“Until Illiyana had to move away,” Britta said, looking up.
“But even then you weren’t afraid. You and Illiyana went up across the mountain to try and get the help of a Tlingit shaman.”
She smiled ever so slightly. “I was afraid when I fell over the side.”
“But even then you were brave. You have to be brave now, as well. I’m not going to tell you it will be easy, because it won’t. I won’t promise you that if you get through this you’ll never have to go through such things again. I can’t make those kinds of promises.”
“I wish you could.”
“So do I, darling.” He smiled and took hold of her hand. “If I could, I would do just that. If it were in my power to see that nothing bad would ever happen to the ones I love, you would never suffer again.”
They started walking again and Britta clung to her father’s strong grip upon her hand. It was all that kept her from feeling as though she might sink down into the mud and be lost forever. She was so very tired. So weary of the day and all that it represented.
Father seemed to understand, as he always did. He dropped his hold and put his arm around her shoulder instead. “I’d carry you if I could—just like when you were little.”
“No one can carry me now.” Her voice betrayed great sorrow.
“God can,” her father offered, hugging her close. “God can.”
Marston Gray stood at the banker’s desk and extended his gloved hand. The check he held was for ten thousand dollars. “I would like to deposit this amount in the account number I gave you. I would also like you to give me a balance on the account afterward.”
“Very good, sir. If you’ll take a seat, I’ll be right back.”
Marston sank into the leather chair and rubbed his aching knee. The weather had turned damp and cold. Not exactly a novelty for Seattle, but it seemed to cut Marston to the bone.
When all of this is settled, he told himself, I will head to a warmer climate.
The banker returned and handed Marston a piece of paper. “I have made the deposit and have written the information you requested on the back of this paper. Please know that your funds will not be available until we are able to clear the check with your bank in Omaha.”
“Yes, I understand.” When everything had started falling apart in Kansas City, Marston had moved his money to several other cities, Omaha housing one of his larger deposits.
Getting to his feet, Marston glanced down at the ten-thousand-dollar figure written on the paper. He turned the sheet over and saw the bank’s deposit information. “I don’t understand,” he told the man. “I asked to know the full balance of this account.”
“Yes, sir. Ten thousand dollars is the full amount—the amount you deposited today.”
“But I thought this account was an open account owned by my brother, Dalton Lindquist.”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“I know for a fact he has a vast fortune. As do his mother and sister. I hardly understand how this can therefore be the sum total of what is held in the account.”
The man smiled. “I can see your concern, but fear not. Mr. Lindquist opened this account especially for your transactions. His other accounts are separate.”
Marston clenched his jaw and tried hard to look unmoved by the man’s statement. “I see. Thank you for that clarification.” He picked up his hat and cane. “I will check back with you to confirm that the funds have been released.”
He turned without waiting for the man to comment. He pushed his hat down firmly and nodded as the doorman opened the nearly floor-to-ceiling door. “Good day, sir.”
“Good day.”
But it wasn’t a good day, and Marston was beginning to feel a deep annoyance at the situation unfolding before him. Dalton was smarter than he’d given him credit for . . . or perhaps it was just plain dumb luck. Either way, Marston would have to rethink his plan—and quickly. It was only going to be a matter of time until his house of cards began to collapse, and he intended to be long gone before that occurred.
Chapter 24
Britta’s birthday fell on a Wednesday that year. It was exactly two weeks after she’d found Darya dead, and still the pain was as intense as the day it had happened. Despite her family trying hard to rally her spirits with gifts and attention, Britta longed to simply crawl back into bed and forget everything. She hardly talked to anyone and even turned away from Yuri. She didn’t want to share her sorrow with him, fearing it might only worsen his own misery. She also didn’t want him to know that she was taking whiskey to help her sleep.
She hadn’t gone looking to buy the bottle, but when the opportunity presented itself, Britta found herself unable to walk away. The doctor had actually suggested it as a means to help her relax at night. At first, she feared the harm it could do. What if she ended up with a problem like Yuri? Worse yet, what if having liquor so close at hand caused Yuri to start drinking again? But her pain had been too great and the need to forget overwhelming. So she bought the bottle from the doctor and hid it, along with her guilt.
Laura didn’t understand the change in their household. She constantly sought out Britta for reassurance and love, and while Britta tried never to turn the child away, there was a fearful edge to the way Britta reacted. What if Laura died, too? Could she bear to lose another child? Added to this was the growing fear of getting pregnant. In her sadness, Britta had shown no interest in Yuri’s affections, but that wouldn’t last forever. She was his wife and their love for each other was bound to grow. At least if she let it.
“Britta?”
It was her mother. Britta sat up on the edge of her bed and wondered at the time. For the past two weeks when Yuri went to work, he took Laura with him so that she could play with Connie. Phoebe had also started teaching Connie and Laura their numbers and letters. Play was interlaced with learning, and Laura was proudly displaying her new knowledge of the alphabet. Britta felt only additional sadness that she hadn’t been the one to teach the child.
“Britta?”
