Circumstances by Margaret P.
(With thanks to my betas, Suzanne Lyte and Terri Derr) (2015—Words: 4,762)
'On the first evening…Murdoch had risked voicing his disappointment that Scott had not come in more settled times. The boy had muttered something about 'circumstances' before gulping down what was left of his brandy and going to his bed.'
(From Highlands to Homecoming, Chapter 51: Highriders, 2015)
Chapter One
"Damn you, Murdoch Lancer!" It was nothing more than Harlan had expected, but up until now there had always been hope.
A knock interrupted his thoughts, and the door to the study opened.
"I'm back, Grandfather, but I'm off again to collect Julie. I shouldn't have stayed out so long. I'll need to change on my return." Scott Lancer stood in his great coat, dripping on the Persian rug as a light dusting of snow melted on his shoulders. Picking up some papers from his desk, Harlan slipped his left hand into his pocket. Scott approached and started examining the pile of telegrams neatly stacked on the top edge. "I met some old friends from school and lost track of the time. Are these for me? I didn't realise I was so popular."
"They've been coming all day, and many from very influential people. Fortunately, I took the precaution of asking the telegraph office to write the sender and place of origin on the back of the envelope in case you were short on time. You should sort through them and open the more important ones before the party. They need to be read out. Men like Edgar Harraway rightly expect their good wishes to be acknowledged publicly."
"I don't know why you invited Harraway and his ilk, or why they feel the need to wish me a happy birthday, if they have the good sense not to come. I don't have anything to do with them."
"But I do, Scotty, and as my heir they naturally pay their respects on your coming of age. As I've explained to you before, it's important to keep track of who makes the effort to court your acquaintance."
Scott grimaced.
"You have the makings of a good business brain, but you're too idealistic, my boy. Have your professors at Harvard taught you nothing?" Harlan smiled at his grandson: tall, fair and strong-willed, just like his mother. "I suppose, if I think hard enough, I can remember a few follies from my own youth. You'll learn."
But Scott wasn't listening. He was shuffling through the telegrams. "Mostly from out of town well-wishers." He reached the bottom of the pile. "No surprises, I see." His face was grim, and Harlan's hand sweated on the message in his pocket.
"California is a long way off."
"Not too far for a telegram to reach its destination if someone thought it important to send one—not that it would compensate."
"No, I'm pleased you say so. I should be disappointed if you were swayed by a solitary greeting to consider…well, no matter. I thought you said you were away to collect Miss Dennison. You'd best be quick or you'll have to rush to change when you get back. You can't greet our company dressed in tweeds and galoshes, even if you are the guest of honour."
Scott left immediately, closing the door behind him. After a minute, Harlan opened it again. He left it ajar so he could hear when his grandson returned. Then he extracted the telegram from its hiding place. Murdoch was nothing if not persistent. He would naturally take the first opportunity to make contact with his son now the legal barriers were gone.
Harlan had deliberately worked from home that day. He'd encouraged Scott to go out as soon as he'd eaten breakfast, and the butler had brought the telegrams to the study one by one. After nine out-of-state messages had passed inspection, the telegram Harlan had been waiting for was finally delivered while he was changing for the evening's festivities. When he came downstairs, Jordan presented it and two others face down on a silver salver alongside his usual early evening brandy. Harlan instantly saw the words 'Lancer' and 'California' written in pencil on the flap, but pretended indifference. As soon as Jordan departed, he pounced.
"Damn you, Murdoch Lancer! Why will you not give up?"
Scott had been six or seven when he'd first realised an absentee father marked him as different. Harlan had told him the truth. Not the whole truth, but the truth all the same, and it satisfied his curiosity for a time.
Until the hunger years when the boy yearned so badly for his father that Harlan feared at times he would run away. Time, silence, and a few carefully sown seeds bore fruit eventually. Desire turned to resentment, and Harlan nurtured the feeling of separation.
Some things became routine. Every December, Christmas and birthday presents arrived from California, and Harlan would spend an evening cursing Murdoch Lancer, the Scottish immigrant who had enticed his beloved Catherine to her death in a far off land. Harlan only had one small part of his daughter left, and he'd go to his grave before he'd let Murdoch steal that treasure back. Scotty belonged to him and to Boston. Once Harlan had downed enough brandy to convince himself of that fact, he would remove the letters, photographs or cards from the parcels. Sometimes he looked at them, but often he just burned them in the grate, watching their edges curl black and burst into blue-red flames, before adding the gifts to the mound of unlabelled packages from Father Christmas under the tree.
