Chapter 2
Sitka; Monday Afternoon
She was late—really late.
Yuri pulled his coat tighter around his chest, the damp wool doing little to block the wind that cut in from the ocean.
Rain slanted down from the sky, cold and relentless, soaking through the fabric of his cap and beading along his collar.
A few droplets even slipped down his neck and onto his back, causing him to shiver.
The tide was out, leaving long stretches of wet sand under the gray, heavy sky. But the angry waves still surged farther up the beach than usual, frothed into angry white tips by the wind.
Rosalind had been late many times before, but never this late.
He exhaled sharply, his breath a faint ghost against the rain, and turned his gaze back toward the forest. The spruce trees loomed dark and dripping at the edge of the shore, but there was no sign of a figure hurrying toward him, shoulders hunched beneath the heavy mink coat she always wore.
Where was she?
Why wasn’t she here?
Had something happened?
His stomach twisted. He hated the way he worried.
Hated how he couldn’t stop thinking about Rosalind Caldwell’s well-being whenever something didn’t go as planned.
Hated that he couldn’t simply head to her house and ask if everything was all right, like he could do with every other person in the town where he’d grown up.
But Rosalind was different. He’d known it the first time he’d laid eyes on her.
What was he going to do if she didn’t come?
He had letters to give her before he left, and he had to be on a ship in less than twenty-four hours. That wasn’t exactly something he could delay.
So where was she? And how long was he supposed to wait?
One hour? Two? Until supper?
He trudged across the sand, his boots sinking into the wet softness, and headed to where a log had fallen at the edge of the beach. He sat and stared out at the horizon, rain pummeling his hat and coat.
She was nearly an hour late at this point. Common sense told him she wasn’t going to come, that he should get up and make the long walk back to town.
But for some reason he didn’t quite understand, he couldn’t force himself to leave.
Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God. Rosalind pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut against the pain radiating up her arm. I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the—
The grandfather clock standing against the far wall of her father’s study let out a small chime. Another quarter hour had passed, making her forty-five minutes late to meet with Yuri.
“Does that hurt, dear?”
At the sound of Dr. Hollis’s voice, she forced her eyes to open, but that only allowed her to see her father standing next to the doctor, glaring at her as though it was somehow her fault that her arm had been injured.
In fact, he probably did blame her for the injury. She could almost hear him telling her that her arm wouldn’t have been hurt had she not flung it out to protect her face from his hand Saturday night after she’d returned from spying on Bryony’s wedding reception.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have tried to protect herself, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
A bruise on her face meant her father wouldn’t allow her to leave the house until it was healed.
A bruise that could be concealed by gloves and long sleeves?
She could at least go about town with that.
Still, she hadn’t been prepared for just how hard her father would strike her, or for him to get even angrier and strike her wrist multiple times when she shielded her face from his attack.
Her ribs were bruised as well, but Dr. Hollis didn’t need to know about those.
The damage to her wrist was bad enough. Deep-purple marks wrapped around the joint with faint yellow marks trailing up her forearm. And the swelling made it hard to bend her wrist and even some of her fingers.
If only she’d held her whimper at breakfast, when Father asked her to pass the bowl of potatoes. But the bowl had been so heavy, and the pain in her wrist had only grown worse over the past day and a half.
“Miss Caldwell?” the doctor asked again, a touch more firmly. “I asked if your wrist hurts when I press here?”
Rosalind blinked and refocused her gaze on the older man kneeling beside her chair. His fingers were pushing just below the joint, but even the gentle pressure was enough to send sharp stabs of pain slicing up her forearm.
“Yes. It hurts.”
Dr. Hollis shifted, his wire spectacles sliding lower on his nose as he studied her wrist from a different angle. “The good news is I don’t believe the bone is broken, but the joint is certainly sprained. I recommend using a sling for at least two weeks, perhaps three.”
Two weeks? “No.” She pulled her wrist away from the doctor and cradled it against her chest.
“No?” her father barked.
She swallowed, her heart thudding against her ribs. She could feel the eyes of both men on her, and she dropped her gaze to her lap. “Surely it’s not that bad. I’ll just rest it.”
