Love's Last Stand

by S. B. Moores

  “Suppose he tells Justin?”

  “He might. He and Justin have been so competitive over the years. Toby might believe he’s won something from Justin if he’s in possession of Justin’s lover.” Abigail put her head in her hands. “Sally, am I headed for disaster?”

  “All the more reason for you to quickly come to terms with your father.”

  Abigail nodded. As she bit into a cookie, she glanced up at a stranger who came through the door of the tea shop. His high boots clomped across the wooden floor, and his shoulder-length, graying red hair flowed from beneath a broad-brimmed hat. He was an interesting character who, Abigail judged, wasn’t quite as old as her father, but perhaps a little older than her mother. Dust spotted his greatcoat, and he had two or three days’ growth of rust-colored but graying beard, not unusual for a man who had traveled some distance. He walked directly to the counter, set a large leather valise on the floor, and placed both hands flat on the zinc countertop in front of Mrs. Wilkins.

  “Good day, madam,” he said in greeting.

  “Good day to you, sir. How may I be of service?”

  “Would you be kind enough to give me directions to the Whitfield farm?”

  “Oh, my,” Abigail whispered. She held her half-eaten cookie in the air with one hand and held her other hand up to quiet Sally. But Sally, too, had heard the man’s request and turned in her seat to look at him.

  “I might give you directions,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “But if it’s a Whitfield you’re looking for, perhaps Miss Abigail Whitfield can help you.” She gestured in Abigail’s direction with her palm up.

  “Abigail . . . Whitfield? How fortunate.” The man sounded uncertain of her name, and Abigail didn’t recognize him, but when he turned to look at her, a smile came to his lips and a vague light of familiarity shone in his eyes. He approached their table and bowed slightly. “Pardon me ladies, please.” Looking at Abigail, he said, “Abigail is a fine name, and, if I may speak so boldly, you appear to be a fine young lady.”

  She set down her cup and exchanged a questioning look with Sally. Ridgetop got its share of salesmen, traders, and other travelers, but Abigail hadn’t met many who asked for her family’s farm by name, and then complimented her for no apparent reason. She felt the need for caution.

  “Please forgive me,” she said. “I don’t believe I have ever made your acquaintance.”

  “No, of course not.” The man’s smile faded. “It is I who should ask your forgiveness. And no, we have never met, but I would recognize you anywhere.” He held his palms out as if he were admiring a fine painting. “My name is Browning. Archibald Browning.”

  The name wasn’t familiar to Abigail, although she knew she had relatives whom she’d never met, mostly in the east.

  “This is Miss Sally Marston.” She gestured at her friend.

  Browning doffed his dusty hat, but he only glanced at Sally and said, “A pleasure to meet you.” His gaze fixed on Abigail again.

  If he were interested only in meeting young ladies, Sally was as good-looking as any girl in the valley. But the man was particularly interested in Abigail, which both piqued Abby’s curiosity and heightened her apprehension.

  “I am a surveyor by trade,” Browning said. “Have been most of my life. I work out of Virginia, and in all these years I have never traveled to this part of Tennessee until now. I am in charge of a team sent here to map the area for the government in Washington.”

  “Welcome to Ridgetop, Mr. Browning.” Sally smiled at him, then looked at Abigail with a slightly raised eyebrow, as if to say, “What’s this all about?”

  “Thank you, miss.” Browning glanced at Sally with some concern, as though she were a problem, but he spoke again to Abigail.

  “You are the daughter of Henrietta Whitfield, are you not?”

  “Yes, she is my mother.” The man’s interest in her mother, or any of her family, seemed odd and, because he was a stranger, misplaced.

  “You have Henrietta’s eyes,” Browning said.

  A chill swept down the back of Abigail’s neck, in spite of the overheated tea shop. “Do you know my mother?” She thought it time Browning got to the point of their conversation.

  “Yes . . . well, no,” Browning said. He seemed unsure of himself again. “I mean, I knew your mother a long time ago. We were very close, but we fell out of touch. I haven’t spoken to her in many years.”

