A/N: Groveling apologies for the delay on this. Other things took over for a while, then real life, then writer's block, then more real life, etc. And lately I feel like everything I'm writing is second-rate.
But enough of the doom, because there's none of it here! Well, maybe a little…
A couple of people guessed a plot point that happens here. I'm sorry to meet your expectations.
Not a lot of Chelsie here, I'm afraid. Time marches on, and the plot required focusing on other characters, at least for this chapter.
If you have time, a review would give me quite a boost. Thank you to you all!
Autumn 1854, near Sonoma
The first harvest of the grapes is one Charles knows he will remember for the rest of his life. Elsie is beside him often, carefully helping him pick the ripe ones.
It is no surprise to him that she learns quickly which ones are ready, and which should be left for another day or so. She teaches Anna, who is another fast learner.
Maggie is carried on her mother's back. Charles and Elsie start calling her their little papoose.
Samuel loves the vineyard. He cries when his parents or Anna carry him back to the house after a day of exploring. Once, he frightens them all by disappearing. A frantic search ensues, ending when Charles finds their boy asleep beneath a tree marking the boundary between the vineyard and the barley field beyond. Elsie insists on keeping him with one of them after that.
The biggest challenge the older ones have is to keep him from picking grapes.
-In time, lad, Charles ruffles his hair before setting his son on his broad shoulders. –You'll get your chance.
Beryl comes twice and helps out, too. –I would come again if I could, she says. –But Aunt Ida's ill again, and…I do not like leaving my mother alone to deal with her. She's one tough old bird.
Isobel and Matthew arrive unexpectedly on a cool Saturday morning. When Elsie apologizes for not being ready for a visit, the midwife shakes her head.
-Nonsense! We're not here to call on you, we're here to help!
And they do. Charles is happy to have another pair of hands picking the grapes, and Elsie is grateful to Matthew for looking after Samuel. The older boy is very patient with their son.
In the end, despite all their help, Charles does hire two men. But only for the end of harvest.
Even he, novice that he is, can see it is a bountiful one.
The process of turning the grapes into wine is a more daunting task. The fermentation, getting the right temperature. Mr. Cavallo's instruction is priceless.
-You don't have to show me how to do this, Charles tells him late one night in October in the Carson's new wine cellar, surrounded by oak barrels. –You have your own to look after as well.
The older man slaps him on the shoulder. –I know you would do the same for me, he says. –But someday when you can help someone else, do it.
January, 1855
A gentle rain falls on Charles's shoulders as he leads the mare, Missy, into the barn. He hangs up the bridle, then brushes the animal down. Muddy, the chestnut in the stall next to her, whinnies.
-I should feed you too, Charles tells him. –That would only be fair.
-I already fed him, Mr. Carson.
Charles turns so fast his neck cracks. Matthew climbs down from the loft, brushing hay off his trousers.
-Matthew!? What are you doing here?
The boy crosses his arms. Charles would describe him as a thoughtful child, usually happy.
But he does not look at all happy. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his blond hair is sticking out everywhere – something Charles recognizes. No doubt he's been running his hand through it.
-I walked here after school, Matthew says. –I came out here to the barn because…because I wanted to be alone.
-Does your mother know you're here?
The boy shakes his head. Charles pats Missy and walks closer to him.
-Well, you had best hurry home. She'll be worried.
Matthew looks away, out toward the open doors. His face crumples as he tries not to cry.
Charles's eyes widen in alarm. –What's wrong? Is she all right?
Matthew nods vigorously, holding his arms close to his body. –She's fine. But I…she was angry, and I got angry, and shouted at her. Then I ran here. I would've gone to William's house…it's closer, but his mum's ill again.
He takes a shuddering breath and rubs his face, running his hand through his already wild hair.
-Does Elsie know you're here? Charles asks as gently as he can. Anger and guilt are visible on Matthew's face.
-Yes. But I…told her Mother knew I'd come. I told her she had to go see Mrs. Jones.
-So you lied to my wife, Charles says, a hint of ire in his voice. Matthew flinches.
-Yes, he whispers.
-Why?
-B-because, the boy stammers, -she's friends with Mother. She-she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't listen to me if I told her the truth.
Charles puts a hand on his shoulder. –You're wrong about that. Elsie is very fair. She'll listen to you.
Matthew looks up at him.
-And so will I, he says. He steers him into the house.