Harlan's conscience was clear. He could honestly say Scotty had received every present his father had ever sent him.
But the Great Rebellion had thrown everything topsy-turvy. "I should never have contacted Murdoch when Scotty ran off. I should never have shared so much information with him."
His mistake could have been costly. If Scott hadn't been captured, the letter Murdoch had sent care of the army would have been delivered to him, not diverted to his grandfather as next of kin. Harlan shuddered, but God had been on his side. The Almighty knew what was best for Scott, just as Harlan knew, and it wasn't life as a cowboy on some barren stretch of land out west, surrounded by foreigners and cattle. Harlan had battled and schemed to keep Scott by his side for twenty-one years, and he was damned if he would lose him to Lancer now.
"He belongs here, my dear." Harlan stared at the miniature of his late wife by the fireplace. "But I must be on my guard. He ran off to join the army, and he's still unsettled. Harvard is helping, I think, but I can't take the risk." Scott would have been safely abroad by now if it weren't for the war. That had been the plan. Out of reach of the message now threatening to explode all Harlan's carefully cultivated myths. If he let Scott make contact, Murdoch would tell him his truth. "And if Scotty believes him, I could lose him." All Harlan's hopes for the future, both business and personal could come crashing down around him. It must not happen. It must not—but how to stop it?
Harlan frowned at the flames flickering over glowing coals in the fireplace. It would be so easy. "If only you were here, my dear. A man forgives the misdeeds of a woman."
But his wife was not there. She had not lived to see Scott, and thank God she had not lived to see her daughter die at the side of dirt road in a covered wagon in the middle of nowhere. His beloved Catherine was buried on a hillside, just outside a God-forsaken hamlet called Carterville; a fine resting place for the only daughter of Harlan Garrett of Boston. The memory of poor Catherine breathing her last still haunted him. "Help Murdoch take care of our son, Father. Promise me. I love you all so much."
Harlan pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose with some force; he must be getting a cold. As he returned the cloth to his pocket, he stared at the fire again. He could destroy the telegram, but if Scotty found out…Harlan knew his grandson better than the boy knew himself. Scott had inherited his father's honesty and innate sense of duty. He had always known the difference between right and wrong without being taught. He was fair-minded, compassionate, and loyal; everything Harlan hoped and feared in equal measure he would be. Scott wouldn't agree that keeping his father from him by legal means had been in his best interest. Harlan still believed he was right, but he knew Scott wouldn't agree with him. As things stood now, though, after the first rush of anger, Harlan's crimes would be excused as the actions of an over-protective grandfather. But if Harlan interfered with a telegram sent to Scott Lancer as a legal adult, no court would support him, and Scott would never trust him again—if he found out. Was the gamble worth the risk? If only he had more time.
"Would you show Miss Dennison to the sitting room please, Jordan, and tell my grandfather she has arrived." The sound of Scott's voice filtered through from the hallway. "I won't be long, Julie."
For several seconds Harlan stared at the door. Then he pocketed the telegram and downed the remains of his brandy.
With one more glance at the fire, he opened the door wide and strode forward. Jordan was still helping Julie Dennison off with her coat as Scott discarded his scarf and gloves.
"Welcome, my dear. No need to hurry, Scotty. I'll gladly entertain Miss Dennison. I'm looking forward to knowing her better." He tucked Julie's arm into his. "Jordan, bring us the sherry. I'm sure Miss Dennison would enjoy a drink to take away the winter chill before our other guests arrive."
"Thank you, sir. Please, call me Julie."
"My pleasure—Julie. Let's make ourselves comfortable in the sitting room, shall we?" Harlan escorted her down the hall as his grandson shucked off his great coat and bounded upstairs to change into evening dress. He wouldn't be gone long. Harlan must work fast.
Until this moment Harlan had looked upon the Dennison girl as another problem. She was pleasant enough and pretty. He could see why Scott liked her, but he would have preferred a more profitable marriage alliance for his only grandson and heir. "Your father is feeling better, my dear?"
"It was a severe bout of influenza, sir, but the doctor says he is almost recovered; he will be able to return to his business very soon. Even so, I would not have left his side this evening, except that he insisted."
"We appreciate his sacrifice. The evening would not have been complete without you, as I'm sure your father knows." Harlan gave a small bow and smiled. For a split second, Miss Dennison blanched, and Harlan's smile broadened. She wasn't just an ignorant pawn then— even better.
Dismissing Jordan, he removed the stopper from the crystal decanter and poured the Amontillado himself. "If you'll allow an old man the liberty, might I say you are looking quite enchanting this evening?"
