The Ghost (23 page)

I just missed you, he said casually, putting the cereal he wanted in his basket, as he noticed that she was alone. There was no sign of her daughter. I tried to return the books. I'll come back again in a couple of days.

She nodded, looking serious again, and yet there was something in her eyes that was warmer than the last time they'd met. He wasn't sure what it was, but there wasn't the terror he'd seen in her eyes when he invited her for a drink on New Year's Eve, and he wondered what, if anything, had changed. What had happened was that she'd thought a lot about it and realized that she had really been rude to him. She didn't want to establish a friendship with him, but she had to admit, he'd been incredibly nice to Monique and there was no reason to shun him completely. And since he didn't appear to be in any way unsavory, he was obviously nice to the child because he was good-hearted. She had worked that much out after their last meeting.

How was New Year's Eve? she asked, trying not to sound nervous.

Fine, he said with the grin that most women loved and she pretended not to notice. I went to sleep. And I came home the next day. I've been pretty busy for the last couple of days ' getting settled in the house. And reading all about Sarah ' but he said nothing to her about it. It was still his secret.

Have you found any other material on Sarah, and Fran+oois? It was just a casual question, but she was surprised to see him jump when she said it.

I ' uh ' actually ' no. It was as though he had a guilty secret, and he immediately grabbed at a straw to deflect the interest back to her. Monique says you write. He knew that his just asking her that would probably make her uncomfortable, and keep her at bay at least for a while, but this time he was surprised. There was a warm look in her eyes in answer to his question.

It's just some material on the local Indian tribes. I'm doing my thesis. But I've thought about turning it into a book afterward, if I get enough. It's pretty dry. Unlike Sarah's journals, which had turned him upside down. He couldn't help wondering what Francesca would think if she knew about them.

How's Monique? he asked, running out pf conversation. He could sense that she was constantly watching him and trying to decide if he was foe or friend. It seemed sad to be so afraid of everything that came through your life. It was so unlike what he had read of Sarah in her journals. Nothing had frightened her or stopped her, not even Edward with all his brutal cruelty, although Charlie had to admit, it had even taken her a while to escape him. She hadn't run out the door the first time he hit her. It had taken her eight years to walk out on him, but thank God she had. Charlie was aching to read about her meeting Francois.

Monique is fine, Francesca answered. She wants to go skiing again. His first instinct was to offer to take her, but he knew he couldn't do that. Francesca would have run away right on the spot. He had to move around her with extreme caution, and seem not to care at all how she'd react. He wasn't even sure why he was working so hard at not scaring her off, he told himself it was because he liked her daughter. But even he knew, it was more than that. He wondered if he was attracted by the challenge, but that was so obvious, he hated to admit it.

She's such a great little skier, he said admiringly. She was a wonderful little girl, and this time when Francesca smiled at him, her eyes were warmer. She started to say something as they walked to the checkout together, and then she thought better of it, and stopped. What were you going to say just then? He decided to take the bull by the horns, and see if he could pull her back, and force her to be more open.

I ' I was just going to say I was sorry I was so disagreeable when we met at Charlemont that day ' about lunch ' I just don't want her going off with strangers, or letting people pay for things that might make her feel obligated in ways she doesn't understand yet.

I know, he said quietly, meeting her eyes squarely, and he could see her start to pull away, but this time she held her ground. It was as though he had lured her from her hiding place in the forest, and she was a lovely young doe, standing very still, listening to each sound with caution. I understand. He smiled, and when she looked away from him, he saw pain in her eyes. What had happened to her that was so awful? How much worse could it have been than what Sarah had survived? Was it worse than what Carole had done to him with Simon? What was so special about her heart? Why was it that much more fragile? It's a lot of responsibility having a child, he said as they waited on line. It was a way of telling her he respected what she was doing. There were other things he would have liked to say as well, but he doubted that he'd get the chance. But she was the only woman even close to his age that he knew here. The others were either seventy years old like Gladys, eight like Monique, or Sarah, who was gone. Francesca was the only real, live, eligible woman, and he figured if he didn't at least try to talk to her now and then, he'd lose the knack completely. It was a funny reason for establishing a friendship with her, but as they moved closer to the register at the end of the counter, Charlie told himself it made sense. Better yet would have been if two damaged, wounded people could become friends here. But that was a lot to ask of Francesca. Neither of them had any idea what had happened in the other's life. All he knew was what he had gleaned from Monique about when they lived in Paris.

