The Lord I Left

by Scarlett Peckham

  “Sit down, Henry,” his father commanded. “We’ll sort this out here and now.”

  “No, sir,” he said, somehow managing to keep his tone polite but firm. He was far too angry to have this conversation with anything like filial respect, and he did not wish to say something he might regret. And he certainly was not going to say another word in front of Jonathan.

  He bowed. “Good night, sir.”

  “He’s never been worth a pence that you invested in him,” Jonathan slurred before Henry’d even reached the door.

  Henry stepped into the hall and shut the door behind him, so he would not have to hear his father’s response. He held himself still, trying to breathe.

  It had been so naive to come here thinking anything would be different. In his relief at being welcome home again, he’d let down his defenses.

  It hurt to be reminded. He wanted to go to his room and lock the door so no one could take a look at him and see that he’d deluded himself into thinking he was wanted here.

  Alice emerged from the privy closet at the end of the hall and saw him standing at the far end of the corridor. She paused, inclined her head, and smiled at him like she was his dearest friend.

  Because she pitied him.

  He forced a smile on his face. He couldn’t stand for her to think him pitiful.

  But as he fell into step beside her, her expression went arch rather than sympathetic. She leaned up on her tiptoes toward his ear.

  “I see why you’re so afraid of Satan now,” she whispered. “It’s because you have his own sotted demon for a brother.”

  He put his knuckle to his lips to keep from laughing out loud, but it still came out in a snort. Thank the Lord for Alice Hull. For her sharp tongue and fortifying presence.

  Alice cracked an impish smile, pleased at his mirth. “I pledge you this, Reverend,” she went on. “Shan’t find anything as wicked as the likes of him on Charlotte Street.”

  Josephine stuck her head out of his mother’s parlor door and beckoned to them. “Henry, come! Mama wishes for music.”

  He offered Alice his arm to escort her in. “I apologize you had to witness that display,” he said, recovering his composure.

  She shook her head as she hooked her arm in his. “Don’t fret for me. Had myself a bit of venison so tasty I’ll remember it to my heirs. I only regret your brother ruined my pudding.”

  “It was kind of you to come to my defense. Thank you.”

  She lightly, every so lightly, squeezed his forearm. “Well, I owed you. For last night.”

  She pressed her lips in a tight line, like saying this had cost her. “It was a comfort to me,” she added, looking down at the floor.

  She didn’t want his pity either.

  Oh, they were a pair. He wanted to say more, to prolong this moment of such intimate friendship with his unlikely ally (for that was what this was, was it not? Certainly not more than—)

  His sister called his name again, and he swallowed the thought and opened the door.

  At least his mother’s drawing room was pleasant on this winter night. The walls were hung with portraits of her side of the family—hearty, red-headed people that looked like him—and the furnishings were comfortable, less grand and formal than the ones his father liked. It had always been his favorite room in the house.

  His mother came forward, offered Alice a chair, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Henry, darling, will you sing for us? I’ve missed our musical evenings.”

  This was her way of apologizing to him for the scene at supper, he knew. And so he smiled back at her and nodded, though singing was the last thing he wished to do. He did not want his mother to fret. The position she was in was not an easy one.

  “Of course,” he said. “But only if Josephine will play for me.”

  Josephine leapt up and went directly to the pianoforte, where she began rifling through a book of secular music.

  “Actually, I wrote a new hymn,” he told her. “It’s to the tune of—”

  “Oh, not a hymn!” his sister groaned playfully. “I think we have all earned a bit of levity after that lovely meal.” She waggled her brows at him, placed her hands upon the keys and played the opening bars of a cheerful country song they had loved to sing as children.

  Alice smile in recognition at the music. “Good Morning, Pretty Maid. I used to sing it as a girl with my sisters.”

  “Then you must sing the part of the maiden!” Josephine said, delighted. “I am much better at playing than singing, as Henry can attest.”

  Henry had been going to object to the frivolity of the song, which a man such as himself should no doubt be seen to disapprove of. But Alice seemed pleased, and he knew she liked music, from all her humming. Why not have a little lightness, after such a trying day?

  “Oh, very well.”

  He stood at the center of the room, waiting for the cue. Josephine gestured for Alice to stand beside him. Before he could think better of them singing the song to each other, his sister began the bars of the first verse.

  Well, what was the trouble in having a little merriment, after what they’d all endured? He turned to Alice and pretended to doff his hat as he sang the opening lines.

  * * *

  Good morning, pretty maid,

  Where are you going?

  * * *

  He bowed raffishly at Alice to amuse his mother, who clapped her hands at his antics.

  * * *

  To range these fields so fair,

  There’s no man knowing,

  I think too bold you are,

  To range these fields so fair,

  In danger everywhere,

  Thou charming maiden.

