with a floral motif that he’d found in the box with the earrings.
Catherine’s wedding ring now resided with her own mother’s “Regards” ring, an engagement band mounted with seven precious gems, the first letter of each name spelling out the word “Regards”--- neither of which he’d shown to Teresa.
He also hadn’t shown her the most important and valuable piece in the rosewood chest, his grandmother’s pearl choker. It consisted of six strands of natural pearls, connected to a piece of silver scrollwork set with over a dozen diamonds of varying size. Hanging from that center piece was a sizable oval shaped sapphire, surrounded by more small diamonds. The sapphire was a deep pink, the very same rose color that suited Teresa so well.
She would need earrings, he decided, to go with it.
Someday. The pearl choker was too extravagant to be given casually, nor did he wish to seem to be hurrying her into a commitment. It was still enjoyable, however, to envision her reaction.
Although Scott could easily imagine Teresa’s awed delight, it was much more difficult to predict how she would respond to any attempt to explain Marie Christine. Admittedly, it was guilt that reined in his tongue; he couldn’t honestly pretend that he’d kept silent in order to spare Teresa. It had been purely to shield himself from seeing the inevitable disappointment in her eyes.
Painful as it was to realize how disapproving his grandfather must have been, Scott hadn’t ever had to face the man. That his aunt also knew the truth was profoundly embarrassing, but at least he’d been spared the task of having to tell her. The prospect of making such a revelation to Teresa was another matter altogether.
It was easy to see now, how she felt about him, and difficult to comprehend how he’d missed it for so long. It made him feel even more protective of her. He had, after all, irrevocably altered their relationship by kissing her that evening on the beach at Popham, by announcing that he was falling in love with her.
The next morning, he’d asked her to trust him.
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Scott made several calls after breakfast, before returning to Chestnut Street for the family luncheon. Grandfather’s old friend Simon Merrill had been at home; they had enjoyed a nice visit and Mr. Merrill had seemed pleased by the gift of the watch. Scott had stopped to see a few other gentlemen at their places of business and all but one had been in.
There were additional people to whom he owed calls, but there simply wouldn’t be enough time. At least he would have the week of travel on the train to respond to the large collection of notes and letters of condolence. Writing a few replies each day would allow him to answer most of them before reaching Sacramento.
This afternoon Scott intended to clear the desk of his grandfather’s personal papers, even if it only meant placing them in a carton to sort through in the spring. When reviewing the household records, Scott had removed all but the most recent documents; quite likely much of Harlan Garrett’s personal correspondence should be likewise disposed of. At the risk of violating his grandfather’s privacy, Scott did want to take time to sift carefully through those papers, since it occurred to him that he might yet find the letters that Grandfather had written to and received from Catherine.
Then, of course, he might also come across some correspondence between Harlan Garrett and Marie-Flore. There was even the possibility of discovering clues to the identity of the still mysterious Bertram Bennett.
Two boxes sat waiting on the sofa cushions, one to be filled with whatever Scott wished to take with him to California and the other to hold items to be transferred upstairs------to Grandfather’s bedchamber. That had been settled over lunch.
While touring the house with Wade Garrett and his bride-to-be, Scott had assured them that he would willingly vacate the room that he presently occupied; a smaller guest room would do well enough, since it was unlikely that he would be very often in residence. Wade and Miss Sturgis had politely protested that they wouldn’t dream of turning him out of his room, even when Scott mentioned that he had, in fact, occupied several different bedchambers over the years.
The subject of bedrooms was revisited during the meal and Aunt Cee expressed the firm opinion that as owner of the house, Scott should have suitable quarters reserved for him, regardless of how often they were used. It was Wade who then suggested that Scott should move into “Uncle’s Harlan’s” rooms.
Once the guests had departed, Scott gave Fredericks directions about which things in his present bedroom should be carried down the hall. Among the large number of books were a few that Scott felt would make fine additions to the library at Lancer; Fredericks was assigned to shelve all others either here in the study or in the music room. Scott had actually found a few of the orange covered dime novels that he had read so long ago--- the fondly remembered adventures of frontiersman Seth Jones as well as some colorful tales of cowboys and gunfighters that he thought Johnny might find amusing; these had been added to the box which would be shipped to Lancer.
That box was filling more rapidly than Scott had expected. Here in the study, he immediately added the glass-topped case in which Grandfather had arranged his medals and the preserved piece of the 83rd’s regimental colors. Not that it would stay there---he intended to pack the case in amongst his clothing when the time came. The two photographs—of himself as a child, and as a youthful soldier posing with General Sheridan--- as well as the daguerreotype of Catherine, Scott carefully placed in the box that would be carried upstairs, to be arranged atop Grandfather’s dresser.
Scott was having second thoughts about the portrait of Catherine that had already been crated for shipment to California. Walking through the house with Wade and his fiancée, it was startling to see the empty space above the mantel in the front parlor. The painting had hung in that same spot for as long as he could remember.
When Teresa had suggested bringing the picture to Lancer, Scott hadn’t expected to be taking much else with him; it was certainly a fine portrait and it would be nice to have something so symbolic of home hanging in the hacienda. He’d always had the miniature version Grandfather had given him for his twenty-first birthday, but hadn’t ever shown it to anyone at the ranch. The scale of the full sized painting was too much for his bedroom at Lancer; it was certainly quite a bit bigger than the oil of “Aunt Haggis.” Scott imagined it would dominate even an area as spacious as the Great Room. It might be an imposition to so prominently display a picture of Catherine.
Napoleon was curled up on the seat of one of the armchairs beside the sofa in front of the hearth. The cat raised his head, stretching his forelegs languidly before tucking his paws under his chest. Those inscrutable green eyes remained trained on Scott. Adjacent to the chair was the small table holding the reading lamp and Grandfather’s two books: Libby Life and Glazier’s more general work on Southern prisons.
After a moment’s contemplation, Scott gathered up the two volumes and added them to the box destined for California.
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“I’d like to have Scott spend the summer here at the ranch.”
There it was. The long awaited invitation from his father.
Scott had settled into his grandfather’s chair, determined to empty the drawers of the desk. He’d started with the folder containing his own correspondence, which, in addition to their more recent communications also included the hastily scribbled pages he’d sent to Boston from the battlefield, as well as copies of the letters that Grandfather had written during the long year of his imprisonment. These Scott could not leave behind.