Without saying anything further, he helped her put her groceries on the counter. She had hamburger and steak and chicken, frozen pizza, ice cream, marshmal-lows, three kinds of cookies, lots of fruit and vegetables, and a huge container of milk. He suspected they were all the things Monique liked.

All he had were club sodas and frozen food and ice cream, and the cereal he'd been buying when they first met. It was obviously bachelor food, and she smiled as she glanced into his basket.

Not exactly health food, Mr. Waterston. He was startled to realize she had remembered his last name. He didn't think she had paid that much attention.

I eat out a lot. Or at least he had in London and New York, but maybe here she was right to look surprised when he said it.

I'd love to know where, she said with a small laugh, although they both knew there were plenty of nice restaurants in Deerfield, but many were closed, especially in the winter months, and most of the locals stayed home except for special occasions. It was too cold to go out a lot of the time and Francesca looked at him with amusement.

I guess I'm going to have to start cooking again, he said pensively. I'll come back tomorrow and buy more stuff. He looked boyish when he smiled at her, and he waited around to help her carry her bags to her car. She had three bags and they would have been heavy for her, it seemed natural, but she looked uncomfortable anyway at his assistance.

He helped her put the groceries in the backseat, and then closed the door, and looked down at Francesca. Say hi to Monique for me, he said, but he didn't tell her he'd see her again, or promise to drop by, or even offer to call her. She got into her car with a cautious smile, but without looking quite as terrified this time.

And he couldn't help wondering to himself, as he walked back to his car, what it would take to thaw her.

Chapter 12

IT WAS ANOTHER snowy day again, as Charlie looked out the window. There wasn't even a pretense today of having work to do. What he wanted was to go back to Sarah's journals, and find out what had happened to her when she left the ship in Boston.

But he stood at the window for a moment, with the small leather-bound volume in his hand, thinking about Francesca. He couldn't help wondering what kind of woman she was, or exactly what had brought her back from France, and why she was in Shelburne. It seemed an odd place for a woman who had obviously once had a sophisticated lifestyle. He also wondered if he'd ever know her well enough to ask her. And then, putting her out of his mind again, he sat down in his only comfortable chair and pored over Sarah's neat, lacy hand again. In less than a minute, he had forgotten everything but Sarah.

Sarah stayed at Ingersoll's Boardinghouse, at the corner of Court and Tremont Streets, when she got to Boston. It was big enough, four stories tall, comfortable, and Captain MacCormack had suggested she stay there. In fact, George Washington had stayed there only a week before, and found it very pleasant.

But Mrs. Ingersoll and her housekeeper had been surprised when Sarah checked in with only two bags, and no female to escort her. Sarah explained that she was a widow and had just arrived from England, and at the last moment, her niece had become too ill to make the trip. The woman who ran the hotel was immediately sympathetic to her story, and the housekeeper was asked to take her to her rooms.

She had a large, handsome suite of rooms, with a drawing room done in heavy red brocades, and a bedroom adjacent to it done in pale gray satin. It was a sunny room with a view of Scollay Square, and in the distance she could see the harbour. It was a bustling city then, and she loved walking everywhere and looking at the shops, and listening to the people. She heard a lot of Irish accents, and English like her own. Most of them were soldiers and merchants and hardworking people who had come from Europe. There were very few people like her around the streets, and even in simple clothes, it was more than obvious that she was aristocratic and well-born.

She was still wearing the plain dresses she had brought to wear on the ship, the bonnet that was battered now, and after the first few days, looking around, she asked Mrs. Ingersoll to direct her to some shops. She needed to have some warm clothes made, it was chilly there, and other than the cloak where she had concealed her jewels, she had nothing appropriate to wear in Boston.

