Saving Amelie (59 page)

Minutes passed and still no one came. Shrill whistle blasts signaled
Titanic
’s departure from the harbor. Michael wondered if the mate who’d hired him had missed him, or if he’d counted himself lucky to be saved the bargained shilling. He wondered if Uncle Tom or Jack Deegan would figure out what he’d done, hunt him down, and drag him back. He wondered if it was possible the Sweet Jesus listened to the prayers of creatures lower than gutter rats after all.

“I simply cannot keep the child alone with me any longer,” Eleanor Hargrave insisted, stabbing her silver-handled cane into the pile of the Persian carpet spread across her drawing room floor. “While I am yet able to travel, I am determined to tour the Continent. My dear cousins in Berlin have been so very patient, awaiting my visit while I served my father, then raised your father’s orphaned child.”

It was the story of martyrdom Owen had heard from his spinster aunt month after month, year after year, designed and never failing to induce guilt. It was the story of her life of sacrifice and grueling servitude, first to her widowed and demanding father, whom her younger sister had selfishly deserted, and then to the orphaned children of that sister and her husband. His aunt constantly referred to that sacrifice
as her gift to his poor departed father, though no mention was ever made of her own sister, Owen and Annie’s mother. Owen tried to listen patiently.

“It is unfair of either of you to presume upon me any longer. You simply must take the girl and provide for her or return here to help me look after her. If you do not, I shall be forced to send her away to school—Scotland, I should think.”

“I agree, Aunt. I’ll see to it immediately.”

“You cannot know the worry and vexation caused me by—” His aunt stopped her litany midsentence. “What did you say?”

“I said that I agree. You’ve been most patient and generous with Annie and with me—a saint.” What Owen did not say was that he, too, was aware that his sister grew each day to look more like their beautiful mother—the sister Aunt Eleanor despised. It was little wonder she wanted Annie out of her sight.

“You will return here, then?”

He heard the hope in his aunt’s voice.

“I’ve made arrangements for Annie to begin boarding school in Southampton.”

“Southampton? You mean you will not . . .” She stopped, folded her hands, and lifted her chin. “No one of consequence attends school in Southampton.”

“We are not people of financial consequence, Aunt. We are hardworking people of substantial character, as were our parents.” Owen had yearned to say that to his aunt for years.

Her eyes flashed. “Your pride is up, young man. My father would say, ‘Your Allen Irish is showing.’”

Owen felt his jaw tighten.

And then his aunt smiled—a thing so rare that Owen’s eyebrows rose in return.

She leaned forward to stroke his cheek. “Impetuous. So like
Mackenzie. You grow more like him—in looks and demeanor—each time I see you.”

Owen pulled back. He’d never liked the possessiveness of his aunt’s touch, nor the way she constantly likened him to his father. And now that he’d set his sights on the beautiful, widowed Lucy Snape, whose toddler needed a financially stable father, it was essential that he establish his independence.

Eleanor sniffed and sat back. “It is impossible. Elisabeth Anne must remain in London. It is the only suitable society for a young lady. You will return to Hargrave House.” She took a sip of tea, then replaced her teacup firmly in its saucer. “Your room stands ready.”

“Not this time, Aunt.” Owen spoke quietly, leaning forward to replace his own cup, willing it not to rattle. “I will support Annie from now on.”

“On gardener’s wages. And send her to a boarding school—in a shipping town!” She laughed.

“A convenient location for those going to sea.” Owen paused, debating how to proceed. “Or those crossing the sea.”

“The sea?” His aunt’s voice took on the suspicion, even the menace, that Owen feared. But he would do this, afraid or not.

Owen leaned forward again, breathing the prayer that never failed him. “Do you remember Uncle Sean Allen, in America?”

She stiffened.

“He and Aunt Maggie offered Father half of their landscaping business in New Jersey after Mother died.”

“A foolish proposition—a child’s dream! The idea of whisking two motherless children to a godforsaken—”

“It was a proposition that might have saved him from the grief that took his life—if you hadn’t interfered!” Owen stopped, horrified that he’d spoken aloud the words harbored in his heart these four years but delighted that at last he’d mustered the courage.

She drew herself up. “If it was not an accident that sent him to
his grave, it was his own ridiculous pining for a woman too silly to help him manage his business! I offered your father everything—this home, my inheritance, introduction to the finest families. He needn’t have worked at all, and if he had insisted, I could have procured any business connections he dreamed of in England. I can do all of that for you, Owen. I offer all of that to you.”

And it would be the death of all my hopes for Lucy—or even someone like her—just as you were the death of Father’s hopes and dreams.
“I’m grateful for the roof you’ve given Annie and me these four years, Aunt. But it’s time for us to go. Uncle Sean has made to me the same offer he made to Father, and I’ve accepted. I sail Easter week.”

“Easter!” she gasped.

“As soon as we turn a profit, I’ll send for Annie.”

“He has been in that business these many years and not succeeded?” She snorted scornfully, but the fear that he meant to go did not leave her eyes.

He leaned forward. “Do you not see, Aunt? Do you not see this is a chance of a lifetime—for Annie and for me?”

“What I see is that you are foolish and ungrateful, with no more common sense than your father! I see that you are willing to throw away your life on a silly scheme that will come to nothing and that you intend to drag the child down beside you!” Her voice rose with each word, piercing the air.

