The Best of Intentions

by Susan Anne Mason

  “I chose to work from home this morning. Sometimes a change of scenery is good for productivity.” He moved across to the wall of windows overlooking the downtown core and allowed the magnificent view to relax him. If he stared straight ahead, he could almost see the sunlight glinting off Lake Ontario. How long had it been since he’d gone to the beach? Or taken a boat out on the water? Now that the good weather had arrived, he should make such an outing a priority.

  He turned back to see his father frown.

  “Don’t make a habit of it. We need you here in the trenches.” One eyebrow rose, and for an instant, Frank’s reflection stared back at him. It was uncanny how much Frank had resembled their dark-haired father, while Andrew took after his mother’s lighter-haired side of the family. Perhaps that was part of the reason Father had favored Frank. Nothing like a mirror image of oneself to bolster the ego, especially when that image could charm the socks off a hobo.

  Father leaned back in his chair. “By the way, how is the search for a nanny going?”

  Christian’s arrival into the family had been a shock to everyone, but his father seemed to be having an exceptionally hard time. Andrew suspected the boy was bringing up a lot of guilt for the way his father had disowned Frank, and more specifically for the way he’d treated Frank’s wife.

  Andrew, on the other hand, viewed the child as a gift, one he hoped would be a source of healing for the Easton family. The glue that would fill the cracks and bind them back together.

  “We haven’t had much luck so far. Mother’s strict requirements have proven somewhat daunting. This morning, I rewrote the advertisement and dropped it off at the newspaper office on the way in.”

  “Good.” The lines in his father’s forehead eased. “I’ll feel a lot better once the boy has the proper staff to care for him. I don’t want this situation to cause a setback in your mother’s health.”

  Andrew wished his father could see that little Christian was the one thing keeping his mother from drowning in grief over Frank’s death.

  “Right now, however, we have a more important issue to discuss.” Father rose from the desk and adjusted his vest.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the soirée at the Carmichaels’ tomorrow evening for Cecilia’s birthday.”

  “What about it?”

  “I hope you’re planning to attend. You need to be present to stake your claim, because if you don’t, plenty of others will be ready to step in.”

  Andrew suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ll be there. Cecilia’s already instructed me when to arrive and which suit I should wear.”

  “Splendid.” A genuine look of approval lightened his father’s features. “I’m delighted you and Harrison’s daughter are getting along so well. I assume we’ll hear news of an engagement soon?”

  Andrew’s hands curled into fists, but he forced himself to relax. “We’re nowhere near that point yet, Father. I’m taking things slowly.”

  “Time waits for no man, Andrew. If you don’t act soon, someone else will snatch her up. A beauty like Cecilia, with intelligence to match, is rare.”

  “I realize that.” Andrew crossed the room. “However, I need to be sure before I commit to something as serious as marriage.”

  Father paused from pouring himself a cup of coffee from the ever-present carafe on the credenza. “Sure about what?”

  “That she isn’t still in love with Frank.” The bitter taste of jealousy rose in his throat. Would he ever accept the fact that Cecilia had initially chosen his brother over him? If it weren’t for Frank meeting that flirty English girl and subsequently breaking his engagement to Cecilia, they would have been married.

  Andrew certainly hadn’t forgotten, and it made him suspicious that Celia could have now formed such a strong attachment to him, when she’d barely noticed him before.

  His father came forward to grip Andrew’s shoulder. “You have the chance to do one last thing for your brother—fix his mistake and return honor to our family name. Marrying Cecilia will go a long way to restoring good relations with the Carmichaels.” His eyes hardened. “You’ve always been a man of integrity, more so than your brother turned out to be.”

  Andrew allowed the rare compliment to seep in. Yet the approval he’d sought for so long now tasted sour on his tongue. Why did it take Frank’s death for his father to utter these words of praise? “I understand what’s at stake, Father. But I won’t rush things.”

