Hidden Places (26 page)

It peeved Father that I would question him. ‘‘You think I’m making it up? The man came back, I’m telling you. He drove up in his fancy carriage while you were working outside, and he rented the cottage for the rest of the summer.’’

I had read about hearts soaring in novels, but I’d never known what it meant until then. I would have turned and run straight down to the cottage but my clothes were all sweaty and I had dirt beneath my fingernails.

‘‘Does he want meals again?’’ I asked as I started pumping water into the sink to scrub up.

‘‘He says there are two of them to feed this year. That’s why he paid me all this money.’’

I suddenly knew what it meant to have your heart sink, also. Mine plummeted. ‘‘Two people? Who’s with him, Father?’’

‘‘His wife, I suppose.’’

I took my time fixing lunch as I steeled myself to meet Walter’s wife. She would be a very beautiful woman, of course, and very elegantly dressed in fine linen and silk—no feed sack aprons or muslin petticoats for Mrs. Walter Gibson. Her skin wouldn’t be sun-browned and freckled like mine, either. Rich women always sat under parasols when they went out in the sun to preserve their delicate, porcelain complexions. And she would be thin—‘‘slender as a reed,’’ a novelist would describe her—and every bit as graceful as one. I considered strapping on my bust-perfecto corset, just so she wouldn’t pity me, but I needed Lydia to help me man-handle the laces.

How could Walter bring his wife back to the place where we’d shared so many happy memories? I wondered as I finally carried the tray of food down to the cottage. Then I nearly turned around and ran home when I realized the truth. Of course! Walter didn’t know I was here! He thought I married Frank and moved out of my father’s house. He would expect my sister or someone else to bring his meals, not me. I slowed my steps, searching for a way to avoid seeing him. I couldn’t think of one.

As I emerged from the trees into the clearing, I saw Walter sitting all alone in a cane chair facing the pond. I drew a deep breath, trying to will back my tears at the wonderful sight of him. I had believed I’d never see him again. Then the cottage door opened and our second boarder came out onto the porch. It was his servant, Peter.

I was so relieved, so overjoyed, I nearly dropped the lunch tray. ‘‘Walter!’’ I called out to him as I hurried across the grass.

He turned and saw me. ‘‘Betsy? What a wonderful surprise!’’ He tried to smile but he appeared shaken. ‘‘I didn’t realize you and your husband lived nearby.’’

‘‘We don’t. I didn’t...Imean, I never got married! The engagement was called off!’’

A slow smile spread across his face and the faint dimple I’d missed so much finally appeared. ‘‘Really? And all this time I’ve been imagining you reading
Pilgrim’s Progress
over and over again.

I figured you must have memorized it by now.’’

I couldn’t help laughing. ‘‘No, I’ve been free to read whatever I want...dozens and dozens of books. But what about you, Walter?’’

‘‘Me? I’ve read dozens of books, too.’’

I laughed again. ‘‘That’s not what I meant and you know it! Are...are you married?’’

‘‘No. I’m afraid my poor health has prevented that.’’

‘‘I’m sorry, Walter.’’

‘‘I’m not.’’ His eyes twinkled as the dimple in his cheek deepened. ‘‘And the young lady I was betrothed to certainly wasn’t sorry, either. So it looks like we’ve both had a narrow escape from the bonds of matrimony. Was your father very disappointed?’’

‘‘No, he got what he wanted—my sister married my fiance
.’’ I laughed at the shocked look on his face ‘‘It’s a long story with a happy ending for everyone. Father’s land is part of Wyatt Orchards now.’’

‘‘That big establishment up on the hill?’’

‘‘Yes, and Father was finally able to retire. He lived to see the grandson who will inherit his land someday, so he’s a contented man.’’

‘‘And I guess in a way I could say the same thing about my father. Howard Knowles Gibson may not have his own son working beside him, but my sister has married well and her husband is being groomed to run the business in my place.’’

‘‘So you’re free to pursue your own dreams, Walter?’’

‘‘In a manner of speaking.’’ He gestured to his chair and I noticed for the first time that it was a wheelchair. ‘‘This contraption makes it pretty difficult for me to be the captain of a whaling ship—although I suppose I could still be a Hindu snake charmer.’’

