The fire marshal nodded, and I could see from the look in his eyes that my proclamation was not news to him. “We’ll do our best, ma’am.” He gently guided Father and I further away from the burning shop. “We’ve got to pull the wagon through this way. Take care you don’t get hurt!”
The smoke thickened, all but obscuring our view as the fire brigade began to soak down the side of our home and the thin strip of lawn that separated our domicile from our livelihood. Abandoned, the flames consuming the shop redoubled their efforts. There was a mighty crack, as loud as a rifle’s report, and I had to fight to not cover my ears.
“That’s the ridgepole going,” Father said. “The roof’s not long for this world.”
I’d heard my father sorrowful before. But never to the extent of the heartbreak echoing through his voice right now; he was absolutely despondent.
“We will rebuild, Papa.”
Father shook his head. “No, Abigail. We won’t. This is the end of the road for me.” He hung his head and kicked at the ground. “The good Lord’s decided I was never meant to be a happy man. And seeing as that’s the legacy I’ve left you, I’m truly sorry.”
Chapter Two
Father’s comments about an unhappy legacy puzzled me, but I put them down to the heat of the moment. While I always try to look for the hopeful path out of any situation, I know that not everyone can do that. So I held my peace and stood by Father, watching as the fire consumed itself.
When the print shop had been reduced to no more than a forest of standing smoking timbers, and the smoke had died away to a low-profile fog that clung to our ankles, Father shook his head. “I’m going to bed. Perhaps when I wake up, this will all have been a bad dream. Or perhaps the Lord will be merciful, and I won’t wake up at all!”
“Don’t say that, Papa!” I tried to embrace my Father, but he would have none of my affections. In fact he shoved me away gruffly; an action so shocking that I could not help but cry aloud.
“Don’t mind him, miss,” the fire marshal said. He took his helmet off, revealing a white line across his forehead where the smoke had not yet reached his skin. “Your Father’s had a great upset and he’s not in his right mind.”
“Well, I’m upset too!” I exclaimed.
The fire marshal nodded. “But you’re a lady, and ladies are cut from a stronger cloth than gentlemen.”
I raised an eyebrow. The messaging I’d heard from my youngest days was quite the contrary: women were the fair sex, gentle creatures who needed protection from the harsh world. Acting as if one were the least bit capable opened one’s self up to stern reproach and vicious gossip.
“Disappointment is a ladies’ lot in life, more often than not,” the fire marshal said. “And she’s no choice but to bear it with what grace she can muster. That takes strength.”
Shakespeare has never failed me. Many long hours I have passed with my own dear Mother’s cherished volume in my lap, finding inspiration and solace in the Bard’s immortal words. “Perhaps,” I told the fire marshal. “It may be that this lady will take up arms against her sea of troubles, and in so doing, end them.”
The marshal chuckled. “That will take strength too.”
I nodded and stepped toward the steaming wreck of the shop. Perhaps the presses, which were wrought of heavy iron, weren’t damaged beyond repair. Whatever could be salvaged wouldn’t need to be replaced – a small comfort, perhaps, but it might make the dawn easier for my Father to bear if he knew he didn’t need to start again entirely from scratch. “Let us hope I’m equal to the task.”
He caught my arm and stopped my progress. “It’s still plenty hot in there, Miss, and I don’t need you setting your skirts ablaze. I’d never hear the end of it.”
“Father wouldn’t blame you,” I said.
“It’s not your Father I’m worried about,” the fire marshal replied. Again, there was something in his expression that made me feel as if he knew something I did not. “Whatever’s there worth saving will be there when it’s cooled off.”
Chapter Three
There was nothing worth saving. I’d not expected to save any of the paper, and of course, the inks and solvents Father used in the print shop were all extremely flammable. They’d burned with such an intense heat that the old press was warped beyond recognition, and the new press – the one designed for high speed production – was totally destroyed.
“We can’t fix it.” I wasn’t asking, but Father took it as a question.
“I’m afraid not, my girl. It’s done for.”
“What will we do about Mitchell’s handbills?” The advertising flyers, I knew, had been paid for in advance; they were no more than a pile of cinders now, and we had no hope of replacing them.
Father laughed. There was no humor in the sound. “Those handbills are the least of my worries,” he said.
“We’ll rebuild, Papa,” I said. I couldn’t bear to see him so sad. “I know it all looks hopeless right now, but before you know it, we’ll have the shop looking as good as new.”
Father shook his head. “I wish that could be so,” he said, “but that’s not how it’s going to be. My days as a business man are over. This has ruined me.”
“Surely not!” During the war, I’d seen many other businesses leveled; there were those who said not a single square mile in the Shenandoah Valley had gone untouched. But one after another, the shops and factories had slowly come back. Things weren’t equal to what they’d been, or so I’d been told, but due to our neighbor’s determination and hard work, the region was beginning to be prosperous once again.
“Oh, my darling girl.” Father reached out and took me in his arms. His embrace was strong and passionate, quite unlike his normally reserved manner. “I am going to miss your spirit and optimistic nature.”
