Chapter Twenty
Twenty
Wasting no time, William arrived first thing the next morning, a passenger in Henry Middlebrook’s automobile, both of them jammed into the front seat and so bundled up against the persistent cold that only their begoggled eyes were visible.
Their arrival was not unexpected, of course, and any element of surprise was rendered moot by the racket that contraption made, its engine popping and roaring and grinding as it traveled over a road so frozen that the children thought they’d be able to skate on it, if they had skates.
Gabe, Finn and Lizbet were all outside waiting, in their warmest clothes when the automobile finally stopped a few yards away, and the engine chortled and boomed its way into silence.
Before Lizbet could say a word, Gabe stepped forward and said authoritatively, “Mr. Keller, you’re welcome to come inside. Henry, you can wait in the barn while we talk. Finn will keep you company. He has a few things to say to you anyhow.”
Henry’s eyes blazed with such accusing fire that Lizbet privately wondered if his anger wouldn’t be enough to keep him warm, all those layers of clothing notwithstanding.
“I have not come to take away your paramour, Whitfield,” he very nearly spat, once he’d unwound the heavy scarf covering his mouth and pushed his goggles up onto his forehead.
“Lizbet Fontaine, you are a fallen woman. A flagrant sinner. You needn’t think for one moment that I would stoop to marry such a one as you! ”
Lizbet was secretly relieved, of course, though she knew Henry could still make her life difficult, and probably would for as long as he lived.
He’d been furious when she’d dared to confront him, and he would keep the ugly gossip running, every bit as noisy and poisonous as the exhaust from his automobile.
“Well, now, Henry,” Gabe said, in a near drawl, “you’re a fine one to call anybody else a sinner.” He turned, caught his brother’s eye. “Finn, see our cantankerous visitor to the barn, won’t you?”
Finn shrugged affably and then nodded. “Come along, Mr. Middlebrook,” he said, as cheerfully as if he were about to lead the man on a tour of some majestic museum. “It’s surely warmer in the barn than it is out here.”
Throughout this entire exchange, William had been sitting in rigid silence, his head down, his eyes still covered by his goggles, which looked as though they’d frosted over.
To Lizbet, he resembled a prisoner, not a free man.
When he finally removed the goggles, he fixed his plainly miserable gaze on Lizbet. There was a pleading element in his stare, rather than the anger she had been brac ing for since the night before, when Finn had told them of his imminent arrival, and she was puzzled by that.
Curiously, instead of fear, Lizbet felt an emotion more closely related to pity.
What, she wondered, had William come to say?
He didn’t look as though he had the strength to make demands upon her. Slowly, as though injured and wary of making his condition worse, William climbed down from his seat and made his way carefully toward Lizbet and Gabe, who were waiting on the back step, just off the kitchen.
Henry, blustering and disgruntled, had allowed himself to be squired in the direction of the barn, with Finn half pushing, half pulling him along, chattering cheerfully away the whole time.
Lizbet, Gabe and William were all in the kitchen, where a brisk fire was crackling away in the belly of the cookstove, before she got a clear look at her former stepfather’s face.
He was gaunt, his skin pale, his eyes rimmed in dark circles.
Lizbet felt a rush of compassion for this man her mother had apparently loved. This man who, for better or worse, was the father of Frankie and Jubal, whom she cherished.
Without William, they would never have existed.
It was a sobering thought; Lizbet could not imagine a world without her little brother and sister in it.
“Sit down, William,” she said, “before you faint dead away.”
“Are the children here?” William asked. These were the first words he had spoken. Henry, now exploring the Whitfield barn with Finn, had done all the talking.
Lizbet glanced at Gabe, who was leaning against the long work counter, arms folded, expression watchful but otherwise benign. She wondered briefly if Gabe, too, had taken note of William’s shrunken spirit. Then she answered, “They’re here. They’re safe and well and, William, they’re happy. ”
A painful smile flickered across William’s lips, there and then gone, as quickly as that. He groped for a chair, making an awkward attempt to pull it back and failing to catch hold.
Gabe moved to pull the chair out for him, saying nothing.
William collapsed onto the seat, folded his arms on the tabletop and rested his face on them.
Lizbet noted the bald spot on the crown of his head and was surprised she’d never noticed it before.
Not that it mattered.
“She’s left me,” William said, his voice muffled by the sleeve of his coat, which looked, like its owner, somewhat the worse for wear. “Marietta has left me, Lizbet.”
Lizbet and Gabe exchanged glances, then Lizbet sat down next to her late mother’s onetime husband and cautiously rested a hand on his shoulder.
It was trembling, as though his very soul were weeping within him.
And for all her great dislike for this man and for his second wife, tears sprang to Lizbet’s eyes.