  His father gave Andrew a long look. “I think it’s time I told you about the deal Harrison and I have been negotiating.” He gestured to the guest chairs that surrounded a round table in the far corner of the room, and they both took a seat. “What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential.” Father removed a cigar from the box on the table. “Harrison is considering joining forces with us to open more hotels. With the power of his development firm behind us, we’d have all the leverage we need to open several more hotels on an even grander scale than this. We’re looking into a few potential sites in Ottawa and Winnipeg. Possibly as far out as Vancouver.”

  Andrew ran a thoughtful hand over his beard. “Is this the right time for such a move? The economy is still reeling from the effects of the war. People aren’t traveling when they can barely make ends meet. It could be a risky endeavor.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps men with the right vision for the future can take advantage of everyone else’s reticence and make a bold move.” His father struck a match and lit the cigar. “If all goes well, I’ll need a man to oversee the new hotel at the location we choose. And who better than my son? Someone I trust implicitly, who knows the business inside out, and who’s been by my side all this time.”

  Stunned, Andrew shifted on his chair, hardly able to believe what his father was saying.

  “Your marriage to Cecilia would be the icing on the cake, linking our families in a more permanent way. It would all but guarantee Harrison’s investment.”

  A cold chill slid down Andrew’s spine. “Are you using this promotion as a bribe? So I’ll marry Cecilia to further your business deal?”

  “Of course not. I’m simply stating the facts. Your marriage could benefit us both greatly.” Father blew out a ring of smoke. “Think about it, Andrew. A beautiful wife. Your own hotel in our country’s capital city. What more could you want?”

  Andrew’s dream shimmered before him. Everything he’d been working toward suddenly seemed within his reach. Not only would he have his father’s respect, he’d get a huge promotion in the process, one with new responsibilities and challenges.

  But could he leave Toronto? Move a day’s journey away from his family, from the home where he’d grown up?

  “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  “Don’t think too long, son. As I said before, time waits for no man.” His father’s steely expression made his point better than any spoken ultimatum.

  If Andrew didn’t follow through with his plan, he’d be letting his father and the company down. Before Frank’s estrangement from the family, Father had been grooming his eldest son for just such a promotion. Now Andrew was expected to step in to fill the vacant spot. Be the dutiful son. Marry Cecilia and bridge the gap that had been created between two of the most powerful families in Toronto when Frank had rejected Cecilia for another woman.

  Andrew held the key to giving his father everything he desired. Yet the nagging question remained. Was he prepared to submit to his father’s demands at the potential cost of his own happiness?

  CHAPTER 3

  April 30, 1914

  Dear Grace,

  I have wonderful news. I’ve found a job at a grand hotel, not far from the boardinghouse. In nice weather, I can walk to work, and other times the streetcar takes me practically to the front door. Because of my skill on a typewriter, I earned a position in the secretarial pool of the hotel’s administrative offices. Mr. Easton Sr. is a strict taskmaster, but thankfully his son more than makes up for it.

  In the
third-floor bedroom of Mrs. Chamberlain’s boardinghouse, Grace unpacked her few items of clothing and hung them in the narrow closet. It had been more than twenty-four hours since Reverend Burke had brought her here. The gracious landlady had taken note of Grace’s traumatized state and had shown her right to her room. Other than bringing up a tray of toast and tea, the woman had let her grieve in private.

  After hours of weeping, Grace had fallen into an exhausted sleep, the stress of the whole voyage finally catching up with her. When she awoke early this morning, feeling hollowed out from crying, she’d taken a hot bath and dressed in fresh clothes, while trying to sort out her thoughts. For now, the future was too difficult to focus on. Instead, Grace concentrated on what she would do today. She needed to see Rose’s gravesite, and she wanted to talk to Reverend Burke and Mrs. Chamberlain about meeting her nephew. She wouldn’t rest until she knew Christian was all right.

  After making the bed, Grace stored her valise in the closet, then looked around the room. If she weren’t so emotionally numb, she might be better able to appreciate the hominess of the space. A handmade blue-and-white quilt covered the single bed, and piles of colorful pillows sat on top. They matched the ones in the corner window nook. A vanity, dresser, and nightstand rounded out the furnishings. Had Rose stayed in this room when she first arrived in Toronto? If so, no wonder she’d been delighted with her accommodations.

