vi. In which Arthur makes a decision, which he may well come to regret
Charlotte’s pain and exhaustion persisted. Arthur did what he could: brewed tea, brought heating pads and cold compresses
by turn, sent the children outside to play and take care of the chickens and goat so the house would be quiet. He washed the
bedclothes and hung them on the line, fed the children lunch, and even, when the time came, attempted to cook supper. The
fish was overdone, the vegetables underdone, but Charlotte’s migraine had never gone away and she couldn’t stomach more than
crackers anyway. Arthur ate with the children, poking at his fish so moodily that, had one of the children been doing it,
he would’ve had the urge to suggest they not play with their food.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Agnes’s proposition. It was so much money. The adventure he’d always wanted.
But how could he leave Charlotte for so long, without anyone to look after her? How could he leave the children for so long?
He’d never been apart from them a single night their entire lives.
He could ask one of the villagers to look in on the family, but such a request would likely come to naught.
Not only because it was him asking, but because the villagers thought Charlotte, as a healer, ought to be able to heal herself and, more importantly, believed pain and exhaustion ought to be pushed past, not coddled.
Agnes might have agreed to it normally—all right, she might’ve sent a servant, normally—but he doubted she’d leave her cousin
alone sick for so much as half an hour, and her servants were gone. Maybe one of the nuns would do it, though they rarely
left the convent. The village school was their only connection to the outside world, and even that required their pupils to
go into the convent.
Perhaps, instead of checking in, Agnes would let Charlotte and the children stay with her. Assuming Charlotte agreed to such
an arrangement.
Jonas stole a sideways glance at him. “Are you okay, Uncle Arthur?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Oh, I’m fine, duck. Just thinking. Check on Mother for me, won’t you?”
Jonas obliged. Sasha was bribed into helping clean up, with a promise she could have three of yesterday’s biscuits when she
was done. With biscuits on the line, she whirled through the kitchen so quickly Arthur feared she might break rather than
clean the dishes, but she was so enthusiastic that he couldn’t bring himself to tell her to slow down.
Charlotte was still in her armchair when Arthur put the children to bed. As usual, Sasha tried to stall. But when Arthur turned
to a kissing scene in his favorite novel and started reading it with relish, she decided bedtime was the lesser of two evils.
Pleased, Arthur filed “read kissing scene dramatically” away as a future solution to bedtime avoidance and went to check on his sister.
Her head lolled onto her shoulder; she was asleep, for which Arthur was grateful.
Half the time, when she sat down or went to her room for a nap, she failed to fall asleep, no matter how exhausted, and arose groggy and resentful.
He built up the fire in the grate, shook out the blanket on the settee, draped it over Charlotte, and tucked her in. To his
dismay, her eyes cracked open before he had finished.
“What time is it?” she mumbled.
“Half nine.”
“Are the children in bed?”
“Yes,” Arthur said with a smile. “Sasha didn’t want me to read about kissing, so she went to sleep.”
Charlotte let out a soft huff of laughter, straightening in her chair. The bruises under her eyes, ever present, didn’t seem
as dark as they’d been earlier, though it was difficult to tell in the firelight.
Her laughter faded. “I lost the whole day. I hate it when I lose a whole day.”
“You did manage Mass this morning. And taking care of Mrs. Livingston’s cousin.”
Her eyes flickered toward him and away. She sighed, rubbing her forehead.
“Yes, I took care of her . . . cousin, for all the good it did. The sickness—I can’t do anything about it, Arthur. I can hardly
treat the symptoms.”
“I’m sure you do the best you can,” Arthur said, but Charlotte shook her head.
“My best isn’t good enough anymore. I can’t help anyone.”
“That’s not true. Thomas Young would be out of work if you hadn’t saved his arm after that accident at the cannery. Ada Brown
would’ve died in childbirth if not for you, and probably the baby, too. I don’t think her husband would say you can’t help
anyone.”
Charlotte twisted her fingers together in her lap. “I couldn’t help Gracie Buchanan this morning. I haven’t been able to help anyone with wood sickness, and more cases each year.”
“Lottie,” Arthur said softly, because he knew what was coming, but too late.
“I couldn’t save Mam.” Her fingers clenched so hard her knuckles whitened. “I couldn’t save John.”
Arthur knelt beside her, untangled her hands. Her eyes were red rimmed and glassy.
“There wasn’t anything you could have done,” he started, but Charlotte said, “Please don’t.”