“A sprain that isn’t immobilized properly can take far longer to heal.” Dr. Hollis ran two fingers lightly over the swelling. “You don’t want that, do you? I’ll wrap it and provide you with a sling. With any luck, you’ll have full use of it again within a few weeks.”
But Father wouldn’t let her out of the house if her arm was in a sling. He never let her out of the house when she had an injury that others could see. “Surely the sling doesn’t need to be on for that long if I’m careful. I promise I’ll keep it still.”
Dr. Hollis adjusted his glasses. “Miss Caldwell, I’m sure you will try your best to protect your wrist without a sling, but I really must insist—”
“She’ll wear it,” Father snapped. “Wrap her wrist, bind it, do whatever is necessary. I won’t have her injuring herself further with foolish behavior.”
“But Father—”
“Do not try me, Rosalind.”
Rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, Rejoice. That was the verse her mother had always used when something difficult happened, not a verse about fear. Then her mother had told her to find something good about her situation, be grateful, thank God.
But the verse about rejoicing seemed horribly trite at the moment.
Oh, why did she have to be here in the first place? Why had God given her a father who thought nothing of striking her when he was angry?
Freya’s father yelled when he grew angry, but he didn’t hit anyone. The same was true of Jane’s father. As for Millicent’s father, well, she wasn’t even sure he yelled. He always seemed calm and gentle, even when correcting Millicent or one of her brothers.
“This will only take a moment.” The doctor reached into his bag and retrieved a roll of bandages and a long, wide strip of fabric.
She nodded stiffly, unable to speak. Her eyes drifted to the grandfather clock again. She was nearly a full hour late. Was Yuri still on the beach waiting for her, somehow hoping she was coming?
He probably was. That seemed like just the thing he would do, never mind the rain. And here she had no way to even send him a note explaining what happened.
The doctor wrapped the bandage around her lower arm and hand, then reached for a strip of fabric. He draped it down the front of her chest to gauge the appropriate length before looping it back behind her neck and tying it.
She slid her arm inside without being instructed to do so, and the doctor added more material to the sling, allowing her arm to rest a little lower.
“There now,” he said softly. “That’s not so bad, is it? Keep it elevated when you can. No lifting, and try not to jostle it. Send for me if the pain gets worse, and I can fit it with a splint. Otherwise I’ll return in two weeks to check on it.”
She studied the bandage. It covered the bruising but hadn’t done a thing to help the pain.
Maybe if she was extra careful and rested her hand constantly, she could remove the sling early.
Then she could at least go to Millicent’s next week for their usual monthly visit.
She might not have a choice about missing her time with Yuri today, but she genuinely enjoyed visiting with Millicent every month before sneaking off to meet him.
It was the one visit a month Father allowed her without asking her a bunch of questions first.
The doctor turned to pack his medical bag, and Father stepped forward, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Thank the doctor, Rosalind.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, trying to find a way to be grateful for the doctor’s ministrations, even though she didn’t want to be confined to the house.
Dr. Hollis’s eyebrows furrowed, his gaze moving between them for an overly long moment. “You said you hurt your wrist this morning when you tripped on the stairs?”
“I’m afraid I am terribly clumsy.” She didn’t even think twice before letting the lie roll off her tongue, not with her father standing there. “My foot tangled in my petticoat, and I missed the bottom step.”
“Yes, a most unfortunate accident. We appreciate your coming to the house on such short notice, doctor. Foster will show you out now.” Her father nodded toward the door, where their longtime butler stood in the open doorway.
How long he’d been there, she didn’t know. He might have been standing in that same spot since first showing the doctor into her father’s study. His facial expression gave nothing away as he moved to the side, allowing Dr. Hollis to precede him into the hallway.
The door shut with a quiet click, but her father didn’t move, and neither did she.
He let the silence linger between them for an unnaturally long time, his hand still clamped on her shoulder before he finally said, “See that something like this doesn’t happen again, Rosalind.”
There was nothing for her to do other than agree, but oh how she hated nodding her head. How she hated the fact that her injury would end up hidden, and his actions would once again be concealed from everyone in town.
Was it wrong of her to hope that the truth of her father’s actions would somehow be made known? Her mother would say so. Her mother would say that she was living in a grand house with expensive dresses and a lady’s maid, and she needed to be grateful that her every last need was provided for.
But Rosalind wasn’t sure she could be grateful for very much longer.