by Cathy Gohlke
Eleanor’s face fell to pleading, her demands to wheedling. “Owen, stay here. I can set you up in your own gardening business, if that is what you want. You can experiment with whatever you like in our own greenhouses. They will be entirely at your disposal.”
Owen folded his serviette and placed it on the tea tray. The action gave him peace, finality. “I’m sorry you cannot be happy for us, Aunt. But it is the solution to our mutual dilemmas.”
A minute of silence passed between them, but Owen’s heart did not slow.
“Leave me, Owen, and I will strike you from my will.” The words came softly, a Judas kiss.
Owen stood and bowed.
“My estate means nothing to you?”
“It comes at too high a price, Aunt.” Owen breathed, relieved that the deed was done. “I’ll stay the night and then must get back to Southampton. I’ll return to collect Annie and her things early next week.” He bowed again and walked away.
“There is something more. I had not intended to tell you—not yet.”
Owen turned.
His aunt folded her hands in her lap. “It was your grandfather’s doing.”
Annie knelt beside the stair rail, her nerves taut, her eyes stretched wide in worry. When at last Owen stepped through the parlor door, she let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
But Owen didn’t move. Annie leaned over the railing for a better look at her brother. His hands covered his head, pressed against the doorframe, and she was certain he moaned. She stood back, biting her lower lip. She’d never heard such a sound from her older brother. “Owen? Owen!” she whispered loudly into the hallway below.
At last he climbed, two stairs at a time, but she’d never seen him look so weary.
“I could hear her shouting all the way up here. What has happened?” Annie met him at the landing and rushed into his arms.
“Come, close the door, Annie.” Owen spoke low, pulling her into her room. “Pack your things, everything you want to keep. We’ll not be back.”
“Pack my things? Why? Where are we going?”
But her brother would not meet her eyes. He pulled her carpetbag from the top of the cupboard and spread it open. He picked up their parents’ wedding photograph from her bedside table. “You’ll want this.”
“Whatever are you doing?”
Owen wrapped the frame in the linen it sat upon and placed it in the bottom of her bag. “I’ll tell you when we’ve settled for the night. Now you must pack, and quickly.”
“Am I going to live with you?”
He shook his head. “Pack, Annie.”
“Is Aunt Eleanor sending me away?”
“She knows we’re going. She—”
They both started when Annie’s door swung wide.
“Jamison!” Annie gasped.
The old butler’s bent frame filled the low doorway. He looked over his shoulder, put a finger to his lips, and motioned Owen closer. “Do you have a place for Miss Annie, sir?”
Owen ran his fingers through his hair. “In Southampton, as soon as I can arrange it. I don’t know what we shall do tonight.”
Jamison nodded and pushed a crumpled paper into Owen’s hand.
“Jamison!” Eleanor Hargrave bellowed from the first floor.
“What’s going on?” Annie begged.
“Take this round to my old sister, Nellie Woodward. Her address is on the bottom. She will do right by you for the night,” the butler whispered.
“Jamison! Come—at once!” Annie heard their aunt rap her cane against the parlor doorframe.
“Good-bye, Miss Annie.” Jamison’s ever-formal voice caught in his throat.
“No.” Annie shook her head, confused, disbelieving, and reached for Jamison. “I can’t say good-bye like this!” Her eyes filled. “Someone tell me what’s happening!”
The butler took her hands in his for the briefest moment, coughed, and stepped back. “God take care of you both, Mr. Owen. Write to us when you get to America. Let us know you are well, and Miss Annie, too.” He nodded. “You can send a letter to my Nellie. She’ll see that I get it.”
“America?” Annie gasped. “We’re going to America?”
Jamison caught Owen’s eye, clearly sorry he’d said so much, and looked away. But Owen wrung the butler’s withered hand. “Thank you, old friend.”
Jamison turned quickly and crept down the polished stairs.
“Owen,” Annie began, hope rising in her chest.
“Don’t stop to talk now, Annie! Hurry, before Aunt Eleanor sends you off with nothing!”
Annie whirled. “America! Where to begin?” She plucked her Sunday frock from the cupboard; Owen grabbed her most serviceable. She tucked in stationery and coloring pencils; Owen packed her Bible, The Pilgrim’s Progress, and the few books of poetry their mother had loved.
“You must wear your spring and winter cloaks. Layer everything you can.”
“It isn’t that cold!” Annie sputtered.
“Do it,” Owen insisted.
They stuffed all they could into her carpetbag and a pillow slip. Ten minutes later they turned down the lamp, slipped down the servants’ stairs, and closed the back kitchen door softly behind them.
