Promise Me This (20 page)

Annie was not surprised when she was summoned again, two days later, to Miss Hopkins’s study and found Jamison, Aunt Eleanor’s lifetime butler, waiting. It seemed to Annie that a long play, a tragedy, had been set in motion and that she was simply waiting, day by day, for each cue to her next scene.
I’ve lived this before,
Annie thought,
but have forgotten my lines.

Miss Hopkins must have explained to Jamison what Annie already knew, for he simply opened his arms, and Annie, her heart a leaden weight so heavy it slowed her steps, walked into them.

Miss Hopkins encouraged Jamison to talk to Miss Hargrave about allowing Annie to remain at school, to finish the term, to think of enrolling her for the following school year. Annie ignored her. She had no heart for school. Once Jamison told her all he knew, she had no heart for anything.

“The first week of this month, Miss Hargrave received a telegram from the White Star Line in Halifax.” Jamison ran the brim of his hat through his fingers again and again. “They said the ship—the
Mackay-Bennett
—the ship sent out to . . . to pick up the bodies had brought their cargo into port. They’d found a man with Mr. Owen’s passage ticket in his pocket.”

Annie’s brain resisted.
That means nothing! Anyone could have picked up his ticket.

“They asked for someone to come to identify the body,” Jamison continued, stealing defeated glances at Annie. “Miss Hargrave said it was ridiculous, that Mr. Owen was listed among those saved. But she’d heard nothing from Mr. Owen in America, you see, and her solicitor, Mr. Sprague, said she must go or send someone to be sure. Something to do with a trust, he said.”

“Sit down, Mr. Jamison,” Miss Hopkins offered. It was the first time Annie realized the headmistress was still in the room or that she and Jamison, who looked weary and pale beyond his advanced years, still stood.

“Thank you, mum.” Jamison sat heavily beside Annie on the settee.

Annie rubbed the tiny nubs of coarse black horsehair back and forth, needing to feel, to focus on something.

“So she sent me. She called it a fool’s errand and declared she’d not go herself.” Jamison inhaled slowly, then exhaled wearily.

“You couldn’t be certain it was Owen.” Annie had not meant to say the words aloud. They stole from her lips beyond her will.

“They brought us into a large rink, where all the bod—the people . . .” Jamison stopped, dipped his head, and waited until his voice steadied. “Some in coffins and some in canvas bags, some laid out on stretchers—just as the sea left them. They required identification that we were related to or acted on behalf of someone related to the decea—to the person. Then they took us in to identify them.” Jamison looked away, swiping at the tears that puddled in his eyes.

“But they’d all been in the sea,” Annie said, staring straight ahead. “They would not have looked the same.”
Perhaps they could not be certain it was Owen. And if they could not be certain, then maybe he . . .

Jamison withdrew from his coat pocket a packet wrapped in a handkerchief, which he unfolded and set on Annie’s lap. He picked up the small rake and spade, laid them in Annie’s hand, and closed her fingers round their handles. He took from his vest pocket the gunmetal watch that Annie had loved to flip open when she was little—the one that had been her father’s and then Owen’s. “These were in his pockets.”

Annie automatically flipped the case, and there was her picture opposite the clock face, her picture with Owen and their parents, taken when Annie was barely six. Time frozen. No sound escaped Annie’s lips.

“After I identified . . . Mr. Owen, I telegraphed Miss Hargrave, asking her what I should do. I heard nothing for two days, so I telegraphed again. That is when I learned from Solicitor Sprague that Miss Hargrave had taken a turn at the bad news. He told me to bring Mr. Owen home, to be buried in Bunhill with the mister and missus.” Jamison choked, coughing into his handkerchief. At last he straightened. “I beg your pardon, Miss Hopkins. This family has been my own.”

“There is no need, Mr. Jamison.” Miss Hopkins spoke softly.

Annie would have slipped her hand into Jamison’s if she could have lifted it.

“When I got back to London, I found Miss Hargrave had suffered a stroke. She’s taken to her bed, and the doctor does not know if she is likely to recover.” Jamison drew a deep breath.

“And she has asked for Annie to come home?” Miss Hopkins asked.

Jamison shifted in his seat and blinked his eyes. “Well, not exactly, mum. She cannot speak, as yet.” He looked at Annie. “Solicitor Sprague sent me to let Miss Annie know how things stand. He’s taken Miss Hargrave’s affairs in hand, you see, and . . . and he’s arranged services for Mr. Owen for tomorrow morning. He thought Miss Annie would want to know . . . would want to come back to London with me and attend.” Jamison waited. “And he wants to speak with Miss Annie directly.”

Miss Hopkins searched Annie’s face but asked the question of Jamison. “Does Annie need a place to live?”

Jamison let out a relieved sigh. “Mr. Sprague says Annie has a home in London always, as long as ever she wants—a home at Hargrave House.”

Annie stood. She might have laughed if she could have remembered how. It was exactly what she did not want—what she and Owen had never wanted—and now it was all she had.

“Annie?” Miss Hopkins lifted Annie’s chin and searched her face.

“I’ll pack my things,” Annie whispered, and fled.

Fog and torrents of rain sheeted their railway car windows all the way to London. It poured again the next morning through Owen’s service. Annie thought that the most fitting thing of all.

She was not permitted to view Owen’s body. Solicitor Sprague said that time and the sea had done their work. She thought it just as well, what little she could think. She wanted to remember her brother strong and handsome, as he had been on Easter Sunday. She wanted to remember him as when, arm in arm, they’d talked and laughed, strolling the streets of Southampton.

