Infinite Loss (Infinite Series, Book 3)

by L. E. Waters

  Ma.

  “I’m sure she will agree. Thank you for the offer…”

  “Jane.” She beams.

  I let out a short breath. “Jane.”

  I come home to an empty table, with the expected report from Thankful that Fanny is under the weather and taking supper in bed and Mr. Allen is busy with business. I tune out the echoing clank of my spoon hitting the china in the quiet of the dining room and think of all the things I can tell Jane on Sunday.

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  It most definitely is a Sunday. Not your typical, no-work-dress-in-Sunday-best-and-fan yourself-all-day-in-a-stuffy-church Sunday, as Sundays in the Allen house center on Mr. Allen’s business. The circle in front of the house is idle with black carriages and bored Cleveland bays. I walk into the tobacco-clouded hall and follow the spicy smell to the edge of the parlor where smoke mixes with the medicine-smell of the brandy, rum, whiskey and gin they pass around. This is how Mr. Allen worships, talking sales and shuffling cards with Uncle Bill, his partner Charles, and other merchants from the House of Ellis and Allen.

  Mr. Allen looks up from his hand of cards. “Run along, this isn’t any place for boys.”

  “Where’s Fanny?”

  Uncle Bill scrunches up his nose. “The lad doesn’t call Frances Ma?”

  Mr. Allen laughs. “He’s only in our care. Haven’t drawn up the papers for adoption just yet.” He jeers his elbow toward Charles. “Want to make sure he’s not a cadger’s curse.”

  The table erupts in liquored laughter, and I try to outrun more laughs at my expense. Mr. Allen yells loud enough for me to hear, “She’s in her sickroom, complaining as usual.”

  The sun fills the room, and I’m happy to see Fanny sitting up and sewing—a rare sight but one I celebrate. As soon as she sees me she drops her project and puts her arms out to catch me.

  “Easy, Edgar. You’re a giant now and can crush your poor Fanny.” I did feel her tiny bones jab into me more than I remembered. “I can’t believe you’re almost fourteen.”

  “I still have six more months.”

  “Oh, that’s nothing when you’re my age. Do you know I was only ten when my parents died?”

  I knew her parents died but not so young. “You were an orphan?”

  I settle into her even closer.

  “Yes, they both got sick, my pa then my ma. I was alone within weeks. Just like you.” She taps my nose as she said you.

  “Where did you go?”

  Did she go to strangers just like me?

  “I had a kind aunt who took me and raised me as her own.”

  “Did you call her Ma?”

  She studies my question, looking for an extra moment into my eyes, and I fight to conceal the true intent of my asking. “I did, but not until I was ready.”

  Ready?

  “Did she adopt you?”

  Again, she takes a moment to look out the hallway, toward where Mr. Allen is.

  “Yes, she did, but I would have still called her Ma regardless.” She whispers in my ear, “A ma is simply someone who makes you feel at home.” She gives me a pinched hug and giggles. “Thankful, dear, I think Edgar and I deserve two big scoops of strawberry ice cream.” Thankful smiles and heads out to the cold house.

  Our happiness doesn’t last long. After the ice cream melts and the sun settles down, she goes up to her room early to rest. Alone, to my own devices, I decide to join Mr. Allen’s party. I gather up the sheets from my bed and find a cane, neglected by the door. In the glowing, shadow-casting light of candles around the one-windowed room, I reappear under the sheet with the cane held high above my head to give the spectral form unexpected height. At first I walk outside, back and forth by their window, but they go along with their game, not noticing. A few slaves must have caught sight of me since I hear shrieks and cabin doors slam. Once I perfect the shaking of the cane so the ghost appears amorphous and quick, I get the grit to drift down the hallway. I groan slow and low and follow their voices.

  A chair hits the floor and Uncle Bill screams, “Guid God!”

  I dash back into the hall in fear Mr. Allen will charge after me. However, Mr. Allen laughs the loudest I’ve ever heard him and Charles chuckles. “Whit the hell was that?”

  I pull the sheet down and peer into the room and Mr. Allen laughs until tears come down his cheeks. The other men follow suit. Uncle Bill says, “Scariest thing A’ve seen since Macbeth. Nearly stopped my heart!”