The dampness seems to cling to everything, making it seem colder than it really is. They sit in the warm kitchen. Anna is helping Elsie with dinner, but she leaves the room at a glance from Charles, taking Samuel with her.
Matthew watches her go. He doesn't think the hired girl would tell what she hears, but he is glad she is not in the room.
-Tell us what happened, Elsie says quietly. She wonders what could have come between mother and son. They have always been close, or appeared to be.
We never know what goes on behind closed doors.
-Well…
Matthew taps his fingers on the table. His face flushes. –Do you know Dr. Clarkson proposed to Mother? Last summer?
Charles and Elsie exchange glances. –Yes, they say at the same time.
Sighing, Matthew leans forward. –She told me after it happened. And that she'd said no. She said they would still be friends, but I don't think they are. Not now. He wrote to her a few times, and I think she wrote to him, but she hasn't received a letter from him since October.
Elsie takes a deep breath, her mind racing. Richard's letters to them have been as consistent as ever. He hardly ever talks about himself. Mostly he asks after the children, and everyone's health. He was delighted to hear about the success of the harvest. He passes on news about the family further south, and the chaotic vigilante violence in San Francisco. Charles worries when he writes he hasn't seen John in weeks.
Richard has written nothing about Isobel to Elsie or Charles. He received their letter inviting him to visit during Christmas, but declined, saying it was impossible to get away from his patients.
Elsie thought that was likely. Until her mother wrote and said Richard didn't visit them in Mission San Jose, either.
Why would he not visit them, if not us? To see Patrick, at least?
-What does this have to do with you? Charles asks Matthew, folding his large hands. –That is between them, not you.
Matthew drops his eyes. –That's what Mother said. In November, when I asked her. He swallows. –So I wrote him myself. Last month.
-You should not have done that, Elsie chides him. As much as she thinks her brother and Isobel would make a lovely couple, she does not think it right for her or anyone else to interfere.
-I didn't ask him about her! Matthew huffs, indignant. –I just wrote to him to tell him we were well! I wrote him about school and some other things, and asked him if he thought somebody would ever build a railroad across the country.
Charles hides a grin. Matthew is very keen on railroads. Obsessed is the better word.
-And your mother didn't like you writing to him? Elsie persists, and the boy squirms. Charles raises his eyebrows.
-She didn't know you wrote to him.
Matthew shakes his head slowly. –Not until today. He-he wrote back to me. I got the letter last week, when Mother was out. But she found it today. She was furious when I got home from school.
-You should have told her. She was probably upset that you hadn't said anything, Elsie says. The picture is forming in her mind.
-That was part of it, Matthew scowls, balling his hands into fists. The words come pouring out of him like a torrent. –She waved it at me, and asked why I'd written to him, and I said because he's a friend, and he told me I could write to him whenever I pleased. Then she asked what I could have to tell him that I couldn't tell her, and I…I told her it was none of her business. And then she said she was my mother (as if I didn't know that already!), and of course it was her business. Then I got mad and said yes, you're my mother, but you're a woman, and there's things you don't understand, and never will. She got quiet then. I could see she was really angry. She said maybe there are things she doesn't understand now, but that she's willing to try. Then she said if I wanted to talk to a man, there are plenty of them here. She said you, he turns to Charles. –and Mr. Palmer, the schoolmaster. I said I didn't want to talk to Mr. Palmer, I wanted to talk to Dr. Clarkson. I said he's my friend, and I can ask him things. Her face got all red and she asked why I thought he was my friend, and I said because he told me so, and she said-she said maybe he was my friend once, but he has his own life now, and I shouldn't bother him. I yelled that he is my friend, that he wrote to me! Then she said he was just being polite. I said he was not just being polite, he misses visiting here, and if she had stayed friends with him like she said she would, he would come back! Then I said it was her fault and ran out of the house. I slammed the door. She hates it when I do that.
Matthew sighs, slumps down in his chair, and rests his face on the table.
-I shouldn't have yelled at her. Or run away, he mumbles, his voice muffled. –But he hasn't been back here since last summer. Why would he stay away for so long? He hasn't come to visit here, has he?
-No, Elsie says, her mind full. –Not since last summer when Maggie was born.
It is obvious to her that Matthew has formed a bond with Richard that is stronger than anyone knew. She has not seen them much together, but they both share similar traits. A love of books, of learning, of reason and science, of looking to the future.
Isobel is the same in many ways.