  That seemed innocent enough to her. “Perhaps you’d like to come to the farm. I’m sure Mother would be delighted to meet an old friend.”

  Browning frowned. “I would enjoy that, I would. But I think it’s quite fortunate that I’ve found you here first.”

  “Oh?” That raised Abigail’s eyebrows and brought back her apprehension.

  “Perhaps I might talk to you,” he said. “Alone.” He glanced at Sally. “I have . . . well, a bit of news that I feel only you should hear before anyone else.”

  “Very well.” Sally patted Abigail’s hand and rose from the table. “I should be going anyway. I expect we will continue our conversation soon.”

  Abigail didn’t want Sally to leave, but it didn’t look as though Browning would talk to her if she stayed. Sally gave her a knowing smile and a wink. She’d want to hear all about Mr. Browning later.

  “Good day, Mr. Browning.”

  “Good day, miss.”

  Browning watched Sally leave, then glanced around the shop and spied Mrs. Wilkins watching them.

  “There is a bench outside,” he said. “Under a lovely old oak. It’s a fine December day. Let’s go sit outside and get some fresh air, shall we?”

  “Very well.” Abigail reached for her coat, which Browning helped her put on. She wasn’t seriously concerned for her safety; the bench sat in full view of the open front door of the tea shop and Mrs. Wilkins. Browning seemed harmless enough, and he would hardly do anything untoward in such a public place, especially with one of her father’s servants watching them. Even if he did, Abigail still carried the pocket pistol in her purse. In any case, whatever Browning wanted to talk about might at least be a diversion from worrying about her future. She rose from the table and Browning offered her his arm. She noticed Mrs. Wilkins’s curious look as Browning escorted her out the door.

  “It’s all right,” she said to the proprietress as they passed the front counter. “We’ll be chatting just outside, and one of my father’s servants is waiting for me nearby.”

  Mrs. Wilkins nodded, but gave her a stern “watch yourself young lady” look anyway.

  Outside, a comfortable whitewashed bench surrounded the trunk of the tree, allowing travelers to rest while facing in any direction. No one else occupied the bench when Abigail and Browning sat down. She made sure there was at least two feet between their legs and waved at the waiting servant, who had nearly dozed off atop a barrel at the livery.

  “Well, now. What bit of news do you bring from Virginia?” Her voice cracked, and she wished for a glass of water.

  Browning looked her in the eye. “There is nothing to be gained by putting off the most important fact, and I am sorry if this startles you, but it’s just this. I am your father.”

  She gaped at the man, then laughed out loud. “You make fun of me! Nothing could be more preposterous.” But she glanced again at Browning’s graying red hair. His stern eyes, pale but almost as green as hers, told her the man did not intend to be lighthearted.

  “No, I am in earnest. I am your father. I’ve waited a long, long time to tell you this, and I can explain myself if you’ll permit me.”

  She remembered to breathe and put one hand lightly over her beating heart. “I don’t know what you mean, or how what you say could be true.”

  “I know this . . . this news comes as a shock, but it’s an undeniable fact.”

  The chocolate nonpareil sugar cookies in Abigail’s stomach turned flip-flops. Who was this man? Was he touched in the head?

  “Surely you don’t expect me to believe such nonsense.” Feel
ing her cheeks heat with embarrassment, she gathered up her skirt to leave, but Browning put a hand gently on her arm, stopping her.

  “Of course you disbelieve me, but before you go, tell me this. Does your mother still have a slight scar on her thigh, close to her right hip? It’s reminiscent of a small red rose, if I recall.”

  Browning removed his hand, but Abigail froze. She had seen her mother’s odd scar on several occasions when she was younger. She had almost forgotten the mark, a silent witness to some long-ago injury Abigail never knew of, and never thought to ask about. If Browning were not a physician and had firsthand knowledge of the scar, he must have seen it under the most intimate of circumstances.

