A Glitter of Gold, page 25
I am alive, though it seems but a dream that I have even a chance of finding you twice in one lifetime.
I think of you alone. I dream of holding you in my arms. Please, if your affections have not been transferred to the good doctor or another man, let me know there is hope. I shall come for you. I shall find you.
Ever yours,
Samuel Thackery
September 4, 1759
Dear Mr. Thackery,
Whatever injury I may have encountered has been fully healed by your letter. I am and will remain ever faithfully yours. The good doctor need not worry you.
I am with my brother, Thomas, in Savannah now. He is much altered after his ordeal, most notably in his absence at the tavern. He has not returned and says that strong drink no longer appeals to him. He speaks little of his time at sea. I should like to share with someone all that I experienced but ’twould be improper, for I wish to speak only of you. Perhaps I am too bold, but when I imagine you, I imagine us together.
If you should like to find me, I spend most afternoons strolling through the town squares, Johnson being my favorite.
With all my heart,
Rebecca Jones
October 1, 1759
Dear Thomas,
I have left this letter with the vicar, who has kindly promised to make sure you read it.
Please do not be cross with me. I would move the heavens to know that you are safe and well. I did all that was within my power to see you rescued and returned to our home. Now I must leave. Indeed, I have already left. You will find my hooks empty and my trunks gone. You will find salted beef and hardtack to last you a fortnight.
I am sorry to leave you thus. I pray that the good Lord will forgive my many sins. I have lied and swindled in my pursuit of your safety. I believed that my purposes far outweighed my transgressions, and I fear that the consequences may yet follow me. However, I cannot deny that the Almighty has shown much mercy in spite of all I have done. Even now he has worked all of this together for a conclusion sweeter than even I could dream.
My Samuel has returned to me this Thursday past. I had hardly dared to believe his letter after knowing him to be dead these many months. But he was simply aboard another vessel and stranded in Charlestowne.
I walked the perimeter of Johnson Square no less than a dozen times each afternoon for nearly a month, praying with each step that Samuel might be restored to me, that he might find me there. He did. On that particular day I stooped to smell the pink flowers in the corner and rose when my name was called. I will recognize his voice for the rest of my life, and how it makes me feel I will never be alone.
My heart, which was injured beyond repair, has been restored. And I believe only a good God would allow me to know such joy. For I do feel joy and love and enough merriment to dance a thousand jigs. I wish this for you, that you would know the love of a good woman and love her in return. Care for her. Cherish her as Samuel cherishes me, which he does so well. We will wed today with God and the vicar’s wife as our witnesses.
The vicar will perform the ceremony, and then Samuel and I will be away, sailing for Boston and all the opportunity there. Samuel says he has not lost his love for the sea, only his tolerance to be away from his wife. We will find suitable lodgings and I will write to you again.
I could not have borne to have you at the ceremony or I may have felt compelled to stay. Forgive me. I do love you, my little brother. Now that I am assured of your safety, I am free to follow my heart and this path toward a future I can only begin to imagine.
Your loving sister,
Rebecca
February 2, 1760
My dear Thomas,
I have sat down to write this letter many times. I cannot seem to find the words. So much has happened in such a short time. Samuel and I have settled in Boston, where he works for a blacksmith. I am not yet convinced that it speaks to his soul as the open water does, but I am assured every evening that I am worth his landing.
I have never experienced such cold. It seeps through my outer garments and chills me to my bones. No fire seems hot enough, no blanket thick enough when I return home from the shops. Samuel says he is happy to warm my hands with his own, and I do not regret our decision. In the quiet evenings when the wind howls and the snow piles high, I do miss Papa reading to us before the hearth. I hope one day that Samuel will do the same with our children.
I know ’tis not proper to speak of such things, but a man has a right to know that he will become an uncle. The babe shall arrive in August, and I hope he has his father’s strong constitution. He shall need it to survive here.
Our neighbors are quite friendly, and I plan to have a garden in the spring, if ever the earth thaws. I miss you terribly and pray that you are well and good.
Your loving sister,
Rebecca
April 4, 1760
My dear sister,
I do hope it not too forward of me to call you such, as Thomas and I have wed only three weeks past. He beseeches me to write to you, for he says that no one could read what he would scratch on the paper.
He bids me to tell you that he is well and happy and overjoyed at the news of your letter. Perhaps we may visit you late in the summer to meet the new member of the family. Thomas does not speak it aloud, but I know he fears traveling north along the coast, over the waters where the ship sank. He says that you and Captain Thackery saved his life that day, though he cannot bring himself to speak the name of the ship that went under. He says that the captain went down with the ship and was rescued after days at sea.
I do not know if Thomas is telling a tale or if it is all true. Either way, I am grateful that you rescued him, for I love him so much. I had been promised to Tobias Middleton late last fall. I know ’tis not Christian to speak ill of the dead, but he made my skin crawl. I had given up all hope that I might marry for love. When a carriage ran Master Middleton over, I found myself free and my father eager to be rid of me. Thomas appeared as a knight of old and offered for my hand.