  Grace pulled the packet of Rose’s letters out of her purse and sat in the window seat. From her high perch, she had a lovely view of pedestrians walking along Jarvis Street below. She opened the last letter she’d received from Rose, as though by reading it again she might find some clue as to when Rose had fallen ill. But nothing her sister wrote had hinted of any pending health crisis.

  “Oh, Rose,” she said aloud. “Didn’t I warn you that coming to Canada wouldn’t turn out well?”

  But nothing had swayed her decision to leave home, certainly not her little sister’s advice. In that moment, their roles had reversed, with Rose acting impulsively and Grace, for once, being the voice of caution.

  Grace stowed the letters back in her handbag and checked her watch. Surely Mrs. Chamberlain would be up by now, preparing breakfast for her boarders. It was time Grace faced reality and made a plan to go forward. But she would need Mrs. Chamberlain’s help.

  With determination, she descended the main staircase and made her way to the parlor where she’d briefly met her landlady yesterday. Today, seeing the space with fresh eyes, Grace could appreciate the cozy décor. Floral sofas and high-backed wing chairs surrounded the fireplace. Pictures on the wall depicted scenes from back home: green English meadows and a cottage much like the one Grace had grown up in. A gray tabby lifted its head from the cushioned window seat, blinked lazily, and dropped back to its previous position.

  “Good morning, Grace. It’s good to see you up and about.” Mrs. Chamberlain appeared in the hallway. She wore a floral apron over her dress and held a large teapot. Her kind eyes radiated unspoken compassion. “I’m serving breakfast if you’d care to join us.”

  “I’m not very hungry, but tea would be nice.” Grace walked toward her. “And afterward, I could use your help with something, if you have time.”

  “By all means. Once I finish the dishes, I’m all yours.”

  At the far end of the Holy Trinity Cemetery, Grace bent to place a bouquet of daisies atop a mound of fresh dirt. Then she straightened, wrapping her arms around her, as if by doing so she could shield herself from the crushing weight of her grief. Rose’s grave bore no marker, not even a simple wooden cross. Reverend Burke told Grace that the members of the congregation all felt badly for the young widow and were raising money for a headstone to give her a decent resting place.

  How did this happen, Rose? If I’d come sooner, could I have saved you from this horrible fate?

  The cool spring wind tore at the hem of Grace’s skirt and loosened strands of her brown hair, which blew about her cheeks. “How will I ever make things right with Mum now?” she whispered.

  Memories of her last conversation with her mother crept into her thoughts.

  “You owe me, girl. You know you do.” From her sickbed, Mum’s hard eyes had pinned Grace to the spot, unearthing the guilt that always sat just below the surface. “The least you can do is to bring Rose and my grandson home where they belong.”

  Looking down at the stark burial site, Grace dashed the traces of tears from her cheeks. “I promise, Rose, I’ll do everything in my power to see that Christian’s safe. I’ll make sure the Eastons are treating him properly. And if they’re not, somehow I’ll find a way to fix it.”

  How she would accomplish that feat, she didn’t know. She’d have to trust the Lord to provide her a way when the time came.

  With a final glance at the pile of dirt, she crossed the cemetery grounds to the church where Mrs. Chamberlain had gone to give Grace some privacy.

  As Grace reached the steps, she heard her name called.

  “Yoo-hoo, over here.” Mrs. Chamberlain waved from the rectory next door. “Come in for some tea to warm up.”

  Slowly Grace headed over. She welcomed the chance to speak to Reverend Burke and see what more she could learn about the Eastons in order to determine her next course of action. Anything to take her mind off the raw sorrow that tore at her chest.

  Mrs. Chamberlain held the door for her and ushered her into the hallway. The delicious scent of yeast and cinnamon made Grace’s mouth water, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten much over the last twenty-four hours, too consumed with grief to have any appetite. It almost felt wrong to be hungry now.