Owen drew back. He’d not hurt Annie for the world. At fourteen, she was not a child in his eyes; that she remained so in Aunt Eleanor’s estimation was reason enough to get her away from Hargrave House.

Eleanor’s face fell to pleading, her demands to wheedling. “Owen, stay here. I can set you up in your own gardening business, if that is what you want. You can experiment with whatever you like in our own greenhouses. They will be entirely at your disposal.”

Owen folded his serviette and placed it on the tea tray. The action
gave him peace, finality. “I’m sorry you cannot be happy for us, Aunt. But it is the solution to our mutual dilemmas.”

A minute of silence passed between them, but Owen’s heart did not slow.

“Leave me, Owen, and I will strike you from my will.” The words came softly, a Judas kiss.

Owen stood and bowed.

“My estate means nothing to you?”

“It comes at too high a price, Aunt.” Owen breathed, relieved that the deed was done. “I’ll stay the night and then must get back to Southampton. I’ll return to collect Annie and her things early next week.” He bowed again and walked away.

“There is something more. I had not intended to tell you—not yet.”

Owen turned.

His aunt folded her hands in her lap. “It was your grandfather’s doing.”

Annie knelt beside the stair rail, her nerves taut, her eyes stretched wide in worry. When at last Owen stepped through the parlor door, she let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

But Owen didn’t move. Annie leaned over the railing for a better look at her brother. His hands covered his head, pressed against the doorframe, and she was certain he moaned. She stood back, biting her lower lip. She’d never heard such a sound from her older brother. “Owen? Owen!” she whispered loudly into the hallway below.

At last he climbed, two stairs at a time, but she’d never seen him look so weary.

“I could hear her shouting all the way up here. What has happened?” Annie met him at the landing and rushed into his arms.

“Come, close the door, Annie.” Owen spoke low, pulling her into
her room. “Pack your things, everything you want to keep. We’ll not be back.”

“Pack my things? Why? Where are we going?”

But her brother would not meet her eyes. He pulled her carpetbag from the top of the cupboard and spread it open. He picked up their parents’ wedding photograph from her bedside table. “You’ll want this.”

“Whatever are you doing?”

Owen wrapped the frame in the linen it sat upon and placed it in the bottom of her bag. “I’ll tell you when we’ve settled for the night. Now you must pack, and quickly.”

“Am I going to live with you?”

He shook his head. “Pack, Annie.”

“Is Aunt Eleanor sending me away?”

“She knows we’re going. She—”

They both started when Annie’s door swung wide.

“Jamison!” Annie gasped.

The old butler’s bent frame filled the low doorway. He looked over his shoulder, put a finger to his lips, and motioned Owen closer. “Do you have a place for Miss Annie, sir?”

Owen ran his fingers through his hair. “In Southampton, as soon as I can arrange it. I don’t know what we shall do tonight.”

Jamison nodded and pushed a crumpled paper into Owen’s hand.

“Jamison!” Eleanor Hargrave bellowed from the first floor.

“What’s going on?” Annie begged.

“Take this round to my old sister, Nellie Woodward. Her address is on the bottom. She will do right by you for the night,” the butler whispered.

“Jamison! Come—at once!” Annie heard their aunt rap her cane against the parlor doorframe.

“Good-bye, Miss Annie.” Jamison’s ever-formal voice caught in his throat.

“No.” Annie shook her head, confused, disbelieving, and reached for Jamison. “I can’t say good-bye like this!” Her eyes filled. “Someone tell me what’s happening!”

The butler took her hands in his for the briefest moment, coughed, and stepped back. “God take care of you both, Mr. Owen. Write to us when you get to America. Let us know you are well, and Miss Annie, too.” He nodded. “You can send a letter to my Nellie. She’ll see that I get it.”

“America?” Annie gasped. “We’re going to America?”

Jamison caught Owen’s eye, clearly sorry he’d said so much, and looked away. But Owen wrung the butler’s withered hand. “Thank you, old friend.”

Jamison turned quickly and crept down the polished stairs.

“Owen,” Annie began, hope rising in her chest.

“Don’t stop to talk now, Annie! Hurry, before Aunt Eleanor sends you off with nothing!”

Annie whirled. “America! Where to begin?” She plucked her Sunday frock from the cupboard; Owen grabbed her most serviceable. She tucked in stationery and coloring pencils; Owen packed her Bible,
The Pilgrim’s Progress
, and the few books of poetry their mother had loved.

“You must wear your spring and winter cloaks. Layer everything you can.”

“It isn’t that cold!” Annie sputtered.

“Do it,” Owen insisted.

They stuffed all they could into her carpetbag and a pillow slip. Ten minutes later they turned down the lamp, slipped down the servants’ stairs, and closed the back kitchen door softly behind them.

About the Author

C
ATHY
G
OHLKE
is the two-time Christy Award–winning author of the critically acclaimed novels
Band of Sisters
,
Promise Me This
(listed by
Library Journal
as one of the best books of 2012),
William Henry Is a Fine Name
, and
I Have Seen Him in the Watchfires
(listed by
Library Journal
as one of the best books of 2008), which also won the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Book of the Year Award.

Cathy has worked as a school librarian, drama director, and director of children’s and education ministries. When not traipsing the hills and dales of historic sites, she, her husband, and their dog, Reilly, divide their time between Northern Virginia and their home on the banks of the Laurel Run in Elkton, Maryland. Visit her website at
www.cathygohlke.com
.