Authors: Jane Prescott
Charlotte looked at her hands, thinking hard. She had expected a gentleman, but not to have any courting he might do completely postponed. What sort of man paid to have a woman come across the country to marry him, sight unseen, and then hold her arm's length? Was she too young for him? Or perhaps not pretty enough? Charlotte was quite used to being flattered and chased by most men she met, but everyone had their own tastes. She couldn't fault him if milky skin and red hair weren't his cup of tea.
Douglass was looking at her strangely. "I'm afraid I've offended you, and I didn't mean that. I just don't want to assume you're going to be happy here, until you see everything for yourself."
Charlotte finally looked up him, offering him a weak smile. What else was there to see? A farm, some animals, a house. Was he perhaps still living with his parents? Maybe he wasn't really a doctor? Or maybe, Charlotte thought in a panic, he was already married, and was collecting wives like some sort of pervert. She imagined the woman from the train station with her angular beauty greeting them with a sneer from the front door. Her cheeks burned crimson, and she longed to bury her face in her hands, but she wouldn't dare appear so weak in front of this strange man.
They turned down a street that began to curve gently, leading to wide road ending a sprawling home. A small fruit and vegetable field spread out behind the home, and further beyond, a pack of sheep and a few goats grazed on the verdant landscape. The grass turned into a wood a bit further beyond, and Charlotte couldn't see further than that. There looked to be a body of water somewhere in the wood, briefly visible through the trees as they came to a stop in front of the house.
Douglass got out of the coach first and rushed to her side to help her step down. He handed the driver some money, and led Charlotte up the steps as it drove away. The heavy oak door was polished and smooth, expensive-looking, and the inside was the same: shiny wood floors, plush couches and a bear skin rug in front of an empty fireplace. There was a large kitchen beyond the living room, and a door beyond that opened to a dining room that had an old hand carved table big enough to fit 6 or 8 people.
"We never eat here," Douglass said. "We use the smaller table in the kitchen unless there's company."
We?
"Your bedroom is through here," he was saying. "You have a nice window, a decent closet. The bed is soft, stuffed it myself. We have a privy just off the back. You can also use this chamber pot."
Charlotte was looking at him expectantly. He was fiddling with the buttons on his suit nervously. What was going on?
"I guess you better know now," he said miserably. "Jane! Come on out here."
Charlotte's stomach lurched, and she fought to keep steady. He
did
have a wife, she thought. She wondered if she could pay for her own ticket home.
But the woman who rounded the corner wasn't his wife. She wasn't a woman at all, in fact. She was a girl, 12 years old if she was a day. She had sharp cheekbones and a sullen expression. Her black hair was braided into two plaits that hung nearly to her elbows, and they swung as she walked. She was all angles, long and gawky as girls in adolescence tended to be. Most shockingly, she had eyes the exact shade of blue as Douglass'--- but hers were guarded and almost hostile, where his were warm and friendly.
The two looked at each other for a moment, not moving. Then Jane moved forward and spoke without looking at her.
"Hullo. I'm Jane."
Charlotte looked at her beautiful downturned eyes and finally remembered her manners. "Lovely to meet you, Jane." She said, thanking her lucky stars that her voice didn't betray her shock. "I'm Charlotte." She held out her hand, but the girl was already turning away and moving to her room. Douglass watched her go, looking as if he wanted to stop her, but Charlotte was grateful for her departure. She thought she might be sick. She moved to one of the couches and sat down heavily.
"Charlotte." Douglass' soft voice came from her side, and she looked through the haze of tears in her eyes to see his contrite face, twisted in shame. "I'm sorry. I should have told you before you came. But---"
"It's fine." Charlotte didn't need to hear more. Of course he'd been frightened of telling her he had a daughter. A nearly grown one, at that. Teenage girls were a handful, as any woman would know, and a young woman like her might have thought twice about coming to marry a man who had a child her age. Charlotte loved children, but she didn't love liars. Had Douglass mentioned this before he brought her across the country, they might have worked it out. It was too late now, though; she felt deceived, and worse, stupid. What was she going to tell her parents?
She gathered her wits and took a deep breath. "I'd like to be shown to my room now."
Douglass glanced at her, unsure of how to react. "Okay." He said finally, standing and lifting her bags and rifle from the floor. He didn't look back at her as he led through the kitchen and down a hall to where two doors faced each other. One had large wooden C on the door, obviously hand carved for her. She felt pain lance her heart as the door opened and she saw sheets in deep green with pillowcases to match---she'd told him her favorite color, and he'd taken time to decorate her room to make her feel welcome. Or maybe to soften the blow he knew was going to deliver. The pain was replaced with anger, and she turned to tell Douglass to leave. He was already gone.
She spent the afternoon napping fit fully on her comforter. Returning home was an option, but she wouldn't be able to stand the pity-filled glances she'd received from her mother and the other women of the town. They'd treat her like a nutter for the first few weeks at least, and she didn't want to go through again. After seeing her brother die, she'd endured months of hushed voices and awkward conversations that suffered from the other person trying too hard to avoid upsetting her. People walked on eggshells, expecting her to burst into tears at any vague mention of Bobby. Instead she'd buried herself in studies, using the months of solitude to become a nurse's aide, and securing a six month position at their hospital. People stopped walking on eggshells then, but it took too long for Charlotte's liking.
