Zeb met his gaze and smiled. “Nah. Don’t go putting your trust in me. The good Lord is the only one who deserves that. It’s not going to be easy, but with a little hard work and a whole lot of prayer, I’ll get you to the gold fields ahead of this stampede. And the sooner we get there, the sooner you can get back to your little gal.”
Michael looked at the daunting mountain peaks already topped with snow. He couldn’t imagine how a man could ever manage such an arduous feat. The terrain looked jagged and severe. Zeb’s words about the land being unforgiving were gradually beginning to make sense.
I can do this, Michael told himself. For Fanny and for our future, I can endure whatever I must. He gazed heavenward, past the craggy peaks and snow. I can do all things through Christ which stengtheneth me. The verse from Philippians had never seemed so comforting as it did at this moment, for Michael was sure there was no possible hope that his own strength could see him through the challenges to come.
28
Wednesday, September 8, 1897
Syracuse, New York
In a crisp tone the conductor announced the upcoming stop before continuing on to the next railcar. Fanny’s heart beat in quick step when the train lurched and hissed to a halt a few minutes later. Syracuse. She’d been filled with a mixture of anticipation and dread ever since bidding Amanda, Sophie, and Aunt Victoria farewell at the Rochester train station. In truth, she’d been suffering from a bout of nerves since Uncle Jonas announced she would make the journey.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled on a pair of lightweight summer gloves. She told herself this could be no worse than listening to the murmurs when she attended a social function with her cousins or hearing the rumors passed on by thoughtful acquaintances who always began their sentences with the same verbiage: “I thought you’d like to know what I heard.” Their proclamation was immediately followed by a ghastly report of her mother’s illicit behavior or a mean-spirited comment regarding Fanny’s parentage. And they always smiled and offered pitying looks while they delivered the painful tidbit. Fanny didn’t know which was worse: hearing the comments or knowing that the messenger took pleasure in the delivery.
Hat in hand, Mr. Morrison stood near the terminal doorway. Fanny spotted him the minute she stepped off the train. He waved his hat, and when he stepped forward to greet her, she surveyed the area. He seemed to be alone. Mrs. Morrison had apparently chosen to remain at home; Fanny hoped the woman’s failure to come wasn’t an indication that she would be unwelcome in their home. Mr. Morrison’s letter of invitation to come for an extended visit had spoken of his wife’s desire to meet Fanny. She wondered if he’d spoken the truth.
His gaze traveled to the small valise in her hand. “You have other baggage, I assume?”
“Yes, my trunks were loaded into the baggage car.” She looked over her shoulder. Two burly men were unloading them and placing them at the far end of the platform. She’d not had the luxury of a Pullman car on this excursion. If all she’d heard about Mr. Morrison was true, she doubted whether she’d ever have such a luxury again.
She waited while Mr. Morrison made arrangements for her trunks to be placed in an old horse-drawn wagon. She had expected a carriage, but she supposed a wagon would prove reliable, and there’d be no need to pay extra for the delivery of her trunks. Mr. Morrison assisted her up onto the wagon but offered no apology or explanation for their transportation. With a click of his tongue and a snap of the reins, the horses stepped out.
When they’d traversed only a short distance, Mr. Morrison said, “My wife would have come to meet you, but she wanted to have a fine meal prepared for your arrival. She decided a good meal after your journey was more important than waiting at the train station.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “I hope you agree, for she would never intentionally offend anyone.”
A breeze that carried the scent of approaching fall weather rippled through the air and tugged the first of summer’s dying leaves from nearby trees. A desire to be at home, where she could help the gardener prune the bushes and prepare the gardens for winter, created a dull ache in Fanny’s bones. The ache deepened when she considered the truth: she had no place to claim as her home.
Since Grandfather’s death, Fanny could no longer consider Broadmoor Mansion home. Uncle Jonas had moved her under his roof, but neither he nor Fanny considered his house to be her home, either. Like the leaves that fluttered along the street, she had been discarded and set adrift.
