I have noticed that italics have not been coming up properly in the chapters, so I'm trying to fix that.
CH 72
There was very little consolation in knowing Abigail had made her way to Brest and was most likely voyaging across the sea toward Canada. Mentally I made a list of reasons why she had left Paris abruptly, which ranged from her parents being ill and in need of her swift return to her deciding she didn't want to have dinner with me and finding it necessary to leave the country completely.
The latter was a dramatic exaggeration, one that was so ridiculous I found myself chuckling at the visual of Abigail physically running away in order to avoid a meal with me.
I inhaled, deciding to put forth the effort to banish pessimistic thoughts. The book from the train station stated no reason for her travel, and for all I knew, she could have very well received a telegram from her family overseas asking her to return at once. Or perhaps Howard had coerced her into leaving abruptly, threatening to take her children if she didn't comply.
Or perhaps…perhaps she truly didn't want to have dinner with me.
Rather than return straight home, I walked toward her shop first and noticed two men lingering outside, both well-dressed and making notations on clipboards.
"What is this about?" I demanded, startling the two gentlemen.
They looked to be father and son, their faces nearly identical save for one being much older than the other one.
"My, you gave us a fright," the younger one nervously chuckled.
"May I ask what you are doing?" I asked.
"This little place is going up for sale tomorrow morning," the older one explained. "Quaint shop with a spacious apartment above. Wonderful location, as you can see."
"Up for sale?" I questioned.
"Yes, the owner contacted me personally last week. Are you interested in the shop or the apartment? Or both, perhaps? It certainly doesn't need to remain a tailoring business, but everything inside stays. The new owner can keep it all or sell it for a handsome profit."
"Madame Soward contacted you last week to sell her shop?" I asked.
The older man tapped his pencil against the paper on his clipboard. "A Mister Howard Kent. Mister. Must be one of those English chaps," he said, attempting a very poor British accent. He turned to his son. "Now, who does that sound like?"
"A very good impression of Mister Leach," the younger one replied, chortling to himself.
"Howard Kent is Canadian, not British," I said, "and he is Madame Abigail Soward's brother. She is the rightful owner, not him."
The two men exchanged looks with the younger man clearing his throat. "I do believe Mister Kent is handling the sale on behalf of his beloved sister," he explained.
"On her behalf?"
"Yes, these situations are often too stressful for the ladies to handle. One would not desire hysterics from a woman burdened with so many tasks already. They are not designed to handle such things as we men."
I crossed my arms. "Did Abigail agree to the sale of her livelihood?" I asked.
Again the men exchanged looks before the older man nodded. "Her brother agreed this is for her benefit."
"Have you spoken to Abigail?"
Both men shrugged and stammered for the correct answer.
Annoyed, I shook my head in disbelief. "Howard is not the one whose husband was murdered and he is certainly not the one who has spent the last few years not only raising three children, but keeping their family business afloat. This is not his decision."
"I can think of no one more deserving of respite than Madame Soward," the younger of the two stated. "It sounds as though she has survived many challenges."
"You think this is respite? It is nothing of the sort."
"You are looking at this all wrong," the younger man said.
"If you were in her position, would you think that being uprooted from your home and forced to sell your shop to be in your best interest?"
Neither answered me readily. They both consulted their clipboards as if the answer would appear.
"Monsieur," the older man said. "If I were a woman with three children and no husband, I would absolutely praise God for sending my beloved brother to rescue me from my dismal plight. It is a shame what Madame Soward has endured all of these years. She no longer has to struggle alone, separated from her family. We are here to assist in this final step."
His son gave a solemn nod in agreement. "Her life will be much improved beneath the watchful eye of her attentive brother. And the children will be happier living with their uncle. They are in desperate need of a father figure."
"Have you met her children?" I asked.
The father and son looked in different directions, completely avoiding my gaze.
"This is absolute madness," I snapped. "You speak of this situation as though you are experts when you truly have no idea what is best for Abigail or her children."
"What, may I ask, makes you an expert?" the older man asked me.
"Yes," his son agreed. "Who are you in relation to Madame Soward?"
I could not claim to know Abigail better than her own brother. In many ways I couldn't say I knew her at all, but I had been worried sick about her ever since her shop and apartment had appeared vacated. I did care for her. And I did love the parts of her that I knew, from her laugh and her inability to find her scissors to the way she stood beside me, our hands lightly touching. I loved her company and the way it felt when we were together, and I longed for her to know me in a way that was not guarded.