  I steel myself up for Mr. Allen’s painful reaction, but to my surprise he says, “Well, the boy’s mother was an acclaimed Shakespearian actor.” He gives me a chuckle and heavy wink, and I run off to Robert’s with a grin on my face.

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  I have the whole table in stitches, Robert, Robert’s father and sparkling Jane all pull back from the table in laughter at my retelling of the gambling party ghost story. After we have our fill of fried catfish, crab, oysters, pheasant, peas and hot bread, Robert, Jane and I sit in the parlor and Jane’s eyes open wide when I tell her of my love for poetry and language.

  “You must follow me at once.” She takes my hand within her thin, eager grasp and pulls me into a small den, lined with shelves upon shelves of books. I go to them immediately and read a scattering of glorious titles.

  “You have Lord Byron, Virgil, Dante, Chaucer, Milton, Homer, the whole collection of Shakespeare!” I open one and the spine cracks it’s so new.

  “Edgar, you must come and read to me. I find I understand them so much better when read out loud to me, and Mr. Stanard is far too busy for such chores.”

  “I would like nothing better.”

  And so it begins, my daily readings not only allow me to enjoy the books that are banned from Mr. Allan’s dusty shelves, but sweet Jane allows me to come close and find happiness within her motherly affections. Our readings always begin with tea and scrumptious pastries, focused on reading and discussion, and end with a comforting kiss upon my brow—no different than the ones she gives Robert. She makes me fall ever more in love with words and teaches me what it is to belong. Truly belong.

  Chapter 5

  I sit in the parlor, fighting the urge to unfasten the top button of my shirt. This is going to be the first time I’ve seen Rosalie after years and years of begging Fanny. The rig pulls into the gravel driveway, crunching happily. I rush to get a glimpse of her and can’t see much with the low-crowned straw bonnet that completely shadows her face.

  “Edgar, come back to me at once. What kind of a host are you?”

  I’m glad Mr. Allan is too busy to greet Rosalie and her parents. I’m sure he would have reprimanded me in front of them and then she would know what a bad house I live in. No, this is perfect. Fanny is in good spirits today and almost looks rosy in her new silk, pink dress. Yes, Rosalie will be impressed. I’m sure once we meet, we’ll be able to see each other much more.

  The door opens and in walks a delicate beauty. Mrs. Mackenzie wears an off-the-shoulder, green, carriage dress festooned with every embellishment. Rosalie follows slowly behind her, dressed in similar fashion.

  Fanny and I rise at once to greet our guests and I lean in eagerly as Rosalie tries to untie her bonnet.

  “Let me, dear.” Mrs. Mackenzie unties the ribbon and golden hair spills out. Expecting to see my mother’s features, I try to control a gasp as I’m surprised by a sharp, unfriendly face.

  Fanny fills the silence. “Please sit down and have a refreshment with us. Edgar is so happy to see you again, Rosalie.”

  Rosalie doesn’t even look up at me. It’s as if she doesn’t even know I’m her kin, or at least, doesn’t care. Can she be so content with the Mackenzies that she doesn’t need Henry or me?

  Mrs. Mackenzie nudges her slightly. “Remember, your brother, Edgar?”

  Rosalie lazily rolls her round, olive-green eyes around to me and doesn’t seem to be thrilled with what she sees.

  Fanny pats her dress down when there isn
’t even a single crease. “Maybe you and I should leave the children alone to get reacquainted. I think I’m making dear Rosalie nervous.”

  Mrs. Mackenzie tightens her lips but forces a wide smile. “Yes, of course.” She turns to Rosalie and says far too slow and loud, “I’m going into the other room with Edgar’s mother, Rosalie.”

  Edgar’s mother.

  Rosalie doesn’t seem to care until their voices trail off down the hall and she cries, “Mother!”

  She calls her mother.

  “We’ll be right back, dear.”

  I try to distract her, although I wonder how she can only be a couple of years younger than me.

  “Strange to think we’re only just meeting when we’ve lived in the same city the whole time.”

