What harm could come of him staying another week or two to help with the corn? He lifted his brow at Dirk.
But Dirk’s eyes remained dark with warning.
Carl sighed. He’d promised to leave on Monday. If he stayed, he’d only put off the inevitable and risk the possibility that Dirk or Ward would reveal his identity.
“Now that Dirk’s here,” he said, “you won’t need my help.”
“Ja, we will.” Gretchen spoke before Annalisa could. “We’ll always need your help.”
“Dirk’s a strong man.” Carl forced out the words he knew he must say. “And he’ll help you and your mama just fine.”
“But I thought you wanted to be my papa?” She peered up at him, her beautiful blue eyes alight with confusion.
Carl wanted to groan with the agony of having to say good-bye. He turned to Annalisa, beseeching her to help him. How could he explain the complexity of the situation to Gretchen?
But Annalisa pressed her lips together, and her eyes told him she wouldn’t be of any assistance to him, that if he wanted to leave, he would have to figure out a way to soothe Gretchen all on his own.
“You know I’d be honored to be your papa.” He laid his hand on the girl’s head. “I couldn’t imagine a better daughter than you.”
“Then you’ll stay?” Her face sparked with hope.
Slowly he shook his head. “I can’t—”
“I promise to be a good girl.”
“You’re already a good girl.” He swallowed hard past the ache in his throat. “And I know you’ll continue to be a good girl for your mama.”
Her lower lip trembled.
He could sense the smugness in Dirk’s expression. The man seemed to be taking pleasure in the pain of their parting. He supposed Dirk had every right to be upset at him for winning the affection and allegiance of Annalisa and her daughter. Still, he ought to allow him the chance to say good-bye privately.
At least Peter and Uri had the kindness to go on with their meal, licking and chomping noisily as if doing their best to ignore the situation.
Carl stroked Gretchen’s head and spoke softly. “I’ll miss you very, very much.”
Tears glistened in her eyes.
The knot at the base of his throat burned.
Sophie began fussing loudly, echoing his pain.
“Then you won’t stay and be my papa?”
Oh, God,
his heart cried.
Won’t you help me?
He’d never expected leaving Gretchen would rip his heart into shreds. And if leaving her hurt this much, how could he possibly say good-bye to Annalisa without ripping out his heart altogether?
A tear rolled down the little girl’s cheek.
He couldn’t squeeze any more words past the tightness of his throat. Instead he shook his head.
She gulped out a sob and spun on her bare feet, away from the table. Leaving a trail of sobs in her wake, she dashed across the long, dry grass of the farmyard and headed in the direction of the barn.
Annalisa’s expression was tight, and she silently berated him for hurting Gretchen. She handed the baby to Eleanor and started after Gretchen.
With a shaky sigh, Carl started to rise.
“Sit down and eat,” Peter boomed. “You’ll only make matters worse if you go after her.”
But Carl climbed off the bench and jogged toward Annalisa. He had to figure out a way to offer some solace to Gretchen.
“Let them go,” Dirk called after him.
Carl ignored Dirk’s words. He reached Annalisa, circled her arm and tugged her to a stop.
“Let them go and come back here!” Dirk’s voice grew harder with anger. “Or else—”
“Or else what?” Carl spun around. He’d had enough of Dirk’s threats. Who did the man think he was, anyway, lording over him? Did Dirk relish the fact that for once in his life he had power over a nobleman? “What are you going to do?” he shouted. “What?”
Dirk rose from the table. His glare sparked with jealousy.
“Are you going to tell them the truth about who I am?” Carl said. “Is that it?”
Annalisa stiffened. Peter and Uri stopped eating, their greasy fingers suspended over their plates.
“Well, why don’t I save you the trouble?” Carl continued. “I’ll tell them myself.”
Dirk’s eyes widened, and then a cough burst out and bent him over with the force.
Suddenly Carl knew that telling everyone the truth was the right thing to do—the thing he should have done from the very beginning but had been too afraid to do.
“Herr Bernthal, Uri . . .” He nodded at them, then turned and looked at Annalisa. “Annalisa . . .”
She shook her head, as if she didn’t want to hear what he had to say.