  “You’ve just heard someone’s odd story,” she said. “And I would not reveal anything about my mother’s limbs to a stranger.”

  “As well you should not.” Browning grinned. “But your protest falls short.” He gently wagged a finger at her. “I see in your eyes that you know of the scar, and you may believe me.”

  She shook her head. “I admit nothing. I will listen a moment longer, but then I must be going.”

  “Fair enough. I can tell you the story of how I met your mother, if you care to hear it.”

  How could she not? She sat back and glanced at the waiting servant. Then she judged the distance between the bench and the door to the tea shop, should she need to leave in haste. “You seem to mean no harm, but you must know that I don’t believe a word you’ve said so far. Even so, I’ll listen to your fantasy a few minutes more.”

  “Oh, it was like a fantasy for me, I assure you. But real, so real.”

  For the next half hour, Archibald Browning wove a story for Abigail that turned everything she knew about her family upside down.

  “I met your mother more than thirty years ago,” he said. “It was in December of 1799. We were quite young, and our families had traveled to Mount Vernon to attend the funeral of George Washington. It was an emotional time for everyone, as you can imagine.”

  “It must have been.” Abigail set her jaw but tried not to show any reaction. She remembered little of her life before her parents brought her to Ridgetop from Virginia. She had heard her mother’s stories about Washington’s funeral, but she refused to believe whatever this strange man said, even if he knew certain things about her mother. Still, she felt compelled to listen.

  “I spied your mother immediately at the reception,” Browning continued, “and I made it a point to speak to her. I think she saw the sparkle in my eye, and perhaps the emotions of that sad event helped move things along, but she and I talked much longer than I’d hoped was possible. Afterward, I made it a point to correspond with her. I became a young civil servant with an uncertain future, but I kept up my correspondence as it was the best way to press my cause without drawing any harsh judgment from her father. He undoubtedly felt his daughter would forget all about me after the funeral and nothing would come of it. He was wrong. Henrietta eventually told him of my letters. He didn’t entirely approve, but at long last he agreed to let me come calling.”

  If Browning were inventing a story, it was as good as any novel Abigail had read. It reminded her of the far-fetched romantic tales she’d told her mother, of how Abigail would meet the love of her life. She was starting to feel a little sympathy for Mr. Browning whom, she decided, must have struck a fine figure as a younger man.

  “I was in love as I’d never been before,” he said. “And I believed the feeling was mutual. Even so, I was uncertain how to go about wooing Henrietta. Eventually I convinced her father I had credentials enough to be an adequate suitor. I’m sad to say it took a number of years before he realized I was serious and he accepted me. Sadder still, it was only a few months after that when I learned that my work would take me away from Virginia, and from my love, for an extended period of time. We had talked of marriage secretly, of course, but I wasn’t sure when I’d return. Henrietta wanted to go with me, and I was sorely tempted, but I could hardly take her. The frontier was dangerous, unsettled territory, after all.”

  “Of course. You might have been forced to trade her to Indians for a horse or something,” she said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Nothing, really. Just a story of my own. Go on, please.”

  Abigail could hardly believe her mother had taken such a lover as Browning, given the practical explanation of love her mother had given her. Had her mother once experienced such romantic passion as to consider following a man west? She had come as far as Ridgetop, but was Browning certain he was talking about her mother?

  “You see the trouble,” Browning said. “If you’ve been in love, you know that such a separation would be the finest of tortures.”

  Suddenly it didn’t matter whether Browning’s story was true. Sympathetic tears threatened to sting her eyes. Were the tears for Browning, or for herself and Justin?

  “I am sorry if my story affects you so,” he said. “I have carried it in my heart for so many years, I know no other way to tell it.”

  Abigail nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. “Please go on.”

  “As the day of my departure approached, we could no longer restrain ourselves.” Browning looked away delicately for a moment. “To put it politely, love overcame caution. Some weeks after I was gone, Henrietta learned she was with child.”

  Thus, Abigail thought, Mr. Browning would have me believe I was conceived.