Now she would be immersed in a situation for which she felt ill prepared. Then again, she didn’t think any amount of education or training would have prepared her to live in the same house with a long-lost father and his wife of many years. She realized dignity and grace would be required, but days filled with forced smiles and uncomfortable conversation held little appeal.
The conveyance made a final turn, and Mr. Morrison pulled back on the reins. The wagon came to rest in front of a modest white frame house with a pleasant enough yard and large front porch. Lilac bushes had been planted to advantage, and Fanny imagined a spring breeze carrying their sweet scent through open windows to perfume the interior. Mr. Morrison jumped down from the wagon and circled around to assist her.
A thin woman with chestnut brown hair stepped onto the porch and shaded her eyes. Although she waved, her right hand remained affixed to the handle of the front door. She conveyed an anxiety that matched Fanny’s own. Fanny understood, for she would have taken flight if there had been someplace for her to run.
Mr. Morrison held on to her hand and gently drew her forward. “Come along and I’ll introduce you to my wife. I can return for your baggage after you’re settled inside.”
Settled? Fanny doubted she would ever again feel settled until Michael returned to claim her as his bride. She didn’t withdraw from Mr. Morrison’s grasp. Without the strength emanating from his hand, she would surely sink to the ground in an embarrassing heap.
With a sweeping gesture, he motioned his wife forward. “My dear, let me introduce you to Miss Frances Jane Broadmoor.” He gently squeezed Fanny’s hand. “However, she tells me she prefers to be addressed as Fanny.”
Mrs. Morrison released the door handle. “I’m pleased to meet you, Fanny. And you may call me Ruth—or Mrs. Morrison— whichever you decide is more comfortable.”
“For now, Mrs. Morrison seems appropriate.”
The older woman opened the door and ushered Fanny inside. “If you wish to reconsider your choice at any time, please don’t feel the need to request permission.”
Once they’d been introduced, the woman’s earlier trepidation appeared to melt away. She asked her husband to retrieve Fanny’s trunks and proceeded, with neither apology nor embarrassment, to point out the few amenities their home offered, explaining that they’d fallen upon hard times.
“Many people suffered greater losses through the depression, and we’ve had a few setbacks along the way. But even if we’re never restored to our previous financial status, I still consider myself fortunate.” Mrs. Morrison glanced toward the street, where Mr. Morrison was removing Fanny’s trunks from the wagon bed. “I’ve been blessed with a wonderful husband, we’ve never gone hungry, and we have a roof over our heads. God has been faithful to answer my prayers.”
Perhaps Mrs. Morrison didn’t know that, rather than the economic downturn, her husband’s gambling was rumored to be the cause of their financial woes. Fanny doubted whether the woman’s praises for her husband would ring forth with such conviction if she’d heard those tales. Then again, Fanny couldn’t be certain the gossip was true. Who could believe her cousin Beatrice? True or false, Beatrice repeated every morsel of tittle-tattle with great delight. And Mr. Morrison did seem a nice enough man.
“I do hope you’ll find your room comfortable. I know you’re accustomed to much finer accommodations. Harold said I shouldn’t worry. He said you knew you wouldn’t be coming to a huge mansion with servants and the like.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Come al
ong and I’ll show you to your room.”
Fanny couldn’t help but notice the faded print and worn cuffs of Mrs. Morrison’s gown. Although she’d clearly done her best to control the fraying cuffs with a thread and fine stitches, the dress had surely seen better days. Once again, Fanny wondered how a couple with such meager means had afforded a stay at the New Frontenac Hotel. Mrs. Morrison didn’t appear the type who would squander money on such an extravagance. When they became better acquainted, Fanny would broach the subject.
The room was very small, and Fanny doubted her clothes would fit into the wardrobe, but she didn’t mention her concerns. Instead, she simply accepted Mrs. Morrison’s invitation to unpack her belongings. “I’ll join you downstairs once I’ve finished.”
“Supper should be ready by then. I do hope you don’t mind simple fare. There was a time when Harold and I—” She stopped short. “I’ll be serving chicken this evening, and I hope you’ll find it to your liking.”