She was important to me, someone I cared for deeply and had started to know in a deeper sense.
"I am a concerned friend, one who was not aware that she was abruptly leaving the country," I answered.
Both men looked unimpressed. They whispered to one another before the older man handed me a card.
"If you should know someone interested in this business or the apartment, please send them our way," he said.
I glanced at the card. Reginald Seymour Sr. and Reginald Seymour Jr., agents representing Leach Real Estate.
When I folded the card in two and stuffed it into my pocket, both men glared at me. They departed without further questions, both of them muttering that I was quite rude.
I waited for them to travel further down the street, then tried the door, which I surprisingly found still unlocked. As I had done hundreds of times, I walked inside and to the counter where I stood for a moment, pretending to wait for assistance as several people walked by on the street. Once there was no one else walking past, I rummaged through the fabric for the bank notes I had hidden the previous day and stuffed the money into my pocket.
Given that Bernard also knew Abigail and her children, there was a chance he was familiar with where her brother lived, and if he had her forwarding address or some insight as to where Howard lived, I could send the funds directly to Abigail. It was her hard-earned income, one that she deserved to obtain.
"I will get this back to you," I whispered, patting my pocket. "One way or another, I will make sure you have what is yours. For now, I will hold on to it. For safe-keeping."
OoO
I stopped at the market on my way home, aware that I was down to odds and ends within my pantry and icebox. By tomorrow morning I would be forced to eat two spoonfuls of oatmeal and a withered carrot for breakfast if I didn't at least purchase a handful of items.
Given that it was close to noon on a Sunday and church services had ended hours earlier, the market and surrounding area was bustling with crowds of people shoulder-to-shoulder. The amount of individuals was terribly uncomfortable, but waiting until noon on a Sunday was my own fault.
The smell of food and sound of music mingled in the air, and I found a seat toward the back of the enclosed courtyard where the musicians performed. I left my coat folded over the bench to save my spot and walked around, swiftly called over by a vendor selling various street food who convinced me that I should indulge in a treat.
Between pea soup, sheep's trotters, or a meat pie, I picked the meat pie. Peas sounded abhorrent and looked unappealing while ingesting a sheep's boiled foot was quite low on the list of food I wished to try.
"Saloop?" the rotund man with a black beard that extended down to his belly asked, pointing to a large kettle of simmering liquid.
"Thank you, but just the pie."
He frowned at me. "I have children at home."
"As do I," I lied. "Just the pie."
He looked down his nose at me. "I see you weekly here alone," he said. "You have never brought your wife or children with you."
"It's more efficient to shop alone," I said. "I cannot afford to purchase pie for my wife and our twelve children weekly. I'd be on the streets."
"Twelve children? You are a terrible liar." He tucked his chin further down. "Have some saloop," he insisted. "One franc more with the purchase of a pie. It will help feed my two children."
At last I gave in and nodded. "One beverage, please."
"How about a sweet pie for dessert?" he tempted me, wagging his eyebrows.
"Definitely not."
"But my children–"
I handed him six francs, took my food and hot drink, and seated myself at the last empty table in the courtyard.
The woman playing the accordion reminded me of Lucille with her straight blonde hair pulled back beneath a knit cap. I took a sip of the drink, which was much hotter than I had expected, but surprisingly delicious with its sweet vanilla flavor accompanied by undertones of orange.
On several occasions I'd heard people claim that the drink was as stimulating as coffee, but had not found that true. It was also supposedly an aphrodisiac, which seemed equally doubtful.
The woman with the accordion weaved her way through the crowd, jingling a pouch on her hip that was secured with a braided satan rope around her waist. She solicited coins from the crowd, thanking those who offered up money while ignoring those who sat with their arms crossed.
I had no coins on me, but fished a one-franc note from my pocket and handed it to her as she passed. It had nothing to do with her performance–although she certainly appeared pleased to have received the banknote. Given her slight resemblance to Lucille, my charitable actions were mostly driven by guilt.
Out of all of the women I had been with over the years, I had never thought of myself as capable of being a villain in their lives. Certainly I was no saint, but it had not crossed my mind that someone would think I had not further pursued a courtship because I was unhappy with them or they were faulted, which could not have been further from the truth.
Repeatedly I pictured Lucille in my mind, the unshed tears pooled in her eyes, the strain of her features. The hurt she had carried for three years, as unintentional as it had been, was still my doing and I felt wicked for hurting her.