The next file was the one that contained documents relating to Murdoch Lancer. There were the few brief letters the two men had exchanged when Scott was an infant, as well as the reports from the agents Harlan Garrett had hired to collect information on his former son-in-law. He’d been interrupted, Scott remembered now, when he’d first been going through this particular file.
After the reports, there were some additional pages, the first one in his father’s handwriting. It was the letter in which Murdoch had asked that his son be allowed to visit him at the ranch.
The short missive was direct and to the point; Murdoch made his request, offered to meet Scott somewhere along the route, even travel to Boston if necessary. He also promised that Scott would be back East in time to resume his studies in the fall.
His jaw clenching painfully, Scott set the page aside, and prepared to read Harlan Garrett’s response.
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For an image of Scott’s grandmother’s pink sapphire necklace:
http://www.langantiques.com/detail/90-1-753.html
This site has many other fine examples of antique jewelry.
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 26.
“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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“I doubt that Scotty would be very much interested in visiting a ranch.”
Grandfather had been wrong about that. Very wrong.
He’d probably believed he was stating the truth. He couldn’t have known his grandson’s opinion, since they hadn’t ever discussed Murdoch Lancer, let alone his ranch. Grandfather hadn’t commented upon the books about the West, barely hidden beneath Scott’s bed, had chosen not to see the signs of a young boy’s not so secret longing.
Murdoch had been mistaken, as well, when he’d written in his letter to Scott that his long ago invitation had been refused owing to the planned tour of Europe. That trip had actually taken place two years later, although it was prominently mentioned as Harlan Garrett outlined his grandson’s schedule for the next several summers, making it clear that “unfortunately” it would be a very long time before Scotty was available to travel to California.
Despite Grandfather’s careful phrasing, and the regret typically conveyed by such apologetic words, they lacked sincerity. The polite refusal was cold and condescending.
It wasn’t another wounding stab to the heart; Scott had, after all, known of both his father’s invitation and his grandfather’s decision to decline it, ever since he’d read Murdoch’s letter that day in the cupola. But knowing that Grandfather had refused was one thing, actually reading the words, written in Harlan Garrett’s own hand, was another matter altogether. It reawakened a dull, throbbing ache.
<<“Your grandfather’s every action . . . was meant to be in your best interest . . . Harlan never planned to cause you pain.”>>
Scott recalled Aunt Cecilia’s plea for understanding, asking that he separate the injurious results of her brother’s actions from the man’s considered intentions. His grandfather loved him, she reminded him, and Scott knew in his heart that was true.
He pushed the chair back away from the massive desk, remembering other thoughts that his aunt had shared. Grandfather’s reluctance to allow him to travel west would be understandable, given a view of California darkly colored by the fact that his only daughter had died there. Harlan Garrett’s attitude towards his former son-in-law would have been unfavorable as well, in part justified by Murdoch’s choice to remain so far away from his son.
“He still should have told me,” Scott murmured the words aloud. It would have meant a great deal to a young boy, to have the invitation as evidence that his father did care. Of course he would have wanted to go and meet his father, surely Grandfather would have realized that. Which provided a cynical explanation for the man’s silence.
A silence that Grandfather had maintained even during that revealing conversation on the way to meet the stage, when Grandfather was leaving the ranch. The elderly man had appeared to be truly ashamed of his scheme to use Julie and the Degans and his recounting of past events—including Murdoch’s trip to Boston at the time of Scott’s fifth birthday and his own role in his son-in-law’s abrupt departure---had seemed painfully honest. Yet, in the end, he’d still withheld information, about this invitation extended and rejected.
If it hadn’t been for Murdoch’s recent hand-delivered letter, Scott would only now be learning of the entire episode from examining the original correspondence. Sighing, he turned reluctantly to the next page of his grandfather’s reply. As Scott continued reading, he discovered something of great significance that Murdoch Lancer had somehow neglected to mention.
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Teresa carefully reread the letter before signing her name and sealing up the pages in a matching envelope, the same dove grey stationary Cecilia Holmes had used to communicate to her nephew the sad news of his grandfather’s passing. The older woman had given Teresa permission to use the writing desk in her small sitting room, as well as some of her letter paper. Mrs. Holmes now wrote notes on writing paper edged in black to indicate her continued state of mourning for her late brother; she had given Scott a box of similar paper to use when replying to those who had written to extend their condolences. When thanking his aunt for the gift, Scott had said he intended to spend time on such correspondence while traveling to California.
Teresa’s letter was addressed to Murdoch and Johnny. Scott planned to let his father and brother know they were departing from Boston by sending a wire the day they boarded the westbound train. He had, however, suggested that Teresa write a letter to be posted immediately, in hopes that it would precede them; she could explain their proposed itinerary in greater detail. Although Mr. Hayford was eager to return to Sacramento, his mother wished to stop briefly in St. Louis to call upon family -----and Will had agreed.
Teresa had also written that before continuing on to Stockton, she and Scott would most likely spend additional time in Sacramento with the Hayfords. Just a few days, Scott had assured her, as Will Hayford had someone he wished them to meet.
She’d included all that Scott had requested, but of course there was much more that she wished to say. Teresa knew that if she tried to describe even half of what she’d seen and experienced since Murdoch’s departure, she would never finish the letter---she’d still be writing when the stage rattled into Morro Coyo.
Johnny and Murdoch would be waiting at the depot and there would be so many things to tell them. She had written briefly about the trip to Maine, saying how much she’d enjoyed her stay there, that she’d gone bathing in the Atlantic Ocean and had collected some tiny sand dollars to show them. She mentioned spending time with Melissa Harper and told them how very busy Scott had been making all the arrangements for his grandfather’s house and business.
Would they have to be told the most important part, or would they see it for themselves?
Surely they would sense that something was different. But then again, it wasn’t as if Scott was going to kiss her right there when they got off the stage. He didn’t address her differently, he called her “Teh-RAY-sah” as he always had, though to her ears it sounded even more special than before. Scott didn’t act differently when other people were around, just his usual calm, kind, polite manner, but the way he looked at her, that was different. She felt a secret little thrill just thinking about it.