He took a deep breath and spoke before he lost the courage. “I’m not Carl Richards. There’s no such person. It’s just a name Matthias gave me when he was helping me escape from prison.”
“So you had to take a false name to hide from the duke,” Peter said. “So what? That’s understandable.”
Annalisa’s hands began to tremble.
“And Matthias wasn’t just my friend.” The words stuck in his mouth, but he pushed them out. “Matthias was my manservant.”
“Manservant?” Peter said. “My brother wasn’t your manservant. From the time he was a lad, he worked as a household servant for the cursed Baron von Reichart.”
Annalisa’s eyes filled with sudden understanding. She jerked away from him, a cascade of emotions flitting across her features—first revulsion, then hurt.
She knew. His heart tumbled into a rapid fall.
“I told Matthias year after year that the baron didn’t deserve a servant like him,” Peter went on. “That he should leave the baron’s household and find work somewhere else. The baron didn’t pay him well and treated him no better than a slave.”
Annalisa took a step away from Carl.
“Please, Annalisa . . .” he whispered.
She shook her head and took a few more steps, adding to her distance from him.
“But Matthias stayed anyway.” Peter took a bite of pork. “I couldn’t figure out why, except that he always had an affection for the baron’s son.”
Carl turned to face Peter. He straightened his shoulders and tried to calm the quaking in his stomach.
Peter stopped chewing and stared at Carl.
“I’m the baron’s son.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the wind rushing through the brittle grass, bending it low and beating it down.
Peter finally let the piece of pork drop onto his plate with a splat. Understanding rose in the man’s eyes as sure and hot as the afternoon sun.
“I am Gottfried Charles von Reichart the third, the eldest and only son of Baron von Reichart of Saxony.”
Peter pushed his plate away and slowly began to rise. His expression was dead cold.
The man was going to kill him. Carl could see it in every determined movement.
“I gave you my kindness, my shelter, my food, and almost gave you my daughter.” Peter’s voice shook. “And you willingly took it all. Even though you knew you were the son of my sworn enemy—the man who murdered my Erik.”
“I was wrong to deceive you.” Carl spread his feet, bracing himself. What could he say to defend himself? There was nothing
he could do to make reparation for the pain of his betrayal. He deserved whatever punishment Peter wanted to give him.
Peter’s face hardened into what looked like chiseled marble, the same as one of the statues that lined the hallways of his father’s schloss. Peter stared at Carl as if seeing the baron himself, as if remembering every detail of Erik’s death and the pain of his father’s words as he dismissed him, and his father’s refusal to show any compassion—not even the smallest speck.
The man’s eyes burned with years of hate and hurt. Without a word Peter stalked across the yard, his footsteps heavy against the dry ground. He disappeared into the cabin, into its dark interior.
Dirk heaped a spoonful of krautsalat onto his plate, banging the spoon against the tin. His lips twitched with the beginnings of a grin, and from the gleam in his eyes it was clear he declared himself the victor.
Carl conceded, letting his shoulders slump. Dirk had indeed won.
Annalisa glanced between them, her eyes darkening with loathing.
Carl knew there was no way she would have him now, not even if he’d gotten down on his knees and begged her.
She hated him. And he didn’t blame her.
“I’m sorry, Annalisa,” he said.
“Don’t say anything.” Her voice was low and radiated pain.
“I know I should say I’m sorry that I ever came here in the first place. I knew from the moment I stepped foot on your father’s farm that I shouldn’t stay. But meeting you and Gretchen and Sophie—it was the best thing that’s ever happened in my life.”
She turned her head away so that he couldn’t see her face.
He wanted to reach out for her, to hold her, make her look
him in the eyes. But he had no right to demand anything of her. He didn’t belong in her life and never had.
Just then Peter stepped out of the cabin. The clicking and cocking of a rifle echoed in the air, followed by Annalisa’s soft gasp.
Carl didn’t have to look to know that Peter had his hunting rifle and had aimed it at him.
“I wonder what your father will say when I have Herr Pastor write and tell him I killed his son? Do you think he’ll finally apologize for killing mine?”
“Nein, Vater.” Annalisa shook her head wildly. “You can’t do this.”
Peter lifted his rifle and closed one eye, centering the barrel squarely on Carl’s heart.
