by Jody Hedlund
After all, he’d asked her to marry him twice, told her he loved her, sought her out to say good-bye, and apologized for his arrogance in their relationship. If he hadn’t persuaded her by now, what made him think he ever could? Besides, he didn’t want to win her through coercion.
He should have stuck to his original plan not to say farewell. He’d known deep down that doing so would tear him apart. But he’d gone to the dance anyway, and once he heard Mercy say his name in front of the other men, he became nearly crazed with the need to be alone with her—to discover if she’d changed her mind about him.
“Lord Colville” came a voice as though from a great distance. “I’d begun to think you left me behind.”
Joseph halted and attempted to gain his bearings, but his head and his heart ached too much to see anything.
“Lord Colville,” the same voice said again. “You don’t look well. Why don’t you sit down for a moment?”
Joseph blinked. In the light emanating from the entrance of the hotel stood a young man holding a haversack and a small surgeon’s chest. Charlie Danbury, the assistant to the surgeon at the local hospital where Joseph had volunteered over the past few days.
They’d worked well together. When Charlie had said he was looking for passage back to England and asked if he could join him on the Tynemouth as an assistant, Joseph had welcomed it. Although he’d managed the voyage to Vancouver Island well enough on his own, an assistant would give Joseph more time to explore and take in the sights for the duration of the trip.
“I own to an eccentric feeling at present,” Joseph replied. While feeling overwhelmed with melancholy, he couldn’t admit his true state to Charlie. Somehow he had to withstand the sorrow and not allow it to break him. “Give me a moment, Charlie . . .” He drew a breath and attempted to push down his desperation and loss. “I must finish packing a few more items.”
“Would you like me to help you, my lord?” Charlie asked, eager to please.
“I do appreciate your offer, but I shall attend to it and return shortly.” He didn’t wait for Charlie’s reply but instead made his way to the hotel’s second floor, stumbling and tripping as if he’d ingested an entire bottle of rum.
Finally entering his room, he closed the door and leaned back against it. In the darkness he released a long, low groan, giving way to his heartache and pain—chest-tearing, gut-wrenching pain. He needed to leave Victoria at once and get himself far away.
With trembling hands, he reached for the lantern on the writing table, lit it, and then began to stuff his remaining belongings into a satchel. He’d already sent his trunk to the wharf. These last few items were easy to pack: books, paper, an inkpot, pens, a half-finished letter to his aunt, and a few newspapers.
As he buckled the strap on the bag, he took stock of the room to make sure he’d gathered everything. The sooner he could board the Tynemouth, the sooner he could begin to forget about Mercy and move on with his life.
While pushing in the desk chair, his eye caught on something shiny beneath the table. He stooped to pick up the object. As his fingers closed around it, his heart lurched in his chest.
A simple gold band—Sarah’s ring, the one she’d given to Mercy before she died, the ring Mercy had flung away in her effort to avoid the pain of the girl’s passing. He’d meant to return it to Mercy, had thought about it on several occasions, bringing it ashore with him for that very purpose. Somehow the ring must have slipped from his pocket when he’d changed or packed his clothes.
He held it up to the lantern light. The faded gold chided him. He’d told Mercy to allow herself to grieve and feel the pain of Sarah’s death, but now with his own loss, once again his first reaction was to run as far away from the pain as he could.
Slowly, he lowered himself to the edge of the bed. He stared at the spot on the floor where he’d knelt a few nights ago, when he’d cried out to God like Jonah and told God he’d stop running and do whatever He wanted of him.
How easy it was at the first sign of hardship to toss aside his resolve.
He twisted the ring, sliding his finger across the well-worn band. Things most definitely hadn’t gone the way he’d wanted with Mercy. But he’d done what he needed to and had faced his fears. He couldn’t forget that God was walking alongside him through the pain of the loss and rejection.
He didn’t blame Mercy for not wanting to get married. He might not understand her need for freedom, but he wanted her to be happy and build a new life here—hopefully with Patience. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to ask her to leave the opportunity for a fresh start, only to go back to the despair and desolation she’d left behind.