"You flatter me, sir. While I wear mourning dress, I'm a poor thing to look at."
"Then we have much to look forward to, my dear, when the happy day of your release arrives. No one seeing you now could find anything wanting." Harlan handed Julie a glass of sherry, taking in her fashionable hair-style, well-cut gown and demure manner. Even in black, it was clear she appreciated the finer things in life. She would not disgrace the name of Garrett, if it went that far. "Please take the chair closest to the fire. I insist."
Harlan settled into the armchair opposite his guest. "Julie. It's a French name, I believe? You must have felt right at home in Europe."
Julie looked up from arranging her gown. "I'm afraid my name didn't help me feel more at ease during my brief sojourn in Paris. There were of course many wonderful things to see and do, but I admit I'm glad to be back in Boston."
"Naturally, you would have been anxious for your dear mother."
"Indeed, Mr Garrett. I was so very far away; it took two weeks to sail home, even by steamship." Julie fidgeted with her chatelaine and gazed sadly down at her hands. "I have no desire to travel away again. Even before news of Mother's illness reached me, I was homesick for Boston."
Harlan's opinion of Julie Dennison was improving. A strong attachment to Boston suited his purposes extremely well, and he wasn't too worried whether it was genuine or expressed for his benefit. Perhaps, given time, he could turn being hoodwinked to his advantage in more ways than one.
After wallowing in grief and neglecting his business, Julie's father had attempted to salvage things by wooing his creditors with venison and fine wine. Harlan had thought nothing of it when Scott was included in the dinner invitation; but he was immediately on his guard when they arrived, and he discovered Dennison had a charming, nineteen-year-old daughter. With no opportunity to divert disaster, Scott had been smitten by the time Miss Dennison served coffee.
"My grandson seems very glad to have you back in our fair city. How long have you two been walking out together now, my dear?" As if Harlan didn't know.
"About eight weeks, sir. I enjoy his company very much."
"I believe the feeling is mutual. Take this evening for example, he has gone to great lengths to ensure you join us, despite your father's ill-health. If I'm not mistaken, that expresses his hopes very clearly, although the period of mourning for your dear mother must be properly observed." Harlan sipped his sherry and appraised his guest over the rim of his glass. Was she shy or cunning? It was very hard to be sure after such a short acquaintance, but at the very least, she was not as green as she was cabbage-like, as his old nanny used to say. Young and emotional—that went without saying—and domestic in her outlook, an attentive and dutiful daughter. If Harlan wasn't very much mistaken, Miss Dennison had already acted for the benefit of her father, and would more than likely do so again. "Might I say how very pleased I am? You are exactly the sort of young woman I would want for Scott, not least because of your attachment to this fine city."
"Scott is very fond of Boston too. It's his home."
"Ah, my dear, it is his home now, but for how much longer? At the risk of being too forward, I must confide my greatest fear: Scott may be tempted to abandon Boston, and those who care about him, for the uncertainties of the western territories."
"Why should you think such a thing, Mr Garrett?" Julie turned where she sat and placed her sherry on the side table. Giving Harlan her full attention, her eyes were no longer downcast or feigning modesty. "He has never said anything to me."
"Has he never mentioned his father?"
"Only to say Mr Lancer left Scott in your care as a baby and has shown no interest in him since. I did not like to inquire further. The subject appeared to distress him."
"Then he'll be more distressed soon. Among the telegrams to arrive this afternoon is one from California—from his no-account father. I surmise he sees some value in his son as an adult that he did not see in him as a child. He'll try to lure Scott west, and in Scott's current state of restiveness, I'm very much afraid he'll go, forsaking his studies and his life here in Boston."
"Oh my, do you really think so?" With her hand on her heart, Julie looked pleasingly shocked. Harlan couldn't have hoped for more.
"Unfortunately, I do. My grandson is too honourable for his own good, and he doesn't know the full extent of his father's crimes. Even if Scott were not fooled by Lancer's excuses, he would see it as his duty to visit him if asked." Harlan shook his head with an attitude of sorrow and distaste. "I'm sorry, my dear, you must think it very wrong of me to speak so harshly of my own son-in-law, but I was against his marriage to my daughter from the outset. His neglect caused her death, and for that I can never forgive him."
"Does Scott know?"
"I have tried to shelter him from the full truth. Distance and Lancer's indifference have made that easier over the years, but now I fear my reluctance to cause Scott pain could work against me. It's too late to enlighten him. He would think it only a ploy to stop him going. Oh, what I would give if someone could prevent him from going. Who knows what might happen in California? It's still a rough and uncivilised place in many ways, and I dread to think what schemes a man like Lancer might employ to keep him there. Yet, I feel there is nothing I can do to stop it happening."