  * * *

  His mother laughed and clapped, while Alice regarded him with mingled amusement and disbelief at his playacting the role of the pompous farmer as he sang. But when the next verse came, she gave him a coy curtsy, opened her mouth and let out one of the most pleasant alto voices he had ever heard.

  * * *

  A charming maid I am,

  Sir, she replied.

  Without any guile or care,

  To no man tied;

  * * *

  She held out her hand, bare of a wedding ring, as if its bareness were a boast.

  * * *

  My recreations are to range

  These fields so fair;

  To take the pleasant air,

  * * *

  Josephine paused the music dramatically, and Alice paused too, narrowing her eyes to deliver the final line with vigorous, cheerful scorn.

  * * *

  Thou boasting stranger.

  * * *

  His mother threw back her head and roared in amusement. Not to be outmatched, Henry puffed himself up for the farmer’s response.

  * * *

  A farmer’s son I am,

  Your nighest neighbor,

  Great store of wealth I have,

  By honest labour;

  So if you will agree,

  Soon married we will be,

  * * *

  His sister once again paused the music and he remembered, slightly too late, how his verse ended. Nevertheless, he clutched his hand over his heart, looked Alice in the eyes, and delivered the final stanza.

  * * *

  For I’m in love with thee,

  Thou charming maiden.

  * * *

  Alice rolled her eyes comically and stomped her foot.

  * * *

  A farmer’s wife must work,

  Both late and early,

  Like any toiling serf,

  Therefore believe me.

  I don’t intend to be

  A servant bound to thee.

  To do thy drudgery,

  Thou boasting stranger.

  * * *

  She sang with such defiant flourish it was like he really had proposed to her. Josephine played the last few notes raucously and his mother rose to her feet, applauding.

  Mama laughed so merrily that t
ears stood in her eyes.

  “Oh, Mrs. Hull,” his mother said, “you make a very fair maiden indeed. And Henry, ’tis been much too long since we’ve done this.”

  He agreed. This tradition—singing songs in the parlor with his mother and sister—had always made the less pleasant aspects of their family life more bearable. Even more so when his brother did not sidle into the room to mock them.

  “Will you play another, Jo?” his mother asked.

  Josephine thought for a moment, then played the first few bars of a simple nursery song. Henry smiled. It was a tune that he had helped Josephine compose when she was very small, as a present for their mother’s feast day.

  “My mother cradled me as a babe,” Josephine began, singing sweetly, if not well. “And sang lullabies to sooth my cries.”

  She paused and gestured for him to join her in harmony.

  * * *

  She was gentle to me when I was afraid

  Oh mama, my dearest, my dear”

  * * *

  His mother, beside him, dabbed at her eyes and reached out to hold his hand.

  “Oh Henry,” she said quietly. “I’m so glad you’ve come home.”

  He leaned over and kissed her soft, full cheek. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of blue.

  Alice, running from the room.

  Josephine stopped playing abruptly. “Oh dear. Is something wrong?”

  Yes, something certainly was wrong. With him. He was an insensitive lout.

  “Her mother is ailing quite severely,” he said, already moving to follow her. “I should have realized the song would upset her. Excuse me.”

  He rushed out of the room and down the corridor. Alice was already on the staircase. He called her name.

  She turned around, her eyes glistening.

  “Forgive me—” she said in a husky voice. “I did not mean to disturb your family, only to—”

  He climbed up to the landing where she stood and took her hand. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  She shook her head. “I’m being so foolish. It’s just a song.”

  He moved closer, for he hated how she admonished herself for a natural thing like grief. He tipped up her chin and saw she was not crying. She would not let the tears that so clearly stood in her eyes emerge.

  She was so tough, this strange, small person, who rose only to his breastbone.

  “Alice, I’ll get you home to her,” he said. “I promise.”

  She closed her eyes and nodded, pressing her knuckle against her lips.

  Wordlessly they stood in the dark hall. Wordlessly, he bore witness as she did not shed a tear. It was the kind of grief that was beyond tears. There was nothing he could say to help her.

  Except, perhaps, a blessing.

  “Alice,” he said softly. “Pray with me.”

  “I told you,” she said, her breath ragged. “I’m not the type to pray.”

  “Prayer is just being alone with your thoughts and God. You needn’t be a type.”

  She said nothing but she stood there, searching his eyes.

  “May I?” he asked.

  She did not object, and so he took her hands in his and bowed his head.

  “Dear Lord, please grant peace and comfort to Alice’s mother. Please let her know her daughter shines with love for her, and is doing everything she can to return to her side. Please bless her with comfort and your grace. Let her know that she is loved and cherished. And bless us, Lord, with better weather, so we may reach her soon. Amen.”

  As he’d prayed, Alice had leaned closer to him, so that her head was nearly resting on his chest.

  He held himself very still, worried she bowed so low because he’d upset her. But then, in a faint voice she said, “Amen.”

  Help this child, Lord, he beseeched. Help her find solace. Help me get her home. Help me lead her back to you.