As she had already one hundred times today, Teresa reached up with one hand to check that first one, then the other, pearl earring was still securely in place. She hadn’t been able to refrain from telling Mrs. Holmes about Scott’s gift and had been rewarded by his aunt’s smile of approval.
Johnny and Murdoch would certainly approve as well. Johnny had always suspected her feelings for Scott, so he’d probably realize right away that something had changed. Murdoch was a different matter; he didn’t always seem to notice such things. But ever since she’d behaved so foolishly with Andy Blake, her guardian had been especially concerned and careful about which young men she spent time with, so of course he would be pleased.
Unfortunately, Scott also knew about Andy; Scott even seemed to feel somehow responsible, even though she had lied to him. She’d believed that Andy had cared about her, even while the Blake brothers planned to kill Murdoch.
Scott had explained later that it was understandable she’d been fooled, since when he was guarding her, Andy had been “the good guard”----so much nicer than the others. But Teresa still felt she should have known better than to trust a convicted criminal who had made her a prisoner. How could she have believed for one moment that she was actually in love with someone like Andy Blake?
Just thinking about that humiliating episode made Teresa’s cheeks burn, so instead, she contemplated confiding in Senora Maria. The tiny Mexican woman who had long been her surrogate mother was also terribly fond of Scott; Maria would be happy for both of them, no doubt tearfully so. And Jelly, dear Jelly would have plenty to say to cover his surprise, although he’d never, ever, admit that he hadn’t “knowed it all along.”
And then there were her friends, Corinna and Leah, Alondra and Nellie. The girls would be excited for her—and envious. But in Teresa’s imaginings, everyone back home—even the Widow Hargis---would, in the end, heartily approve.
She touched the earrings one more time.
They were such a precious gift. “The Lady” had worn them, Catherine Lancer. Scott’s mother. And Scott had given them to her.
Sometime after breakfast, Scott had made a present of jewelry to his aunt as well. When Wade Garrett and Miss Sturgis arrived for lunch, Mrs. Holmes was wearing the large ivory cameo brooch that had belonged to Scott’s grandmother, the creamy color set off by the black of her mourning attire.
Then this afternoon, Scott had given away a clock. The five of them had toured the house, and as they were looking at the rooms on the second floor, the large standing clock at one end of the hallway had chimed the hour. It was exceptionally loud and her first few nights in Boston, Teresa had found it very difficult to sleep because of it.
Wade commented that his father always enjoyed hearing that clock, as it reminded him of childhood visits to his Grandfather Reuel Garrett’s house. The man who had owned the clock was Scott’s great-great grandfather. Wade’s father, Walter, was a first cousin to Harlan Garrett and Mrs. Holmes and therefore Wade and Scott were cousins several times “removed.”
After Wade and his fiancée departed, Mrs. Holmes admitted that she had never cared at all for that particular timepiece, terming it loud and “provoking.” Scott had laughingly agreed, and now Mr. Fredericks was out in the corridor supervising some men who were packing up the offending clock to be transported directly to Mr. Walter Garrett’s home.
Wondering what time it was, Teresa went out to ask Mr. Fredericks if he would see to posting her letter, and if he knew where she might find Scott.
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“I suppose it is high time you met.”
A grudging rather than a gracious way of stating it, but there it was, nonetheless: clearly written in Grandfather’s precise hand, the proposal that Murdoch Lancer should journey to Boston to visit with his son.
Murdoch hadn’t mentioned it. He certainly hadn’t made the trip.
Unquestionably, Murdoch had received the letter. Had he been unwilling, or unable, to leave his ranch? Or had he ignored the suggestion, perhaps out of anger, or disappointment? He could then perhaps have forgotten about it, over the years.
In his long overdue letter to Scott, Murdoch had seemed brutally honest, making no excuses for himself, while being careful not to cast undue blame upon his son’s late grandfather. Scott didn’t believe that his father had intentionally left out such an important detail.
Of course, it was possible that Grandfather had excised those few lines from the final version of the letter posted to Murdoch so long ago. It appeared that the copies that his grandfather routinely saved were the elderly man’s initial drafts---in other instances Scott had noted that lines had been stricken and rewritten in an apparent attempt to retain an accurate record of what had actually been sent. There were no such corrections on the papers Scott now held in his hand. At the bottom of the second page, Grandfather had written the words “no reply” above a date three months after the letter had been sent.
Unless Murdoch had kept the correspondence all these years, there might be no way of knowing for certain if his grandfather’s reluctant reciprocal invitation had been included in the copy Murdoch had received.
If the overture had been made, it somewhat lessened the crime of Grandfather’s summary refusal.
And Murdoch’s failure to respond provided Harlan Garrett with a better reason for keeping the story from his grandson.
Bowing his head and raking his hair with both hands, Scott could only think about just how weary he was of keeping score. It wasn’t a matter of determining a “winner”; there would never be one. He simply seemed to be constantly trying to assign each man credit, so that neither would turn out to be the villain.
Apparently they had each tried—and that counted for something.
Neither one had tried hard enough.
Each man could have extended more than one invitation. Harlan Garrett could have escorted his grandson to California, or fostered a correspondence between father and son. Murdoch Lancer could have finished just one of those letters he’d claimed to have started, or come back to Boston at any time, with or without his former father-in-law’s acquiesce, and simply demanded to see his son.
Scott once more recalled his aunt’s assertion that her brother’s every action, even those that seemed misguided, had been in Scott’s best interest. His grandfather had never meant to cause him pain.
“Even though he wasn’t the sort of man to say it very often, Scott, he did love you.”
He had gotten to know Murdoch well enough to believe that the same thing could be said of his father. Scott also now recognized that perhaps Murdoch’s task had been the more challenging one, to love and act in the best interest of someone he didn’t know, a child he’d barely met.
He could still question Murdoch, but to what purpose? Whatever the answer, it wouldn’t exonerate either man. Nothing could change the past---- and Scott could not imagine a different one for himself.
Better to give each man the benefit of the doubt.
Scott carried his grandfather’s file on Murdoch Lancer over to the fireplace and set it on the mantel while he knelt to light the logs arranged on the hearth.
Teresa came in while he was removing the pages from the folder and feeding them to the fire. Napoleon was still perched on the seat of one wing chair; Teresa sat in the chair opposite. They both watched quietly until Scott finished burning the papers.