But Richard has two qualities that gain Matthew's attention, neither of which his mother has, Elsie muses. One is that her brother holds a degree from a university. She recalls seeing Matthew sitting outside the previous spring reading An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, by Adam Smith. The book is one Richard has read numerous times.
It is a mark of good faith and trust in the boy's intellect, she thinks, that Richard would let him borrow the famous work. As for Mr. Palmer, Isobel has told her that Matthew chafes under the schoolmaster's thumb. The boy is known at school for asking incessant questions – some of which, according to Mr. Palmer, are impertinent and not worth answering.
Probably, she thinks with a private smile, because the man does not know the answers.
The other quality Richard possesses is more basic. And Elsie has little doubt that is what sparked Isobel's anger, and likely guilt as well.
Richard is a man. And as much as Matthew loves his mother, he is no longer a little boy. He wants a mentor. Someone he can speak with, not perhaps like a mother or a father (though Elsie wonders about the latter), but someone nonetheless he trusts.
Charles sits back with his hands on his knees. It is a lot to think about, and the look on Elsie's face tells him she has a firm handle on what is going on. He has an inkling himself.
He is inclined to believe Matthew. Some boys would exaggerate, or lie outright. But not Isobel's son. He is as honest as George Washington, as the saying goes.
Comparing him to a revolutionary is not helpful.
Though the midwife has said that Matthew resembles his late father, Charles thinks there's more of Isobel in him than she realizes. Stubborn, sometimes to the point of being obstinate. An inquiring mind.
And sometimes refusing to see what's in front of him – though Charles is fairly certain the boy's age has more to do with it.
He remembers what it was to be young, and eager to spread his wings, away from his parents.
I had my father to guide me. He does not.
Though he and Matthew get along, he knows he cannot be what the boy needs. Not now. He has Elsie, their family, and the vineyard to look after.
Fleetingly, he wonders what their life will look like in ten years' time. When Samuel is nearer Matthew's age. Will they clash? The thought makes him uncomfortable, and he sets it aside.
He does not want to guess what Isobel thinks, though he cannot help wondering. He has never spoken of her and whatever is going on with Richard.
That is not my place…if Elsie thinks the same, then I'll know I am right.
She knows her brother far better than he does. And she's become quite close to Isobel.
He gets back to the task of the moment. –You were very rude to your mother. And I think you know that. Matthew lifts his head from the table, nodding slowly. –Perhaps, he says, stealing a glance at his wife who's deep in thought, -what you and she need is a bit of time apart. I think you should stay here tonight. In the morning, I'll drive you into town.
Elsie meets his eyes.
Yes. Give them time.
-I will ride into town and tell her so, he gets up from the table. –While I get ready, you'd better write her a note, at least, and apologize.
-An excellent idea, Elsie rises as well, her hand on Matthew's. –Sometimes we need a bit of breathing space. Even from those we love.
-I was wrong about you, the boy says as Charles leaves the room. –I thought you'd side with Mother, and send me home. Box my ears for yelling at her.
-I do take your mother's side, Elsie tells him. She hears Maggie squalling and heads for the door. –But that does not mean you are wrong. And as for boxing your ears, her eyes twinkle, -Mr. Carson is right. You know you were wrong, and that is enough punishment in itself.
After dinner, and the little ones put to bed, Matthew sits in the parlor with the Carsons. He takes comfort in the note his mother sent back with Charles, and that she is not entirely furious with him anymore.
Long after he sleeps, on a pallet of blankets in Samuel's room, Charles and Elsie sit talking downstairs.
They quickly become aware that they are in agreement. Not just about Matthew, but about Isobel and Richard.
-She is lonely, Elsie says, her hand against her cheek. –And she misses him. She does not want to admit it, though.
-Do you think she regrets refusing him? Charles asks.
Elsie purses her lips. –Maybe. It was not the right time then, for her at least. I can't be sure. But I am sure she knows now, much more than she did last autumn, how much she misses him.
To most people's eyes, Isobel has not changed. But Elsie has seen in recent weeks a melancholy air in her friend, one that saddens her.
She has tried, gently, to ask about Richard. But Isobel always turns the conversation to something else.
-She is a stubborn woman, she mutters.
-Perhaps if he would write to her again, something would change, Charles says.
-We can only hope. Elsie squeezes his hand.
Sitting by the fire, Isobel squints at the trousers on her lap, at the finished stitching that lengthens them.
