Promise Me This (25 page)

“Why?” Connie probed. “Why do you want to go?”

“It isn’t that I want to go. It’s just that . . . just that I think I need to begin my life. It is time to begin my life.”

“What do you call this?” Connie demanded.

“Constance!” Mrs. Sprague interrupted. “Allow Annie to explain.”

“I’m not certain I can explain. But it is spring.” Annie raised her eyes and shifted in her seat. “Father and Owen always turned the beds at Hargrave House in spring . . . and they pruned and planted.”

“But they are not there, Annie dear,” Mrs. Sprague offered patiently.

Annie sighed. “I know that, but I can do it.”

“Turn the beds?” Mr. Sprague’s brows rose.

“Garden? You?” Connie challenged.

“Yes, Owen taught me ever so much. I know I cannot do everything, but I can do some. I want to do it. I want to feel the soil; I need to feel . . .” Annie spread her hands helplessly, frustrated that they did not understand.

“Alive,” Connie finished.

“Yes,” Annie replied gratefully. “And I want to be close to them.” She looked at her hands and said quietly, “I’ll find them there. Father always said that life began in a garden.”

Mr. and Mrs. Sprague exchanged glances over Annie’s head. Mrs. Sprague reached for Annie’s hand. “But you can’t, darling. It’s impossible. Why, a grown man alone could not . . .”

Annie’s eyes welled and threatened to overflow. Owen would have understood.

“Wait, Betty.” Mr. Sprague stopped his wife.

“But, Edwin, you know that it is out of the question for her to return to that house.”

“Returning to the house is indeed out of the question. But as for the garden . . .” Mr. Sprague looked into Annie’s eyes. “No, I think that is not out of the question. I think if anyone could grow and tend a garden, it is Annie Allen.”

Annie looked up. He had used her name, just as she was.

Mr. Sprague smiled. “It might be just the thing, mightn’t it?”

Annie nodded through sparkling tears.

“We shall hire someone to turn the beds for you, to do the hauling and heavy work. But you direct them. You plan and plant the gardens—as you wish.”

Annie drew a quick, clean breath. “Yes! Yes.”

“But I—” Mrs. Sprague began; her husband raised his hand.

“You must, however, continue to live here, with us. You may work in the gardens weekday afternoons and as long as you wish on Saturdays. But you must promise to apply yourself to your studies with your tutors weekday mornings. You must keep up your piano and voice lessons. And you will attend Red Cross meetings and outings with Constance, as well as services with us on Sundays. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Annie said, relieved on all counts. “Thank you, Mr. Sprague.”

He nodded. “Prepare a list for the gardener of all that you require. I shall see that he is able to keep you supplied.”

That night Annie could not sleep for the anticipation building inside her. She closed her eyes and tried to remember in detail the gardens of Hargrave House. She was surprised to realize that, although she had played in and roamed those gardens for years, she could not picture each flower in its season.

Should she wait through this year, watch and record what emerged, or should she have the beds turned completely and begin anew? Such a daring contemplation thrilled her, but what she wanted most was to feel near Owen and Father, to remember them through their flowers and herbs, to rediscover their earthy spring scent in the upturned beds.

The downstairs clock bonged half past two. Annie tossed, then turned, and tossed again. She knew it was not only excitement for the new gardens, nor was it simply the thrill of grown-up responsibilities that stole her sleep. By returning to Hargrave House, even if she never stepped foot inside the front door, she knew she would not be able to avoid Aunt Eleanor forever.

She had not asked about her aunt in weeks, had not been directly told the current state of her health. She wanted to picture her aunt as helpless and bedridden, her piercing eyes closed, wanted to think of her power and control confined to her bedchamber. But Annie knew that was not the case.

She’d overheard Mr. and Mrs. Sprague two days before, when she stopped short to listen at the breakfast room door. “I visited Hargrave House yesterday,” Mr. Sprague said. “She is able to sit in a wheeled chair now, able to respond to questions by nods and the shaking of her head.”

“That is not the same as being able to direct a household or handle her financial affairs!” Mrs. Sprague insisted.

“No.” He seemed to consider. “Her few words are not always clear. But Eleanor Hargrave is better able to reason than she is to communicate. It may be only a matter of time before she can and will insist on resuming some of her own affairs.”

“But Annie—” Mrs. Sprague spoke quietly, urgently—“she would not take Annie, surely.”

The silence was long. Annie stood outside the door, her ear pressed to it, her heart pounding in her chest.

“I cannot say what Eleanor Hargrave will do.” Mr. Sprague sighed wearily. “I have never been able to predict the workings of that woman’s mind. But I do not believe she holds Elisabeth Anne’s best interests in her heart.”

“Oh, Edwin—” Mrs. Sprague’s voice caught.

“There, my dear. We shall keep her with us for as long as we are able. I will prolong the workings of the law for as long as humanly possible.”

And that was what worried Annie. Even though she was only a few months from sixteen, Annie feared she would not be able to live with the Spragues until she could become independent. Sooner or later her aunt might insist upon her return, determined and within her legal rights to control Annie.

“If I must go back, it will be on my terms,” Annie whispered to the dark. “Hargrave House is part mine—or will be. By working in the gardens, I stake my claim, my right. I will make certain that she knows she cannot trample me.”

Even her vow made Annie cringe. It was one thing to whisper safely in the night, with no one to challenge her—with feisty Connie breathing nearby and stalwart Mr. and Mrs. Sprague sleeping just down the hallway. It would be quite another to stand up to Aunt Eleanor.