  “Reverend Burke found me in the church and invited me in. There are fresh rolls if you’re hungry.” The sympathy in Mrs. Chamberlain’s voice warmed the hollow places inside Grace.

  “Thank you. That sounds wonderful.”

  Grace entered the homey kitchen where Reverend Burke stood at the stove. “Welcome, Grace. Please have a seat. My cinnamon scones are almost ready.”

  Grace sat at a round table covered with a plain red cloth. “You bake your own bread, Reverend?”

  His smile created crinkles around his eyes. “It’s a skill I had to learn after my dear wife passed on. Since I enjoy eating”—he patted his round stomach—“I had no choice. Harriet here was kind enough to give me a lesson or two.” He winked at Mrs. Chamberlain, who chuckled.

  Grace stared, not sure what to make of their easy talk of death. For her, it was far too painful a subject to banter about.

  He opened the oven door and reached in with a dish towel to pull out a baking tin.

  When Mrs. Chamberlain had poured the tea and laid two scones on her plate, Grace searched for a way to begin the conversation. “Have you both lived in Toronto long?” she asked. Perhaps getting to know these two a little better was a wise place to begin.

  “We have.” Reverend Burke gestured for Mrs. Chamberlain to answer first.

  “I came to Canada as a young woman, but I lived through unhappy times before I met my dear husband. Thankfully we started attending this church, which became my source of strength when poor Miles passed on.” Mrs. Chamberlain refilled her cup and set the pot back on the table.

  Reverend Burke sat down. “I was a boy when my parents moved here. I felt the calling to a life of ministry and attended Wycliffe College in the city. I’ve been pastor of Holy Trinity Church for sixteen years now.” He waved a butter knife toward Mrs. Chamberlain. “Learning of Harriet’s struggles upon coming to Canada was instrumental in us starting the Newcomers Program. A place for immigrants to meet and get aid in finding a job or a place to live.”

  Mrs. Chamberlain nodded. “Most people are terribly homesick at first. It helps to be around others from their homeland, which is why my husband opened the boardinghouse. He saw a real need for immigrants to have a decent place to stay until they got their feet under them.” She added a spoon of sugar to her tea. “Once he passed away, I wanted to keep the business going in hi
s memory, although I take only female boarders now. A woman alone can’t be too careful.”

  Reverend Burke lifted a brow. “I’m only a few blocks away if you ever need me.”

  “I know.” She gave him a warm smile. “It’s a comfort to have good friends around.”

  Grace set her cup down, bracing for the topic to come. “Speaking of neighbors, do the Eastons live nearby?”

  Mrs. Chamberlain gave her a wary look. “Their hotel isn’t far from here. But the family’s residence is a good streetcar ride away.”

  “I understand the hotel is quite fancy.” Grace had almost forgotten about the place where Rose had first met Frank.

  “The finest in the city.” Mrs. Chamberlain patted a napkin to her lips. “The Eastons are one of the most influential families in Toronto. And from what I hear, their house is a mansion—as grand as a castle.”

  Something in Grace shrank at the woman’s words. She’d never really thought about Rose’s in-laws being so well-regarded, but Mrs. Chamberlain made it sound like they were pillars of the community. How could she compete with that?

  Grace reached for her handbag and took out one of Rose’s letters. “They may be rich, but it doesn’t mean they’re honorable. If you hear what Rose had to say, perhaps you’ll understand my reservations about them.” She unfolded the well-worn pages and skimmed down to the pertinent paragraph. “‘Now with Frank gone,’” she read, “‘I worry that his family will try to take Christian from me. I can’t allow my son to be raised by such people. Ones who disowned Frank because he chose a different life than what they expected. How could any parent treat their son like that? Promise me, Grace, if anything happens to me, you’ll take Christian and raise him as your own.’” Grace’s voice gave out, forcing her to stop. Had Rose already been ill when she wrote this? Had she worried even then that she might never see her son grow up? Grace folded the pages and raised her head. “Rose begged me to come, many times. If only I’d come sooner, she might still be alive.”