He keeps growing. In body and mind.
She sneaks a glance at Matthew, who is sprawled on the floor in front of the fire, reading.
Thank God he is not still angry with me. I was such a fool.
She is eternally grateful to the Carsons for keeping him the previous night, and for bringing him back to Sonoma this morning. After school, he had come home and they reconciled. There is still some tension in the air, but not the sharp rancor of the previous evening.
It had shocked her, his temper. She had cried after he stormed out, then half the night after Mr. Carson had ridden to tell her where he was. In some ways, she was glad Matthew stayed somewhere else, somewhere safe. To have time away from her. On the other hand, it had meant she was alone with her thoughts.
She is not one to dwell much on the past. But recently, she has found herself looking back far more than she can ever remember doing previously. Thinking about Reginald and their courtship. Their marriage, and helping him care for people. Losing children…and finally Matthew being born. Reginald slipping away from her as she held his hands. The darkness that seemed to consume her after he died.
Meeting Elsie and Mr. Carson. Matthew, bringing her joy.
Dr. Clarkson.
Richard.
The very thought of him was like poking at an open sore.
For the first time in months, though, she has not turned away from it. Instead, she faces it.
And it is Matthew's doing that has forced her hand. In the moment, she was furious. Now she sees it for the hidden blessing that it is.
The letter that had started everything sits on the little table next to her. She glances at it, then at Matthew. He is still far away in Nicholas Nickleby.
She picks up the letter and reads it again, though by now she knows it by heart.
Dear Matthew,
What a pleasant surprise to receive your letter! I was delighted when Mrs. Gruzinsky gave it to me. Thank God you and your mother are well. No doubt you both are quite busy, she with her work and you with your schooling.
Mr. Palmer sounds rather narrow-minded. I urge you not to provoke him. Not only will you get into trouble again, but he will be much less likely in the future to want to help you. Speaking from experience, if a man is asked questions of which he does not know the answer, and the questioner is younger than he is, it is a rare man who will admit his ignorance. Much less when there is an audience.
He was wrong to tell you not to ask questions. That is your most important task as a student. How else can you learn?
This is my advice to you. When a question comes to you, make a note of it, then ask him later when you have a chance to speak to him alone. You do not ask your schoolmaster questions to make him look foolish, I know. But he does not know you as well as I do, and it may be he sees your questions as a challenge to his authority. If you continue questioning him, and he remains hostile, then that is a matter for another day.
You asked what I thought about the prospect of a railroad across the continent. Yes, I believe it will be built one day. I think it will certainly come in your lifetime, if not in mine. Imagination and will together can do great things.
As for the other matter you wrote me about, rest assured. You can rely on my confidence. I admit my advice here will be less secure than the advice in regards to your situation with Mr. Palmer, but I will try.
You are young. I do not say this to put you off. Only to remind you that you have, God willing, a great many years in front of you, and you do not know who else may cross your path in that time. It may be that your heart is set now. It may be that you will not waver in your regard. All I can tell you is to continue to be kind and considerate, and your faithfulness may be rewarded. If it is not, do not despair. Remember –
'I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.'
You are generous and compassionate. These things are a blessing, and not a curse.
If it is in my power to help you, I will. Write to me whenever you wish. Until then, I remain,
Yours, &c.
R. Clarkson
-Mother?
Isobel jumps a little in her chair. She folds the page over. Matthew sees her holding his letter, but he doesn't mention it. –I'm going to bed.
She smiles. –Good night, then. Sleep well. Don't forget to say your prayers.
-I won't. He smiles in return, the scars of their row still fading. She feels better when he leans over and kisses her cheek.
She sits staring into the fire after he leaves the room. Thinking. Wondering. What if…
If you never try, you will never know.
She gets up, setting the letter and trousers aside, and hurries after Matthew.
February 1855, San Francisco
The gloomy evening outside seems to seep into every corner of the boardinghouse. It would have been more prudent to sit in the parlor downstairs, but Richard prefers to be alone.
And after reading the letter once, he is infinitely glad he is alone.
The flickering light of the oil lamp casts shadows around him, but the words on the page in front of him drive away all the lingering doubts and despair that have followed him for months.
He last wrote to Mrs. Crawley-Isobel, in October. He would have continued to write, but her silence kept him from putting pen to ink. What little she did write until her last letter was so devoid of anything meaningful that he felt there was no point in keeping up the correspondence.
