the spring. An
apoplexy, the doctor had said.
She sat in the chair opposite her
father's shrunken and motionless figure. His mouth drooped on the
right side and a strand of spittle gathered at the corner. Harriet
pulled out a handkerchief and gently wiped her father's face. She
smiled and began to talk to him of her day, of his tenants and
lands, of anything she could think to say. It was at her request
that the stable lad, being the only one strong enough, brought her
father down to the study every morning, and then returned him to
his bed every night. The study had always been his favorite room,
the place where he had conducted business, and she had thought it
the best place for him to spend his days. She made sure to visit
him there at least once a day to apprise him of the running of the
estate, and to visit him and keep his company. He had not yet
spoken to her, nor even so much as looked in her direction, but
everyday as she rose to leave, she placed her hand under his, and
she was almost certain she felt a small pressure in
return.
~~~
Margaret had been at the Hall for
several days without word to her sister beyond a note relating a
safe arrival and the depth of Lady Whitney's distress, so when a
note arrived for Harriet a week after Margaret's departure, Harriet
assumed it was the long-awaited letter. When she opened it,
however, she was greeted not by her sister's tidy lettering, but by
a different hand altogether.
August 23, 1824
My dear Harriet,
Let me begin by telling you how
much your sister has meant to me during the difficult days
following Sir Frederick's passing. She is truly a light in the
darkness. You may wonder why I am penning this note, rather than
your darling sister, and I must regretfully inform you that an
accident has befallen her. I will assure you that she is in no
danger, but she must not yet be moved. The doctor has come and gone
and says that there is nothing to fear for her general well-being,
but that she needs rest and quiet. She is asking for you, and so
must I. At your earliest convenience, I would like you to come to
stay at the Hall for the remainder of her convalescence. I
remain,
Your dear friend,
Janet Whitney
Harriet had barely finished the
brief note before she was calling for her maid,“Sally! I'm going to
the Hall, and I may be gone for several days. Tell Joseph to saddle
a horse. And tell him not to bother with the carriage, I won't wait
for it.”
Hardly a half hour later, Harriet
was riding as quickly as the brown mare would carry her to the
Hall. It was under two miles distant, but today, knowing Margaret
to be in trouble, it felt ten times that. The pins were falling
loose from her thick, auburn curls, her hair streaming wildly
behind her. She leapt down from the horse without awaiting a groom
and rushed to the door. A thin, wiry man opened the door to her
knock, and she brushed past him without waiting for an invitation,
nearly colliding with another man who stood in the hall.
He was tall and broad shouldered
with large forearms and hands. She noted that his shirt-sleeves
were rolled back and the hands were quite dirty. He had a thick
wave of black hair combed back from his forehead, and he peered at
her with startling gray eyes. The eyes widened at the sight of her
pushing her way into the hall, and for the first time, Harriet
realized what a sight she must make, flushed and wind-blown with
wayward curls escaping undone pins.
She stopped short at the sight of
the black draping on the windows and staircases. Only the
remembrance that she was in a house of mourning kept her from
rushing up the stairs and opening every door until she found
Margaret.
“I'm here to see my sister, Margaret
Davenport. I was told she is hurt,” she said
breathlessly.
The man nodded curtly. “Of course.
Jonah will show you the way.” He jerked his head at the man who had
opened the door, a butler or footman perhaps. Jonah hurried toward
the large, center
apoplexy, the doctor had said.
She sat in the chair opposite her
father's shrunken and motionless figure. His mouth drooped on the
right side and a strand of spittle gathered at the corner. Harriet
pulled out a handkerchief and gently wiped her father's face. She
smiled and began to talk to him of her day, of his tenants and
lands, of anything she could think to say. It was at her request
that the stable lad, being the only one strong enough, brought her
father down to the study every morning, and then returned him to
his bed every night. The study had always been his favorite room,
the place where he had conducted business, and she had thought it
the best place for him to spend his days. She made sure to visit
him there at least once a day to apprise him of the running of the
estate, and to visit him and keep his company. He had not yet
spoken to her, nor even so much as looked in her direction, but
everyday as she rose to leave, she placed her hand under his, and
she was almost certain she felt a small pressure in
return.
~~~
Margaret had been at the Hall for
several days without word to her sister beyond a note relating a
safe arrival and the depth of Lady Whitney's distress, so when a
note arrived for Harriet a week after Margaret's departure, Harriet
assumed it was the long-awaited letter. When she opened it,
however, she was greeted not by her sister's tidy lettering, but by
a different hand altogether.
August 23, 1824
My dear Harriet,
Let me begin by telling you how
much your sister has meant to me during the difficult days
following Sir Frederick's passing. She is truly a light in the
darkness. You may wonder why I am penning this note, rather than
your darling sister, and I must regretfully inform you that an
accident has befallen her. I will assure you that she is in no
danger, but she must not yet be moved. The doctor has come and gone
and says that there is nothing to fear for her general well-being,
but that she needs rest and quiet. She is asking for you, and so
must I. At your earliest convenience, I would like you to come to
stay at the Hall for the remainder of her convalescence. I
remain,
Your dear friend,
Janet Whitney
Harriet had barely finished the
brief note before she was calling for her maid,“Sally! I'm going to
the Hall, and I may be gone for several days. Tell Joseph to saddle
a horse. And tell him not to bother with the carriage, I won't wait
for it.”
Hardly a half hour later, Harriet
was riding as quickly as the brown mare would carry her to the
Hall. It was under two miles distant, but today, knowing Margaret
to be in trouble, it felt ten times that. The pins were falling
loose from her thick, auburn curls, her hair streaming wildly
behind her. She leapt down from the horse without awaiting a groom
and rushed to the door. A thin, wiry man opened the door to her
knock, and she brushed past him without waiting for an invitation,
nearly colliding with another man who stood in the hall.
He was tall and broad shouldered
with large forearms and hands. She noted that his shirt-sleeves
were rolled back and the hands were quite dirty. He had a thick
wave of black hair combed back from his forehead, and he peered at
her with startling gray eyes. The eyes widened at the sight of her
pushing her way into the hall, and for the first time, Harriet
realized what a sight she must make, flushed and wind-blown with
wayward curls escaping undone pins.
She stopped short at the sight of
the black draping on the windows and staircases. Only the
remembrance that she was in a house of mourning kept her from
rushing up the stairs and opening every door until she found
Margaret.
“I'm here to see my sister, Margaret
Davenport. I was told she is hurt,” she said
breathlessly.
The man nodded curtly. “Of course.
Jonah will show you the way.” He jerked his head at the man who had
opened the door, a butler or footman perhaps. Jonah hurried toward
the large, center
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