Vaguely I remembered meeting someone at the train station on the return trip from Conforeit. My heart hadn't been heavy with grief, but I had struggled with the aftermath of witnessing death, of being the only one present at the bedside of someone in his last moments who probably would have preferred being alone rather than have his own son attempting to comfort him and provide company.
A lifetime of rejection ended as I should have expected, with Bjorn glaring at me while he was awake and not speaking a word when I offered him food or water or conversation.
"Forgive me for not coming sooner. I was not aware you were this ill," I had said to him late in the night as he lay writhing in bed, unable to find comfort once he had finished his bottle of liquor and had nothing more to keep him intoxicated.
I had sat awake for hours, gaze flitting between him, my sketchbook, and the window where nothing was visible given the late hour. In silence I waited for him to speak, to say something to me, to acknowledge that I had come to see him one final time despite owing him nothing.
Give me peace, I wanted to tell him. Give me your sincerest apology. Tell me you regret what you did to your wife and your children. Tell me you wish you had not chased me with a newborn in my arms, threatening to kill both of us because the baby was starving and would not stop crying. Tell me you regret burning my arm. Tell me you regret what you did to your wife. I know that you saw me, that you heard me crying for you to stop hurting her. Get off of her, I begged. Please, stop hurting her.
You hurt all of us, you evil son of a bitch. Give me what I am due.
The thought still left me rattled. I had returned to Paris unable to process what had transpired, the longing for more from Bjorn that would forever plague me as being inaccessible, the emptiness of his role in my life that would never be filled.
My desire to be his son had been denied up until his last breath, my need for a father left vacant. I had been foolishly optimistic on my way to Conforeit, certain Bjorn would at least offer a half-hearted apology. The yearning to make amends was my driving force for traveling back to see him.
The train ride back was murky in my memory, but still I attempted to piece together how our paths had crossed. Perhaps Lucille had approached me as I stood waiting for my luggage to be removed from the train or perhaps I had acknowledged her first.
I knew for certain I would not have mentioned Bjorn or my reason for travel. Other than Hugo, no one–not even Val–knew I had sat at Bjorn's side and watched him die. No one knew the aching I felt, the worthlessness one last rejection seared into me.
I had kept the details private and the pain of it all became unbearable, gnawing away at me. Lucille–if it had been her–was a chance to dull the ache and seek pleasure, to experience something quite the opposite of the misery I had spent drowning in many long miles from home, alone with a dying, angry drunk who had taken pleasure in mistreating me.
The woman with the accordion returned to her place in the front of the crowd and looked directly at me from across the courtyard, smiling when our eyes met. I forced a smile in return, realizing that I probably appeared quite disgruntled to her.
A smile was probably how it had started with Lucille; a simple yet fraudulent warm expression from across the train station or a gaze held too long. One of us had found an excuse to draw nearer, a conversation ensued, brief pauses where she blushed and I stared at her lips.
And then suddenly we were in a hired cab, I asked if I could kiss her or she leaned in and kissed me. I led her out of the cab, the footmen scurried up the stairs with my luggage and then we were alone together.
No matter if I approached first or the woman started the conversation, I remained a gentleman in terms of pacing. If they guided my hands to the buttons on their dress, I obliged. If they asked me to unlace their corset, I eased them from their restrictive undergarments.
And if they pushed against my chest or indicated that they no longer wished to proceed–no matter how passionate the exchange, I would stop immediately and without question.
I glanced at my sleeve, which had crept down well past my wrist, exposing the bandage beneath that kept the wound clean and protected. My fingers curled as I thought of Alak sitting on my chest and the way he dug into my damaged arm. The memory would forever make me shudder, to think of how easily he had disregarded my pleas for him to stop because he was hurting me.
He had made it so incredibly easy for me to continue harming myself. In that one, excruciating moment, the mental anguish had been buried beneath the thick layer of physical agony.
I placed my right hand over my forearm, the pressure light and even where it caused no discomfort. For safe-keeping, I heard Abigail say in my thoughts. The memory brought me no comfort; it merely made me more aware of what else I had lost.
My anger flared. I was an adult male, and the time for safe-keeping, for being protected was decades behind me. I had been either mistreated or ignored and nothing would ever repair the damage, not physically and not emotionally.
But it was far worse than being damaged. I had caused harm, turning what should have been mutual, physical pleasure into someone's regret.