“I’m certain it will be most enjoyable. Thank you.”
Fanny unlatched her trunk and shook out her dresses. She’d hang her best gowns, and the others could remain in her trunk until she discovered an alternative. The bedroom offered a view of the backyard. She surveyed Mrs. Morrison’s garden from the window. Though the spring and summer blooms had disappeared, the older woman clearly enjoyed flowers. Mr. Morrison had spoken the truth: if nothing else, she and Mrs. Morrison had gardening in common.
Supper had been preceded by a prayer, offered by Mrs. Morrison at her husband’s request. An odd occurrence as far as Fanny was concerned. She was accustomed to the men in the family performing the ritual. Apparently Mr. Morrison had detected Fanny’s surprise, for he had quietly remarked his wife’s prayers were more likely to reach the ears of the Almighty than his own unworthy utterances. Fanny didn’t comment because until then she’d never given thought to God having a preference of whom He heard from. Perhaps He did. If so, she thought Mr. Morrison’s assessment was incorrect. The world considered women’s thoughts of little value. Wouldn’t God then prefer to hear from men? She would write that question in her diary tonight so she could ask . . . Whom would she ask? Mrs. Atwell! Michael’s mother frequently spoke of her faith in God. She could pen Mrs. Atwell a letter this evening and ask. Moreover, she wanted to advise the older woman of her change in address.
Fanny insisted upon clearing the table and drying the dishes. It seemed strange to work in the kitchen yet not uncomfortable. Mrs. Morrison chatted while she washed the dishes and asked Fanny simple questions about her childhood. “Did Harold drive you past the house where we lived before moving here?”
“He didn’t mention it if he did. Is it on the way from the train station?”
She dipped a saucer into a pan of rinse water and handed it to Fanny. “It would depend on the route he took. Our old house had belonged to Harold’s parents. Originally it was constructed by his grandparents after they became wealthy. The lumberyard was a thriving business for many years.”
“I heard it mentioned that he had planned to expand his business to Rochester and Buffalo.”
Mrs. Morrison arched her perfectly shaped brows. “Truly? Harold never mentioned expanding the business in my presence.”
“Then perhaps I misunderstood.” Fanny couldn’t remember who had spoken of the expansion. It may have been her uncle Jonas; then again, it could have been Beatrice’s gossip. She wished she hadn’t remembered the information or at least had kept it to herself. Mrs. Morrison appeared alarmed.
“When did you hear talk of this proposed expansion, Fanny?”
Mrs. Morrison stared into the soapy pot and continued to scrub.
“I don’t recall. In all likelihood I overheard some of my uncle’s business associates and completely misunderstood.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows? They may have been discussing the Bancroft Lumberyard.”
Mrs. Morrison frowned. “But that closed two years ago.”
Fanny wanted to kick herself. She should have remembered it had closed! Lydia Bancroft’s father had died unexpectedly, and when Lydia’s brother refused to return to Rochester and take over the business, Mrs. Bancroft had sold off the existing stock and closed the doors. Mrs. Bancroft later sold the building, and against Lydia’s protests, the two of them had moved to New York City.
“Then perhaps it wasn’t even a lumberyard they were speaking of, Mrs. Morrison. I can’t be certain.” Fanny nodded toward the backyard. “I see you enjoy gardening. I’m fond of flowers myself.”
Thankfully Mrs. Morrison was more interested in discussing her annuals and perennials, so no further mention was made of her husband’s business plans. When the conversation lulled, Fanny spoke of her childhood and the lilac bush she’d planted after her father’s death. She hesitated and looked at Mrs. Morrison from beneath hooded eyelids. “I know what that letter says, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to think of another man as my father.”
Mrs. Morrison wiped her wet hands on the corner of her apron. “I don’t believe either of us would ever expect you to do so, Fanny. From what you’ve told me, Mr. Broadmoor was a fine father, and you must revere his memory.”
Fanny hung the dish towel to dry. “How long have you known about me?”