Brow knitted, Julie reached for her sherry. After one sip, she clutched the glass two-handed in her lap, and raised her eyes in earnest to Harlan's. "Surely you could persuade him against making such journey, Mr Garrett."
"I would not attempt it, my dear. The relationship between us is not what it was before the war. As of today he is an adult. I have no legal right to protect him from his father now, and Scotty would blame me, not thank me, if he discovered I had interfered, no matter how well-meaning my intentions. I'm afraid, my dear, a man does not forgive another man as easily as he forgives a woman."
"You think he would forgive the well-meaning interference of a woman?"
"Undoubtedly—if he cared for her. Don't you?"
Julie blinked like a startled doe. "I…Are you suggesting I should say something to him?"
"You could try, I suppose, although the damage will likely be done the instant he reads the telegram. If only it had never arrived. If only I had the courage to burn it before he sees it. His father has ignored him for twenty-one years. If I had my wish, he would ignore him for twenty-one more. Whatever it says, it will only serve to upset him—a fine birthday present."
The door latch clicked and Scott entered the room. Conversation turned to other things: an amusing incident during the last week of term at Harvard, and the coldness of the weather. Would there be more snow before Christmas? The skating pond on the common would soon be hard enough. Would Julie like to join him when it was?
The clock chimed seven o'clock.
"We need to talk a little business before our other guests arrive, Scott."
"Surely that could wait for another day, Grandfather? Julie was going to entertain us with a song or two."
"Much as I'd enjoy that, these matters need to be settled today, and you have been out all afternoon. I'm sure Julie will excuse us for half an hour. Perhaps she could open the telegrams that have arrived for you and sort them into some kind of order. Not all of them will need to be read out at supper, but you will cause offence if some are not. If I provide you with the list of those invited to the party, my dear, would you do us the favour of taking on that responsibility?"
"Would you mind?" Scott turned towards Julie and smiled his apology.
"Not at all. Anything I can do to help."
Harlan smiled. The girl had learned something from her fancy French finishing school; she maintained a look of complaisance towards Scott, and saved the look of alarm for Harlan when Scott's back was turned. Yes, Miss Julie Dennison could prove immensely useful.
Business was like a game of cards. A skilled gambler could ensure he knew what cards others held. He could never be certain how they would play them, but top businessmen like top gamblers were great students of human nature. Harlan was hopeful he had done enough. He asked Jordan to bring in the telegrams on a tray. Just before he followed Scott from the room he passed them to Julie, placing the crucial envelope on top. "Here they are my dear. If you would take them from their envelopes and arrange them in some way, keeping the more important ones aside."
The door clicked shut behind Scott and Mr Garrett, and Julie stared down at the slightly crumpled envelope balanced atop two piles of neatly stacked telegrams. She half-dropped the tray on the side table in her eagerness to distance herself from it. The offending message glided to the floor.
That was better. It was out of her line of sight. Although she knew it was still there, she could breathe now and focus on sorting the rest. Despite her best effort, that didn't take long. She opened and sorted the telegrams in a matter of minutes with the help of an original guest list provided by Mr Garrett; messages from family made up one pile and then the rest were separated according to whether they came from out of town or from Boston. Telegrams from a few very important people, she placed in a pile on their own. At last, there was only one telegram left, lying half under a chair, peeking out from behind its leg.
Steeling herself, she bent down and picked it up.
The silver letter opener felt heavy in her hands. It slit the envelope cleanly, and she pulled the single page free. The words were simple and in themselves unthreatening, but after Mr Garrett's revelations, the implications were frightening.
To Mr. Scott Lancer
Louisburg Square, Beacon Hill, Boston
December 19th, 1866
Many happy returns, Scott.
You cannot know how much I have longed for this day. Now you are twenty-one and free to make your own way in life, I hope we can get to know each other. It would give me great pleasure if you would visit me in California. To that end, I have instructed the Bank of New England to meet all costs from my account, if you would do me the favour of making the journey. I hope to hear from you soon.
Your loving father,
Murdoch Lancer
Julie clasped the telegram in her lap. The firelight was hot on her face as she gazed blindly at the burning coals. What if Mr Garrett was right? What if Scott abandoned his studies and Boston and went in search of his father?
Things had been going so well between her and Scott since that first evening. Despite her fears, Julie smiled at the memory. It had been her first time as hostess. The servants had extended the table to its full length and laid it with all the best china, linen and silverware. It looked beautiful, but Julie had straightened each setting and the central candelabra at least three times.