I took another sip of my beverage and a bite of the meat pie, which I nearly spit out once I discovered there were not only meat and potatoes inside, but long slices of caramelized onion that felt like worms against my tongue.
"My God," I muttered.
Of course there were onions in the pie. Considering how my weekend had gone, I would have been more surprised if there were not onions slithering down my throat. Pushing the plate aside, I took a gulp of saloop, replacing the taste of onion thankfully with orange and vanilla.
I started to stand and throw out the rest of the pie when someone unexpectedly sat beside me.
"Why didn't you wave back?" Elizabeth asked, sounding terrible exasperated.
"Eliza? Where did you come from?"
She gave an exaggerated sigh as if I were truly trying her patience. She had the audacity to shake her head at me, which I found annoying.
"I beg your pardon, my dearest girl," I groused.
"I have been waving to you for the last fifteen minutes."
That was a terrible exaggeration as I'd only been sitting for ten minutes at the most.
"Why were you waving at me? You should have just walked over and said something."
Elizabeth frowned. "You make life so complicated sometimes, Uncle Phelan," she dramatically said.
I made a face. Given my mood, I could hardly disagree with her, however.
"Would you give me two francs for a cup of saloop?" she asked.
"Is that why you came over here? To ask me for two francs like a street beggar?"
She was far too old to pout, but that was precisely what she did, bottom lip protruding and eyes comically morose.
"Fine," she said. "I shall perish from thirst."
Her words made me chuckle much louder than was appropriate and at the exact time the musicians stopped performing, causing my voice to echo through the courtyard.
Eliza pursed her lips, eyes owlish in horror.
I reached for my wallet and handed her two francs, feeling as though I owed her for the unintended mortification that may have been fatal for a girl of sixteen to be seen in public with her uncouth uncle.
She took the francs and briskly walked away from me. If she didn't return to my table, I could hardly blame her. I was almost tempted to leave myself until she returned, drink cupped in her hands, and sat beside me again.
"Thank you," she said, leaning up against me.
"My apologies for the display of mortifying behavior," I replied.
"I shall forgive you this one time."
"What are you doing here alone?" I asked, searching the crowd for Carmen or Val.
"We needed rosemary and garlic cloves," she said. "Mother gave me the exact amount right down to the centim so that I wouldn't purchase anything unnecessary."
"You are quite fortunate I am able to provide you with the funds for frivolous purchases."
"My wealthy and generous uncle," she playfully mused.
"Only the latter applies, my dear."
"Uncle Phelan?" she said suddenly. "Do I have to call you Uncle Phelan or may I simply refer to you as Phelan?"
"You are not calling me by my given name," I said firmly.
"But you don't call me Niece Elizabeth," she pointed out.
"I am allowed to call you Elizabeth because I'm older than you."
"But I'm sixteen. We are both adults now. Practically equals."
"You are absolutely not an adult. And quite frankly, I don't care if you are thirty. You are calling me Uncle or Uncle Phelan."
Elizabeth took a sip of her drink. "You are in a mood," she muttered.
My mood was greatly improved in her company, but apparently that was not evident.
"I bought you a hot drink," I pointed out. "What sort of mood do you suppose I'm in?"
The slightest of smiles played at the corners of her mouth. "You are the best uncle in the world."
"You are correct. Eat something." I pushed the meat pie toward her. "And tell me, to what do I owe such flattery?"
Elizabeth shrugged and took a dainty bite of the pie. "Am I not allowed to say you are the best uncle in the world?"
"Of course you are, and it should be on a much more frequent basis considering how much I shower you with affection and afternoons at the theater, but your flattery is typically accompanied by asking for fur wraps, fine jewelry, or sailing across the sea."
Eliza gasped at my accusations. "Uncle Phelan," she said sternly. "You know I detest fur wraps."
"Then tell me what you are up to, my darling yet conniving niece."
"May I not simply sit with my uncle?" she questioned.
I considered a dry remark, but Elizabeth looked at me with sincerity. We had spent many hours sitting together when she was much younger, chubby arms and legs wrapped around me. Nothing had brought greater stillness than being her voluntary pillow. Those moments were ones that I had truly cherished, even when she had drool pooling onto her lip or a runny nose, both of which she inevitably wiped onto my chest or sleeve.
I wished I had known when the final time had been that she would crawl into my arms and allow me to rest my chin on the top of her head. I wished that she could have looked up at me, smiled, and said, Tomorrow I will be too old for this, Uncle Phelan. Soon enough I will be asking to call you by your given name.