“I’m in here.” She got up off the bed and pushed her hair back. Taking up a ribbon, she tied the mass loosely at the back of her neck.
Her mother opened the bedroom door and smiled. “I thought maybe you would take a walk with me. The day is clear and quite lovely.”
Britta yawned. “I really don’t feel like it.”
“I know, but it will do you good. Come on.” Her mother extended her arm as if to draw Britta to her.
She thought of arguing with her mother but realized that it would serve no purpose. Mother was just as strong willed. Britta finally agreed and took up an old jacket that belonged to Yuri. “I don’t want to be gone long.” She shrugged into the coat.
“Of course not. I have no thought to go far.”
Britta followed her mother out of the cabin and up the road that led toward the main house. Beyond this, the path narrowed considerably and headed deeper into the forested mountainside. This trail was well worn from use over the years. Originally it had started as a game trail, but Zee had often used this route to travel to the Tlingit summer village. Britta and her sister had played on this path, while her brother and father used it for hunting expeditions.
“The air is so crisp,” her mother began. “Some days feel so wet and heavy, but when it’s like this, I find myself invigorated.”
“It’s chilly,” Britta murmured, wishing for her warm bed.
A little side trail cut away from the main path, and it was this that Britta’s mother chose to take them along. Britta said nothing. She couldn’t have cared less where the road took them.
“I know it’s hard to believe, but in time the pain will lessen. You will always miss her, but the severity—the intensity—will diminish.”
Britta heard her mother’s words but didn’t respond. She didn’t want to talk about Darya or the pain. She didn’t want to think about any of it. Instead, she kept her eyes to the ground and focused on the rocky path that quickly steepened.
Hiking her skirt a little higher, Britta struggled to keep up with her mother.
Panting just a bit, Mother continued talking. “We called him Joseph. Joseph Lindquist had a nice sound to it, and it seemed to fit him well.”
It took a moment to realize about whom her mother was speaking. The child born after Dalton. The baby no one had ever talked about. Britta tensed. She didn’t want to talk of such things. There had been a time when she would have wanted to know, but not now.
“The doctor said he stopped breathing in his sleep. No one knows why.” Mother maneuvered off the trail and motioned to Britta. “There’s a small stream over here, if you’re thirsty.”
Britta followed her mother to the water’s edge. The tiny brook rippled over rocks and spilled into a small pool that continued to flow toward the sea. Tall Sitka spruce towered overhead to shelter the meadow, but still the sun found its way through the boughs and sprinkled light upon the land.
“It will snow soon. Your father said there is already quite a bit of snow up high. I wanted to bring you here before it became difficult to traverse.” Mother pointed to a rocky wall. “We buried him just over there.”
There was a tiny marker at the base. Britta knew it had probably been made by her father. “Why did you bring me here?” she asked.
Mother rubbed her hands against her upper arms as if the day had suddenly grown too cold. “I suppose I wanted you to see that you weren’t alone. That I understood your pain and sorrow. Your loss.”
“But you’d already told me that.” Weariness overtook Britta. She longed to seek refuge in her bed. “Let’s go back.”
“Wait,” her mother insisted. She went to Britta and reached up to smooth back a long strand of hair. “Burying my child was probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It will probably be the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do, as well. There is no simple answer for why these things happen. There is no instant comfort that can be offered. Time is the only thing that will ease the suffering. The days will pass, and eventually you’ll find that the wound isn’t quite so raw. You’ll come to accept that nothing you did or didn’t do could have changed the outcome.”
“Then why even try?” Britta murmured.
Her mother gave her a sad smile. “Because life goes on, even when we feel it shouldn’t. We can’t wrap ourselves up in the dead. There are others who need you. Darya is beyond need, but Laura isn’t. Yuri isn’t. He’s hurting, too.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” She closed her eyes. “I thought I would be stronger—better at this. But I’m not, Mother. I feel as though something inside me is unraveling. I open my eyes in the morning and for just a moment I’m happy, but then the memory of what is real comes back. The house is so quiet, so empty.”
“But it’s not empty. Laura is still your daughter, and she needs you. Just as Dalton needed me. I did the wrong thing in forbidding your father and Aunt Zee to speak of Joseph’s death. I think it was probably the wrong thing to do, because we were never able to share our hurt and pain together. Instead, each person bore it alone, and Britta, that’s a terrible thing to endure. Don’t bear this pain alone. Don’t shut out the people who want to share it with you.”
Britta began to weep. “Why would anyone want to share this?”
Her mother took her into her embrace and gently kissed her teary cheek. “Because we love you, Britta. We want to bear your sorrow with you because of that love.”
Lydia watched Laura play with Connie and marveled at how much the child had changed in less than a year. Laura had come to them looking skinny and sickly. Her blond hair had been lifeless and dull, her eyes circled with a darkness that suggested hunger and exhaustion. She had been afraid of everyone except Britta, but now the world was her friend. The child was blossoming. Lydia could only pray that Darya’s death wouldn’t cause Laura to regress. So far, it seemed she was taking the loss in stride, but she still asked from time to time about Darya’s whereabouts.
