Promise Me This (36 page)

“Not for her sake, my dear. But—” he hesitated—“perhaps for your own.”

“Mine?”
Has he gone mad?

“Do you remember when I cautioned you—the day we first met in my office, after Owen’s funeral?”

Annie stared at him, replaying the scene in her mind. “You told me not to become bitter as Aunt Eleanor had.” She looked away. “I have not forgotten.”

Mr. Sprague nodded. “I advised you to take Owen’s example as your own, to live the life of forgiveness and generosity that he so exemplified.”

Annie studied her hands. “I have tried, Mr. Sprague. I forgave Michael Dunnagan . . . for living when Owen died. We’ve even become friends—the very best of friends, I think—and correspondents. I have forgiven Owen for leaving me here alone and for saving others rather than himself.” She looked up. “But I do not know how to forgive Aunt Eleanor. In some way or other she has been at least partially responsible for the death of every member of my family. I hate her.”

“Nor has she changed, at least as far as I am able to discern.” He leaned toward Annie, taking her hands in his own. “But I must ask you, does your hate make you happy, my dear, or does it continually eat through you, a cancer of its own making? Does the constant fueling of that angry fire not exhaust you and take away from living the wonderful life you’ve been given?”

Annie shook her head tiredly, biting her lip.

“Is it what Owen would have wanted for you? Is it why he made provision for you—to sustain turmoil?”

The tears behind Annie’s eyes threatened to spill, but she held them back. “No.” She pulled her hands away and clasped them before her. “He would have wanted me to forgive her—for my sake, for Christ’s sake, and for his. I know that.”

“It may be that the only way you can be entirely free of your aunt—free of the hatred and fear you carry for her—is to see her face to face and tell her that you are no longer afraid of her. Then forgive her if you are able.”

Mr. Sprague leaned forward. “She will be gone soon, Annie. She will never be able to hurt you or your loved ones again—unless you continue to carry this burden of hurt and anger. You will have to lay it down if you hope to be free.”

But Annie turned away. Mr. Sprague’s words churned memories of her morning with Owen, before the tomb of John Bunyan. She saw again the relief on Bunyan’s stone—the heavy burden that weighed Christian down—and felt a deep-down weariness in her bones and the weight of her own load so aptly pictured.

Minutes passed as Annie stared into the hearts of the pale-yellow roses in full bloom, the blue phlox and creeping thyme that spilled over the walkway. She had come so far in the last year. She did not want to risk losing that progress by facing her aunt.

But if I don’t, if Aunt Eleanor dies before I confront her, will I ever be truly free? Which burden is heavier? Please, Lord . . . oh, please be with me in this.

Annie stood at last and brushed her skirt. She looked at Mr. Sprague, hefting in her mind again and again the weight of her decision. At length she breathed deeply. “Please tell Aunt Eleanor that I will see her—as long as you are beside me, Mr. Sprague.”

The meeting was set for Saturday afternoon, 21 August, the day before Annie’s eighteenth birthday. As they drove the streets to Hargrave House, Mr. Sprague prayed for the girl he had come to love as a second daughter.

As they stepped from the taxi, he prayed for Eleanor Hargrave, that the bitter woman would use wisdom, discretion, and unaccustomed kindness in her speech and actions toward Annie.

As they ascended the great front steps of the family home, and as he lifted the heavy door knocker, Mr. Sprague prayed this visit was not a grave mistake. He never knew what to expect from Eleanor Hargrave, but history gave him every reason to mistrust her. He would remain at Annie’s side throughout the interview.

Old Jamison, looking even more bent and weary than the last time Edwin Sprague had been to visit, showed them to Eleanor’s first-floor drawing room. It had been converted into a spacious and comfortable bedchamber and sitting room.

Eleanor Hargrave lay, blue-veined and thin, against a daybed, covered in layers of cotton and silk coverlets, despite the warm summer day.

Once they were seated, Eleanor lifted her eyes in acknowledgment. “I have decided to open Hargrave House as a hospital, a convalescent center for our wounded soldiers returning from France.”

Mr. Sprague blinked, certain he had not heard correctly. He sensed Annie’s loss of equilibrium in the chair beside him.

“This decision will affect the girl, as my surviving Hargrave heir. This house and its contents will—” Edwin Sprague noticed that she nearly choked—“one day pass to her.”

The silence in the room lay thick. At last Annie whispered, “It is a splendid idea, Aunt Eleanor, the very thing I have wished for.”

Eleanor did not acknowledge Annie. “If there are no objections . . .” She waited.

Mr. Sprague and Annie exchanged surprised looks. “It is an arrangement,” Mr. Sprague replied with as much composure as he could muster, “which Elisabeth Anne has expressed a desire for on more than one occasion.”

“We are agreed, and it is settled. A modernized kitchen and laundry will be installed immediately. I’ll have the appropriate government and medical authorities contacted. You should be ready to receive your first patients within a fortnight, Elisabeth Anne.”

“My—my patients?”

Aunt Eleanor’s thin lip lifted. “You have completed your VAD training, have you not?”

“Why, yes, but—”

“You cannot expect me to administrate a project of this magnitude given my current state of health.” Aunt Eleanor sounded offended.

“Of course not,” Mr. Sprague intervened. “There will be no difficulty in procuring an experienced hospital administrator of the highest order. But Annie is not yet eighteen. She cannot be expected to—”

“Elisabeth Anne, not eighteen?” Aunt Eleanor feigned surprise. “I understood from the matron of her hospital that she is twenty-three—or very nearly. Tomorrow, I believe.” Her smile fell away.

“What is this about, Eleanor?” Mr. Sprague frowned.