Her letters were like ones from a stranger.
With his absence, had she realized she actually cared nothing for him?
The autumn and the winter have been dark, both in the few days of sunshine and in his heart.
Matthew's letter was a small spark of happiness.
But now, now, he reads and re-reads the letter before him. The pages shake in his trembling hands.
Dear Dr. Clarkson,
First of all, please accept my apology for not responding to your last letter. It came to me at a time when my own feelings were rather confused. I could not find the words to say, or the courage to say them if they did come to mind.
Matthew and I are well. We have had our difficult moments, especially recently. I must confess that your letter to him confounded me. He had not told me he had written to you, and when I learned he had done so, I was very angry.
I lost my temper with him.
To my utter surprise, he lost his temper as well. He rarely does, as you know. At the time it only incensed me further. But the things he said, upon further reflection, caused my eyes to be opened. To not only what my son has been telling me without words for weeks, but to what my heart was saying. And to what I was so reluctant to admit to myself.
When Reginald died, I thought most of me died with him. I was unable to see much of what was in front of me. Having Matthew to look after saved my sanity.
Then I met Elsie, and her Mr. Carson.
And you.
You changed me, though I was unaware of it for a long time. You see, after I had emerged from my deepest grief, I found I enjoyed the dignity and independence of being mistress of my own household. Though Reginald never saw me as the 'weaker vessel', I have always been aware of how our society views women. As near-children, unable to fend for ourselves without the help of men.
You are one of the few who does not see us that way.
I always thought myself capable of being responsible for my own family. After my husband's death, I knew my own ability. And I was reluctant to give up that responsibility.
The question you asked last summer came at a time when Matthew and I had settled into our new life. Part of me did not want to upset the balance we had found. I knew my son respected you very much, and you felt the same towards him, but beyond that I was unsure if my accepting your proposal would strengthen his bond with you, or weaken it.
His emotion when we argued, as well as the warm tone of your letter to him, convinced me that there was a stronger regard between the two of you than I had thought. This view forced me to examine my own feelings.
Your patience and steadiness are something to be treasured. You never set yourself first, but always look to others' welfare before your own. Even at the cost of your own desires.
It was that which tormented me, knowing that you set aside your hopes, giving me time to reconcile mine. Few men would have been so generous.
To be honest, I have been miserable for some time. I know that now. You were kind to send letters, and I treasured them, but they were a reminder of what you had offered – and what I had declined.
What could my letters bring you other than pain? You deserved to live your life, with the chance to look to the future, not the past. So I set my pen aside.
It was easier to set my mind to my daily tasks. Looking after Matthew, running our house, tending to women here. Visiting friends, and helping with the Carsons' harvest.
It was not enough.
You were free with your feelings in your letters last autumn, telling me you had not wavered in your resolve. This gave me further guilt for a time. That I could not return the affection that you deserved.
But time has passed, enough to be sure of my own heart. I pray it is not too late.
You told me the last time we were together that I am a woman who knows her own mind.
Know this: I no longer wish to be a widow.
If you believe that this means, however, that I will be satisfied with any man who holds me in esteem, you would be very, very wrong. There is only one man to whom I could give my heart.
You have it, if you still desire it, for as long as there is breath in me. From this, I will never waver.
I hope you will forgive me for my stubbornness. I had no wish to cause you sadness, but I hope my answer will bring you joy.
Thank you for your kindness to Matthew. It means everything to me. His letter, to be sent in reply to your last, will not long follow mine. He knows I am writing to you this evening. He prayed for you earlier most affectionately, and is already impatient to see you.
As am I. I am also impatient to send this letter, and for you to receive it.
Forgive the many smears and inkblots above. My hand is not as steady as you would usually find it. I will leave you to guess the reason.
I pray this letter finds you well. I look forward to receiving your reply soon.
God bless you.
Ever your friend,
Mrs. Isobel Crawley
Richard rubs his thumb over her name.
Isobel.
It feels as though a colossal weight has lifted from his shoulders. He leans back in his chair, tears pricking his eyes. He reads her letter again, then twice more.
Lifting the paper to his lips, he kisses it.
If Elsie were in the room, he knows she would laugh at the smile on his face. Or perhaps she would weep for joy. He would like to know what she thinks, but before he informs her of its contents, he has a much more urgent letter to write.