“Not long. My husband told me only a few days before we went to the Thousand Islands.” She stared into the distance. “Those islands are the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited. I should like to return there one day—under more pleasant circumstances.” Her comment seemed to jar her back to the present. “Not that anything about you is unpleasant . . . I didn’t mean to imply . . .”
“I know, Mrs. Morrison. You need not apologize. I know this must be very difficult for you, also.”
The older woman sank onto one of the wooden chairs. “Yes. It was such a surprise, you know, after all these years.” She reached for Fanny’s hand. “I always wanted a child, but we were never able . . .” She inhaled a ragged breath. “Knowing that you are Harold’s child is a good thing. I am not saddened by the news, merely surprised that he never told me. I thought I knew everything about Harold.” At the sound of Mr. Morrison’s footsteps, she released Fanny’s hand. “We should join my husband before he thinks we’ve deserted him.”
While they sat on the front porch making small talk, Fanny wondered how the Morrisons would explain her to their friends and neighbors. “Am I to be introduced as a visiting relative or friend of the family? I don’t want to say or do anything that would cause either of you embarrassment.”
Mr. Morrison gestured for his wife to answer.
“What is your preference, Fanny? We are happy to concede to your wishes.”
“If we say I’m a relative visiting from Rochester, they will expect further explanation and wonder why they’ve never before seen me in your home, don’t you agree?”
“Why don’t we say you are a relative who has come to visit for the very first time? We need not say anything further unless questioned.” Mrs. Morrison offered a kind smile. “Our friends don’t delve into our private affairs, and acquaintances have no right to do so. If the need arises, I believe I can discourage further questions.” Mrs. Morrison’s response reflected a quiet conviction that dispelled Fanny’s concerns. Should questions arise, she would direct them to the older woman.
Mr. Morrison knocked the bowl of his pipe against the porch rail. “How were you received in Rochester after your return from Broadmoor Island?”
Fanny watched the charred tobacco flutter to the ground below. “It was more difficult than I anticipated.”
He tamped fresh tobacco into the pipe. “The social set was ready to discard you like last year’s fashions, I suppose?”
“They continued to invite me to the parties, but I was not treated in the same manner. In fact, I doubt they would have invited me at all had I not been residing under my uncle Jonas’s roof. Until the matter is settled in court, they’ll simply continue to twitter and gossip. If the judge declares I’m not a Broadmo
or, I doubt I’ll see any of them again—except for Sophie and Amanda.” She glanced at Mrs. Morrison. “They’re two of my cousins, and we’re as close as sisters. They would never abandon me.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t. And they are always welcome in our home.” Mrs. Morrison reached for her mending basket and then decided against the idea. “I believe it’s soon going to be too dark to accomplish any sewing out here on the porch.”
A red glow shone from the bowl of Mr. Morrison’s pipe, and Fanny studied his profile as a curl of smoke wafted above his head. He was a fine-looking man, but she could see no resemblance. Blood or not, she much more closely resembled the Broadmoors.
29
Tuesday, September 14, 1897
Rochester, New York
Jonas stared heavenward. Why must he listen to yet another of Victoria’s verbal onslaughts? His wife questioned the validity of Mr. Morrison’s claim of fatherhood as well as Jonas’s decision to send the girl for a lengthy visit. And since Fanny’s departure, there’d been no escaping her scolding arguments.
“Are you listening to me, Jonas? You cannot hide behind a newspaper.” Victoria flicked the paper with her fingers. “In addition, I might point out that your behavior is beyond rude. I am attempting to have a discussion with you, and you’re behaving like a child.”
Jonas sighed and refolded the paper. A man couldn’t even enjoy an evening of quiet in his own home. There was no escape. His wife wanted to have yet another discussion. Either he’d participate or Victoria would continue to carp at him for the remainder of the night.
“We’ve already gone over all of this, Victoria. Must we do this every evening? I grow weary of rehashing the same thing over and over.”
“How can we be rehashing something we’ve never discussed? I talk, you ignore me, and we go to bed. There has been no discussion, only avoidance. I don’t believe Mr. Morrison is Fanny’s father, and I want to bring her back home.”
A Daughter's Inheritance Page 28