  “I see,” she said. “But the sequence of events as you tell them doesn’t prove anything.”

  “It proves we were foolish. Or I was, at least. I accept all the blame. We told ourselves we’d marry as soon as I returned. I wrote her letters almost every day, but what could I do with them? There was no postal service on the frontier. I was constantly on the move, and communications of any kind were problematic. Receiving a letter was impossible. Unknown to me, Henrietta’s condition, her pregnancy, progressed. All the while she had little news of me. What could she do?”

  “What did she do?” Abigail now needed to know.

  Browning leaned back against the oak. “Henry Whitfield had his eye on Henrietta even then. He was a young man of means, but he was the second son of a Virginia plantation owner with a questionable inheritance.”

  Poor Henry. No wonder he feared for his estate. Still, Abigail could hardly believe what she was hearing. “And so my father stepped in?”

  “Not immediately. Henrietta expected me to return. I desperately wanted to, of course. In spite of the efforts of Henrietta’s family to keep the scandal secret, Henry learned of her condition. And of my prolonged absence. Needless to say, my reputation grew more questionable with each passing day. Eventually, Henrietta agreed to marry, and Henry took her with him here to Tennessee, where no one would be the wiser. Henrietta must have assumed I’d given up. Or worse, that I’d been scalped by Indians. They married quickly, but given Henrietta’s delicate state, they didn’t leave for Tennessee until well after you were born.”

  Abigail had only vague memories of Virginia, and of the long journey west.

  “When I returned to Virginia and found out what had happened, I was devastated. It was much too late for me to intervene. They had been gone for some time, and I felt it best not to disrupt Henrietta’s life any further.”

  Browning looked away at the sky. His gaze softened, and he spoke to himself as much as to Abigail. “I pined to see her. To speak to her or just to hold her hand. The idea that I had fathered a child I might never see tortured me until I considered, well, ending my own miserable life. It was over anyway, as far as I was concerned. They say time heals all wounds, but that’s not entirely true. The scars on my heart have never healed, although I’ve learned to live with the pain.”

  “You poor man,” she said. But Abigail wasn’t ready to accept that Browning was talking about her mother, or her. Not without some further independent corroboration.

  “I was absolutely the poorest,” he said. “Oh, I pulled myself together and buried my
self in my work. But life had lost its meaning. I hadn’t planned to come to Ridgetop. In truth, I’ve done everything I could to stay away, but my work has finally forced me. I’m here now, and I wonder if enough time has passed for the wounds I’d caused Henrietta to be healed. Or, if not healed, perhaps your mother is capable of forgiving me.” He pointed at the tea shop. “I was asking for directions to your farm, but dare I make contact with your mother? Even now I’m not sure.”

  Abigail didn’t know what to say. If Browning was a charlatan, coming to her home would confirm whether his story was true. But if his story was true, what chaos would his appearance cause? She sat quietly on the bench, her head bowed, examining the red and brown colors of the fallen leaves at her feet, conscious that Browning studied her almost without blinking, as if to memorize every detail of the daughter he had never before seen. She couldn’t deny some physical resemblance between herself and this man, but what she should do with Browning’s story she had no idea.

  “Is your mother well?” Browning asked.

  “Yes, yes.” She looked up and brushed the hair from her eyes, red hair and green eyes this man would have her believe she inherited from him. “I cannot tell you she is ready or even willing to see you.”

  Browning’s fists clenched, and she felt a stab of sympathy for him. As touching as Browning’s tale was, it might still be the invented musings of a master storyteller. Or he could be talking about another woman entirely.

  She sat up straighter. “Of course Mother and, uh, Father, have never discussed any of this with me, even if what you say is true.”

  “Of course. And I suppose there’s no reason for you to believe me, or to want to believe me.”

  “It is a fantastic story, to be sure. Have you never married? Is there no other family in your life?” She held fast to the idea that this man would go away. Her life could go on with its own complications, which were enough without any question of her parentage.