Maybe he couldn’t ask her to return to London. But nothing was stopping him anymore, was there? Nothing except himself.
Joseph sucked in a tight, aching breath and fought a stinging at the back of his eyes.
He knew what he needed to do. He needed to be faithful to the small part God was calling him to accomplish. And when he did that, God would give him just enough strength to complete the work. Wasn’t that what Dr. Bates had told him the day he assisted at Shoreditch?
It had taken crossing an ocean and running halfway around the world for him to finally understand where he belonged. And that he could no longer wait. It was time to return home to do the work God had called him to.
Joseph unbuckled the leather strap on his bag, retrieved a pen, his inkpot, and two sheets of paper. He laid the pieces side by side on the writing table. He had two letters to write and not much time to write them.
thirty-two
Mercy squirmed in her chair, unable to focus on the tiny stitches in the hem she was sewing. After a sleepless night, her eyelids were heavy, her body was achy and restless, and her insides were upside down with turmoil.
She tried not to yawn again and draw frowns from the other women among the sewing circle.
“You’re not making much progress this morning, Mercy,” Mrs. Moresby said as she bent to examine Mercy’s work, the long feathers on her hat tickling Mercy’s neck.
“I’m right sorry, ma’am, that I am.”
“You know I’m just doing my best to teach you skills that might help you find work.” Mrs. Moresby straightened to her full height and pushed up the brim of her hat, the colorful feathers adding another foot to the woman’s already-large stature.
“Aye, and I thank ye.” Mercy brought the linen closer to her face and attempted to focus all her attention on her next stitch. She’d never been taught to sew proper-like and was mighty grateful Mrs. Moresby was instructing her and some of the other poor women how to sew, cook, and clean.
“It’s as clear as daylight something’s bothering you,” Mrs. Moresby persisted as she stooped to examine another woman’s work. “Perhaps if you share what it is, you’ll feel better and be able to concentrate on your work.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I couldn’t share it.” Mercy had spent the night trying not to think about her farewell to Joseph. She’d wrestled her thoughts of him away until both her stomach and head hurt with the effort. Even after the sleepless night of trying to push Joseph from her mind, her thoughts turned to him all too often, especially their last moment together in each other’s arms.
He’d held her as though he still cherished and wanted her. But he hadn’t spoken of his love again. Maybe he’d changed his mind about her. Maybe he hadn’t found her worthy enough after all. The doubts crowded in and clamored for attention, and Mercy couldn’t stop from paying them heed.
Mrs. Moresby moved on to the next woman while glancing over her wide shoulder at Mercy. “It couldn’t possibly have to do with a certain young man leaving on the Tynemouth, could it?”
Mercy bent her face even closer to her stitching, wishing she could slip inside the material along with the thread and disappear. She could count on Mrs. Moresby for speaking her mind. If only the woman wasn’t so outspoken this morn, not when Mercy’s aching heart was still so tender.
“I say it’s never t
oo late to try to make things right,” Mrs. Moresby offered.
Mercy didn’t know how to respond, could feel the critical eyes of the other women upon her. Some shunned her, believing she’d tainted herself with Joseph during the voyage. Others resented that a rich man like Joseph had singled her out and treated her specially.
Of the women in the barracks, only Miss Lawrence had continued to treat her kindly. Even now, the beautiful gentlewoman brushed a hand across Mercy’s shoulder. Miss Lawrence had volunteered to help Mrs. Moresby with the sewing class and was circling around giving instructions.
Mercy gave the woman a grateful nod.
Miss Lawrence smiled her encouragement, as if to let Mercy know she’d done the right thing in saying good-bye to Joseph and letting him go, no matter how hard it had been.
Tears stung Mercy’s eyes, but she kept her attention on her needle and thread, even though she couldn’t see them clearly anymore. She had done the right thing last night. Certainly she had.
