A Marriage in Middlebury. Anita Higman
on with life. But not for me. Percy Wilder had destroyed her flight of happiness as easily as the swatting of a fly.
Charlotte squelched the urge to cough. Particles of dust, which were lit by the gas flames along the passageway, swirled in the air. Sam opened a set of doors, which apparently led to Mr. Wilder’s bedchamber. Antiseptic odors mixed with a fusty smell prickled her nostrils. Mr. Wilder’s bedroom could boast of very little furniture, but what caught her attention was the incessant ticking of clocks, including the large mahogany grandfather’s clock. The only wall décor was a framed Confederate flag, which hung on the north wall. A nurse sat in a chair on the other side of Mr. Wilder’s four-poster bed, reading a book.
Charlotte recognized the woman—Lucy Loman—a tall woman with a kindhearted air and enough bobbing red curls and freckles to put anyone at ease. Lucy was also the nurse at her doctor’s office, and she liked to drop into the tearoom from time to time to order her unique brew.
Lucy closed the book and rose from her chair. “Mr. Wilder’s just dozed off.” She glanced at Charlotte, a look of perplexity flickering on her brow. There was a lot of that going around. They nodded to each other but didn’t say anything.
Charlotte had been avoiding looking at Mr. Wilder, but now she let her gaze drift over to his long, thin frame, which lay deathly still in the bed. He’d been a robust man in his prime, but now after succumbing to age and illness he was no more than a thin leaf of a man, and from the look of his ashen color he would not last beyond the night.
Chapter 4
4
Lucy stepped out of the room.
Mist clouded Charlotte’s sight until she had to blink back the tears. In spite of the past, in spite of everything, compassion flooded her and washed away any remnant of anger. Lord, I forgive this man for what he did. She would say whatever it would take to help Mr. Wilder find a peaceful end.
As if the man could read her thoughts, Mr. Wilder’s eyes fluttered opened, and he looked straight at Charlotte. He lifted the oxygen mask off his face and in a raspy voice, murmured, “Miss Hill. You’ve . . . come.”
“Yes, sir.” Charlotte stepped up next to the bed.
Mr. Wilder paused, trying to catch his breath. “Please . . . let me have a moment of your time . . . alone.”
Charlotte would have liked for Sam and Audrey to stay in the room for moral support, but it was not meant to be.
Audrey and Sam backed away, leaving Charlotte standing by the bed. “We’ll be just outside the room if you need us.” Then Sam smiled at Charlotte and mouthed the words, “Thank you.” That was twice he’d thanked her for something she’d done, and yet in both cases she felt no bravery. Mostly fear. Probably a clear sign of a weedy moral fiber on her part.
When they were alone, Mr. Wilder whispered, “Come closer.”
Charlotte sat down in the chair next to the bed. She could see Mr. Wilder fully now and the ravages left by time and sickness—the blue serpentine veins on his hands, his once clear eyes, now watery and deeply set, but most of all, one couldn’t miss the way torment clung to the man like a foul spirit. The look of Mr. Wilder was how she always imagined King David at the end of his reign when he was dying in his imperial bed. Only Mr. Wilder had never known God.
He lifted his head briefly and then fell back. “Are we alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I didn’t think . . . you’d come.”
“I was sorry to hear you’ve been ill.”
“You haven’t . . . been sorry.” Mr. Wilder took a few more shallow breaths. “You are glad . . . for my death.”
“Sir, I don’t mean to contradict you, but I’m sorry for everything.” Charlotte let go of the piece of dress she twisted in her fingers. “If I did anything to offend you, I’m truly sorry. Please forgive me.” She wasn’t sure why she needed to apologize, but maybe it would ease the way for Mr. Wilder to say whatever he’d hoped to say.
“I did not bring you here . . . for apologies.” The man gasped for breath, and appeared even paler if that were possible.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” The grandfather clock chimed the hour, making her startle. How could Mr. Wilder stand so many noisy clocks? It only served as a reminder that the march of time reigned over each of them as an enemy, relentless and unmerciful. “Sir, do you need your oxygen?”
“No,” he growled.
If Charlotte had hoped the man had softened over the years, she had been mistaken. His voice could still grip like the jaws of a crocodile, and his eyes were just as fearsome. The resemblance between Mr. Wilder and his son in appearance had always been uncanny, but they were so far removed in spirit, it was as if they had never been related.
“You have met Miss Anderson. She is a good match for my son.” Mr. Wilder’s eyes brightened, and he seemed to rally a bit as he talked about Sam’s fiancée.
What could she say? “I hope they will be happy.” Why had Mr. Wilder brought her to his home? Was it for one final round of torment? Charlotte desperately wanted to ask him why he’d so vehemently opposed Sam’s proposal to her those many years ago, but she was determined not to harass a dying man.
“I brought you here because I owe you . . . an explanation.” Mr. Wilder closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. “Now that my son is marrying a woman who is worthy of our family’s heritage, I feel I can be generous and tell you why you were not acceptable. Why you could never marry my son.”
At last. The truth. “Sir?” If he was willing to tell her some truth with the last of his energy then she was more than willing to listen.
“I will . . . tell you a story.” Mr. Wilder took in several more wheezing breaths. “I love birds, but I have a phobia of them too. Got the fear put in me as a child and have never been able to shake it off. I would go to the cemetery to watch them. Study them. Enjoy their beauty, but because of fear, I could never go near them. Do you understand?”
“Maybe a little.” But what did his love and fear of birds have to do with Sam’s proposal?
“I threatened you with the scandal about the affair between your father and my wife to make you leave my son, but what I never told you was why I did it.” Mr. Wilder’s fingers, which rested on the bed, crawled toward Charlotte’s hand like a pale spider. She resisted the urge to recoil. “I knew of your inferior bloodline. Your dark secret,” he hissed. “I knew the defective relative that you harbored in your past.”
“What could you mean?”
“Your grandmother, on your father’s side, was a half-breed . . . born in America, but she was only half white. Her other half was of the Negro race.” He spat out the words as if they were a curse.
“Yes, that’s true. I never had the opportunity to meet her before she passed away, but I’ve never kept it a secret. Why should I? I’m proud of all of my roots, including my grandparents.” Was the man serious? Had her grandmother’s background really been the only thing that had kept Mr. Wilder from approving of their marriage?
In seconds Mr. Wilder’s face flushed with color, and his eyes glinted with anger.
Charlotte leaned over him. “Sir, do you want me to call Lucy in?”
“Call no one.” Without warning, Mr. Wilder snatched Charlotte’s hand in his. He clamped down on her fingers like a trap snapping shut on the paw of some poor animal.
“Mr. Wilder, you’re hurting me.” She rose, trying to struggle free, but the man had a sudden, almost supernatural burst of strength. His muscles quickly gave out, though, until she could slip her hand from his damp fingers. “If you do that again I’ll need to call for Sam.” Charlotte rubbed her hand, trying to calm the pain. How could she discuss anything with such a man? He was heartless.