Her father had come into the dining room shortly before their guests arrived. "I'd like you to be particularly attentive to Harlan Garrett's grandson, my dear." He picked up the place card labelled 'Scott Lancer' and exchanged it with another card at Julie's end of the table.
Puzzled, Julie took her father's arm. "I'll show all your guests the utmost courtesy, of course."
"Courtesy, be damned. You're my best hope, Julie. If you wish to keep your fine dresses and trips to the theatre, you'll be a lot more to young Lancer than just polite."
Julie frowned. It was so unlike her father to use such language in front of her. His business problems must be worse than she imagined. She wanted to help, but what was he suggesting?
"I'm not asking you to marry the boy—though it would solve everything if you did—I merely want you to bat your eyelids and retain his interest for a month of two. Garrett cares a great deal for that young man, and he's unlikely to make a move against me if he believes his grandson has feelings for you."
Julie patted her father's hand. He was too thin. He'd barely eaten in the weeks immediately after her mother's death, and the doctor had detected a heart murmur. "I'll do my best to please, Father, but I can't force Mr Lancer to like me."
"How could any man resist your smiles, my love? Show him every attention during the evening and laugh at all his jokes. You'll have him in the palm of your hand. Whatever you do, don't let his grandfather separate you. I'll try to keep Garrett occupied. In fact…" George Dennison scanned the table. Locating where Julie had placed Mr Garrett, he swapped around his place card too, sitting Harlan Garrett and his grandson at opposite ends of the table.
As it had turned out, Julie had found Scott very amiable. It was no hardship to walk out with him later, and only this evening he had asked her if they could keep company. Her father was over the moon when they'd sought his permission. There could be no engagement, of course, until the period of her mother's mourning ended, and no marriage until Scott graduated, but she was flattered by his declaration of affection. He was by far the nicest young man of her acquaintance. And if things went well between them, it would be quite something to possess the pin money and prestige of Mrs Scott Garrett Lancer, heir to the Garrett fortune.
Coals collapsing in the grate hissed and sparked and brought Julie back to the telegram in her hands. She flattened the creases out against her knees. "What am I thinking? This message is addressed to Scott. He must read it as intended and make his own decision."
Oh, but Mr Garrett was right. Scott hated his father. The one time she'd asked Scott about him, she'd seen the hurt in his eyes. She'd attempted to excuse the neglect; California was a long way off and by all accounts uncivilised, surely Mr Lancer had only been thinking of Scott's welfare.
"I haven't had one letter from the man, not one letter or gift, ever, that I can remember. There is no excuse for that."
"It certainly sounds very bad, but there may be circumstances you don't know about. Have you ever tried writing to him?"
"I wrote regularly at one time. My grandfather sacrificed the cost of postage even though he warned me there was little likelihood of a reply. My father, by all accounts, is an adventurer, too interested in building his ranch to be bothered with a small child. Grandfather believed he might be more interested in me when I was older; I would be more use to him then. Well, I'll tell you now, if that does prove to be the case, he will be disappointed. I want nothing to do with the gentleman."
Even as he said it, Julie had doubted whether it could be true. He seemed to mean it, but in her limited experience, men were prone to say things they didn't mean, especially when they were angry.
So where did that leave her now? Should she place the telegram prominently on top of the important pile where conscience told her it belonged, and risk him leaving? He would come back—wouldn't he? But would he stay? Other men had been swept up by the excitements of California. Her friend Edith had been dragged to San Francisco to suffer the heat and the dust, and the interminable ignorance of the people; her letters spoke regularly of her misery. Would Scott ask Julie to move to a ranch in California? Mr Garrett was right; even she could see Scott was restless.
If she only knew what was best.
Her eyes fell upon the dying embers in the grate, hotly orange but turning to ash. The fire needed more fuel. She took the shovel and scooped coal from the scuttle. Gracious, she could hear voices in the hall. They were coming back. She had the coal in one hand and the telegram in the other. The glowing fire was in front of her, and the door opened. Her time had run out, and…
Julie blinked back her horror. Returning the shovel to the scuttle, she straightened and brushed down her dress. Then, with a Boston smile and outstretched hands, she turned to greet Scott and his grandfather, knowing the room was warm and welcoming.
And flames flared in the grate.
Notes:
1. Scott Lancer, Harlan Garrett and Julie Dennison are canon characters. They appear together in Legacy, Series 2, Episode 10.
2. This story has its roots in From Highlands to Homecoming and links to the Eliot Series.