I felt awkward suddenly. I didn’t know what to say. I remembered the tray in my hands. ‘‘Well, here’s your lunch...and the food is getting colder by the minute. Would you like to have a picnic out here or shall I take it inside?’’

‘‘On a beautiful day like today, I think I’d like to eat out here. Bring the little folding table here, will you, Peter?’’

I watched the servant fetch it, set it up, and arrange the food on it. I waited for Walter to invite me to stay and visit with him while he ate, like we always used to do, but he had grown very quiet. He looked down at the food, not at me. Peter pulled up a chair for himself but none for me. Neither man ate. They hadn’t even unfolded their napkins. The silence grew uncomfortable.

‘‘Listen, I should go and let you eat in peace,’’ I said quickly. ‘‘Enjoy your meal.’’

Walter didn’t argue with me. I ran back to the house to hide my tears.

I was still sitting at the kitchen table with my face in my hands an hour later when someone knocked on the back door. It was Peter, returning the lunch tray. I ducked my head so he wouldn’t see my swollen eyes and red nose.

‘‘Thank you, Peter. You didn’t have to walk all the way back here with that. I would have come for it.’’

‘‘If you have a few minutes, miss,’’ he said quietly, ‘‘Master Walter would like to speak with you. But he said I should not interrupt you if you were busy.’’

‘‘I’m not busy. I’ll...I’ll be down in a few minutes.’’

I soaked a towel in cold well water and pressed it over my eyes. A quick look in the mirror showed me that it hadn’t helped one bit. Lydia used to put cucumbers on her eyes after a late night out but it was too early in July for cucumbers. Would pickles work just as well? I fetched a jar from the pantry, then quickly decided it would make matters worse to arrive smelling like dill and vinegar.

Suddenly I had a flash of inspiration—I would tell Walter I had been reading a sad book! I quickly considered the possibilities and decided on
Les Miserables
. That story would bring tears to anyone’s eyes, even a ‘‘tough nut’’ like Father or Frank Wyatt. I wished I had a copy of the book to tuck under my arm for credibility but I didn’t own one. Instead, I practiced smiling in the mirror a few times, then set off down the path to the cottage.

Peter sat on the front step, whittling a chunk of wood. He quickly stood, bowing slightly when he saw me. ‘‘Master Walter is inside, miss. Please go in.’’

Walter sat in his wheelchair, bending over a box of books.

There were crates of books everywhere, as there had been last year, and a small daybed had been set up in the dining area for Peter.

Walter looked up when I entered. ‘‘I hope I’m not keeping you from your work,’’ he said.

‘‘Not at all. Father is napping and I was just reading Victor Hugo’s
Les Miserables
. It’s such a sad book, don’t you think?’’

He studied me for a moment, then shook his head. ‘‘You’re not a very convincing liar, Betsy. I know I hurt your feelings earlier and I wanted to tell you how very sorry I am. Will you forgive me?’’ All I could do was nod. He smiled slightly, then looked away. ‘‘Thank you. I would love nothing more than to spend my mealtimes talking with you like we did last summer, but it’s awkward with Peter here. He’s my dinner companion and I feel obliged to converse with him. I hope you understand.’’

I digested his words for a moment. ‘‘You’re not a very convincing liar, either,’’ I said. ‘‘I’ve never heard of a master dining with his servant before, much less feeling obliged to talk with him. Nor do I know many servants who would be comfortable sharing polite dinner conversation with their masters.’’

He laid down the book he’d been examining and looked up at me in surprise. ‘‘Well, it just so happens,’’ he said, smiling slightly, ‘‘that I have been reading
Les Miserables
, too. ‘Down with the nobility!’ ‘Liberty and equality for the masses!’ I thought I would try putting it into practice with Peter.’’

I began to laugh. And when I thought about what conclusions Walter might have reached if I’d arrived smelling of dill pickles, I laughed harder still. Without thinking, I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him.

‘‘You make me so happy, Walter! Oh, how I’ve missed you!’’

I pulled away again, suddenly shy. I looked at his beloved face, his soft gray eyes, and I saw the same love I felt for him reflected there. I knelt on the floor in front of him, and forgetting all caution, I spoke the words that I knew were true. ‘‘I love you, Walter.’’