I stepped back and looked at Father. “What do you mean, you’re going to miss me?”
He looked at the ground and did not answer me.
“Are you going somewhere, Father?” I’d heard about people had been finding gold out West, in the wild California country. Fortunes were being made, but I couldn’t imagine my Father making a cross-country journey at his age. Even if he arrived safely, would he be strong enough for prospecting? The thought of claim jumpers filled me with dread. “I am going to go with you!”
Father shook his head. “It’s not me that’s leaving, darling.” He looked at the smoldering wreckage of the shop, and then at me. I was astonished to see his brown eyes welling up with tears; even at his most upset, my Father never cried. “It’s you.”
“And where am I going?” I demanded.
Father turned his back on me and started to walk into the house. “I think you’d better come inside,” he said. “The time has come and I can’t put this off any longer. You and I, we’ve got to talk.”
Chapter Four
“I want you to know I’ve never purposely kept things from you, Abigail.” My father was pacing back in forth in the kitchen; I sat propped in my favorite chair beside the cook stove. “But I didn’t want to worry you with a possibility that seemed remote at best.”
I nodded. “I understand that, Father.”
“You have to understand I had no choice.” He took a deep and shuddering sigh. “If the shop was to be viable, I needed the rotary press. We had to have it. Otherwise, we couldn’t handle the larger volume orders – things like Mitchell’s flyers.”
Again, I nodded. Nothing Father was saying was news to me; while I hadn’t worked in the shop alongside him, I knew enough about the operation of the business to follow his thinking. “You did what you thought was best.”
“No,” he said, with an anguished cry. “I did what I had to do.” His pacing increased in speed; I was worried he would lose his footing due to his agitation. “Neither a borrower nor a lender be, that’s the sensible way.”
“So you borrowed money to purchase the press?” I smoothed my hands over my skirt. “It seems a sensible enough thing to do. Surely whoever
leant the money to you will understand about the fire.”
Father looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “When you take on a debt of this size, the lender often requires you to put up some sort of collateral – a guarantee that you’ll surrender in case you cannot pay the debt.”
My stomach sank. Suddenly I understood what Father was saying. He’d put up our home as collateral for the business loan. The lender, whoever that might be, was going to be taking possession of it in lieu of repayment. We were going to be vagabonds; pitiful creatures without a roof over our heads. The idea made me frantic.
“Who did you borrow the money from? We must go to him and plead for a little time.”
Father shook his head sadly. “I’ve had that conversation already, my darling. The man’s heart is made of stone. He will not delay collecting his due by even a single hour.”
I took a deep breath. “Then we’ll go West.” California, which had seemed an impossible destination moments before, was suddenly appealing. “Even if we can’t find gold ourselves, we’ll find work. Start fresh. Build a life for ourselves. You’ll see, Papa!”
Father cocked his head, clearly puzzled.
“It doesn’t matter if this man takes the house from us,” I explained. “I know it looks impossible right now, but we can start anew.” I thought of what the fire marshal had said about bearing disappointments with grace. “It will be an adventure.”
Father looked sadder than I’d ever seen him. “It wasn’t the house I put up as collateral, darling.” He reached out and took my hand. “It was you.”
Chapter Five
The blood in my veins had turned to ice; I was near to frozen through with shock. “Father,” I demanded sternly. “Who did you borrow this money from? What, exactly, have you promised?”
My father broke down, weeping. Great racking sobs overtook his frame. He buried his face in his hands. “I can’t,” he said. “It is too terrible to tell you.”
“No,” I said. There was steel in my voice I knew not the source of. It was unfamiliar to Father as well, who looked up, startled, at the sound. “It was terrible not to tell me, but that is what you have done. Now you must let me know what is going to happen.”
“All right.” Father began pacing again, wrapping his arms around himself one moment, flinging them wide open the next. “I am going to tell you.”
I waited, but he was not any more forthcoming. The silence grew between us, long and uncomfortable. The whole house was quiet. I could hear the clock in the front room ticking, each second passing with a loud report.
Finally, it grew too much for me. “Papa,” I pleaded. “You have to tell me.”
“Robert Benson,” he said in a great exhalation. “I promised your hand in marriage to Robert Benson as collateral for the loan.”
I stood up, shocked, and then sank back down into my chair, with my hands pressed over my mouth.
“He’s a wealthy man,” Father said. “You’ll never want for anything as his wife.”
It was true. Robert Benson was one of the richest men in the valley; his big brick house was the envy of the town. But while the property was desirable, the man himself was anything but. He was a big man, loud-mouthed and coarse, with a terrible temper and a worse reputation.
“Papa!” I whispered. “He killed his wife. And you’re sending me to marry him?”
“That’s a rumor. There’s no proof of it that anyone can find,” Father said, wringing his hands together. I knew he didn’t believe what he was telling me. “I asked the sheriff for the truth of it before I agreed to Benson’s terms.”
“And the sheriff said Benson didn’t kill his wife?”
Father’s gaze dropped toward his boots once again. “He said there was no proof to be found. Kitty Benson might have run off on her own accord.”