He writes fast, so much so he leaves several inkblots. Laughing, he shakes his head. They do not matter. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow rattle around his newly-refreshed brain. Tomorrow, he will send the letter, and look forward to the years ahead, with no shadows to mar them.
The saloon is noisy. Louder than he would like. But he cannot stay in his room in the quiet boardinghouse. Not tonight, not when he knows the woman he loves, loves him in return.
He has been careful to wear older clothes. His trousers are rather frayed. This rowdy place on Pacific Street is not as dangerous as some of the others. But he has lived in San Francisco long enough to know where there's a good chance a man can have a simple drink without too much fear of getting his head kicked in, or robbed. Or both.
Thank God Elsie carried the revolver when she lived here. And thank God she was there to save Charles.
-Clarkson? Dr. Clarkson?
He turns, having paid for his drink. A big, burly man with a round face smiles at him. –I thought it was you. I haven't seen you for a long time. Where have you been?
-Here in the same place, Reece. Fighting human nature and cholera. Though, he can't help adding, -That will change in the near future. Richard shakes his hand. Henry Reece is a rare specimen. An honest judge, surrounded by mostly dishonorable scoundrels.
-Oh? Have you finally had enough of this cesspool?
-No, Richard grins. –This city will always be dear to me. Despite its many flaws, I know I'm doing good work here. But I will marry soon, and my intended - his smile nearly cracks his face –lives north of here, in Sonoma. We will settle there.
-I'll be sorry to see you go, his friend slaps him on the back. –Congratulations! She must be some kind of woman to pull you away from here.
-I am the fortunate one, Richard returns Henry's toast. He tells his friend about Isobel. They sit talking of San Francisco, of the criminals that overrun it and the greed that motivates the politicians. As they smoke cigars, Richard tells him about Charles and Elsie's vineyard. The judge is intrigued, and wants to know more.
-I'll write to your brother-in-law, he says. Good wine is a rare gift. I hear of any number of people beginning to plant vineyards up that way, but not all of them know what they're doing.
He has to raise his voice. The noise in the crowded room grows ever louder. Cigar smoke hangs in the air, while someone bangs on the piano in the corner.
A very boisterous crowd of men and a handful of women roar with laughter across the room. Several dance, while the rest drink. A game of poker is in place at one table.
-Fools, Henry mutters. –In a place where you're just as likely to lose your money on your way home, they sit losing money here! In my younger days, I'd be with them, but I grew some sense.
He rubs his bald patch.
Richard laughs and leans his head back puffing smoke at the ceiling. –Fortunately for you.
A woman wearing a dress much too low-cut leans against the upright piano, talking to the man playing. Her loud laugh cuts through the groans from several of the men, while a man with his back to Richard shows the winning hand, and collects their money.
-The lure of easy riches is hard to resist, Henry stubs out his cigar. –Though I was never tempted to pan for gold. That seemed entirely too much work for me, with little chance of a reward.
-When I was at Transylvania University, several fellow students taught me to play poker. I thought they were being friendly…but after I realized they had taught me only because they knew they could beat me, I quit playing. But not before I lost more money than I cared to admit, Richard says. –My father's disappointment in me was severe.
The woman by the piano crosses the floor and sits in the lap of the poker game winner. She kisses him on the mouth in full view of the entire room. From where Richard is sitting, he can see entirely too much of her décolletage. He turns his head, feeling more embarrassment for her than any discomfort he feels at her wanton appearance.
She is most certainly not his type. Nothing like Isobel. Elsie would throw someone like her out on her ear.
-Brazen, snorts Henry, –A woman like that has no shame.
Richard exhales another cloud of smoke. The man holding the bold woman on his lap turns his head slightly to say something to one of the other men, and the doctor immediately coughs.
John Bates!?
-I'll buy you another drink, Henry says, thumping him on the back. Richard shakes his head and stands up.
-No, thank you. Excuse me. He stubs out his cigar and crosses the room.
-Hello, Mr. Bates. I haven't seen you in a while.
John turns so quickly, the woman has to hold onto him to keep from falling onto the floor.
-Whoa, Batesy, she laughs. She has a slight Irish lilt. –I thought I was riding a tame horse, but it seems you're a wild one!
Richard ignores her innuendo. John's eyes are wide, in complete shock.
-Good evening, Doctor Clarkson, he finally says. –I…did not expect to see you…here.
-I do get out from time to time, Richard takes his offered hand. –I am glad to see you. The last time I called, your landlady said you were out, and did not know when you would be back.