  She studies me again, but says, as she nibbles the nail on her thumb, “Mother said you were away.”

  “That’s true. I was away for a bit.” I take a deep breath. “Have you always wanted to meet me?”

  Her face is blank, but then a glimmer appears in her eyes. “I found out I had another mother only a few months ago.”

  I hadn’t realized how she might not have known about us all this time. We’re a shock to her, not a relief. I immediately want to wipe her tears away.

  “Do you want to know what I did the other day?”

  She nods, finally interested.

  I tell her the story of my ghost and Mr. Allan’s gambling party. She cracks a smile that spreads open and becomes brays of laughter. Mrs. Mackenzie comes running at the sound and seems reassured Rosalie is enjoying me.

  She doesn’t ask me any questions and when it’s time to leave, I hadn’t learned much more about her than before she came. I try my hardest to find out who she is but come away at the end with only these things: her favorite color is green, she hates vegetables, she doesn’t go to school but has a tutor and isn’t allowed to ride horses.

  Rosalie fumbles with her bonnet. Mrs. Mackenzie blushes and quickly corrects it, sweeping Rosalie’s stiff hands from the ribbons. Rosalie slightly sticks her tongue out the corner of her mouth as the bow forms under her pointed chin.

  “Do you think we can visit again soon?” I ask.

  Rosalie eagerly nods, but Mrs. Mackenzie replies, “We’ll let you know when Rosalie can visit again. Nice to meet you, Edgar.”

  After the door shuts, Fanny calls for Thankful. “I’m feeling so peaked. Having callers tires me so.” She gives me a quick kiss on the forehead. “I’m so glad you got to meet your sister, dear.” She inches down toward her sickroom.

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  Weeks blur into months, only celebrated with days visiting with Jane. Rosalie comes two more times, and I find all too quickly she is not shy but only limited in her expressions and understanding. She’s gentle and simple, but I enjoy getting her to laugh at my poems and stories I create just for her. January nineteenth comes again, and although there is a chill in the air, it poses no threat of becoming the Northeaster of wind and ice Ma used to tell me I was born in. The dream of one day finding my way to Boston, where I’m sure there are storms hovering on this very day, fills my imagination. I walk down to find Fanny in her sickroom, and Thankful is already fussing over her, correcting pillow placements until Fanny’s face softens.

  I walk in and wait for her to figure out what day it is. She finally notices me standing straight against the wall and says, “Edgar, dear. Why are you up so early?”

  “It’s January nineteenth,” I say, trying to force my grin straight.

  “Happy birthday, sweetheart!” She opens her tiny arms to me. “Oh, not so hard, my dear. Your Fanny is not as strong as you are. Look at you. Fifteen! And every bit of a young man.”

  Mr. Allan stomps past the room on his way out the backdoor and Fanny yells out, “It’s Edgar’s birthday!”

  I hear him pause. “Happy birthday.” The backdoor slams.

  Fanny swallows hard and then smiles at me. “What do you want to do today?”

  “Jane is going to make a cake.”

  “Mrs. Stanard. It isn’t respectful for you to call her Jane.”

  “It’s what she’s told me to call her.”

  She clears her throat now. “No need in making another cake then if you’re going to have one with your friend.”

  “I can tell her you are going to make a cake.”

  “Oh, no dear, it’s probably best you dine with them. I’m feeling terribly achy today. I just might call the doctor to visit.”

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  By the time I run to Robert’s house, the winter sun starts to go down. Even though the Allan’s didn’t make anything special about the day, I know Jane will have something planned. I open the front door, but it’s dark and no one is around. Could they have forgotten?

  I open the doors to the dining room and the whole room is filled with people.

  “Surprise!” Jane’s voice rings out above them all.

  I search the faces of my schoolfellows and Robert, but settle on Jane’s shining face, which out-glows the candles on the almond sponge cake. I fight the tears brimming, not wanting to seem soft in front of all the boys. They jump forward to give me fifteen fist-raps on my head.

  The night fills with laughter, rich desserts and piles of books Jane gifts to me from her library. After the boys leave, I sit with Jane in the parlor, as Robert drifts away.