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“Beloved Brother, Husband, Father, Grandfather.”
He hadn’t told anyone where he was going this morning. Teresa would certainly have offered to accompany him here. Will would have come along if asked. Aunt Cee might have liked to pay a visit to her brother’s grave, but Scott had needed the time alone.
He had tried to forgive his grandfather and several times felt he’d succeeded, only to have his anger and disappointment revived by new discoveries. Aunt Cecilia’s soothing words had helped, but now as he stood beside Harlan Garrett’s grave in Mt. Auburn Cemetery, it was it was Teresa’s voice that Scott heard.
<<“Remember the good things instead.”>>
That had been Teresa’s simple, heartfelt advice, explaining that she tried not to dwell upon the fact that her father had lied to her all those years, telling her that her mother was dead. It was a decision she’d made, to overlook Paul O’Brien’s faults, in favor of pleasant memories.
A wise choice, to remember the love between them.
Scott had commented at the time that it seemed another way of applying what the Reverend Grimes had advocated: “to forgive, and forgive from the heart.” But he’d doubted his ability to do it.
Sweet and sensible Teresa had suggested that forgiveness wasn’t something that a person did, but rather something he or she allowed to happen. She’d assured him that calling up good memories would help.
The marble monument was carved with a relief design of a hand, pointing towards the heavens. Below it, Grandfather’s name stood out in bold relief, the dates bracketing his life.
Other gravestones displayed images of draped urns, winged cherubs or weeping willow trees, but to Scott, the upraised hand seemed more fitting. He could see his grandfather smiling and lifting a glass as he offered up a toast—in honor of Scott’s birthday or some other special event. Or as he had in honor of each foreign city on their tour of Europe. Scott could picture Grandfather pointing out the Parthenon, high atop the Acropolis in Athens, imagine himself standing beside him, beneath General Bonaparte’s Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel in Paris.
It was a tremendous relief to look down and see something beyond the surface of polished stone. He recalled Grandfather smiling as he presented that first pony, the redoubtable Spot. On Scott’s twenty-first birthday, the presents had been a fine watch, an exquisite miniature of the portrait of Catherine, a partnership in the company.
Grandfather had generously bestowed those gifts over dinner at his club. Scott remembered other meals there, with Harlan Garrett proudly introducing his grandson to a host of friends and business associates.
As he walked slowly back to the nearest gate, Scott recalled their many conversations about books, their sometimes heated debates over both historical events and current issues, such as the War, slavery, the status of free Negroes. There had been many enthusiastic discussions of negotiations and business contracts, as well as relaxed exchanges about every day affairs.
Once he reached the carriage, Scott directed James to return to Chestnut Street, then climbed inside the enclosed vehicle.
There was no need to say farewell because those memories---and Grandfather--- would always be with him. Still, as the carriage wheels rolled forward, Scott’s thoughts turned to past leave takings---Grandfather seeing him off on boyhood trips to Maine, Grandfather saying good bye at the train station when Scott left to join the fighting. And their most recent separation, helping Grandfather onto the stage in Morro Coyo.
A less than happy memory, that last, though some good had come of the conversation they’d had en route to town. Still, much better to think of more pleasant images of Grandfather welcoming him home. And no matter where he lived, Scott knew that the house on Chestnut Street would always be home.
One of them, at least.
On the journey back to Beacon Hill, Scott’s eyes were focused on a succession of images from his past, memories in which Grandfather figured prominently. When the carriage turned into the drive, his thoughts were of his grandfather, holding his hand.
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Author’s notes:
To see Scott’s grandmother’s carved ivory cameo brooch, his gift to Aunt Cecilia:
http://www.langantiques.com/detail/50-1-598.html
Traditional Victorian gravestone designs included angles, draped urns, and weeping willows as well as the Pointing Hand selected for Harlan Garrett’s monument.
The site below includes photos of two versions of this motif; the images are of stones in a cemetery in Ohio, but similar examples are commonly seen in New England.
http://www.graveaddiction.com/mmpfork.html
This page provides a list of symbols with images.
http://www.graveaddiction.com/symbol.html
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 27A.
“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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“I’m not sure we should tell anyone, not right away.”
The gentle tone did nothing to cushion her fall. Scott’s words sent Teresa’s heart plummeting from the cupola all the way down to the first floor of the Garrett mansion.
Back when they’d first arrived in Boston, on their first night at the house on Chestnut Street, Scott had given her an abbreviated tour; they hadn’t ventured to the upper floor that housed the servants’ quarters. So it had only been when she’d joined Scott and Mrs. Holmes in escorting Wade Garrett and his fiancée Miss Sturgis through the house that she’d even seen this wonderful little roof-top room.
Today, Scott had invited her to meet him here; she’d almost tripped up the staircase on her way.
A few hours earlier, she’d been seated downstairs at the piano, practicing some of the pieces that Scott had taught her prior to their trip to Maine. Accustomed to playing by ear, it was something of a challenge to recall his explanation of the notes, though truthfully, the difficulty had probably been due less to problems of comprehension and more to her fascination with Scott’s hands as they fingered the keys or gestured towards the sheet music.
She’d been playing “Jeannie” this morning when Scott came in. Instead of sitting down close beside her on the bench, he’d remained standing, arms folded as he leaned against the doorframe. He’d complimented her effort when she finished, observing that if they had stayed in Boston over the winter, she could have joined Melissa Harper in taking music instruction and other courses at Mrs. Siddons’ School for Young Ladies. It was something they’d spoken about a few times and that Mrs. Holmes had kindly offered to arrange.
Hastening to assure him that she was happier that they were both going home to Lancer, Teresa was disconcerted when Scott continued to press the point, inquiring if she might not be interested in studying at the institute in San Francisco that Miss Harper had attended, and offering to broach the subject with Murdoch.
Admittedly, she had once envied Melissa the opportunity, but now Teresa had no desire to be separated from Scott. Scott, however, was apparently not only willing to contemplate the two of them being apart, he seemed intent upon encouraging it.