I will be by your brother’s side as we sail north. I will not let the fear and nightmares consume him. I can do nothing less for the man who has rescued me.
Thomas sends his affection and tells me he prays for you daily.
Your loving sister,
Missus Charity Jones
December 20, 1760
Dear sister Charity,
Your visit this September past was most enjoyed by both Samuel and myself. What joy to have you here to celebrate the arrival of our dear little Teresa. She grows bigger each day. Her father dotes on her as though he had never experienced joy before her arrival.
The cold weather has returned, and I begged Samuel to take us to Savannah. He says we will have to wait until after his first excursion as the captain of a new whaling ship. I am grateful he has the opportunity to return to sea, but Tessie and I will miss him terribly.
’Twill be nothing like standing on the north shore of Tybee and staring toward the mouth of the river where his ship was lost, believing him to be gone from me forever. I wish never to be parted from him again. If the good Lord wills it.
Please give my love to my brother. Wishing you both much joy in the new year and all that it may hold.
Your sister in Boston
twenty
Anne shoved herself out of her chair, raced toward her closet, and hopped on one foot as she pulled on one sneaker and then the other. Her eyes felt like sandpaper as she rubbed at them, trying to clear the haze from her vision.
When she looked down, she realized she was still wearing her pink pajamas, and she scrambled to replace them with something more appropriate. But her shorts caught on her shoe and she tripped, stumbling to the floor in a fit of laughter and tears. “Stupid shoes.” Stupid necessary shoes.
She was a mess, and it would have to do. She could not afford to waste time making herself presentable.
She slid the letters back into their protector, closed the envelope, and hugged it to her chest as she ran to the door. She was nearly outside before she realized she’d completely forgotten her bag. Hurtling herself back through the door, she swiped the bag from the end table, grunting as it landed on her shoulder. Maybe she should downsize it.
There was no time to think about that. Not when the secret to every failed attempt to find the Catherine was right there in Charity Jones’s own handwriting.
She flew down the street, her car the only one bumping along in the twilight. Zipping around the square, she slammed to a stop in front of the museum before running up the stairs to the front door. She grabbed the handle but it refused to turn. So she pushed at it with her shoulder. Still wouldn’t budge.
She took a step back into a pool of light. Only then did she realize that the museum was closed. The whole city was shutting down. A glance at her watch confirmed that it was after eight. She’d completely lost track of time. He would be gone for the day already. The lights seeping through the shuttered windows were always on, whether anyone was there or not.
She had his number. She could call him. Except he might not want to talk with her.
Stepping back until she nearly stumbled off the top step, she grabbed at the metal railing, letting her head fall forward. Even as her disappointment set in, her blood continued to thunder a steady rhythm through her veins. Cathe-rine. Cathe-rine. Cathe-rine.
“Anne? What on earth are you doing here?”
She jerked her chin up and stared right into his eyes. “Carter. You’re here.” Queen of the obvious.
“I still work here. I mean, the museum hasn’t closed permanently. Not yet anyway.”
“But it’s late. It’s . . . it’s after closing time.”
He shrugged. “Being here felt better than being at home. But what are you doing here?”
She pointed in the direction of her apartment as though that might begin to explain all that had happened. “Your Aunt Tessie came to see me.”
He chuckled. “She did?”
“She pounded on my door, and I thought she was my landlord looking for rent money, which I don’t have. Anyway, it was Tessie and she just—she made me tell her the truth. I mean, she already knew.”
“Knew?”
Anne stared at the envelope in her hands as though it might hold the secrets of life. “When we went to Washington, she’d already figured out about the conviction and my time in prison.”
“Yeah, I know. She told me.”
Anne risked a glance up as he stepped toward her. Taking another breath, she tried for a smile. “She brought me something to read. And I just had to share it.” The words caught in the back of her throat, and she had to try three times to get them out. “But there was only one person I wanted to share it with.”
“Me?” His tone was so low that she almost missed the word.
She nodded. “I think she knew I’d want to share it with you, but I don’t think she knew what it was.”
His eyebrows formed a V. “I’m not sure I deserve it. I’ve been a bit of a horse’s rear end.”
She snorted out a laugh at that but couldn’t deny it. “Maybe so. I still wanted you to see it.”
His smile set his dimples in place. “Want to come inside?”
“No.” She motioned toward the steps. “Let’s sit out here.” The sky had rolled out a blanket of stars and a breeze had blown in cooler temperatures. Even the cicadas had taken a break, and she breathed in the sweet aroma of gardenias.
Settling herself on the step, she looked up. He hadn’t moved, and a terrifying thought sliced through her. She hadn’t told him what was in the envelope, and maybe she wasn’t enough to make him stay by her side.
His smile dimmed, more thoughtful than before. Then he lowered himself to her side, their shoulders nearly touching, knees bumping into each other. “What do you have?”