I was unfortunately aware that one day she would not ask to sit with me or tolerate my teasing. She would want to be treated as an adult and an equal. And at some point, I would have to acknowledge her as a wife, mother, and grown up version of the little girl I had so adored.
"Of course you can sit with me," I said. "You can always sit with me, even when you are a thirty year old wife and mother. Especially then. And I will give you my meat pie and a piping hot saloop so that you will look forward to speaking to me."
"I will always look forward to speaking with you, Uncle." Elizabeth rested her head against my shoulder and we did nothing more than sit side-by-side for a pleasantly long moment.
"You know when you were five or six, both of my legs fell asleep while you were napping," I said. "My legs went completely numb and my feet were tingly, but I couldn't possibly wake you up."
"You were a good pillow," she said. "I had the best dreams when you were with me."
I smiled to myself. I couldn't imagine loving anyone more than I did my darling niece.
"You would kick quite a bit when you were very deep asleep. I thought you'd go flying off my lap."
Elizabeth chuckled. "The caterpillar-horses wouldn't run fast enough. I had to squeeze them with my legs."
"I remember the caterpillar-horses," I said. "And the boats made out of eclairs."
"Oh, I forgot about the eclairs," she said, looping her arm through mine. "Uncle Phelan? What do you dream about?"
Dreams were rare for me and I wasn't sure why. My mind refused to shut down in a manner where I was transported into a fanciful land far from the dull reality of life. I felt as though I were always on alert and never truly at rest.
For safe-keeping. I glanced at my left arm and guessed the reason for my lack of dreams. I had to keep myself protected. There was no time for true rest. I'd experienced far too many times of being roused while dragged out of bed and onto the floor, barely able to comprehend that Bjorn had returned drunk and angry.
"Nothing as exciting as your adventures," I answered, feeling the goose flesh rise along my arms.
"Then you have dull dreams of cleaning your apartment?"
I would have settled for a mundane dream of daily tasks, knowing I was capable of feeling that deep sense of security that accompanied sleep where dreams were possible.
"As I said, nothing like your caterpillar-horses and eclair boats floating down rivers of marmalade."
Elizabeth clutched my arm tighter. "Do you remember the friend I told you about?" she asked. "The one who wasn't feeling well?"
"Yes, of course. How is she doing?"
Elizabeth didn't speak for a long moment and I heard her sniffle.
"Eliza?" I questioned. "Have I upset you?"
"Uncle Phelan, I think the person I told you about is dying," she said.
"I am very sorry to hear that."
"May I tell you something else? If you promise not to tell anyone?"
"You may tell me anything, Eliza Beth."
Elizabeth slowly nodded. "The person I am speaking of…it's mother. But I think you already knew she was not well."
"She told me recently," I responded.
"She has not told me at all," Elizabeth said. "I don't know why, but she doesn't want me to know."
"Your mother would never want to hurt you," I said.
"But she is hurting me. I want her to tell me everything. I want her to trust me, I want–I want her to know that I am there for her."
My heart truly broke for her. I wasn't sure what to say or do besides put my arm around her and rest her head against my chest. She inhaled sharply and I placed my palm against her face, shielding her from the rest of the world, hiding the tears she shed.
"Please, Uncle, tell me everything will be fine," she wept.
"I cannot guarantee that everything will be fine, Eliza," I said, "but I give you my word that no matter what, you will be surrounded by people who love you." Gently I kissed the top of her head as I'd done hundreds of times, comforting her after scraped knees, stubbed toes, frustrated tantrums and moments of pure exhaustion that left her tearful.
"If you come to game night this evening, I would like to speak to Mother, but I don't want to do it alone."
"Eliza–"
"You don't have to say anything. I just want you to be there."
I hesitated, but still nodded.
"Of course," I said.
She squeezed me tighter, as she had done hundreds of times, and whispered against my chest, "I love you, Uncle Phelan."
Elizabeth was the only person who consistently professed her affection for me and I for her. Well and truly, I wished I could have erased her heartache or taken it upon myself.
"I adore you, my sweet girl."
Slowly she lifted her head. "Do you mind if I sit with you a while longer?"
"I will sit with you until the end of time," I replied, brushing away her tears.
Elizabeth sighed and put her head on my shoulder, her arm looped around mine. For thirty minutes, I was truly content in my stillness, comfortably at the side of someone I loved unconditionally in the most genuine way imaginable.