“It is about the future of Hargrave House and the patriotic responsibility of our family in wartime. To those ends, I wish to speak with my niece alone. You may wait in the hallway, Edwin.”

Annie’s fingers gripped Mr. Sprague’s arm.

He covered her hand protectively. “That is not our agreement.”

“Those are my conditions.” Eleanor Hargrave lifted her chin, staring her challenge to Edwin Sprague.

“In that event, we wish you good day.” Mr. Sprague stood and waited for Annie to do the same.

But Annie, sitting rigidly in the chair, did not move.

Mr. Sprague knew the spell cast by her aunt was a long one, and Annie’s feet seemed frozen to the floor. “Elisabeth Anne,” he said quietly, “let us go.” He waited, then urged, “Annie?”

Eleanor Hargrave’s piercing eyes and presence had clearly mesmerized her niece.
She has the eyes of a snake. I must get Annie out of here before Eleanor overcomes her with her cruel and perverted logic. I wish to God that I’d not brought her here!

In fleeting expressions Edwin Sprague saw Annie resisting, considering, and finally succumbing to her aunt.

“I will stay. I will hear what Aunt Eleanor has to say.”

“I do not think it wise to—”

“Wait in the hallway, Edwin. We shall not be long.” Eleanor Hargrave closed her eyes, awaiting obedience to her commands.

Mr. Sprague touched Annie’s shoulder. “Are you certain?”

Annie visibly shivered but nodded. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

Every nerve in Edwin Sprague’s body shouted misgivings, but he closed the door behind him and waited. He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his brow, and cursed himself for bringing Annie to Hargrave House.

In less than ten minutes Annie emerged, pale but dry-eyed, her back straight.

Mr. Sprague followed her through the great hallway. When they reached the foyer, he pulled the heavy door open quickly, glad at last to whisk Annie from the drear old house.

But Annie placed her hand on his arm. “Please have my things sent round. Thank you for all you have done for me. Please thank Mrs. Sprague and Connie. I shall write them, of course—”

“What—what are you saying? What did she say to you?” Edwin Sprague felt as though a cat ran its claws down the back of his neck.

Annie looked up; her lower lip barely trembled. “It does not matter—truly. There is something I must do, and I must live here to do it.”

“My dear—whatever she said to you—”

“This is my decision, Mr. Sprague.”

“And I am your guardian for at least another day. I’ll not leave you in this house!”

A momentary fear flashed through Annie’s eyes, but she regained—by force, Edwin thought—some small amount of composure. “You have been a wonderful guardian, Mr. Sprague, and I am glad and grateful for all you have given me. But I must do this.”

“Do what?”

“Open a hospital in the house—the second and third floors.”

“Elisabeth Anne—”

“For our wounded. There are not enough hospitals in the city. Citizens are opening their country homes by the score, but more are needed here in London, where there are more doctors available.” Annie’s words sounded rote, even though he knew she believed them.

“Annie, my dear, the administration of a hospital, even a small one in such a house as this, is too great a burden for you!”

Annie nodded. “It is her condition for . . .”

“For what? Whatever is she thinking? You are far too young!”

“I will have help. But I will run it.” Annie faltered. “Aunt Eleanor knows I have posed as being older for some time. And you were right about her investigations—she knows about Aunt Maggie and Uncle Daniel being married. She knows every detail of their mortgage and financial obligations. She knows about Michael and Owen and . . . and everything that has happened in your home and business for months, including your war work.”

Edwin Sprague felt an unfamiliar dizziness but forcibly steadied himself. “None of that has anything to do with you, Annie. If she is trying to frighten you or blackmail you in some way, you must not let her. Do not stay in this house, I implore you.”

Annie placed her hand on her guardian’s sleeve. “Be careful, Mr. Sprague, and trust me that this is best and will be best. It will only be for a few months at most. She does not wish to die alone.”

“And blackmail is her way of keeping you here?” he all but shouted.

“It will open another hospital; it will spare us all embarrassment and . . . and difficulty.” Annie squeezed his arm.

Still he waited, unable, it seemed, to decide what to do.

“I will not go home with you, Mr. Sprague.”

“Someone must stay here with you. Perhaps Constance can—”

“No!” Annie’s eyes widened in alarm. “Connie must not come—not ever. Jamison is here . . . and Barbara. Please, Mr. Sprague, do as I ask.”

“I do not like this, Annie. I do not think it wise. Come home with us, if only until your birthday tomorrow. Let us talk over and reconsider whatever she has proposed. If you do that, I will accept your decision—whatever it is.”

“I’m sorry. Please send my things round as soon as possible. I’m taking Owen’s room, opposite Aunt Eleanor’s.” Annie gently pushed a dumbfounded Mr. Sprague through the door before he heard the lock turn and click into place.

After
Titanic
, Michael had vowed he would never sail again. Yet he booked passage to Southampton on an ocean liner. He’d vowed he would never again set foot in the steerage hole of any seagoing vessel, not even one resting in the docks. Yet he set his bag squarely on the third-class bunk and stowed his few belongings in the ship cabin’s cupboard.

He would have kept his vows, but for Annie. He latched the cupboard door and leaned against it. “What have you done? Why will you not answer me, Annie Allen?”

It was just over six months since he or Aunt Maggie had heard from Annie. She’d not responded to their birthday letters or to the book Michael had mailed her. She’d not written, even at Christmas.

Michael could think of nothing he’d put in his letters that might have offended her. She had responded straightaway, delighted, when he’d written in June that he was coming in the new year. She had replied that Mr. and Mrs. Sprague had kindly offered him a room, that they might spend every day together and all live as a family for the duration of the war.