Chapter Seventeen

Lewis’s day still started at dawn. In his long years of riding the enormous circuits assigned to Methodist ministers, he had nearly always been saddled up and ready to set off each morning just as the rays of the rising sun were lightening the eastern sky. There was no reason to jump out of bed with first light now, but he found it hard to shed a habit that had been so firmly entrenched.

His first task for the day was always to feed the stove so the room would be lovely and warm when Betsy and Martha woke. He would soon have the kettle boiling and he would take a cup of tea to Betsy while she was still in bed. This slow and gentle easing into the task of getting up and dressed gave her stiff joints a chance to limber up, and as a result her limp was far less pronounced, during the morning hours at least. When again they inevitably began to protest, Betsy now had the option of spending the afternoon in a comfortable chair, passing the time of day with Susannah. It was a soothing rhythm they had fallen into, and Lewis could see the benefits of it in the gradual improvement in his wife’s colour and the lessening of the tight lines at the corners of her mouth.

Often he poured two cups of tea and took a few minutes to sit on the edge of the bed before he roused Martha. He began to realize that he had missed the gentle companionship of everyday living in all those years he rode the trails, and now he prized this morning time, when he could simply be with his wife before the duties and tasks of the day called him away. Some mornings few words passed between the two; sometimes they had particular items to discuss.

Today Betsy was already wide awake by the time the water had boiled. Today was a discussion morning, he realized. It was Saturday – he could let Martha sleep awhile so his wife could have her say. Betsy waited until he had perched beside her and taken the first few sips of his milky tea.

“Have you noticed anything between Sophie and Francis?” she asked him.

“Like what?” As far as Lewis was concerned, the two of them seemed to be getting along just fine, and the work went all the smoother for it.

“Well, it’s just a feeling I have, but they certainly seem to go out of their way to be in the same room at the same time.”

He was puzzled for a moment, and then he realized what Betsy was hinting at. “Do you really think so?”

“They always sit side by side and Sophie blushes a little when I catch them doing it.”

Betsy had always been far handier at reading these sorts of signals. It was Betsy who had known that Rachel Jessup, the girl who had been murdered in Demorestville, had decided on her choice of husband, although poor Rachel didn’t live long enough to realize a marriage. He thought back over the last week or so and realized that Betsy was right. Nearly every time he happened upon Francis in an idle moment, Sophie was nearby, and vice versa.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about this. He hadn’t liked Francis Renwell much when he was courting his daughter Sarah. His dislike continued when the two were married, and only intensified after his daughter’s tragic death. He had warmed to the young man since, but this was guilt more than anything else. The notion that he might be thinking of courting Sophie seemed like an act of treachery, a dishonouring of a daughter’s marriage that had been a love match from the beginning, no matter the dreadful things that had happened afterward. But Francis was still a young man, and when Lewis stopped to count up, he realized that it had been seven years since Sarah had been taken away — a very long time for anyone to be alone. Perhaps it was time to let go and let things take their natural course.

“Well, I must admit, I’m a little taken aback,” he said. “But Sophie seems like a nice girl, and, as you know, I’ve completely changed my opinion of Francis.”

He could tell by the look on Betsy’s face that he had somehow completely missed the point of what she was trying to say.

“Oh, I agree, Sophie’s a grand girl,” she said. “And it would be nice to see Francis settled down somewhere. But have you thought about what this might mean to Martha?”

He hadn’t. Trust Betsy to go directly to the heart of what was important for her nearest and dearest.

“Sometimes she seems more like my child than my own did. I’d hate to lose her now.”

“So would I.” Just the thought of it caused a choking sensation in his throat. The little girl was so much like her mother that losing her would be like losing Sarah all over again. “Do you think they would take her, if what you suspect is right?”

“Francis would take her in a minute. You can tell by the way he looks at her. He desperately wants to be a real father to her, to make up for all the time he’s lost.”

“And Sophie?”

“Sophie seems to be very fond of Martha, as well, and I’m sure she’d go along with whatever Francis wants. The problem is that I don’t see how we could object. He’s Martha’s father, after all, and if he finds himself in a position to make a good home for her, I don’t think there’s anything we could do about it. We’re both old, Thaddeus, and I’m sickly. How could we argue that Martha’s better off with us? Sophie would make a wonderful mother for her, but that doesn’t mean I want to see it happen.”

It was a conundrum, and Lewis realized that if he were honest, he would have to admit that Martha would be far better off with her father and, apparently, a new mother. Perhaps even a new family, with brothers and sisters and the bustle that attends the households of the young. But he didn’t want to be honest. He wanted to be selfish and keep Martha forever.

It was too bad that Francis Renwell was nothing to them, really. Just an in-law. Related not by blood, but my marriage, and now that the marriage no longer existed, they had no claim on him. If he had been one of their own sons, Lewis might have been able to engineer a solution that included him and Betsy, although his one previous attempt at putting all of his family under one roof had ended in acrimony. He could scarcely ask Francis to assume that kind of responsibility, especially since Lewis’s ability to contribute to the household was limited.

But that could change, and it was high time it did anyway. The hotel was running smoothly now, and it wouldn’t be too long before Susannah would be up and about again. He had no illusions about his effectiveness as an assistant innkeeper — Sophie, and even Francis, were far more help than he, and it wouldn’t take Daniel long to realize it. Lewis had earned his keep so far, but if he and Betsy were to stay in Wellington, he would at some point have to offer his brother-in-law at least some kind of nominal rent for their little house. That had been the plan from the beginning, but it had been derailed by Susannah’s accident. It was time to start looking seriously for a job.

Preaching was the obvious choice, but all of the nearby Methodist meetings already had ministers they were quite happy with. They would not be likely to turf someone out on his behalf; nor, he thought, should they. School teaching was an option. It had been his first career, and he had gone back to it when he was recovering from his plunge through the ice, but it demanded regular attendance for a large part of the day, and he couldn’t leave Betsy alone on her bad days. He couldn’t ask Susannah to step in; once she was well again she would have her hands full at the hotel. He needed something with more flexibility. He resolved that he would find something to do in the village. He would build up his funds as much as possible. And then, if Francis took Martha somewhere else, he would have the wherewithal to follow.