Carl braced himself for the power of the hit and pain of the bullet entering his flesh and tearing through his bones. Strangely he wasn’t afraid. For once in his life he’d done the right thing by staying and facing the consequences of his mistakes, instead of running away and expecting his father’s money to bail him out of trouble.
“You’re a lying, cheating, lazy nobleman.” Peter’s finger tightened against the trigger. “And the only good nobleman is a dead one.”
“Nein!” Annalisa screamed the word. Before Carl could stop her, she threw herself in front of him, her arms outstretched, her body blocking and protecting him from her father’s deadly intent.
“Get out of the way, Annalisa!” Carl tried to step around her and push her out of the line of Peter’s fire.
But she only moved back in front of him, putting her body between him and her father.
“Stay out of this, daughter!” Peter lifted the barrel of his gun heavenward.
“I won’t let you shoot him.”
Carl finally got a grip on Annalisa’s arms and swung her around so she had no choice but to stumble behind him. “I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.” He straightened his shoulders and faced Peter directly. “Whatever you plan to do, let’s get it over with before Gretchen comes out of the barn.”
His arms stretched taut, aching from the pressure of forcing Annalisa behind him. She struggled to break free of his grip. Her breath came in short gasps, almost sobs. “Nein!” she called again. “You can’t kill him. His father’s mistakes aren’t his.”
Her words were reminiscent of what he’d once admonished her regarding comparing him to Hans. “True. I don’t claim to be my father. I’ve made enough mistakes of my own without taking on his too.” He tossed the words over his shoulder, hoping Annalisa could sense the apology in them.
Peter pointed the gun at him again and stared down its long barrel. His gaze was unforgiving.
Carl didn’t flinch. He wasn’t his father, but he was still a nobleman. And over the years he’d done his share of scoffing and demeaning the peasants too, though perhaps not as purposefully as his father. But his pride and callousness had hurt them as well.
By living among them, laboring with his hands, and learning their ways, God had humbled him. Maybe he hadn’t become one of them. But at least he’d begun to understand and empathize with their plight.
“I may not be my father, but I’ve still hurt you with my own uncaring and insensitive attitude. And now I’ve added to the pain with my deception.”
The gun wavered.
“I deserve whatever punishment you wish to give me.”
Sweat rolled down Peter’s forehead and dripped into his eyes. He lifted his arm and swiped the wetness with his sleeve.
“Let him go, Vater!” Annalisa jerked, trying to free herself. “Bitte!”
A gust of hot wind swelled and pushed at Carl as if it would drive him away if it could.
Slowly, Peter lowered his gun. Anguish rippled across his face. “Get off my land.”
Carl sagged and his breath came out with a whoosh.
Annalisa ripped free of his hold and stepped away from him.
“Get off my land and don’t ever step foot on it again,” Peter boomed louder. “Now. Before I change my mind and put a bullet into your black heart.”
Carl took several steps backward and turned toward Annalisa.
Her face was tight with anger. Whatever feelings she’d had that motivated her attempt to save his life had apparently blown away.
“And leave my daughter alone,” Peter said. “Don’t ever step foot on her land again either.”
Carl wanted to ask Annalisa to run away with him. To go get Sophie and Gretchen so that they could stay together.
But her eyes spoke the words she would never say aloud—she hated him just as much as her father did. She would never want him now. Never.
The ache in his throat swelled. “So I guess this is good-bye?”
She jutted out her chin.
Peter waved his gun at him. “Go on. Get out of here. We don’t want to see you again.”
Carl nodded, first at Peter, then at Uri. Surprisingly the boy’s eyes were the only ones not blazing with resentment. Instead, Uri peered at him with disappointment, as if somehow he’d expected more from him.
With a sigh that echoed all the sadness squeezing at his body, Carl walked over to Eleanor, who was still holding Sophie. Peter kept the gun trained on his every step.
But Carl ignored the man. He had a right to say good-bye to Sophie. No one could stop him. Not after he’d helped bring her into the world. In his heart, she was his daughter.
At the sight of him, she squealed and kicked her legs.
“Good-bye, Sophie,” he whispered.
The baby grabbed one of his fingers and lifted it to her mouth. If he let her, she would gnaw and drool on it, as she’d started doing recently.