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Built-in benches lined the walls of the octagonal room; while awaiting Scott’s arrival, Teresa had positioned herself for the best view. Once the top of his head appeared through the opening in the cupola floor, she’d watched appreciatively as the rest of him steadily emerged. Scott was still wearing black of course, his attire impeccably formal. Every detail was perfect; the jet cufflinks at his wrists, his cravat tied just so, the horseshoe stickpin in the lapel of his finely tailored suit jacket. She simply couldn’t help thinking it, how very handsome he looked. When Scott’s knowing eyes sought hers, she’d hastily risen to look out the window at the rooftops of the neighboring homes in an effort to hide her feelings of nervous anticipation,
“It’s a wonderful view,” she’d managed, hoping that her voice seemed more natural to him than it did to her own ears.
“Yes, it is.”
She’d always loved the timbre of Scott’s voice, the firm, even tone. As Scott came up behind her, slipping his right hand around her waist, his words had been uttered quite close to her left ear. As he nuzzled her neck, she reflexively pulled away; much as she enjoyed the attention, it still tickled, and she laughingly remonstrated him.
“Scott---you’re not even looking at the trees . . .”
“I’ve seen them before,” he murmured. “And . . .” he added as he gently grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. “There are other things I’d much rather look at.”
Teresa fully shared those sentiments, but she hadn’t gazed up at Scott for very long before her eyes were closed and she was losing herself in his kiss. The pressure of his lips, the familiar scent of bay rum, Scott’s hands skimming over her, pulling her close until she was pressed against him. Teresa reached up with one hand to brush the soft, cropped hair on the back of his head.
She longed to feel Scott’s hands peeling away the purple taffeta of her dress. The idea made her quiver inside.
Although lately those types of thoughts seemed to come more and more often to mind, the fact was that Scott had yet to unfasten so much as a single button of her clothing, even when they were alone in the privacy of the enclosed carriage. She was worried about that, his apparent self-restraint. Teresa grasped the lapels of Scott’s jacket with frustrated hands; he too was encased in layers---jacket, vest, shirt.
When Scott finally concluded the kiss, Teresa sighed and lowered her arms to encircle his waist. Resting her head against the dark fabric covering his chest, she pictured him wearing only an untucked, partially buttoned shirt.
When she shifted slightly, Teresa felt something hard inside the inner pocket of Scott’s jacket. He released her and stepped back, smiling secretively as he withdrew an oblong case.
“I have something for you.”
Conscious of Scott’s expectant scrutiny, Teresa accepted the flat rectangular box, her breath coming quickly as she slowly opened it. A silver chain was draped against the black velvet background, with a disk of the same bright metal hanging from it. Two matching earrings were pinned in place above the chain.
“I had them made by a silversmith here in Boston; he finished the earrings just yesterday.”
Puzzled, Teresa lifted up the silver pendant, studying the star in the center. And suddenly, she understood.
“Oh! It’s a sand dollar!”
“That’s right.” As he looked down at her, Scott seemed amused that it had taken her a moment to recognize the design. “I wanted you to have a souvenir . . . a memento, of the beach.”
As if she could ever forget. Assuredly the sand dollars did not play the most prominent part in her recollections of Popham. When, belatedly, Teresa tried to thank him, Scott simply smiled and lifted the box from her hands.
“Here,” he said, as he removed the necklace and set the case down upon the bench. “Let’s see how this looks on.”
Obediently, Teresa presented her back to him, waiting while Scott worked the clasp, then lowered the sand dollar into place until it rested upon her plum colored bodice.
“There,” he said once he’d fastened it. “Now let’s see.”
As she faced him once more, Scott eyed the silver seashell critically. It was smaller than the full sized sand dollars decorating the shelves at the Popham beach house, but larger than the tiny shell coins she herself had gathered along the shore. As a pendant, it seemed just the right size, and, with a satisfied expression, Scott said as much. Smiling down at her, his hand brushed against her face as he gently swept back a tendril of hair, commenting that it was unlikely anyone back at the ranch would recognize what the silver circle represented.
“It’ll be our secret,” he said.
And that’s when she’d ventured to ask the question.
“Scott, do you think . . . do you think Johnny and Murdoch will know ---or will we have to tell them?”
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<<“I’m not sure we should tell anyone, not right away.”>>
Those words echoed in her ears, her heart pounding like the wings of a frantic songbird that had somehow found itself trapped in the cupola.
Deeply shaken, and desperate to hide it, Teresa swiftly turned and stared out over the treetops once more. Outside, the long tapered leaves of the chestnut trees gleamed red-gold, rippling in the light breeze. She’d been told that the handsome street trees were actually “horse” chestnuts, deceptively bearing glossy brown nuts that were in fact inedible.
Scott wanted to keep their relationship a secret from everyone, even Johnny and Murdoch.
Teresa crossed her arms tightly, vainly trying to ward off the chill that had invaded the sun-warmed space. Gazing in despair at the fluttering foliage, she wanted to ask “Why?”--- wanted to demand an answer ---and didn’t trust herself to speak.
“Teresa?”
Scott sounded concerned, at least. She swallowed hard. She felt his hand on her back, but she stood her ground, keeping her arms firmly folded, not ready to face him yet.
“You don’t want them to know,” she managed. The words didn’t come out flatly, as she’d intended. He had to hear the hurt.
Scott exhaled slowly and Teresa reflexively drew in a corresponding breath, steeling herself to hear the words that would submerge her once buoyant hopes. Scott would be kind, but their memories of Popham beach would be just that, memories.
Scott wasn’t really in love with her after all.
Now the colored leaves floated beneath pools of water as she waited for him to tell her so.
“Teresa . . .”
She swallowed hard, and resolved that once he said it, she’d tell him it was all right, that she felt exactly the same way.
“You’re young . . .”
He meant “inexperienced” she thought miserably, squeezing her eyelids shut.
“I want you to be sure . . .”
Gentle pressure from Scott’s hands forced her to turn. It would be childish to resist. Still, she had no choice but to bow her head and hide her face a moment longer.
“As sure as I am.”
Teresa’s eyes flew open. She looked up slowly, seeking reassurance ---and found it.
He was sure . . .
He loved her.
She could see it in his eyes.
Teresa felt a wave of relief, swiftly followed by a flush of embarrassment at doubting him. She truly was inexperienced if a man could kiss her with such tenderness and she was still so quick to question his feelings. And not just any man; this was Scott after all. She knew him; he would never do anything to hurt her, would never have risked doing so, if he wasn’t sure.