She found a small dressmaker on Union Street, and looked through some sketches that one of the clients had brought from France the year before. She was a very grande dame, and she bought most of her clothes in Europe, but she had five daughters as well, and the dressmaker had copied designs for them, and Sarah was well pleased with the imitations. She ordered half a dozen dresses, and the dressmaker suggested a milliner who could make the hats to go with them.

The dresses Sarah saw in Boston were, for the most part, simpler than what she had worn in England. And they were much, much plainer than what women wore in France. The French women she knew had always had lovely gowns. But now that the revolution had begun there four months before, no one was concerned with clothes anymore, the issues at hand were more important. But what Sarah needed now was not high fashion for the life she led here. She needed serious, serviceable clothes that were practical and looked dignified and suited her new station in life as a widow. In fact, in order to convince everyone of it, most of what she ordered from the dressmaker was black and a little dreary. But she couldn't resist one really lovely velvet gown, they were going to make it in a deep blue, almost exactly the color of her eyes. She couldn't imagine where she would wear it. She knew no one there for the moment, but eventually she thought she might meet some people, and attend a ball or some assemblies, and she didn't want to look like a total dowdy, so she indulged herself with the blue velvet gown.

The dressmaker promised to have most of it ready in a week or two, only the more complicated blue velvet gown wouldn't be ready until the end of the month. But she'd have the rest very quickly, and after the dressmaker, she went to the bank. She explained her situation there too, her widowhood, her recent arrival from England, her lack of connections in town, and she quietly admitted that eventually she'd like to buy a farm outside Boston.

How would you run it, Mrs. Ferguson? Angus Blake, the bank manager asked, with a look of concern. Managing a farm is no small task, especially for a woman alone.

I'm well aware of that, sir, she said discreetly. I would have to hire people to help me, but I'm sure I can find the people I need once I find the land. But he looked at her over his spectacles with strong disapproval, and told her she'd be far better off in town. There were lovely houses there, in handsome neighborhoods, and he was very sure that in a short time, she'd have many friends there. She was a very pretty young woman, and he didn't say it to her, but he was certain that in a very short time she'd be remarried. It was pointless for her to buy a farm. And it seemed foolish of her to want it at all.

I wouldn't do anything hasty, Mrs. Ferguson. You need to acquaint yourself with Boston first, before you make up your mind. And he made it a personal crusade to make her feel at home in Boston, and introduce her to several customers of the bank. She was obviously genteel and distinguished, in fact, his wife was convinced that there was more to Sarah Ferguson than first met the eye.

There's something very unusual about her, she said when her husband first introduced them. She had children nearly Sarah's age, and she had never met anyone, any woman, as intelligent, and capable and strong. Just thinking about the journey she'd made on the Concord made Belinda Blake shudder, and she completely agreed with her husband, that it was an absurd idea for her to even contemplate buying a farm. You must stay here in town. She added her voice to her husband's, but when she said it, Sarah only smiled.

The Blakes took it upon themselves to introduce her to their many friends, and within a short time, Sarah received a number of invitations to dinner and tea. She was cautious about where she went, and hesitant about making friends. She was always afraid that someone from England might recognize her. She and Edward had not gone to London a great deal, nor gone out very much, but it was possible that the story of her flight had become well known or even published. She had no way of discovering that, now that she was here. She thought of writing to Haversham to inquire, but she dared not risk it. So she went out to dinner once or twice, and slowly began making friends.

Angus had also been good enough to introduce her to a discreet jeweler, and he was more than a little shocked at the pieces she unwrapped and spread out on his desk so he could view them. There were half a dozen truly important pieces, and some smaller ones she hadn't yet decided to sell. But she was anxious to sell the larger ones, particularly a handsome diamond necklace that Edward had somehow overlooked when he sold her mother's jewelry. With that alone, she could have bought several farms, or a truly splendid house in Boston. She had already seen several handsome brick mansions and Belinda Blake kept urging her to look at them, in the hope that she'd buy one. But she still had her heart set on a farm on the outskirts of town.