The winter holidays were soon upon us. I had a fortnight free to spend at home with Papa, and though I looked forward to it with longing, I had some anxiety about leaving Goldilocks at this stage of her development. Her progress in the schoolroom was quite encouraging, and it seemed an unfortunate time for the schooling to stop. Mrs. Vaughn proposed that Goldilocks might continue to spend her days with Teddy in the nursery, but I could foresee all manner of trouble under Nurse’s tender ministrations, and so I suggested that Teddy instead be allowed to visit Goldilocks’s chamber under the supervision of Mrs. Van Winkle. It was a simple matter to convince Mrs. Vaughn that it would be too much to ask of Nurse to handle the two youngsters all day on her own. And so it was decided.
Having done what I could for Goldilocks and Teddy, and said my goodbyes, I packed my valise and bid my cantankerous mirror goodbye as well.
“Just cover me up, then, if you please,” it replied. No sooner had I done so than a mellow snore reverberated through my chamber. I calmed myself, and giving a last look to my cozy little room, I picked up my bag and closed the door, thinking of the inexperienced young bear I had been when I first set foot there, and how much I had changed since that day. Then, on an impulse, I proceeded to the east wing, where I leaned in at Mr. Bentley’s office doorway to bid him farewell. I was greeted only by an empty seat. Having no time to search for him, I swallowed my disappointment and went on my way.
The ever-faithful Harry escorted me to town, patiently standing by while I went into the bookstore looking for a gift for Papa. At last I found a beautifully bound volume of his favorite book, Don Quixote, to replace the old, worn-out copy he kept by his chair. I set off on the afternoon train with a light heart, my valise in one paw, my carefully wrapped package in the other.
Papa’s old housemaid, Lucy, was there at the station to greet me at journey’s end. Normally a sturdy, cheerful person, she seemed uncharacteristically depressed. “I’m so glad you’re here, miss,” she said fervently. “Your papa’s been poorly and couldn’t come himself.”
“What is wrong?” I asked as she helped me with my bag and we began the walk home.
“He’s quite ill, miss, though he won’t admit it. You know how good-natured he is, even in times of trouble. It started with a little cough, but now it affects his breathing. It’s keeping him up at night, and sapping his energy so that he’s stopped doing most everything that he used to do,” she continued. “He insists it’s just a touch of the grippe, and won’t give me leave to call in the doctor.”
We walked down the street in a worried silence as I told myself that it couldn’t be that bad. Papa had always been so strong and vital! Surely all he needed was some tender, loving care, I thought when we turned up the hill toward home. As we approached, I paused and stared at the old homestead with fond eyes, noting that it seemed a little smaller and a little shabbier since I had seen it last. I saw that Papa’s rose garden, usually so carefully cut back and wrapped in burlap against the winter freeze, stood withered and frozen, the last wrinkled brown blossom teetering in the wind. A cold foreboding seized my heart. I hurried through the door and made my way to the familiar old parlor, where we had spent so many contented hours sitting by the fire when I was but a cub, Papa watching over me in steady benevolence, the Gibraltar of my little world. At first I did not espy him, so shrunken did he seem, propped up in his overstuffed chair, draped with a heavy shawl. I went to him, kneeling at his feet and looking up into the dear, tired face, thinner now than I remembered. His eyes seemed to focus on something very far away as he puffed on his old pipe.
“Papa? Papa, I’m home.”
The brown eyes fluttered, and turned to me, a little dim but still twinkling, and a slow smile spread over his furry face.
“Ah, if it isn’t my own wee Ursula, the apple of my eye and the beat of my heart,” he croaked, lifting his paw to pat the top of my head. His speech was a hoarse echo of the rich, deep voice I knew so well. “Home at last, are you? I’ve been waiting for so long.” He dropped his paw heavily, and an icy knot formed in my chest. How frail he was! I kissed him on the snout, noticing now that it was streaked with silver, and found that it was hot and dry.
“Papa,” I announced, hiding my fear. “Papa, I must be stern with you. You’re ill, and you belong in bed. Let Lucy and me help you up to your room, then I’ll send her for the doctor. Be good now.”
“No, no,” Papa objected. “Don’t fuss at me. I’m perfectly all—” He broke off in a fit of coughing that seemed to shake his whole body as I watched helplessly.
“That’s it,” I declared, more cheerily than I felt. “It’s off to bed with you this minute. Let’s get you settled before the doctor arrives.”
He treated me to an expression of pained martyrdom. “Termagant!” was the choked rejoinder.