  “Did you have a good birthday, Edgar?”

  I can’t think of words to express it and come up with a meager reply. “Very good, thank you.”

  However, her smile tells me she knows it meant so much to me. “You are like a second son to me. One that enjoys conversation more than my present one, or his father, for that matter.”

  The candle flickers strangely, sending quick shadows dancing about the paneling around the room.

  “I wondered if from now on I could call you—” I look into her changeable hazel eyes and wish I could say the word “Ma,” but balk—“Helen.”

  “Helen? Why on earth would you call me that?” Her laughter is lyrical.

  “Helen of Troy of course…’the face that launched a thousand ships.’”

  She beams from the compliment, but shifts her body slightly away from mine. “Yes, call me Helen. That is a fine compliment.” She searches around the room. “And where has Robert gone off to? We should seek him out.”

  We find Robert asleep in his bedroom, still clothed. I help her get him up to change, and he flops back down with his nightshirt half-on. Jane blows at the orange hair that rebels against her tight bun and hangs in a curl toward her pretty mouth. “I think we should call it a night. Is it too dark to walk home?”

  My heart sinks at the thought of leaving the warmth of her house and going into the shadows toward the Allan’s. “No, I will be fine. I see like an owl in the darkness.”

  I follow her out to the stack of books, which she sticks under my arm, and she gives me the usual sweet kiss on my forehead. “Come back tomorrow for more cake.”

  “Goodnight, Helen.”

  Her charming smile glows as she closes the door.

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  I stand on top of the red clay cliff, looking out upon a lush valley. A lone raven caws above me in the sky. Circling like a vulture. I check around me and see I’m alone, the only heartbeat in this vacant, autumn-gilded world. The clouds soar across the sky unnaturally, as the sun progresses too quickly. The bright blue shine of heaven is soon darkened by an ominous cloud, which hovers only above me while the rest of the world spins by. Cracks of lightning lash out with no warning of thunder and the raven flees the skies with a cry. I have no shelter from the storm, from the tears that pour out of the violent cloud. I crouch, pulling my deerskin shirt above my head for my only protection. I look up, squinting between heavy raindrops, to see Mr. Allan’s face in the cloud contort into every demonic shade, laughing at me suffering through the never-ending assault—while the rest of
the world enjoys blue sky.

  A terrible stomachache wakes me, and I reach my chamber pot just in time. After purging, a chill flushes through my body and sends me into uncontrollable shakes. I wish I can cry out for Fanny to come to take care of me, but I know far too well she stays away from me once she hears the slightest sniffle, the tickle of a cough or sees the faintest blush of fever. Jane probably rushes at Robert’s first cry to assist him during any illness. I imagine her slight hand smoothing away the damp hair clinging to my fevered forehead. I’m sure she’d sing as she wrings a cold cloth and holds it in place, tucking an extra blanket up under my chattering chin. However, the reality of a Jane-less home breaks through as I pull my sore body up and squat over the half-filled chamber pot—the sickness pours out of me.

  Happy birthday, Edgar.

  Chapter 6

  I return one late spring day to the surprise of a strange rig waiting in the drive. I peek inside to deduce the identity of our guest by the items they left behind in their coach. The coachman clears his throat at my intent, and I leap off the footboard and into the house. I hear Mr. Allan talking to a young man.

  A friend of mine?

  I must rescue him from Mr. Allan’s attention immediately. I round the corner of his office to see a strange boy, a few years taller than me. Mr. Allan is finishing his mantra, with each finger counted. “—Industry. Self-control. Perseverance—” Mr. Allan notices my entrance and brings his knobby finger up to pick his teeth. “Ye’d be verry interested to meet our visitor, Edgar.”

  As soon as he says my name, the young man turns around and his indigo eyes take me immediately back to Mr. Usher sharing his sandwich with us.

  “Edgar,” is all he says, but he steps forward at once to give me the most intimate embrace I have yet felt or clearly forgot.

  “Henry,” I almost cry.

  “He’s the spitting image of ye,” Mr. Allan interrupts, but has to add, “Of course, he’s much taller and more powerful than ye. Edgar here still has his baby fat.”