He reached out to caress my cheek. His hand quivered with palsy as he lifted it. ‘‘Yes,’’ he said. ‘‘Yes, I know. But we never should have fallen in love with each other. I never should have allowed it to happen.’’ His hand dropped back into his lap.

‘‘Why? Because you’re rich and I’m poor? Because you’ve traveled all over the world and I’ve barely left Deer Springs? Or is it because you’re handsome and charming and I’m plain and fat?’’

He reached up again and brushed away my tears with unsteady fingers. ‘‘You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, Betsy.’’

He meant it! I saw it in his eyes, and the truth stunned me. Walter had looked inside my heart and he saw me as beautiful. A moment passed before I could speak.

‘‘Then why?’’

‘‘Because I’m going to die.’’

‘‘No you’re not! Don’t say such a terrible thing, don’t even think it!’’

‘‘It’s true, Betsy. My father has taken me to dozens of doctors, hired the finest specialists, sent me to all the best clinics here and abroad, and they’ve all said the same thing. The disease is progressing rapidly. All the other family members who’ve had these symptoms have died. There’s no cure.’’

‘‘Don’t listen to them, Walter. I’ll take care of you. I won’t let you die.’’

‘‘I’ve already accepted the truth,’’ he said gently, taking my hand in his limp one. ‘‘I don’t mind dying. I decided to come here to a secluded place to make it easier on my family. So they wouldn’t have to watch me deteriorate. But now I’m hurting you. Now...I’ll have to leave. And I’m so very sorry.’’

‘‘Please don’t leave me again,’’ I whispered. ‘‘Please. Whatever time you have left, I want to spend it with you.’’

‘‘I can’t,’’ he said, closing his eyes. ‘‘I can’t. It hurts me too much...wanting to touch you, to kiss you, to hold you in my arms—and knowing that I can’t do any of those things. And it’s not fair to you.’’

‘‘Why don’t you let me decide what’s fair? Leaving me isn’t fair!’’

Walter silently shook his head. The sharp planes of his thin face, the dark circles that rimmed his eyes seemed much more prominent in the shadowy room.

I longed to throw myself into his arms again, to press my face to his and feel the roughness of his whiskers, to feel his breath on my cheek, his fingers in my hair. I wanted Walter to be the first man I ever kissed, the only man. But he turned his face away from me and called for his servant.

‘‘Peter, I’m tired,’’ he said. ‘‘I need to lie down for a while.’’ I heard the bone-deep weariness in his voice. ‘‘Please go home now, Betsy.’’

But I didn’t go. I couldn’t move. I watched Peter wheel Walter’s chair the short distance to the bedroom and remove the blanket that covered his legs. Then Peter lifted him into his arms like a child and laid him on the bed. I understood why Walter hadn’t allowed me to watch him eat. He could no longer feed himself. And I understood why he had allowed me to glimpse his helplessness now.

I waited until Peter wheeled the chair away, then I ran into the room and sat down on the bed beside him, bending to rest my head on his chest, my arms encircling his thin shoulders.

‘‘My pain won’t go away if you leave me,’’ I wept. ‘‘You’ll only be gone from my life that much sooner. Please give me whatever time you have left,’’ I begged. ‘‘Please. That’s all I ask.’’

He laid his hand on my hair. ‘‘Betsy...my love...don’t you understand? The weakness that started in my legs has left them paralyzed. Now it’s spreading to my arms and I can scarcely feed myself. Eventually it will affect all of my muscles. I’m already having trouble swallowing. But when the muscles that work my lungs become paralyzed, I’ll stop breathing. I’ll suffocate to death. I can’t put you through that ordeal or all that work.’’

‘‘It’s not work when you love someone. Please let me be the one who takes care of you, not Peter. If you’re really dying, then I want to stay beside you until you draw your very last breath.’’

‘‘And what will I do for you in return?’’ he asked sadly. ‘‘I’m a helpless invalid. I have nothing to give you.’’

‘‘Just give me yourself, your love. That’s all I want—’’

‘‘No.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘That’s not a loving relationship. Taking care of me will keep you from accomplishing your own dreams.’’