Unbelievably though, he seemed uncertain of her. How could that be? Wasn’t her heart exposed by every glance, every touch, every word?
“I am sure,” she whispered.
Scott sighed, and released his grip on her arms, slipping a finger beneath the silver chain on her neck and lifting the sand dollar away from her blouse.
“Things did happen . . . rather suddenly, Teresa,” he said, his gaze on the pendant now balanced on his fingertips. Allowing the sand dollar to ease back into place, Scott gently caressed her cheek with those same fingertips, his serious gaze fixed upon her own.
“Teresa, I want you to understand that you can still change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“Well . . . I hope not,” he said with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Scott stepped back, folding his arms and staring down at the plank floor for a brief moment.
“It’s just that if we tell everyone, . . . well, it would be awkward, at the ranch, if . . . things didn’t work out. Once they know, it makes it difficult for you to reconsider.”
“And you think I’m going to, that’s why you want to send me away, to San Francisco?”
“No, it’s just . . . an opportunity.” Scott’s brow furrowed, as he continued on. “Teresa, all you’ve ever known is the ranch---”
“And that’s not enough.” Although her voice took on an unaccustomed accusatory note, hadn’t she thought as much herself, many times---that the ranch wouldn’t always be “enough” for Scott? That she wouldn’t be enough?
Scott studied her for a moment, clearly choosing his words with additional care. “I think . . . that you will enjoy spending time in the city, studying music. I’m not . . . ‘sending you away,’” he added firmly.
“We would be apart.”
Scott lowered his gaze once more, but when he looked up, his eyes were bright with an arch amusement he evidently hoped she would share.
“Now, Teresa, I think I could find reasons to . . . spend time in San Francisco . . .”
Instead of feeling pleased by the promise, her disappointment only intensified. What was the point of going back to Lancer at all, if they were to be soon separated, perhaps for months?
Scott stepped closer, so close that she found herself staring at the buttons of his jacket. He gently placed a hand on each of her shoulders.
“Teresa, it’s not that I want to be away from you.”
It helped to hear that. But she couldn’t refrain from breathing a shaky question.
“Then why?”
“Time, that’s all. A little more time. Time for you, to be sure. And if . . . well, if you should change your mind, then I promise you, Teresa, things will be the way the were between us.”
Teresa nodded woodenly, though she doubted that would ever be possible. Even after she’d acknowledged that she wanted more, she’d still worried about losing what they’d had. It was so like Scott to take everything into careful consideration, to be protective. But why was he so concerned? She knew she would never change her mind. Couldn’t he see how things were? He didn’t have the excuse of inexperience . . .
“Julie changed her mind.”
Surprised by her own words, Teresa took a quick step back, bumping her legs against the bench seat. Scott’s hands slid off of her shoulders and she swiftly looked up to gauge his reaction. He looked back at her with a startled expression.
Suddenly she’d understood what this was all about. Scott and Julie had been engaged to be married, and then one of them had broken it off—and it must have been Julie. Scott had asked her to be his wife, she’d said “yes”---- and then Julie had changed her mind. That’s why Scott had been so happy when Mr. Garrett brought her to the ranch; he’d still been in love with her.
It would be natural to worry about such a thing happening again, but judging from Scott’s reaction, he hadn’t been thinking about Julie at all. Until now.
Apprehensively regarding his profile, Teresa sorrowfully noted the set of his jaw, saw his eyes taking on more of a squint as he looked off in the distance.
“Yes,” he admitted finally. “Yes, she did.”
Scott drew in a slow breath, pushing his shoulders back as he faced her.
“There were reasons, Teresa,” he said tonelessly. “I should probably tell you----”
“No.”
She shook her head forcefully. Scott looked surprised, but didn’t try to stop her from forging on.
“No, Scott, you don’t have to talk about Julie. I . . . I don’t want to hear about her--- or any of the others.”
His eyebrows lifted. “The others?”
“The other . . . women. You don’t need to tell me about any of them.”
Scott looked troubled. “Now, Teresa, there haven’t been that many----”
Teresa turned away impatiently. She knew that wasn’t the case, but it wouldn’t help matters to contradict him. She bowed her head and tried again.
“Scott, you know there hasn’t been . . . there hasn’t been anyone else for me, and I . . I know that’s not true for you. I understand that, but . . . I just don’t want to know about them.”
She felt that chill again, and wrapped her arms about her torso.
“Teresa, there hasn’t been anyone for me, not since Julie. Not until now.”
She whirled around, staring up at him in disbelief. Scott was serious—his expression utterly sincere.
“But . . . you’ve taken women to dances, on picnics . . .”
Scott’s brow creased. “Well, yes, I have,” he explained in a patient tone. “But, one afternoon or evening hardly qualifies as . . . “
“Wasn’t it more than one afternoon with Zee-- and Jennie? Or Irene?”
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How in Hell did Teresa know about Irene?
The mention of her name left him speechless. Scott slipped his hands into his pockets and moved away, pacing the too small space of the cupola.
He could hardly deny that he and Zee Powers had spent considerable time together; they’d often had to be quite creative in order to evade the ever-vigilant Eulalia Hargis. But he hadn’t ever been in love with Zee. Much as they’d taken pleasure in each other’s company, it had always been understood that it wouldn’t amount to anything.
He’d met Miss Jennie Hart in Sacramento and for a short time that relationship had seemed promising. She’d even come with her elder sister to pay a visit to the ranch, but Lancer clearly hadn’t been quite what the young woman had expected. They’d parted amicably enough.
There had been others. As Teresa well knew, Scott had escorted many a rancher’s daughter to a town social or invited one of the girls from town to join him at a picnic. And of course his entire family had witnessed his wholly unsuccessful attempt to resist his attraction to Glory Smith; he’d probably been lucky that she hadn’t stayed around very long. Neither had Moira McGloin, although he’d enjoyed the time he’d spent with her. As it had turned out, Moira had been about half as innocent as she’d claimed to be. Her enthusiasm, however, more than made up for her inexperience, and Scott had relished the tutor’s role.
None of those relationships had resembled what he’d had with Julie. He’d had very little in common with any of the other women, and no shared history. They hadn’t had her power over him.
He hadn’t been in love with them.