Daniel and Michael split and hauled wood for the community all winter. The moment Michael learned that locals paid three dollars per tree for evergreens hauled into their parlors to decorate for Christmas, he insisted they plant a hundred saplings come spring.

“We’ll call it Annie’s Evergreen Garden! One season will bring enough to fetch Annie here and set her up in the best school—wherever that is!” But he was astonished and chagrined to learn that the trees, once planted, would not be ready to harvest and sell for another three to five years.

“Growing is a patient thing, lad,” Daniel explained. “You must give all living things time to adjust to their new surroundings, their new soil, then time to grow, as well.”

But Michael had worked almost a full year and was out of patience. By the first anniversary of
Titanic
’s sinking, Daniel had established nearly half of Owen’s seeds. A third of his slips and roses thrived. More young plants from the Old World stock struggled; their futures loomed uncertain. Selling to the public was out of the question.

How can I bring Annie here when the business is barely surviving? Aunt Maggie and Daniel barely scraped together enough cash for the land taxes. There’s not a farthing for ship’s fare.

But bringing Annie to New Jersey was the only thing Owen had demanded. Michael felt feeble and useless, as though he’d betrayed his friend.

Still, Owen’s words played through his mind:
“Everything I touch grows and thrives. And now I’ve touched you, Michael Dunnagan. So you’ve no choice but to grow and thrive as well.”

Owen believed in me. What would Owen do if he were here?
Michael knew he would not stand by and say,
“Oh well, we’ll have to wait five years to bring Annie across.”

He’d do something, surely! If he couldn’t make the money one way, he’d make it another.
Michael thought and thought. He pondered until his brain was sore. And in the end, the idea came from Annie herself.

“Her letter is brimming over with news and sketches of her garden plans,” Maggie said of Annie’s latest letter while she served the perch.

“Her garden plans?” Michael stopped chewing and paused with his fork in midair.

“Look here.” Aunt Maggie spread the new letter before Daniel and Michael across the table. “She’s like her brother, what with all the plans and grand notions. And a fine artist she is!” She clucked her tongue, approval in both dimples.

“What’s this, then? It says
rose garden
.” Michael set down his fork. “What’s this she’s drawn by the rose garden?”

“Let me see. She’s labeled everything in great detail! Ah, that is a gazebo—a little wooden garden house for people to sit in. And see here, with the morning glories winding round the post—that’s a birdhouse.”

“Owen and I talked of building gazebos. But—‘birdhouse’—you mean a regular house for birds? With rooms and all? Do people really make such things?”

“Why, yes! Of course they do—well, not with rooms; it’s empty inside. A safe and dry place for a pair of birds to build their nest.” Aunt Maggie laughed.

“Made of wood?” Michael demanded.

“Yes, yes, of course. You’ve never seen a birdhouse, Michael?”

Daniel interrupted Maggie’s question. “Some folks fashion them from gooseneck gourds. Even paint the funny things to add a bit of whimsy.”

“Would people with a spot of money buy such a thing?” Michael demanded again, a sudden spring in his chest.

“Why, yes,” Maggie answered. “I suppose they would.”

“That’s it, then!” Michael slapped the table. “I’ll build those houses—for birds, and bigger ones for people to sit in inside their gardens. There’s stacks and stacks of lumber behind the barn!”

“All that lumber came from an old barn Sean tore down a couple years back,” Aunt Maggie said.

Michael looked closely at Annie’s picture. “See here! She’s drawn a swing—one here hanging from a tree, but across the way is one in a frame—a double-sided thing. I’ll make that, too!”

“Furniture for the lawn and garden,” Daniel mused. “It’s not a bad idea, that.”

“Oh, Daniel! Not you too!” Maggie chided. “You’re both daft. Haven’t you enough work for five men, and here, such talk of adding more.”

“We’ve got to do something to raise money for Annie’s ticket!” Michael pleaded.

“It isn’t just the ticket,” Maggie patiently explained for the hundredth time. “We cannot bring her here when we don’t know if we’ll lose the land and house. Owen did not want that—you told me so yourself.”

“We’ll not lose the land!” Michael pounded the table. Maggie jumped and Daniel raised his eyebrows. Michael’s color rose, but he would not take it back. “We’ll make it work! Owen said that a man, once he’s put his hand to the plow, is bound to accomplish what he’s set about; there’s no turning back. We’ll do it—we will!”

Daniel pushed his spectacles to the top of his head. “Well, you heard the man, Maggie. You’d best pour us another cup of coffee. There’s work to be done.”

Daniel smiled and Maggie looked nearly vexed, but she poured the coffee.

Michael took Annie’s drawing from Maggie’s letter and set to work that very night. Daniel showed him how to draw a pattern on old newspaper and how to measure and cut the wood for birdhouses. Michael cut and nailed and hammered; he sanded and wiped, then sanded again; some he stained and varnished, while others he painted.

Daniel and Michael worked full days in the fields and gardens. But Michael no longer joined his aunt and Daniel by the fire in the evenings. He worked on his birdhouses in the barn each night until he could no longer see. By the end of three weeks his eyes were itchy and red from sawdust. He’d stacked twenty-five birdhouses along the barn shelf, each one different from the last.

“You must call him in, Daniel,” Maggie urged. “He’s working himself into a dither.”

“Leave the boy alone, Maggie. He’s got a purpose. Have you ever seen him so glad and driven?”

“I know, but what if she does not want to come? What if Michael wears himself to the bone and Annie says no? He’ll be devastated.”