She held out the envelope. “Tessie told me, ‘All is not lost, even when it may seem so.’”
He took the envelope but set it to the side instead of opening it. “You think it’s possible to restore what’s been broken?”
Resting her elbows on her knees, Anne stared into the heart of the square before her, Spanish moss swaying from the towering limbs of the oak trees. “Maybe. Sometimes. I guess it starts with knowing when you’ve messed up.”
“I’m sorry.”
They both spoke the words at the same time, and Anne had to bite back her laugh. “Let me,” she whispered, and he nodded. “I’ve spent a lot of years so worried about keeping people out of my business that I missed out on actually having people in my life.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s a by-product of going to prison for someone else’s stupid decision.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
Strangely enough, she did. And not a half-story with half-truths. She wanted him to know the whole thing. She was done trying to let shame cover her sins.
“It started with a guy.”
“All terrible stories do.”
She smiled at the memory of their conversation on the road trip. It was safe to tell him, so she did.
As the words spilled out, so did the tension she’d been carrying between her shoulder blades since that day eight years before.
“Your lawyer should have fought harder for you.”
“I thought I was to blame.”
Carter froze, his tongue midswipe over his lip. “What do you mean?”
“I felt guilty. Sure, I wasn’t the mastermind, but I was definitely involved. At least in the protest. I thought we were just going to picket the oil rig. But the boat was rented in my name, and that’s how Gary got the bomb to the rig. I didn’t feel like I deserved to walk away free.”
“What about Paul? What happened to him? Is he still on the lam?”
A slow smile crept into place. “He was. Until Tessie tracked him down. He’s being extradited from Canada right now.”
Carter’s laughter was soft and sweet and somehow knowing. “She does love to do her research.”
They sat in silence for several long seconds, both staring at the cement steps below them. Then he looked directly at her. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Shame is a pretty powerful muzzle.”
“So what made you change your mind?”
With a laugh she turned on the step, tucking one leg beneath the other. “You mean other than the impending media storm? Aunt Tessie, of course.”
His laugh matched hers. “Of course.”
“She helped me understand something I didn’t before.” His eyes grew wide, but she refused to look away. “I’ve been ashamed of what I was part of, ashamed of the person I became because of Paul. I held on to that shame like it was my only hope because I thought that some things couldn’t be forgiven. But I don’t think that’s true anymore.”
One corner of his mouth ticked up, his eyes glowing in the yellow streetlight. “That sounds like something my aunt would have said back when I was a kid.”
The silence lingered for a long time after that. Unstrained.
They both turned to watch a bus lumber its way down the pavement, and as it passed, he finally spoke again. “What are you going to do now?”
“Wait for the story to break, I guess.”
“I don’t think it’s going to.”
Whipping toward him, she grabbed his arm. “What do you mean?”
“I made a few phone calls.”
She scrunched up her nose. “What call? Who could you have called?”
His grin lifted the left side of his mouth, and he leaned his shoulder into hers. “You’re not going to believe this. I called my dad.”
“Your dad? I . . .” She bit her lip and tried to make the puzzle pieces form a picture. “I don’t understand. What does your dad have to do with any of this?”
He closed one eye and looked up into the night. “My dad isn’t just a lawyer. Some of his clients happen to be very highly placed executives in television. He’s basically been on retainer for one of the cable companies for the last year. He’s part of the same club as the head of the largest newspaper syndicates in the world.”
“So . . .”
He shrugged. “So I asked him to make some calls. I told him this was really a non-story. There wasn’t anything new to add to it, and it wasn’t pertinent to your tours. Then I told him it was important this story didn’t break. That it could hurt someone who didn’t deserve it—someone I happen to care about.”
Her.
She felt the warmth of a blush rising up her cheeks and wished he’d do something—anything—to take her mind off it. “But you told me you didn’t want to use his connections.”
Carter scrubbed his hands down his face, his five o’clock shadow rasping in the silent night. “I don’t particularly. And I wasn’t inclined to change my mind after he told me what I could do with my request.”
He’d risked his father’s ire. For her.
“I thought you said the story wasn’t going to run. How did you convince him?”
“The same way you convince most men they’ve been stubborn mules—his wife. I called my mom and told her I needed Dad’s help. I told her I think I’m falling in love, and I wanted to settle down and start a family someday. And I wanted her to be part of it. She was overjoyed, naturally.”
Anne nodded her head in stiff, jerky movements. What else could she do when the someone she’d been thinking about far too much lately had just said he was falling in love with her?
“But I told her there was no hope if Dad didn’t step in and make some calls.” He chuckled like he’d just recalled a good joke. “Remember when I told you that my life would be so much easier if my parents could just figure out what they were most mad about?”
She nodded again, her throat too dry to release even a sound, the backs of her eyes burning.
“Turns out it wasn’t so much what they were angry about as who was angrier. And it was my mom, by a long shot. I have no idea what exactly she said to my dad, but he called me an hour later and said the problem was settled. There won’t be any stories about you that you don’t want to tell.”