Unquestionably, his most sustained relationship since moving to California had been with Irene, the shapely woman with the thick mass of dark hair who worked at the saloon in Green River. Perhaps a bit more than strictly business, but . . . Scott flushed. Life was a good deal less formal out West, but still, a young woman like Teresa shouldn’t be so well informed as to what someone like Irene did for a living, or who with. He wondered uncomfortably what else she knew . . .
Here in Boston, it was expected that strict social conventions would be observed and the boundary lines of behavior were more distinctly drawn. Any female, regardless of station, was to be treated with a degree of deference, but it was nonetheless understood that there were different classes of women, with two broad categories being those a man might consider proposing to one day and those who were not candidates for matrimony. In most cases, women in the first group refrained from acknowledging the existence of those in the second.
Moira had moved on. Miss Hart was back in Sacramento. He’d lost track of Zee. But Irene would still be waiting for him, in Green River.
“Teresa, I promise you, I won’t be seeing anyone else. Anyone.”
Teresa nodded, blushing furiously.
It was a promise Scott knew he could keep. He had been faithful to Julie, despite what she’d believed. And this wasn’t just any woman, this was Teresa, after all. He certainly never would have allowed things to progress beyond that first evening on the beach if he wasn’t firmly convinced it was right. Nonetheless, it was his responsibility to make sure Teresa didn’t feel caught up in something that was progressing too quickly.
It would be difficult, but even if her feelings changed, perhaps the time they’d spent at Popham could still somehow remain a fond memory; he’d considered that, when commissioning his gift. Like the necklace and earrings, arranging for her to spend time studying in San Francisco was intended to be a gift as well.
Scott had discussed the matter at some length with his Aunt Cecilia. Wed to a professor, Aunt Cee had always been a strong proponent of education and had offered to enroll Teresa in school in Boston if she remained in the city over the winter. Once plans were in place to return to California, Aunt Cee had strongly urged Scott to raise the question with his father.
Teresa had received a basic education and, in addition, was possessed of a good many practical skills ----and more common sense than most young women her age. Most importantly, she never hesitated to ask questions. Clever and observant, she would surely benefit from the sort of opportunities that the young ladies here in Boston took for granted. He didn’t wish to be apart from her, but to his mind, it was a worthwhile sacrifice.
He could hardly send her off to school once they were married.
Abruptly, Scott stopped pacing.
Despite the sudden epiphany in Maine, it all somehow seemed a natural progression. It felt right. He’d realized from the first irrevocable kiss that he could not initiate a romance with Teresa and then break it off.
Teresa was younger; he could hardly expect her to be as certain. It would be difficult for her to reconsider, once their relationship was widely known. In suggesting they be discrete, he was only attempting to protect her.
Until Teresa had pointed out that Julie had ‘changed her mind,’ it hadn’t occurred to Scott that he might be protecting himself as well. Trying to avoid history repeating itself.
But it wouldn’t. He’d changed. Everything was different now. Julie’s reasons . . .
If Teresa didn’t want to hear about them, he certainly wouldn’t insist. There were aspects of his past that he wasn’t eager to reveal. That included Marie-Flore, though paradoxically, Scott had been tempted more than once to tell Teresa about Marie Christine. It had been helpful, after all, to talk with Teresa about other troubling topics involving Grandfather and Murdoch.
Scott had resolved, however, not to mention his daughter to anyone--- at least not until after he returned to Boston in the spring. If Teresa didn’t want to hear details of his failed engagement to Julie, she certainly wouldn’t welcome the story of his youthful liaison with his aunt’s maid.
He’d already sensed that Teresa’s expectations of him might be high---too high. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to live up to them. Looking across the cupola, Scott studied Teresa’s lowered profile; her delicate features were still rose-tinted. His heart fell at the thought of sending her expectations crashing to the floor.
Scott started across the room, not breaking stride even when Teresa haltingly broke the silence.
“Scott, I am young . . . and inexperienced, and . . .” She stared at the floor as she faltered.
“Teresa, I love you.”
It had been a long time since he’d uttered those three words. It was the first time he’d said them to Teresa.
She inhaled raggedly in response. “I’m afraid--- so afraid you’re going to be disappointed . . .”
Only now did the tears begin to fall in earnest. Scott carefully lowered her to the bench seat, pulled her into an embrace and began to murmur reassurances.
“I won’t know what to do,” she whispered.
Only then did he realize that Teresa was comparing herself to those other women, to Julie, and Irene.
“Yes, you will. I won’t be disappointed.”
She looked hopeful, yet not entirely convinced.
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ECHOES OF THE HEART Chapter 27B.
“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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“ . . . Mrs. Scott Lancer . . . ”
It wasn’t the first time she’d said those three words aloud.
Quickly amending the thought, Teresa reminded herself that she hadn’t actually uttered them aloud since they’d become a possibility. Alone in her room at Lancer, she might have whispered similar phrases, lost in some sweet romantic fantasy she’d never dared hope could become real.
She stood at the hotel room window, brushing her still damp hair while watching the people in the street below. It had taken two days to reach St. Louis from Boston; it would require five additional days of travel to reach Sacramento. Mrs. Hayford had family here in the city, a younger sister and her husband. Despite feeling pressed to return to his law practice, Will had agreed to a brief visit. The Hayfords were staying with their relatives, while she and Scott had rooms in this very nice hotel. Not wishing to impose or intrude upon the family reunion, Scott had declined the invitation that the two of them should be houseguests as well, though they would be joining the family for supper this evening.
Mrs. Hayford had been troubled by the separation, but Scott assured her that the two of them would easily fill the afternoon hours: baths, reading, perhaps naps ---all in rooms that were not on wheels. Teresa had wondered if they might not get out and see something of the city, but in the business of settling into the hotel, she’d neglected to ask. By now Scott was probably well into his weighty looking new book. In addition to writing letters on the train, he had also finally finished his history of Napoleon.
For herself, Teresa had Godey’s Lady’s Book to look forward to, as Scott had purchased several issues of the expensive magazine for her. She supposed she could also take up one of the several needlework projects she’d started in Boston.
With a sigh, Teresa set the hairbrush down on top of the dresser. Perhaps she might actually take a nap. Following her bath, she’d put on several layers of under things: drawers, chemise, corset and camisole, as well as a clean pair stockings and a petticoat before deciding that it was far too early to finish dressing for supper, so she’d pulled on her robe.