“Or Mr. Benson might have strangled her in a fit of rage and thrown her body in a cave!” I snapped. I’d heard that story more times than I could count; the aging banker had not taken too kindly to his bride’s affectionate banter with a tradesman. Kitty had disappeared not long after a well-witnessed argument between the pair; the tradesman hadn’t been seen recently either.
“There’s no proof, Abigail.”
“And that lack of proof was enough to convince you he was a suitable husband for me?”
Father shrugged. “I never in a million years thought it would come to this.” He shook his head. “It shouldn’t have come to this.”
“And yet it has.” I stood up, hands on my hips. “How long do I have before this travesty takes place?”
Father exhaled slowly. “Benson’s up in Boston, meeting with some business partners. He’s not expected back for another week.”
“But then I’ll have to marry him.”
Fresh tears filled my Father’s eyes. “Yes, my darling. I’m afraid so.”
Chapter Six
I couldn’t bear Father’s presence. He kept crying, and the constant river of tears, coupled with the theatrical nature of his sighs, was more than any young lady in my situation should have to endure. It wasn’t him condemned to a life tethered to a total stranger. He wasn’t the one whose life had been promised away without consultation and consent. Yet it was clear he counted himself the victim; life itself had conspired against him.
“What sin have I wrought that heaven punishes me so?” he cried. “That my daughter should so cruelly be taken from me?”
“I wasn’t taken from you, Papa,” I said sternly. Perhaps it was wrong of me to snap; a dutiful daughter would have been mindful of his heartbreak. “You gave me away.”
He turned toward me, blue eyes wide and watery. “Such was never my intention. You are my heart’s own treasure, Abigail. I swear it.”
“People don’t put their heart’s own treasure up as collateral,” I replied, waving my arm in a gesture that took in all of our modest kitchen and the sitting room beyond. “You could have used the property to secure the loan. People do that all the time!”
“Damn it girl!” Father exploded. “I tried that. Robert Benson would have none of it. He has more property than God himself, he told me, and no interest in acquiring any more. The only surety he would accept was the promise of your hand in marriage.”
“And he of course is the only man in all of Christendom who could be found to stand you the money,” I snapped. Even within myself, I was shocked at the tone of our conversation. Always I had been a dutiful and respectful daughter, who never questioned my Father’s decisions. But this announcement – the news that I’d been bartered away for a printing press – broke something inside of me that I’d never known was there to break. Rage guided my words as much as logic did. Fury burned inside of me with an intensity every bit the equal of the flames that’d consumed the print shop and stolen my future from me.
“I’m sorry,” Father whispered. He buried his face in his hands. “I am so, so sorry.”
I should have comforted him. I should have gone to my Papa and wrapped my arms around him and assured him that everything was going to be fine. For my entire life, Father had done his best to provide for my every need, standing as both Mother and Father to me. His guidance and counsel had made me who I am; the very least I could do in repayment is offer him up a comforting stew of lies that I would surely find happiness as Robert Benson’s bride and that everything would work out fine in the end.
I knew this. I knew this with a certainty that came from deep within my soul. Yet I found that doing such a thing was impossible. There did not lie within me the capacity for a deceit so tremendous; I could not pretend to any happy certainty when my future was anything but.
So instead I stood, watching my Father cry. His face was buried in his hands. Tears were working their way through the spaces between his fingers, falling one by one to spot his pants. His shoulders were shaking. He looked so very old and so very small.
It was not an easy sight, and I could not watch for long. Papa did not look up as I walked out of the kitchen; I
do not know if he saw me open the front door. Stepping out into the sunshine was an awful revelation; the world could choose to dress itself in beauty even as my life was falling apart.
I put one foot in front of the other and started walking. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I knew I couldn’t stay where I was.
Chapter Seven
I met the fire marshal on the road. “Tell me you’re not coming to say the flames have birthed themselves again anew?” he asked, concern shining in his brown eyes.
“Who cares if they have?” I exclaimed. “Let it all burn, as far as I’m concerned.”
The fire marshal looked past me, scanning the horizon for any sign of smoke. Seeing none, he returned his attention to me. “So your Father has told you of your marriage, then.”
“How is it you know of this when I did not?” I demanded, grasping the fire marshal’s strong arm. “Why are you privy to this sorrow of mine?”
“Count it not a sorrow, Miss,” the fire marshal replied. “Robert Benson’s a wealthy man. You’ll live an easy life, in a fine home.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“It’s true!” the fire marshal protested. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“And how is it that such a humble man keeps company with one of the valley’s richest fellows?” I asked, with my hands on my hips. “That you can make such assurances to me?”
“I was there often enough,” the fire marshal snapped back, “when my sister was his bride.” It was clear from his tone that I’d wounded his pride, either with the doubting of him or by pointing out his ordinary station in life.
“Kitty was your sister?” I exclaimed. “And you tell me to go to her murderer’s home with joy in my heart?” I shook my head so violently that some of the pins holding it up fell free; my heavy auburn hair spilled over my shoulders in wild disarray. “What have I ever done to you that you hate me so?”
Romance: Luther's Property Page 49