Mrs. Moresby clucked, then shook her head and handed one of the women a seam ripper. “Your stitches are too big. Take them out and try again.”
At a knock against the parlor door, Mercy looked up in time to see the constable who helped guard the complex. His eyes darted to one of the women, and they exchanged shy smiles.
“Yes?” Mrs. Moresby inquired.
All traces of the constable’s smile quickly vanished, his expression turning severe. “A messenger came with a letter for Miss Wilkins, ma’am. Said to deliver it to her straightaway.”
Mercy shot up from her chair, letting the shirt she’d been hemming fall to a heap on the floor. “I’m Miss Wilkins.”
The constable retrieved something from his inner coat pocket and held it out to Mercy.
“Who is it from, Constable?” Mrs. Moresby demanded with a stern slant of her gaze.
“Don’t rightly know, ma’am. But I was paid well to deliver it directly into the hands of Miss Wilkins herself.”
If anyone could pay well, Joseph could.
Mercy’s pulse sputtered faster. Mrs. Moresby was watching her, and she nodded as if coming to the same conclusion.
Was Joseph at the front door this very minute?
Anticipation began to break through the cracks of Mercy’s heart. Had he come back for her after all?
She crossed to the constable, took the letter, and raced out of the room and down the hallway. As she stepped outside, her heart threatened to beat through her chest.
The morning sunshine was brilliant and sparkled off the bay, turning the calm waters into a glittering display of jewels, blinding her for an instant.
“Joseph?” she called, holding her breath, waiting for him to appear out of the shadows, to step up to the fence with a grin. But the area was empty of the usual men who lingered to get glimpses of the women.
Maybe she’d been wrong and the letter wasn’t from Joseph. She broke open the envelope, slid out a piece of paper, and unfolded it to discover a gold band tucked inside. Sarah’s ring.
She’d forgotten about the ring, had wanted to forget about it every bit as much as she wanted to forget about Sarah. Yet Joseph had kept it.
Why?
She scanned his letter. The long, sloping script flowed together to fill half a page. What did it say? She’d never cared much that she couldn’t read, but at that moment she desperately wished she could read every word he’d penned to her.
Was this another good-bye? Had he come across the ring during his packing? Had he merely wanted to make sure she had it before he left? Or did the letter say more?
She searched the writing for the few words she’d learned to recognize. A moment later, she released a frustrated breath at the futility of her effort. She could no more read the letter than if it were a foreign language.
Part of her wanted to rush back inside and ask Mrs. Moresby for help. But another part resisted wasting another second of time. What if he hadn’t left last night?
Mercy hurried to the fence and scanned the people loitering nearby and along the waterfront. No sign of Joseph anywhere.
“Was Lord Colville just here?” she called to a boy, who was leaning against the front of the legislative building.
“No, miss,” the boy replied. He had hooked his fingers through his suspenders and was chewing on a long piece of grass.
She held up the envelope with her name printed on it. “Did you see who brought this letter to the constable?”
“Yep.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
Her heart began its pounding again. “Did you speak with Lord Colville this morning?”
“Yep.”
Was Joseph still in Victoria then? Had he decided not to leave after all? The questions tumbled over one another in a dizzying swell. “What did he say? Where is he now?”
The boy pushed away from the brick building and twisted the stem of grass with his tongue, his face impassive, his eyes hard. “Lord Colville paid me to deliver the letter. That’s all, miss.”
Mercy had seen that look often enough to recognize the meaning. The boy wanted more money from her before he’d say more. She fisted her hands on her hips and gave him the stern glare she’d perfected with the unruly street urchins she’d encountered in London. “You know right well I don’t have anything to give you. So you just go on and tell me all you know, d’ye hear me?”
“What’s in it for me?” the boy persisted.
“Did Lord Colville leave on the Tynemouth?”
The boy stared at Mercy as though weighing how he might benefit from disclosing anything else. Finally he tossed the chewed-up weed to the ground. “Heard tell the ship’s departure was delayed.”