She thought about the girl, her slumped posture and the way she skirted around the room. She was familiar with the type---moody and unresponsive to everyone but a few chosen confidantes, perhaps even her father. She'd said three words to Charlotte, and not a word to her own father when she came out, and didn't seem to care much about appearing rude. Was that why Douglass need help? He never said he'd been married, so perhaps his wife died in childbirth. Or maybe she was simply unfit? In any case, Jane was clearly not happy to be in this situation. They were kindred spirits in this regard. A busy man certainly couldn't raise her on his own.
Charlotte had made her decision just as a soft knock came at her door. She'd change into a simpler dress, a butter yellow gown with white buttons down the back. She'd gathered her hair into a knot at the back of her head. She crossed the room and opened the door, unsurprised to see Douglass standing on the other side.
"Charlotte, let me explain. Jane didn't---"
"I'll be staying," Charlotte interrupted him curtly. "But I'll be taking the non-romantic option you offered in the coach."
He looked at her then, his careful expression folding into sadness briefly before he composed himself again. "Thank you for staying," he said quietly.
"Jane needs someone, doesn't she?"
Douglass only nodded, not meeting her eyes. "Dinner is ready," he told her. "We're eating in the kitchen. Pork chops and potatoes and carrots. Are you hungry?"
Charlotte simply nodded and followed him out to the kitchen. She'd write her parents and tell them the truth, she decided. It wasn't a love connection, and she'd been naive to assume it was going to be. Jane was already sitting at the circular table, pushing her carrots around with a sullen look on her face. Charlotte wondered what she would have to do to put a smile on her face.
"Would you like to say grace, Charlotte?" Douglass asked. The warmth had not fully returned to his eyes, but the pain was gone from his voice.
"Certainly." Charlotte bowed her head and clasped her hands together, reciting one of the few prayers she knew from heart. Her father usually said grace. When she opened her eyes and raised her head, Douglass and Jane were holding hands over the table.
"Amen," they said after her, releasing each other's hands and reaching for their cutlery. Charlotte felt oddly voyeuristic.
She watched Douglass sneak glances at her when he thought she wasn't looking. It annoyed her, and she almost wanted to say something, but elected not to in front of Jane. The table was silent as they ate, so Charlotte couldn't even pretend to listen to conversation while she felt herself being watched. The food was very good, she noticed, but beyond that was unable to comment. She wanted to eat quickly and return to her room, where she would be away from those piercing blue eyes.
Jane finished eating and her fork fell to her plate with a clatter. "May I be excused?" She asked without looking at anyone.
"Go on," Douglass said. Jane zipped from the table and back to her room, where her door closed with a slam. Charlotte still had half her food left. She wondered if it would be too much to take her plate to her room, but she didn't want to be quite so cold. Despite her anger, she was going to be here at least until Jane was grown. She should probably learn to be cordial.
"I'm sorry," Douglass said again.
A frisson of anger filled her chest. "That's quite enough apologizing," she snapped. "You sound like a broken record."
Pain filled his features again. "I just want to fix this."
"You can't." Charlotte said shortly, and stood up from her chair. "Excuse me. I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning."
She blew past him before he could get a chance to stop her. Charlotte locked the door to her room and leaned against it, finding herself in tears for the second time that day.
TWO
Charlotte woke the next day to find the house empty and a note for her from Douglass.
Miss Evans,
I've had an emergency and I am off on a house call. I've dropped Jane off at school early, she will return at two o'clock in the afternoon. Please use this time to get acquainted with the house, and to unpack.
Charlotte had a feeling that she could have come with the doctor, but that he wanted to give her time to cool off. Secretly, she was glad, but she instinctively wanted to be annoyed at what she felt was a snub.
She spent the morning sweeping and mopping the sprawling house. She went into Jane's room to find there was nothing to clean. She had a plain powder blue bed spread with the linens tucked around the fat mattress neatly. There were two dolls on a hearth over a small fireplace, filled with books and toys instead of wood. Apparently Jane was not allowed to have her own fire, or else she had a wicked sense of humor.
Among the books were old medical texts with tiny words scrawled in the margins and next to diagrams. Books about digestion, childbirth, and hysteria. They had the familiar hand of Doctor Owens, and again Charlotte had the feeling that she was privy to something she didn't deserve to be privy to. They had the feeling of books well-loved and read over over and over. The spines were barely holding themselves together, and many a page was slipping out of the binding. Inscribed on the inside cover of one was a dedication:
to Janey on her 10th birthday. One day your stitches will be straighter than mine!
Her heartbeat seemed slow and thick as she turned slowly in the room. There were faded drawings done in fat wax crayon of a short girl with stringy hair holding the stick hand of a man with funny headband and a long coat. His face was clean shaven and he had shorter hair, but the figure was unmistakable. There were newer drawings in fine charcoal of the same girl, now grown and with long hair curling around her waist. She was standing next to the same man, now with painstakingly rendered beards of varying thickness and lengths. In some drawings they were standing with dogs or next to ferris wheels, but they were always together. One lone drawing depicted Jane with a woman that had long, dark hair and piercing blue eyes---the only color in any of the charcoal drawings. It was placed above the hearth, and Charlotte stood looking at it for a long time.
She left the room with a lump in her throat. She wanted badly to know more about Jane's mother---if she was alive, if she'd ever come to visit,and even (she hated herself for this last) if Douglass still loved her. They weren't together anymore, this was clear, and Charlotte didn't want to be involved with a man who couldn't be upfront with her. But the love between Jane and Douglas was unmistakable, and he seemed too lost and hurt. There was pain here that needed to heal, and Charlotte wasn't helping with her icy silences and sharp judgement.