  And forgive me. Forgive me because despite the solemnity of this moment, despite the urgency of my prayer to you, despite the sadness of this woman you have put in my path only so I might shelter her and lead her toward your grace, her nearness stirs me.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. In the dimness of the landing, with only a single flickering lamp for light, he could not make out her expression.

  “Get some sleep,” he said, forcing himself to release her hand and move away. “With any luck, the snow will stop, and I can drive you on to Fleetwend in the morning.”

  She nodded. “Good night, Henry.”

  He watched her ascend the stairs and disappear down the corridor.

  And as he watched her, in that blue dress, all he could think was that it was not the Olivia Bradley-Houghs of the world who were made of the stuff he hoped for in a wife.

  (It was the Alice Hulls he wanted.)

  Chapter 12

  Alice closed the door to her room, reproaching herself for the scene she’d made. Henry clearly had enough to worry about without her adding hysterics to his family’s midst.

  But. She did not regret his hands on hers.

  He had such good, strong, hands. Square and big and warm and applying just the right amount of pressure. Gentle despite his size. Tender, even.

  And then there was the rest of his body.

  She should not have leaned on him like that—out there on the staircase, where anyone could have seen them. But for a moment she’d forgotten who he was, and where they were.

  He was just a man, and a kind one. And she had wanted to be in his arms.

  A knock sounded at the door. She hoped it was him. If it was, perhaps she could ask him to pray with her again, if only to eke out a little more of the comfort of his lovely arms.

  But it was Baxter.

  “Help with your gown, madam?” she asked, sailing inside without waiting for an answer.

  Alice was quite capable of undressing herself, but it was nice to have Baxter’s efficient ministrations distracting her from sorrowful thoughts. It reminded her of helping her sisters dress on cold mornings at home in Fleetwend.

  I’m coming, she tried to signal to them with her mind. I will be there soon, and I will take care of you.

  Somehow.

  The obvious answer was by marrying William Thatcher. William had been her father’s apprentice and had taken over Papa’s business making organs. Her mother considered him as good as a son, her sisters adored him, and he’d made it known that Alice, with her musical skill and knowledge of the organ trade, would make him the perfect wife.

  But not unlike the country maiden in the song she’d sung tonight, she knew what that life would be like. And she didn’t want it.

  She’d let Henry think she had been upset purely over his sister’s sweet tribute to maternal love. But the song would not have made her so upset had it not been for the other song that came before it. She’d played the maiden with aplomb because she felt like her. She’d always felt like her.

  When Baxter left, Alice crawled into the enormous bed and closed her eyes. But sleep did not come. Her thoughts kept returning to the dreadful question of what she would do when she got home.

  What she would find there.

  Or wouldn’t.

  She didn’t want to think of this. She wouldn’t. She refused.

  She got up and found the journal she’d been reading the night before. She opened it to a random page and soothed herself with dull passages detailing the diarist’s life.

  He had a small garden in the plot of land behind his rooming house, and he scrupulously recorded what he planted, and how his plants were growing. He was quite proud of his lettuces, it seemed, and irritable with his mange tout, which was plagued by an infestation of hungry green caterpillars upon whom he fervently wished death, and just as fervently apologized to God for hating. She laughed as, day by day, his blistering asides about the pests became more vitriolic, and his apologies to his maker less and less sincere.

  It was clear he was deeply religious, for he wrote long passages that she only skimmed in which he wo
ndered at the meaning of some verse of scripture, or wrote his thoughts on what she gathered were debates about the proper path to salvation he’d had with friends. Faith, he kept insisting to himself, was more important than good works, but good works were still intrinsically part of faith.

  She was more interested in the many pages of rigorous household accounting. The man seemed to be paid a quite handsome sum of money, but he had no servants or horses. Instead, he saved toward some purpose whose sum grew larger each month, and gave the rest away to charity.

  The more she read, the more she began to wonder about him. He was a frustrating figure, her diarist, always denying himself harmless luxuries—regular haircuts, a rich dessert—and always blaming himself for not welcoming this self-denial with greater joy.

  Self-indulgence breeds the appetites and distracts from serving the Lord, he wrote in several places, underlining the words so forcefully that there were dents in the paper from his quill.

  Eat the cake, she wanted to shout back at him. Indulge in that extra hour of sleep on Sunday. Death can come at any time.

  At least his grim self-admonitions were effective in exhausting her. She yawned, her eyes finally growing heavy. But just as she was about to close the book, she caught sight of the word breast.

  She nearly laughed out loud. Oh no, my poor serious diarist. Hast thou espied a comely woman?

  The passage began below an update on the garden (turnips growing splendidly; snails eating the lamb’s lettuce; forgive me, I murdered them with poison). But then, most intriguingly, the diarist’s careful letters became a bit more jagged, his ink a bit more sharply scratched into the paper, leaving little speckles here and there, like he was writing in a lather.