Phoebe joined Lydia after a few moments, bringing with her a box of new candles. “The girls helped me to make these.” She placed the box on the table beside Lydia. “I thought perhaps you could share them with Britta, as Laura spent quite a bit of time assisting. She seems to have a knack for taking instruction. I think she’ll do well in school.”
“She’s a smart one, I agree. I’ve never seen anyone thrive on learning the way Laura does.” Lydia picked up one of the tapers and admired it. “I want to thank you for helping her get through these hard times.”
“I’m glad I could help,” Phoebe assured her. “I felt unable to do anything for Britta. She didn’t want my company otherwise.”
Lydia nodded. “She hasn’t wanted anyone’s company.”
“Is she doing any better?”
“A little. We both know that it takes time. You lost a child to miscarriage, and while you didn’t have the same attachments to that baby as Britta did to Darya, the pain is no less real.”
Phoebe nodded. “But it is different. I can respect that. Caring for Laura and keeping her busy seemed the best thing I could offer.”
“It has been a blessing.” Lydia replaced the candle. “I suppose I should load these and get us home.” She started to get up when they both noticed Evie coming up the walk.
“I was just about to head home,” Lydia said with a smile. “But this is a pleasant surprise.”
“Josh told me he’d seen the carriage over here,” Evie stated. She looked to Phoebe. “I hope you don’t mind my barging in.”
“Not at all. Would you like some refreshment?”
“No thanks. I had a letter from Jeannette and felt I needed to share it with you both. It has to do with Marston.”
Lydia frowned and retook her seat. “Has he died?”
“Not that I know of.” Evie reached into her pocket and pulled out the missive. “He’s in trouble again. Both he and Mitchell are apparently on the run from the legal authorities.”
“What?” Phoebe and Lydia asked in unison.
Lydia pointed to the chair beside her. “Sit down and explain, please.”
Evie opened the letter. “Jeannette says there has been a huge scandal. Apparently Marston and Mitchell duped a great many people through the funeral business.”
“How?” Lydia asked.
“From what the letter says, they were accused of switching products, for one. A person would buy an expensive casket, and Marston and Mitchell would replace it with a much cheaper one. They are even accused of robbing the dead.”
Phoebe gasped, while Lydia shook her head and said, “They don’t care about anything or anyone.”
“I had hoped old age would have changed their hearts,” Evie said, putting the letter on the table, “but apparently it hasn’t.”
Lydia found herself feeling rather vindicated. “I knew Marston hadn’t changed. He might have said all the right things while he was here, but there was something about his manner that didn’t ring true.”
“Jeannette says the authorities are trying to find them, but they believe Mitchell and Marston have fled to Europe. I think we need to wire someone and let them know that Marston was here not long ago.”
“But he could be anywhere by now,” Phoebe said thoughtfully. “Still, why would he come here with his story of wanting to leave you a fortune—of dying?”
“Maybe he really is dying,” Evie offered. “Jeannette said he’d been ill for some time. It was actually one of the reasons he wasn’t arrested when the news first came to light.”
Phoebe continued. “It seems that he would have stayed as far from any of his family or friends as possible. Surely the authorities would first come looking for him among those he knew.”
Lydia considered this for a moment. “I doubt they would ever expect him to come here. Obviously even Jeannette didn’t figure him to do such a thing, or she wouldn’t have written that letter.”
“I suppose you’re right, Mother.” Phoebe looked to Evie. “I agree with you, however. I think
we need to let someone know he was here. He might still be in the Seattle area. Dalton had word from the bank there that Marston deposited money into the new account.”
“Money he robbed from the dead, no doubt.” Lydia got to her feet again. “I agree with Phoebe. We must let the authorities in Kansas City and Seattle know as soon as possible.”
“I’ll wire them,” Evie said, retrieving the letter. “I’ll let them know he’s been frequenting the bank and that perhaps they can catch him there.”
It had been a simple matter to befriend the bank manager’s young assistant, Cyrus Redley. Marston was quite charming when he wanted to be, and the man was a jackanapes. His conceit and overconfidence made him a perfect target for a man as seasoned at using people as Marston Gray was.
He began their friendship by commending the man and boosting his ego with praise. Marston often told Redley that he was in the wrong position—that he should be the manager of the bank given his fine mind and ability with numbers. Redley devoured the words and grew fat on them.
Next, Marston invited the young man to join him at dinner. On more than one occasion, he exposed Redley to opulent indulgence. The man was greedy and longed for the life Marston introduced. So when Marston began talking about his need for a personal secretary, Redley was primed to take the bait.
“I have a vast fortune, you understand,” Marston had told the man, “but I have no child, no heir. I would like very much to train up a man to take over my position—to continue the business. I’d like to have a companion to accompany me around the country on my various business trips. Perhaps you could be that man.” Redley all but clapped his hands in delight.
Marston finished securing the man’s adoration when he handed Redley a wad of bills as a bonus for all the help he’d given. “I reward those who benefit me” had been Marston’s comment. Redley’s eyes nearly popped out of his head at the sizable amount.
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