Tess, has taken up with a peddler?”
Derora lowered her head to hide her smile, entwined her hands, ladylike, in her lap. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Thatcher.” When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears and her smile was gone, for Olivia was not the only natural actress in the Bishop family. “As God is my witness, sir,” she choked out brokenly, “I tried to carry on after Olivia—after our sweet Olivia collapsed, but—being alone myself—being poor—”
“I understand, dear lady,” Asa Thatcher comforted her gruffly. “I understand. Burdens that should have been mine were thrust upon you. I have only myself to thank for the state of my family.”
And me to thank for the roofs over their heads and the bread in their mouths, Derora thought fiercely, though, of course, she would not say such a thing aloud. “We all do what we must, Mr. Thatcher,” she said softly. “We all do what we must.”
Asa had already downed his brandy; now he thrust his skeletal frame out of his chair with determined energy. “And I must gather my sheep,” he said. “Tesswas always close to her mother. It would be my guess that, in finding the hospital where Livie stays, I’ll also find my daughter.”
Derora thought quickly. “You’ll—you’ll give them both my love, won’t you?”
It was just the right measure of tender concern, of long-suffering devotion. Asa Thatcher smiled and reached into his suitcoat for his wallet. He gave Derora a respectable sum of money for her care of Tess and promised to wire his bank in St. Louis for more, this last meant to compensate her for the cost of Olivia’s confinement.
Derora deliberately widened her dark eyes. “Oh, but it’s too much, Mr. Thatcher,” she lied. “Olivia is my sister, after all—it was my duty—”
Asa was already on his way to the door. “The duty was surely mine, dear lady. How I wish that I had undertaken to fulfill it more wisely.”
It took all Derora’s self-control not to laugh and crow and count through that thick wad of currency again and again, to remain circumspect and dignified. But if her composure was false, her curiosity was not. “Mr. Thatcher, you love my sister very much, don’t you? Pray, tell me why you turned her and Tess out so—so abruptly.”
Thin shoulders moved in a broken, despondent sigh, memories filled the sunken eyes. “My late wife did that, with the help of our daughter, Millicent. I had no knowledge of it until it was too late.”
“You mean, they sent Tess and Olivia away? It wasn’t your doing?”
“I would sooner have parted with the breath in mylungs than given up my Livie or our little girl. But I was away from St. Louis on business, and it was regrettably easy, apparently, for my wife’s attorneys to convince Livie that the order came from me. When I returned from New York”—Pain, real and ferocious, moved in his plain-featured face—“they were gone.”
“The letters,” Derora remembered suddenly. “Olivia wrote you letters, and so did Tess.”
“I received no letters,” Asa said flatly, and Derora believed him. “It was only after my wife’s death—a scant two weeks past now—that I found out what had happened. My daughter, Millicent, had fallen in love, and this worthy emotion had sparked some pity in her, some sense of compassion. She told me that she and her mother had intercepted the letters and burned them.”
“My God,” breathed Derora, remembering how Olivia had despaired, how Tess had hated.
Asa took her hand, squeezed it. “I must go now and find my dear Olivia. Thank you, madam, for your unfailing kindness throughout.”
Derora remembered the bills clenched in her hand and beamed. “You are most welcome, Mr. Thatcher,” she replied, with the utmost sincerity. “And God speed you on your journey.”
Thatcher smiled his forlorn smile, and then he was gone.
Juniper stood, wide-eyed, in the dining room doorway. “That man was the spittin’ image of Abe
Derora lowered her head to hide her smile, entwined her hands, ladylike, in her lap. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Thatcher.” When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears and her smile was gone, for Olivia was not the only natural actress in the Bishop family. “As God is my witness, sir,” she choked out brokenly, “I tried to carry on after Olivia—after our sweet Olivia collapsed, but—being alone myself—being poor—”
“I understand, dear lady,” Asa Thatcher comforted her gruffly. “I understand. Burdens that should have been mine were thrust upon you. I have only myself to thank for the state of my family.”
And me to thank for the roofs over their heads and the bread in their mouths, Derora thought fiercely, though, of course, she would not say such a thing aloud. “We all do what we must, Mr. Thatcher,” she said softly. “We all do what we must.”
Asa had already downed his brandy; now he thrust his skeletal frame out of his chair with determined energy. “And I must gather my sheep,” he said. “Tesswas always close to her mother. It would be my guess that, in finding the hospital where Livie stays, I’ll also find my daughter.”
Derora thought quickly. “You’ll—you’ll give them both my love, won’t you?”
It was just the right measure of tender concern, of long-suffering devotion. Asa Thatcher smiled and reached into his suitcoat for his wallet. He gave Derora a respectable sum of money for her care of Tess and promised to wire his bank in St. Louis for more, this last meant to compensate her for the cost of Olivia’s confinement.
Derora deliberately widened her dark eyes. “Oh, but it’s too much, Mr. Thatcher,” she lied. “Olivia is my sister, after all—it was my duty—”
Asa was already on his way to the door. “The duty was surely mine, dear lady. How I wish that I had undertaken to fulfill it more wisely.”
It took all Derora’s self-control not to laugh and crow and count through that thick wad of currency again and again, to remain circumspect and dignified. But if her composure was false, her curiosity was not. “Mr. Thatcher, you love my sister very much, don’t you? Pray, tell me why you turned her and Tess out so—so abruptly.”
Thin shoulders moved in a broken, despondent sigh, memories filled the sunken eyes. “My late wife did that, with the help of our daughter, Millicent. I had no knowledge of it until it was too late.”
“You mean, they sent Tess and Olivia away? It wasn’t your doing?”
“I would sooner have parted with the breath in mylungs than given up my Livie or our little girl. But I was away from St. Louis on business, and it was regrettably easy, apparently, for my wife’s attorneys to convince Livie that the order came from me. When I returned from New York”—Pain, real and ferocious, moved in his plain-featured face—“they were gone.”
“The letters,” Derora remembered suddenly. “Olivia wrote you letters, and so did Tess.”
“I received no letters,” Asa said flatly, and Derora believed him. “It was only after my wife’s death—a scant two weeks past now—that I found out what had happened. My daughter, Millicent, had fallen in love, and this worthy emotion had sparked some pity in her, some sense of compassion. She told me that she and her mother had intercepted the letters and burned them.”
“My God,” breathed Derora, remembering how Olivia had despaired, how Tess had hated.
Asa took her hand, squeezed it. “I must go now and find my dear Olivia. Thank you, madam, for your unfailing kindness throughout.”
Derora remembered the bills clenched in her hand and beamed. “You are most welcome, Mr. Thatcher,” she replied, with the utmost sincerity. “And God speed you on your journey.”
Thatcher smiled his forlorn smile, and then he was gone.
Juniper stood, wide-eyed, in the dining room doorway. “That man was the spittin’ image of Abe
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