“For how long?”
He shrugged. “Do I look like I know everything?”
She expelled a breath and tried to control her mounting frustration. Fine. She’d seek out the information she needed another way. She rounded the gate and unlatched the wicket. With the constable still inside, likely engaged in making eyes with the women, there was no one to question where she was going or stop her from leaving the government complex.
She headed down the same dirt pathway she’d climbed last week when she’d come ashore. Only this time there were no ropes holding anyone back. And no hordes of men.
Gulls circled above, squawking out their displeasure at the billows of smoke rising from the twin stacks of a nearby steamship. The gangplank was still down, and two dockhands were rolling barrels up the ramp onto the main deck.
A handful of men tending boats along the wharf paused to watch her approach. As she stepped onto the planks, one doffed his hat. “Can I help you, miss?”
She paused and searched the faces of each man who lingered along the waterfront, but none belonged to the man she desperately wanted to see. “Do you know if the Tynemouth has weighed anchor yet?”
The man squinted out at the straits. “Don’t see her sails. Guessing she’s gone.”
Mercy followed his gaze and prayed he was wrong, that she’d spot the mast and rigging, that Joseph would still be within reach.
Yet she saw nothing, not even the slightest hint of a ship.
“Last transport out to the Tynemouth left early this morning,” the man added, as if the knowledge would make her feel better. Instead, it settled heavily upon her heart.
“Can we help you in any way?” He held his hat expectantly, his expression hopeful.
Mercy shook her head, her throat clogging. She swallowed hard and answered, “No matter. I thank ye anyway.”
She walked away from the wharf, but instead of returning up the path to the government buildings, her feet took her along the shore, away from the men, away from the town. She wandered aimlessly, not caring where she went or where she ended up.
Finally, she reached the edge of a clearing and could go no farther, at least not without fighting her way through the overgrown woodland. She lowered herself onto a smooth boulder that faced the bay, the vast Pacific
Ocean, and Joseph.
He was gone. And with him the hope that had been swelling within her since the letter arrived.
She stared at the vacant horizon, willing away the emptiness inside her. Emptiness had always been her companion. If she cleared her mind and ignored the loss, if she forced the memories away, then she wouldn’t have to feel anything. She wouldn’t have to worry about her sorrow overwhelming her.
The sea breeze nipped at her nose and cheeks with the chill of the autumn morning. She rested her hands in her lap, realizing she still held the letter and ring. Running her finger around the band, she traced the ring. Why had Joseph sent it to her when he knew she didn’t want it, didn’t want to remember Sarah. Was he trying to tell her something?
Maybe he’d written his explanation in his letter. She could only guess that perhaps he was encouraging her once again to grieve her losses instead of ignoring them.
Was Joseph right?
She slid the ring down her finger. Perhaps she’d buried her feelings for so long that she wouldn’t allow herself to feel anything, not even love. Was this why she’d so easily thrown away her relationship with Joseph?
Aye, something was there betwixt them. She’d felt things with Joseph she’d never imagined possible. But had she ignored the feelings and walked away from him just as she had other people and situations when the emotions became too much to bear?
She held out her hand and studied the ring. Maybe she needed to allow the pain of Sarah’s death as well as her many other sorrows to finally come to the surface.
“Oh, Sarah . . .” she whispered, forcing out the words she knew she had to say. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I wanted to save you, tried to save you, but I couldn’t.”
Her eyes and throat burned, and a frightened part of her wanted to stuff the burning back down, deep inside. And yet could she admit that holding in her emotions had failed to make her life any better?
“Patience,” she continued, “I’m sorry I had to leave you behind, that there wasn’t more I could do to help you.”
Hot tears slid down her cheeks. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d wept. But now that she’d started, she let the tears fall, let the pain come out—the pain of all the children she’d cared for but lost, the pain of never having Twiggy’s love, the pain of being rejected by society, the pain of having to leave her family behind, the pain of struggling in an unfamiliar land, so far from home.
