Cloud of Spruce

Harmony Harbor

March 10, 1932

My very dear daughter,

Happy sixteenth birthday! I do so wish I could be there for your sixteenth birthday, dearest of daughters. I miss you more than I can say.

Grandmother and I have already sent a package out for your birthday, but yesterday as I was looking for some old linens in the attic, I opened up the wrong trunk and discovered it was full of your father's old things. Grandmother had saved them all. Most were just old clothes and such, but at the very bottom I found this, and somehow, it seemed a far better birthday present than anything else I could send. Happy birthday, Marigold.

Much love,

Mother.

Marigold looked at the package that had accompanied the letter wonderingly. She didn't have anything that had belonged to Leander—not one thing. She found that her fingers were trembling as she untied the string and opened the brown paper.

It was a simple little black book, with nothing on the cover. Marigold opened it reverently, to be greeted by these penned words:

January 1, 1900

Old Aunt Agatha gave me a journal for Christmas this year. Don't know why; it seems an awful girly present. Oh well. Suppose I'll write in it now and then. Don't want to waste it, anyway.

It's the turn of the century! It's a grand thing to be alive for an occasion like this. Lots of things are going to happen in this century, one of which will be the cure of lots of loathsome diseases by Doctor Leander Lesley, world-famous M.D. It's a family tradition to always have a doctor in every generation; I guess I'll be this one's. I may only be thirteen, but I know I'll be a good doctor. Next year I start studying for Queen's, and after that I'll go on to university, and then to medical school. It's a lot of studying, but it'll be worth it.

Tears filled Marigold's eyes as she flipped through the pages of her father's journal. He hadn't written very regularly, but there was still enough to fill most of the book. As she neared the back, the pages fell open at one entry and a brown rose slipped to the floor. Marigold placed it back between the pages and read what her father had written there.

February 18, 1915

Lorraine Winthrop is the sweetest thing I have ever seen. After Clem died, and our baby, I didn't think I'd ever want to love again. My heart, I thought, was buried with her. Ah, but I was just a boy when I married Clem—really, still a boy when she died. My word! Was it really four years ago? Sometimes it seems like it was just yesterday—and then others it seems as though it was a lifetime ago.

But I was talking about Lorraine. I met her last week, at my sister Anne's anniversary party. She is a shy, quiet little thing, with the most beautiful golden hair I've ever seen, and eyes like—like dew-wet irises. Her feet and ankles are exquisite. Oh, everything about her is lovely. And sweet! I've never met anyone so sweet. She would never say anything mean or unkind about anyone, and let me tell you, that is rare indeed, especially around the Lesleys. Just listen to Grandmother sometime. I talked to her most of the night—I even told her how rotten I feel about not being able to go off and fight like the rest of our men. I'll never forget what it was like to be told my chest wasn't strong enough to fight. Oh, what's the use of being a doctor if I can't even make myself well enough to help purge the world of evil? I've felt like a slacker ever since. But Lorraine—Lorraine just smiled at me, and said it was good that some stayed behind, or else who would be left to start the world anew? For the first time since this rotten war started, I felt like a man again. I think I love her. I really do.

Clem, you don't mind, do you? What we had was beautiful, true, but we were so young. It was all such a long time ago. I wouldn't have wanted you to be lonely forever, had I been the one to go. I'll never forget you—or our baby—our little nameless child. She has a name now, hasn't she? You have her to keep you company—but I'm all alone. No, I'm sure you don't mind. Your mother will—but you aren't the jealous sort. You'll let me go.

Lorraine wore a rose in her hair at Anne's. Toward the end of the night it fell out—I stole it—I'll put it in here, to mark the night I met my future wife. I hope God gives us many beautiful years together—with lots of children—children to make old Cloud of Spruce young again—children to carry on our legacy, to make the world a better place—oh, we'll do our best for God and Canada.

Marigold had tears streaming unheeded down her face as she finished reading. Her father—the father she'd always loved but never known—she felt so close to him now! She could see him clearly in her mind, a strong, laughing face, a face that knew pain and suffering but carried on with laughter and love. She clutched the journal to her chest and closed her blue eyes.

"Oh—Father," she whispered. "I wish you were still alive. I think so much would have been different. We might have been a family like the Morgans. You would have taught me so much. I miss you—I don't think I ever realized how much until now! I'll read all of your journal—I'll learn about you and your values and what you believed—and I'll make you proud, I promise I will. You won't be disappointed in me—Dad."

She set the book down and looked at it again. There was only one more entry after the one regarding Lorraine.

February 20, 1917

I'm dying. I've suspected it for weeks now, but today I'm sure. It's this pneumonia. I won't be recovering from it, not this time. The specialist gave me all sorts of medical mumbo-jumbo, trying to give me hope, but I've been a doctor long enough. I know the truth. This weak chest of mine has finally gotten the best of me.

Oh Lorraine! It hurts so much to think of leaving you and our baby. I hope—I pray I'll live long enough to see our child's face. What will it be, I wonder? A son, to carry on the Lesley name? I promise, I won't make you name him Leander, although Lee might be nice. What was Grandfather thinking when he named me? Or will it be a daughter, a sweet thing like her mother, to delight her daddy's eyes? Either way, we'll love him or her. Somehow—I'm not sure why—I think it's a wee girlie. I hope she has her mama's hair and eyes. You'll raise her to be strong and faithful, won't you? Mother and Grandmother will teach her the Lesley traditions—no fear of that—but it'll be up to you to temper them with wisdom and humor and common sense. And encourage her to use her imagination, dearest. Mother has none, and therefore thinks it unnecessary. But you and I know differently. Oh, how I wish I could be there with you to watch her grow! I missed the chance with my first daughter—she died before even being named. And I'll miss this one too. But I'll be watching from heaven, every day, to make sure the two of you are all right. And sometimes, if you feel a breeze brush your cheek on a still day, know that it's me, reminding you both how much I love you.

God, if I didn't trust that You know what You are about, I'd be tempted to question Your wisdom in taking me now. What good will I be to my wife and child dead? I'm not afraid to die—but I hate so to leave them. I am trying to trust in You, however, and I'll not complain about what You've ordained. Lorraine, Lorraine! I love you so!

That was all. There was nothing else written in the book.

Marigold knew that there was a lot to do that day—Aunt Edna and Cousin Mira were planning a sixteenth birthday party for her in the evening—Sylvia and Sophie were coming over after breakfast to help—but before she could do anything else, she knelt down beside her bed and whispered a prayer.

"God, help me to live up to my full potential. Help me to become the person You want me to be—and Dad wanted me to be—not bound by anyone else's expectations or wishes. Help me to be strong—to be faithful—to live a worthy life. God, help me not to waste it! Thank You, thank You so much, for letting me see this glimpse of my father. I won't forget his words—I won't let him down."

Then she got up, went over to her desk, took out a sheet of notepaper and a pen, and wrote this simple letter.

Misty Hollow

Blair Water

March 11, 1932

Dear Aunt Marigold,

I think I want to become a doctor, like you, and like my father. What should I do to get started?

Love always,

Marigold.