“Here, Mr. Brown,” Lucy cajoled. “You heard Ursula. Just lean on me. I’m strong as an ox!”
With a mix of patience and determination that I had learned from Papa himself, I soon had him bundled into bed, sitting against the pillows and sipping some good hot chamomile tea. I sat by his bedside, telling him stories, all the while, of my life with the Vaughns, and about young Goldilocks.
When Lucy finally returned with Dr. Deeb, he greeted Papa with, “Well, my friend, what are you up to?” and swiftly banished me from the room. Obediently, I went downstairs to the parlor to await the doctor’s verdict, while Lucy retired to the kitchen to busy herself with supper. For a time I paced back and forth, listening to the floorboards creak. Then I sat in Papa’s chair by the fireside, staring at nothing while anxious thoughts crowded in. Daylight was fading. Lucy brought a tray from the kitchen, but I wasn’t hungry. To keep my spirits up, I lit the candelabra and began to hum a familiar melody, then recognized that it was Papa’s favorite hymn. As the words went through my mind, they both alarmed and sustained me:
From the top of the stairs, Dr. Deeb called me. “Your papa needs to speak with you.”
I climbed the stairs, hope and dread mingling in my heart, and searched Dr. Deeb’s face for hints of either, but I could read nothing in his features beyond his characteristic calm and compassion. I moved past him, into the room, where Papa lay resting on the big bed.
Then his eyes met mine, and I knew.
“Papa! Oh, Papa!” I cried, all my mature reserve abandoning me as I flew to him and lay my head against his chest. His steady paw stroked my head as he waited for the wave of despair to subside.
“There, there. Have your cry, then. Let it go,” he murmured. How like him to be comforting me in his own darkest hour! Indeed, I could no more have stanched the flow of hot tears than have held in the tides, or stopped the sun from setting. I gave myself up to the pain of losing the one I held most dear in all the world while I accepted the bracing comfort of his arms.
Crying out my shock and sorrow, I came to the realization that Papa must count on me now to be the strong one, to do whatever could and must be done. Perhaps this was the only gift I could give him. I pulled out my handkerchief and dried my eyes. Looking up at the doctor, I asked, “How long?”
“His lungs are filling up, I’m afraid. He has a little time. Enough to settle his affairs.”
I nodded, and took Papa’s paw in mine, promising to stay by his side, lending him my youth and strength, and carrying out his wishes as best I could.
That evening I composed a letter to the Vaughns to apprise them of my plight, then I sent my fervent prayers Heavenward that Teddy and Goldilocks might continue to thrive in one another’s company while I was absent, and that Teddy would not suffer too much under Nurse’s volatile governance.
From that point, my life became a concatenation of duties, caring for Papa’s needs as he rapidly failed. Lucy and I took turns sitting with him, day and night. Sometimes, during his wakeful periods, I read aloud to him from his old favorite classics, or we talked quietly together when he was able. Papa explained to me in fits and starts what he wished done with his few possessions. He regretted that he had nothing of value to leave me except his books, which he looked upon as old friends. Though I did not even want to think about such things, he directed me to sell them, and set the proceeds aside for myself, for a rainy day, and this I promised I would do.
Christmas was fast approaching. At Papa’s bidding, we decorated the house, arranging evergreen boughs on all the mantels and candles in the windows. We decked out the sickroom with bright poinsettia plants. Though my heart was breaking, for his sake I would do my utmost to imbue this last Christmas together with all the holiday spirit I could summon, though it be the most difficult task of my life.
Then, late one night as he lay awake, he took my paw in his. He told me his fondest hope for me was that I would someday find someone who would be to me what he and Mama had been to one another: a soul mate and beloved companion to share my life with. At this, Mr. Bentley’s likeness came unbidden into my mind: the deep-set eyes alive with wit and intelligence, the roguish grin, the handsome dark fur. I quickly blocked the image out, afraid to ask myself if he could ever mean so much to me, but Papa caught my fleeting change of expression and smiled.
“Is there …?” he asked hoarsely.
“I don’t know, Papa,” I replied. “There’s someone who … I don’t know. He hasn’t declared himself to me. I’m afraid of getting my heart broken.”
“Is he worthy? Does he make you happy?”
“Oh yes, Papa. I think you would like him very much.”
He paused, breathing heavily, obviously tired. “Don’t worry too much about your heart getting broken, pet,” he wheezed. “Love is not for the fainthearted … and even broken hearts can heal.”