What she could not remember, could not feel, no matter how hard she tried, was the warmth of Owen’s arms about her or how it felt to lean her head against his chest and sense the beating of his heart through his woolen vest. That horrid emptiness, that inability to remember, to feel, made Annie shiver, standing by his grave in the pouring rain beneath her black umbrella.

The minister spoke—words, prayers, and a benediction—but Annie closed her eyes and ears. What could he say to bring her comfort when the person she loved most and last in all the world had been so violently taken from it?

When Annie finally blinked, her eyes wandered to her parents’ graves beside Owen’s, stark proof that she was truly and completely orphaned.

The smallest green sprouts pushed through the black, rain-wet earth, testimony of the gardening she and Owen had done when last they visited Bunhill Fields cemetery, such a little while ago. She idly thought to return later, alone, and continue the garden by planting those same flowers for Owen. Then she remembered that she had no more seeds. She would have to wait another year until the blossoms of her parents’ flowers had gone to seed.

She closed her eyes.
Another year or more—what does it matter?

When she turned from the graves, Annie’s eyes caught the image that Owen had pointed out to her on John Bunyan’s gravestone—Christian, loaded down by his heavy burden.
That’s me,
Annie thought.
That will forever be me. Owen was wrong; I shall never reach the other side.

Solicitor Sprague spoke as they walked the cobbled pathway back to their waiting cars. “I suppose you have seen and comprehended the situation with your aunt, Miss Allen.”

Annie was not used to being called by her formal name. It sounded to her as though he spoke to someone else.

“Elisabeth Anne?” The solicitor spoke again.

“No, sir. No, I’ve not seen her.” The effort to speak felt very great and roused the weight in Annie’s chest. “When we returned to London last night, it was quite late. This morning . . . I did not want . . . We simply came here.” She turned away. Annie did not want to explain that she dreaded seeing her aunt, that she had no desire to ever see her aunt.

The solicitor nodded. “When you have settled, I should like to speak with you.”

In all the years Mr. Sprague had come and gone from her aunt’s study, he’d rarely acknowledged her or Owen except to nod in passing through the hallway to the great front door.

“Shall we say ten o’clock tomorrow, at my home?”

“Your home?” It was all the speech Annie could make. What could he want?

Mr. Sprague eyed her keenly. “Yes. Mr. Jamison might accompany you. I have taken the liberty of giving him my card.”

Annie knew that was out of the ordinary. But then, everything was upside down. She nodded, aware that she should respond more appropriately and not caring in the least.

“Very well.” The solicitor seemed satisfied. Still he hesitated. “I think it best that you do not mention our visit to your aunt for now—should she regain consciousness.”

That did raise Annie from her stupor. “If you think that is best, sir.”

“I do. Tomorrow I shall explain why.” And then, pressing her elbow, he lost his matter-of-fact business tone. “For today, Annie, go home and rest. You have experienced quite enough.” He tipped his hat and was gone.

Annie was not prepared for his small kindness or for his use of her childhood name. She blinked back the hot tears that sprang so easily.

Jamison held the car door for her, retrieving her umbrella as she stepped in. “He’ll be a friend to you now, Miss Annie.”

“Who?”

“Solicitor Sprague. It was he who arranged everything for Mr. Owen—bringing him back to England; ’twas he who insisted I go to the school to fetch you in time for services. He didn’t want you to hear about it from a stranger.”

“Oh” was all Annie could manage. She frowned. Had Aunt Eleanor been well, might she not have sent for her? Might Annie not have been invited to her brother’s funeral?

“He’s taken over Miss Hargrave’s affairs, you see. It was an arrangement your grandfather made—in case she was ever incapacitated, which she is . . . at least for now.” Jamison looked to Annie as if he meant to convey more than his words allowed.

But Annie could not sort it through—not what Solicitor Sprague might want, nor how Jamison knew so much more of her family’s affairs than she. She had, as Solicitor Sprague remarked, “experienced quite enough.”

Annie checked the face of her brooch watch: ten minutes before the hour.

Jamison fussed with his gloves as he pulled the doorbell of Solicitor Sprague’s home. “Nurse Sise said Miss Hargrave stirred in her sleep last night, not like she was out cold, as she’s been this past week.”

“Is that a good sign?” Annie asked.

Jamison eyed her curiously. “It all depends on what you hope for, Miss Annie.”

A butler opened the door just then and, stepping back, bowed. “Miss Allen. Mr. Jamison. Mr. Sprague is expecting you.”

Annie was not used to being treated so formally. Until she had traveled to Southampton with Owen, she’d been kept very much in the rooms abovestairs at Hargrave House in London. Aunt Eleanor had never taken her to make calls upon friends. But that was normal for a girl of her age and station. Six weeks ago she’d longed for adventure and, though frightened at the thought of Owen’s leaving, had thrilled when she and Owen tore away on the train to Southampton. It was the most adventurous thing she’d ever done.

But now, with Owen gone, she wanted nothing more than to be quiet and left alone. Enduring her days in the seclusion of the upstairs rooms in the house on Old Street seemed challenging enough. What did it matter whether or not Aunt Eleanor regained consciousness? What more could her aunt do or take away from her now that she’d lost Owen?

“Your coat, miss.” The butler assisted Annie. “This way, please, miss.”

Annie and Jamison followed the butler down the hallway, waiting while he opened a heavy oak door. The two men stood aside.

“Ah, Miss Allen.” Solicitor Sprague rose from his desk and held a chair for Annie. “Come right in.”