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Hulda hesitated. “His spirit is centuries old.”
“True.” He stepped over a rotting log. “But I understand the lad.”
Several seconds passed before Hulda repeated, softer, “Understand?”
He nodded. “Why he’d want to stay... He went too soon. Maybe he got sick. Who knows?” He put his hands in his pockets. “But he was separated from his family before he was ready. If one can ever be ready for that. Just like me.”
Hulda stopped in her tracks. “Merritt...,” she began.
He paused and turned around, leaving about three paces between them. Did she realize she’d used his first name? Any other time, he might have been pleased.
She’d asked after the story before, hadn’t she? Merritt was feeling oddly sentimental. He wasn’t himself, which was the only reason he said anything at all. “I was eighteen when my father wrote me off. Got a girl pregnant. Or I thought I did.”
Hulda’s eyes widened.
He rubbed the back of his head. A single, dry chuckle worked its way up his throat. “Goodness, I never tell this story. It sounds so strange out loud.”
She swallowed. “You don’t have to.”
“But you want to know, don’t you?” He peered past her to Owein’s grave, already hidden by the grass. “I loved her. Got carried away. My father was so wroth with me. He always was, more than my sisters. Never really understood why. He wrote me off there and then. Forbademe from coming home. From speaking to my mother...” He felt a lump forming in his throat and coughed to clear it.
“But I was going to make it right, with or without him.” He glanced to the eastern horizon. “I got myself a job, even a ring. Not a nice one, mind you, but she seemed happy enough to wear it. And then one morning she was gone. Left for music school, was all her parents told me. That, and she never was pregnant. Just a scare. Refused to tell me where she went. They never did like me.”
Hulda didn’t respond. He hadn’t expected her to. How does one react to that? To learning someone is so wretched that their adolescent sweetheart left him without word?
Without daring to look at her, Merritt added, “Owein stays,” and he ventured to the house alone, the wind teasing his hair, the whimbrels crying his arrival.
Chapter 19
September 20, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
Hulda should have been up and about by now. She always strove to be the first one to rise in any house she occupied. No sense in wasting daylight or being unavailable when needed. But her mattress felt very deep this morning, her blankets especially warm, her thoughts particularly insistent.
She was happy the house and its wizard—little Owein!—were intact. And she sensed Whimbrel House was equally content with the arrangement. But that victory was intermixed with thoughts on Merritt’s—Mr.Fernsby’s—confession. His words had swum around her head the rest of yesterday and even pierced her dreams last night.
Mr.Fernsby had made himself scarce, enmeshing himself in his work and avoiding the staff.
He was separated from his family...Just like me.
Hulda rolled onto her side and blew a lock of hair off her face. She only saw her own parents and siblings once a year, usually at Christmas. Her schedule was too busy for more frequent sojourns. But she always had a place there. She couldn’t imagine being severed from them for good.
Mr.Fernsby’s father’s reaction did seem... extreme. Many would regard premarital relations very poorly. But to cut him off entirely? Fromhis mother, his siblings? Eighteen was old enough, she supposed... but it was an uncomfortable thought. Perhaps they were strict Catholics or Shakers, though Mr.Fernsby didn’t seem particularly religious.
Her mind flitted back to the marshland outside the house. The look on his face... he’d been smiling, but with such a depth of sadness in his eyes. Like peering down into the deepest part of the ocean, or looking through a ghost.
Thirteen years.This all happened thirteen years ago. Nearly half of Mr.Fernsby’s lifetime. A long time to atone for a mistake, and he was hardly a profligate man. She recalled inquiring about spirits when Mr.Portendorfer was visiting.I avoid things that might get me into trouble.
The words of a penitent man, or so she thought. It was obvious that he was very careful.
Rolling back, Hulda stared at fine lines in the ceiling. She did have a tendency to be judgmental, as her sister often pointed out. Self-admittedly, she didn’t like rule breakers, ruffians, pranksters, and the like. Yet she couldn’t find it in her heart or mind to judge Merritt Fernsby. He had a roguish air, yes, but he was kind. A gentleman, really. A gentleman wound through with regret.
Hulda sighed.How badly did she break your heart?Surely the loss of areallove, someone you had actually shared something with and not merely fantasized about, must be devastating. He’d intended to marry her. This woman could have been the woman of Whimbrel House. Hulda would have been reporting to her instead of him. For a moment, Hulda wondered what her name was, what she was like... then chided herself for getting carried away and threw off her covers. Time to get dressed and be useful.
She was certain of one thing: she would not cause Mr.Fernsby any further misery. He’d been punished enough. It wasn’t her place, besides.
After donning a dress, pinning up her hair, and cleaning her spectacles, Hulda popped a lemon drop into her mouth and strode from her room with purpose.
Miss Taylor was outside beating a rug. The smells wafting from the kitchen hinted that Mr.Babineaux was near the end of breakfast preparations. Mr.Fernsby was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was shut up in his office or bedroom. Retrieving her ledgers, Hulda took herself to the pantry to update her records of the food stores. Halfway through, she heard Mr.Babineaux in the breakfast room and found him placing a fresh loaf of brioche on the table.