“You always know just what I need to hear, Papa.”
He signaled me to come closer, and whispered, “When you know it’s the right one, remember, my dear, that you have my blessing.”
He lay back, exhausted but smiling, and I sat with him, holding his paw until he fell asleep, grateful for our short time together.
He slept fitfully, more and more as the days passed. Christmas morning arrived, a reminder of all that is beautiful and good. Lucy and I had made preparations for a small Christmas dinner, and she had brought home a fat goose, and a little of everything to go with it. She and I set to peeling, chopping, baking, and roasting, until the old house was redolent with holiday smells. First I took a plate up to Papa, and tried to tempt his appetite. He swallowed some potatoes and gravy, and tasted some of the plum pudding and port jelly, then he urged me to go down to my own supper while he napped. Despite the pervasive cloud of melancholy, I sat next to Papa’s empty place and said grace, then Lucy and I attempted to do justice to the fine meal. Though I was hardly hungry, the nourishment lifted my spirits, and we ended the repast with a bit of mulled wine. Thinking it might be good for Papa, I stood by his bed, wondering if I should wake him. He opened his eyes and, smiling wanly, croaked out, “Happy Christmas, my angel.”
I smiled too, wanting to keep things cheerful, and said, “I’m no angel, Papa! You should have heard what I almost said this morning when I burned my paw on the cookstove! And on Christmas too!”
This brought on a weak chuckle.
“Almost doesn’t signify, does it, Papa? It’s not like the time you hollered ‘Blast!’ in the middle of church. Remember? The minister stopped the service.”
“That couldn’t be helped, you know,” he whispered. “Something bit me!”
We laughed companionably, and I, not wanting the moment to end, summoned more happy memories to share. We talked on quietly till the fire burned low, and our hearts were mellow and content. For a time, all the old jokes and mishaps were infused with fresh life. For a time, laughter and tears flowed together in unbearable sweetness, and love banished fear from the Valley of the Shadow.
That was the last day I had with Papa. By nightfall, he had sunk into a kind of insensibility, drawing each breath more painfully than the last. I listened helplessly, holding his paw and unconsciously holding my own breath, waiting for him to inhale once more.
Here I draw a curtain over our travail, saying only that Papa, like his Don Quixote, fought a valiant fight against an unbeatable foe. He found his blessed release in the early morning of New Year’s Day, and died with Mama’s name on his lips.
Numbly, I proceeded to follow the forms and rituals of death, dressing myself all in black, shunning any ornament. Through those dark days I leaned heavily on dear Lucy, who treated me as fondly as any parent, taking over all the funeral arrangements and leaving me to my grief. The Vaughns traveled down on the next train, and Mr. Vaughn came to me as a godsend, asking whether he, as Papa’s oldest friend, might be allowed to defray the funeral expenses and help with the settling of Papa’s affairs. I accepted this gratefully, as a gift for Papa, and raised Mr. Vaughn up several levels in my estimation.
He also delivered to me a letter from Mr. Bentley, a very proper message of condolence, which left me strangely unsatisfied. I found myself wishing they had brought Mr. Bentley himself instead of this polite note. I had thought of him so much throughout my time away, but especially since my talk with Papa, that I frequently allowed myself to imagine how different things would be if he were by my side. I smiled when I thought of him meeting my papa, and how they would have gotten on. I imagined how much easier the grief would be to endure with his broad shoulder there for me to lean on.
Nevertheless, I put on a brave face for the many visitors who came to pay Papa their last respects. These were friends, colleagues, and students of his from all walks of life, from Mr. Vaughn, to the greengrocer, to the mayor, for Papa was on the best of terms with all manner of people, from the wealthy and preeminent to the humblest talking creature.
When Papa had been laid to rest, and the last of his many well-wishers had said farewell, Mr. Vaughn took me aside and informed me that things had gone sadly awry with the children in the short time I had been away. My stomach lurched when he said this, and I asked him to elucidate.
“We can talk about that later. The sooner you come back to continue your work with Master Theodore and Goldilocks, the better,” he urged. He inquired whether I needed help in finishing up Papa’s affairs. I replied that I had only a few belongings to pack up and some of Papa’s books left to sell, and then I would follow them back on the train. I packed up Mama’s wedding dress, the only thing I had of hers now, and I saved only one book, Papa’s worn and tattered copy of Don Quixote.
Finally it was time to say goodbye to the old house. I stood at the front gate, realizing that I would never cross that doorstep again, and I let the tears flow.