In silence, he squeezed her hands and retreated to his own chair. Charlotte had done what she could for their mother, but
it had been too late. John had been dead by the time the other fishermen had hauled him out of the water that morning eight
years ago. But he’d only lived so long in the first place because Charlotte had saved his life years before. When she was
nineteen, he’d washed ashore unconscious and half drowned, the lone survivor—best they could figure afterward, since he remembered
nothing—of a shipwreck. It had been the first time she’d saved someone’s life. Missing memories aside, he’d lived happy and
healthy until the sea had claimed him.
Charlotte looked at the ceiling, blinking back tears. She’d never cried much before, but since her illness she teared up at
the drop of a hat. Yet another thing to add to her frustrations, Arthur knew. Their mother had been dreadfully weepy after
their father’s disappearance, not only at first but for the rest of her life, and Charlotte had resented it. Eileen had spent
more time nurturing her grief than her children.
“What was that proposition Mrs. Livingston mentioned today?” Charlotte asked.
Arthur’s skin prickled. He’d almost managed to forget it, through the debacle of bedtime. “Oh—it’s nothing. Something she wants me to do for her, that’s all. It’s not important.”
Sometimes, when Charlotte had a bad day, she could be put off that way. Other times, she could be as persistent as Sasha.
Today, apparently, she was the latter. “What was it?”
Arthur explained Agnes’s proposition. When he mentioned the money, Charlotte let out a low whistle.
“Not important! Arthur—”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you agree at once?”
Why, indeed? Agnes Livingston had virtually handed him everything he’d ever wanted—but instead of accepting, he’d put her
off.
“Well, as I said, she wants it quickly. Which means, you know—”
Unease crept across Charlotte’s face. “You’d have to go through the wood.”
“Precisely,” Arthur said, relieved. “So you see why I can’t . . . I can’t take Mrs. Livingston up on her offer if it means
entering the wood, can I?”
It came out more desperate than he’d intended. He just wanted Charlotte to tell him he couldn’t go. If she said he couldn’t
go—he couldn’t go; it was as simple as that. He wouldn’t have to make the decision; he wouldn’t have to live with more than
mild disappointment in himself for not arguing harder in favor of going. He’d never learn whether or not the forest and the
city beyond could stand up to the shining bubble of his long-held dreams.
“It is dangerous.” Charlotte looked at him. “I know you don’t think so—not really. But it is. If you’d seen as much of the
sickness as I have . . . Supposing you came home with it? Or supposing you never came home at all?”
“You’re right, of course. I don’t know what I was thinking, even considering. Silly of me.”
“Silly,” Charlotte echoed. Her expression sobered. “But . . .”
Why was she saying but? Why wasn’t she agreeing he couldn’t possibly go?
“I don’t . . . It’s so much money. We could . . .”
“I know.”
“You might inquire into housing while you’re there. That is—you wouldn’t have much time for that, I suppose, since you need
to be back quickly, but if you placed an inquiry and had them wire the information . . .”
The prickling subsided. Arthur imagined finding a house with four separate bedrooms and a proper dining room (large enough
for dinner parties) that was nonetheless reasonably priced, to which—upon taking possession—he could invite the many friends
he was certain to have if he lived in Port Lorne.
“That is true. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Charlotte glanced at him. “I know you’ve always wanted to go.”
His father’s voice echoed distantly in his ears. Not this year, son. When you’re older. He’d said it so many times.
“Yes,” Arthur said wistfully. “Maybe the clock shop Dad told me about is still there.”
“But you haven’t said yes.”
Arthur’s thoughts ground to a halt. He’d hardly stopped thinking of all Agnes’s offer could bring him. Not merely the money,
but the chance to journey through the forest to Port Lorne.
But he hadn’t said yes.
“Arthur,” Charlotte said, “what is it you’re afraid of? I know it isn’t the forest,” she added with a smile, “even if I wish
it were.”
Quite possibly he was afraid of getting everything he’d ever wanted. Far better to have been afraid of the wood, as was sensible. Alas, Arthur Throckmorton was not a sensible man.
“I’m afraid,” he said in a low voice, “that I’ll go, and it won’t change anything.”
“What do you mean?”
Arthur’s fingers curled over the arms of his chair. “Well . . . what if I never make it? Not because of anything, I don’t
know, eldritch but simply because I’m a hopeless woodsman and a perfectly normal forest could kill me if it wanted? What if I make it but
something happens to the clock on the way back and Mrs. Livingston never gives me the second payment? Or I make it back but
I’m too late, and Mrs. Buchanan has died and can’t enjoy the clock even a moment, and Mrs. Livingston is absolutely devastated
and regrets sending me in the first place?”