Something, he is not sure what, whispers to him not to mention Charles and Elsie, or Isobel. He thinks Mr. Bates looks well, but there is a glint in his eye the doctor recognizes well.
He looks lost.
-Are you a friend of John's? The woman asks, her black curls brushing the sides of her face. Richard thinks she is pretty in a way, but her features are rather hard. As if she has seen things she should not have.
-We met through other friends near Sonoma, he tells her, noticing her casual use of his friend's name, as well as the intimate way she curls her fingers into John's hair. –But for my part, yes, I consider Mr. Bates a friend. Where did you meet him, Miss? He cannot resist asking.
She smiles broadly, a glint in her pale blue eyes. –It's Missus, not miss, Dr. Clarkson. Mrs. John Bates, though my good friends call me Vera. We met here in San Francisco, at a dance hall.
-She's an entertainer, and a good one, John says, giving her a squeeze. Vera's smile says everything to Richard.
Yes, I'm sure she IS good.
It is all he can do to keep his composure.
Married! To Mr. Bates! And him yoked to such a woman – what will Charles think!?
John's face reddens slightly. He gestures to Vera to stand up, before standing next to her, his arm around her waist. –I know it comes as a surprise to you, Doctor. We meant to surprise our friends.
-You certainly have done that, Richard says dryly. Despite his own feelings, he thinks of his manners and removes his hat. –My congratulations to you both. May you have many years of happiness.
John murmurs his thanks while Vera preens. She kisses her husband on the cheek, then goes to talk to the piano player again.
-I know what it looks like, John says. –But she's got a good heart. Really. We met and fell in love the first time we saw each other and-well, that's how it happens sometimes. You were there when Charles and Elsie met.
Richard slightly raises one eyebrow, twirling his hat in his hands.
They were nothing like this.
-Have you written to Charles? He asks. If John has, it must have been recently. Otherwise he would have received a letter from Charles about the news-or more likely Elsie, by now.
-I sent a letter to him yesterday, John says. –Telling him I'll be going north soon, and asking to visit. I didn't tell him about Vera…like I said, I want to surprise him. And Elsie.
He lowers his voice, though the noise in the room has hardly lessened. –Please…will you promise not to tell them?
Richard holds his gaze. His instinct wars with his reason.
-You have my word, he says finally. –It is not my news to tell.
As much as I think they deserve a warning.
John thanks him, and they shake hands again. Richard goes to leave with Henry. At the door, he looks back once more. John is seated at the table, dealing cards. Richard feels someone's eyes on him.
Vera.
She smiles as if she knows precisely what he is thinking.
You don't fool me.
We are married, and there is nothing you can do.
He stares back at her until she averts her gaze. He smiles grimly.
Maybe I can change nothing, but I know who, and what, you are.
Two weeks later, near Sonoma
-Where is he? Matthew asks, racing onto the porch. –Mr. Mason told me he arrived this morning, and that he and Mother came here!
Anna laughs, amused at the boy's eagerness. She waves at Mr. Mason and William as they turn around, heading for home. –Dr. Clarkson and your mother are walking in the vineyard, she says, laying aside her sewing. Mr. and Mrs. Carson are with them. They all should be back soon. You'll just have to wait, she says when he starts down the porch steps. He reluctantly climbs them again.
A squeal erupts from the far side of the porch. –BA!
Samuel launches himself toward Matthew. The older boy catches him before he falls, and swings him in the air before setting him down on his feet again. –Hello, Sam, he grins, ruffling his hair. –How are you? Where is your sister?
-With her mum and dad, Anna says. –Go on, Samuel, show Matthew what you've been up to.
The tiny boy goes and picks up the wooden spoon several feet away. He tries to pick up the bucket next to it, but it is too heavy. Determined, he drags it across the porch while Anna and Matthew laugh at his expression. He then proceeds to hit the bucket with the spoon.
Matthew crouches down to Sam's height. –Ah, you're practicing for this summer, when the band will play on the Fourth of July! Well done!
They take turns banging on the overturned bucket.
On the far side of the vineyard, Elsie hums, her arm through Charles's. She cannot see Richard or Isobel anymore.
But keeping them in sight would not be sensible right now.
Charles seems content to walk at a leisurely pace. He holds Maggie in his left arm, her soft auburn hair tickling his cheek. He turns to kiss her, and she giggles. The sound softens his heart and he laughs, bouncing her a little.