Two flat jewelry cases also rested atop the dresser. Tonight she would wear her pearl necklace, a gift from Daddy on her sixteenth birthday, along with Catherine Lancer’s earrings. She’d been wearing the silver sand dollar necklace and earrings every day since Scott had given them to her.
So far, only Mrs. Holmes had recognized the design, expressing her whole-hearted approval of such a lovely souvenir of their trip to Maine. The older woman had not accompanied them to the train station, choosing instead to say her goodbyes at the house on Chestnut Street on the day of their departure from Boston. As she bade them a teary-eyed farewell, Scott’s aunt had termed herself “a foolish old lady for making such a fuss” since after all she would be seeing her nephew again soon enough, when he returned in the spring for Wade Garrett’s wedding.
“I do so hope to see you again as well, my Dear,” she said to Teresa, then turned to address Scott. “You must bring Miss O’Brien back for a visit sometime, Nephew,” she’d informed him.
“I hope to, Aunt Cee,” he’d replied with a smile. “Traveling does seem to agree with her.”
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Pearls in place, Teresa dropped down listlessly on the edge of the bed.
So far the return train trip had been uneventful, almost routine in contrast to the great adventure of the eastward journey, when everything had been so strange and new. It seemed so very long ago that she’d stayed in an equally well-appointed hotel in Sacramento. Then too, she’d had a bath in her room and had taken considerable pride in the grand accomplishment of arranging for an outfit to be laundered.
Mostly, she’d exulted in the news she’d gleaned from conversation between Scott and Will Hayford---the then startling revelation that Scott’s Julie was “probably Mrs. Prescott now.” Pleased as she’d been by the news, she’d still worried that Scott might be downcast, that he still harbored feelings for his former fiancée.
She couldn’t help but smile to think how much had changed.
Scott loved her.
He’d said so several times now.
But not in the past two days. She shared a parlor car with Mrs. Hayford, while Scott and Will were in the adjoining space, linked by the small washroom in between. As before, the porters transformed the sitting rooms into comfortable bedrooms each evening, then changed them back again the next morning while the occupants breakfasted in the dining car.
During the day, the four of them gathered in one sitting room or the other, talking or reading, though Scott had been working on his correspondence and, of course, she and Mrs. Hayford each had needlework. While the Hayfords were very good company, she and Scott hadn’t had many moments alone together since leaving Boston. Mrs. Hayford clearly considered herself a chaperone.
Long ago, Daddy had asked Mrs. Cleve Anderson, mother to two daughters, to “have a talk” with her; since his death, other women had taken it upon themselves to engage her in conversations of a very personal nature, including Senora Maria, Murdoch’s good friend Mrs. Conway, and even the redoubtable Widow Hargis. Teresa well understood that certain things should not happen until the wedding night, and surely Scott, who was already so protective of her, would respect convention. But since their departure from Boston, they’d managed little more than a few chaste kisses and her insecurities ---and frustrations---were returning
At least in the conversations they’d had since the afternoon in the cupola Scott had stopped mentioning the possibility that she might “change her mind.” On her side, Teresa was starting to view more favorably the idea of spending time studying in San Francisco---as long as it was a short course of study. After all, whatever schooling she might obtain would only make her a more suitable match for Scott and therefore be worth the separation; additionally, the prospect of the two of them spending time alone in that city was appealing.
Yet, here they were, alone—and apart-- for the afternoon in St. Louis. Tossing a glance at the clock, Teresa sighed heavily again.
She heard a knock at the door.
“Teh-ray-sa?”
Scott! She opened the door, and when his gaze flicked over her, she was instantly reminded of her state of undress. To her surprise, Scott smiled and stepped inside anyway, closed the door behind him, and locked it.
“I just wanted to see how you were.”
“I’m fine . . . I was . . . just looking out the window.”
His expression unreadable, Scott studied her for a moment before crossing to one of the two windows in the spacious room. Teresa pulled her robe tighter as he moved past. Scott, Murdoch, Johnny---of course all of them had seen her in her robe, many times, but always with a long nightdress worn beneath it, with full sleeves and a high collar.
The tub of now cool bath water was partially visible behind the folding screen and Scott could probably see the damp, crumpled, towels there as well. Fortunately, she hadn’t left any “unmentionables” lying about, as she’d already sent them to be laundered.
Scott was attired in his customary black suit, though without the usual vest. Although he’d only had to walk across the hall, he seemed to have every other accessory in place. The distinct comb lines in his damp-darkened hair indicated that he too had removed the inevitable dust of train travel. That he was freshly shaved as well was confirmed by the scent of bay rum that accompanied him into the room.
From his place by the window, Scott glanced back at her.
“It’s not much of a view.”
“No, it’s not.”
Scott stared out the window a few moments longer anyway, then looked back at her again. With an abrupt motion, he drew the shades closed and then walked around the foot of the bed towards the other window. En route, he removed his dark jacket,
pausing to drape the garment over the wooden chair that matched the small writing desk in the corner.
“This is a bit better.” Scott beckoned her closer.
Tucked up beneath his right arm, Teresa tried to listen while Scott identified some of the places visible from her window. They’d stood close together like this, arms around each other, so many times before. Close enough to hear a heart beat.
Hers was pounding in anticipation.
Teresa also heard Scott’s voice, but had no comprehension of what he was saying. She saw nothing of the city streets, her eyes focused upon Scott’s left hand slowly loosening his tie.
The knot caught.
“Let me---”
Twisting towards him, Teresa reached up to unfasten the simple black string tie, with hands that visibly trembled. Scott caught her fluttering fingers, clasping both hands firmly together inside his much larger one.
“Teresa . . .” He gazed searchingly at her. “I can leave--”
“No.”
He lowered her hands, now holding one in each of his own. “You could meet me downstairs, we can see something of the city.”
She looked away. “If . . . if you want.”
“Well . . . I have seen it before.”
At her first movement, Scott instantly relinquished her hands.
Teresa swallowed. “So have I,” she informed him, gesturing at the view from the window before deliberately pulling the curtain closed.
When Teresa turned back, Scott had removed his tie and was slipping it into his pocket. He raised his hands to unfastened the topmost mother-of-pearl button on his fine linen shirt--- but she stopped him. She spoke more firmly this time.
“Let me.”
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