She would never have wished such sorrow on anyone, not even Henry Middlebrook, hateful old miscreant that he was.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said very quietly.
Gabe, who seemed to believe that coffee was the remedy for every ailment, whether of body or spirit, went to the stove, pot holder in hand, and picked up the pot.
“I’m destroyed,” William went on.
“Nonsense,” Lizbet said, having suddenly recovered her spunk. “The world is full of marriageable women, William. You’ll meet someone else in time.”
“The world is not full of women like Marietta,” William bemoaned, as Gabe set a strong cup of coffee in front of him and took up his post by the counter again.
Proof that God is real if I’ve ever heard it , Lizbet thought.
Women like Marietta were rare enough, and it was so by the grace of the good Lord, in Lizbet’s opinion.
“William,” Lizbet said firmly, as he finally raised his head from his arms and gazed at her bleakly, “sit up straight and behave like a man. Why are you here?”
Her bluntness seemed to rally William a little, a very little, which, Lizbet supposed, was half a step in the right direction.
“Why, to say goodbye,” William replied, blinking, with an expression that might have been surprise. “To you and to—to the children.”
Something within Lizbet soared, though she managed to stay seated and control her desire to leap to her feet and shout glory hallelujah!
“You’re leaving them with me?” she asked, instead, and her voice was cautious and quiet, part jubilation and part stunned disbelief.
“Yes,” William said, “if you’ll take them.”
“Of course I will,” Lizbet said, mildly impatient now. “But it has to be forever this time, William. You can’t dangle them over my head ever again. You’ll have to write out a document verifying that I’m their legal guardian and sign it. Before witnesses.”
“I’ll do that,” William said, sounding defeated.
Silently, Gabe left the room, returning a few minutes later with writing paper, a pen and a bottle of black ink.
William spent nearly half an hour drafting and redrafting the document, but in the end, his decision was clear.
Frankie and Jubal were Lizbet’s legal charges and would remain so until they reached adulthood.
“Shall I call them downstairs now, William?” Lizbet asked, clutching the papers to her bosom the moment the ink had dried, as though they were holy writ, just discovered. “So you can speak to them yourself?”
But William shook his head. Bumbled to his feet and began to wrap himself in mufflers before putting on his coat.
“I’ve decided against dragging this out with some big display of emotion.
Besides, I’ve never been a father to them, really, so there’s no point in putting them through a scene.
They won’t miss me on any account.” He paused, then reached into the pocket of his coat with one shaky hand.
“I wrote them letters, one each. You can read them to the children at your discretion—whether that’s directly after I leave today, or years from now, when you deem them ready. ”
Lizbet took the two damp envelopes William extended and laid them aside. Belatedly, and none too steady on her feet, she stood.
“Where will you go now?” she asked the weak, broken man standing before her. “What will you do?”
“I’m headed back to St. Louis. I have friends there. I’ll lick my wounds for a while, and then—” Here, William paused, attempted a smile and emitted a heavy sigh instead. “And then I suppose I will try to get back on my feet.”
Lizbet merely nodded.
Gabe, who hadn’t spoken in a long while, ventured a question of his own. “Why did you come out here with Henry Middlebrook?” he asked. “You could have come alone.”
“He insisted,” William replied, “and I needed a ride. If you’d given him the chance—let him into the house—he’d have done some gloating. Being booted to the barn first thing must have really thrown a monkey wrench into his works.”
“What does he have to gloat over?” Again, it was Gabe who spoke. Lizbet, for her part, suddenly felt breathless, like a foot racer collapsing just across the finish line.
William, already moving toward the door, gave a sputtering, hollow laugh, devoid of all humor.
“About his forthcoming marriage—to Marietta. As soon as she and I are officially divorced—and believe me, the decree is already in progress—they will become husband and wife. In the meantime, Henry will be financing her first film. Come spring, the lights and cameras will arrive in Silver Hills, and a moving picture will be made.” He stopped, spread his hands for emphasis.
“She’ll be a star. Who could compete with that? ”
Lizbet found herself sympathizing with William again, though a part of her still wanted to slap him silly just for being the way he was.
The man had a worm for a spine.
As for Marietta and Henry? Well, they definitely deserved each other.
And the people of Silver Hills would be delighted to have an actual moving picture filmed in their very own town.
For Lizbet, the worst was over.
She could be happy now. Move forward with confidence.
A look passed between Lizbet and Gabe.
She had no clue what he might be thinking, but beneath all Lizbet’s joyous relief, something else was stirring. Something beautiful and dangerous, something mysterious.
The revelation struck her with a wallop.
That something was love —pure and simple and powerful.
Love for Gabe Whitfield.
Gabe Whitfield, who could not give his heart to any woman, because he’d buried it with his wife and daughter.