"Stop looking so smug," he glances at Elsie, still laughing. "I am sure both of them are well aware how pleased you are!"
"And you're not?" Elsie laughs at him. She feels giddy, happiness breaking out all over. "You nearly tore Richard's letter out of my hands when I told you what happened!" She clears her throat, fighting with the smile that won't leave her face. Her husband and daughter laughing together do not help in the slightest to dampen her joy. "Do I look suitable now?"
She arranges her expression into one that would be appropriate listening to a dour sermon. He raises an eyebrow, and they stare at each other until both lose their composure at the same time.
"Hopeless," Charles gasps. "Oh, love, we must try to act presentable. If nothing else, when Matthew gets here-"
"He may already be here," Elsie cuts in. "Actually, I'm sure of it. Didn't you see Bill Mason and William wave from the road?"
"No," Charles answers. "How could you see them, and I missed them?"
Snorting with laughter, Elsie squeezes his arm. "You were rather enamored with another lady just then," she says, giving Maggie a bright smile. Charles untangles his other arm from Elsie to move the baby closer. They come to a halt, and Elsie lifts herself onto her toes to kiss Maggie. "You spoil her," she sighs, as Charles tickles their daughter's chin.
"Maybe I do. But how can I not, today of all days?" He says, looking up at the white clouds passing overhead. "There is nothing but good news. Your brother is engaged to a good woman, a dear friend of ours. And if that were not enough, I can't stop thinking about John…he said he would be here soon, likely this week!"
"If I thought you kept the days you spoil our girl to days like today, she would hardly be spoiled at all," Elsie takes Maggie from his arms and they resume their walk. "But no, Charlie, it's every day. And Samuel, too. I won't blame you for it, not today." She smiles as he slides an arm around her waist. "Even though I should."
They walk a little further, the hill sloping down before them. In the field beyond sits a barley tree. Two familiar figures stand beneath it, so close together it is impossible to tell them apart.
Charles clears his throat. "We should stop them. Say something."
"Yes, we should."
They stop.
Then without a word, they turn to walk back up the hill.
"Do you think Richard knows something about John?" Charles asks, trying not to think about how improper it is to leave an unmarried couple unchaperoned. Reverend Davidson would never approve!
"No," Elsie replies, balancing Maggie on her hip. She wraps the blanket a bit more securely around the baby. "He said he had seen him, and he looked well. Why, do you think so?"
"Maybe. Something in his expression," Charles mused. "He left very quickly, before I had a chance to question him further."
Rolling her eyes, Elsie grins at him. "He was distracted, and he wanted to see Isobel. That hardly means he's hiding something."
In truth, she thinks the same as her husband. But John will be visiting soon, so they will find out when he arrives.
"I think he's in love," Charles says abruptly as the house comes into view. "John. I think he's found a woman." Elsie, walking a little ahead, turns to face him.
"Or she has found him." She looks him up and down as he steps closer, until she can feel the warmth of his body through his clothes, and hers. He brushes a flyaway strand of hair away from her face, leaving his fingers on her cheek. "Charlie…" she blushes, looking down. "Not here. Anna and the boys can see us."
"They won't mind," he murmurs. He kisses her slowly, their lips parting. He slides his tongue into her mouth and she moans-
A loud squawk breaks them apart. Elsie shakes her head and touches Maggie's nose. "There, there," she coos. "I see you mind, lass."
Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Who did we say spoils her again?"
Matthew sits reading on the porch when Richard and Isobel come into view. He drops his book and runs toward them, slowing down when he is only a few steps away.
-Hello Mother, he says. He suddenly feels shy. He's never seen her hold hands with a man, other than Father. And it strikes him how pretty she looks. Her dark eyes bright, her wearing the smile he knows well. She is SO happy! –G-good afternoon, Dr. Clarkson, he stutters. -We didn't expect to see you this soon.
-I didn't want to waste time. Richard smiles and extends his hand. Matthew takes it, smiling tentatively at him. –There were people I was keen to see as soon as possible. Your mother, for one. He shares a smile with her. –And after her, you. Your letter was very kind. I can't tell you how much it means to me that you accept me. Accept us.
-Of course I do! Matthew gives Isobel a kiss and hug.
-My dear boy, she whispers in his ear, -Thank you.
Thank you for everything.
The three of them go into the house, where their family waits.