Chapter 29

OLD MRS. SHERMAN GUSHES AS SHE GIVES ME MY PAY. “YOU earned every cent. It’s so wonderful to have a proper working washing machine again.”

“My pleasure,” I say, placing the coins in my handbag. “If you have anything else that needs fixing, please let me know.”

“I will.” Her wrinkled hand pats mine. “You’re working as hard as Ruth says. I admire your grit. And I’ll be praying for your success.”

I muster a smile. “I appreciate that, Mrs. Sherman.”

Despite the December chill, she insists on waving me off. Our cheery goodnights ring down the street as I leave. However, the instant she retreats into her house, my expression falls.

To say I’ve been busy as a bee is no exaggeration. With Christmas drawing near, Eliza’s workplace has been in a frenzy, and I’ve spent every spare minute running errands for the dress shop when I’m not making repairs around the neighborhood. Between my varied jobs, I earned twelve dollars this week, a tidy amount by my usual standards.

But it is a drop in the pail compared to the remaining three hundred and ten dollars I must earn.

This would be easier if I were a man. I’d earn more as a mechanic, but without connections, applying for those jobs is a waste of time. Will and his coworkers would welcome my help in their shop, but Mr. Graham would never allow me to work there.

I don’t want to believe my efforts will come to naught. I’ve sacrificed so much. But the fact of the matter is, time is running out.

My gaze lifts toward the Heavens. They’re shrouded in heavy cover, a stark contrast to the sparkling night when I prayed for direction and received a one-way ticket to Boston. I wonder now if that revelation was all in my head. Or perhaps a cosmic joke.

A stiff breeze buffets my steps as doubt pummels my resolve. Is this worth it? Even if I scraped together the money to hire Mr. Stansbury, it doesn’t guarantee victory against Annan. Returning to Columbia Paper would certainly be easier. I know and enjoy the work and have the entire factory’s respect.

But could I respect myself if I gave up?

I’m exhausted from the thoughts running round my head when I arrive to a dark, empty house. Mrs. MacFarland’s gone to Albany with Eliza’s parents to attend a relative’s funeral. As for Eliza, she and her coworkers are burning the midnight oil until Christmas Eve.

I drag myself inside, pausing only to take the mail. My brain feels as numb as my fingers as I fumble with the matches. After several tries, one strikes, and as I light the entryway lamp, I notice that the letter at the top of the mail pile is for me.

It’s from my brother.

I jolt alert. The last time Charlie wrote was during the war, before he got hurt. After that, I only ever heard about him through Mother. To receive a letter now is like getting a message from beyond the grave.

It’s terrible to think that way, but in many respects, Charlie has been dead the last four years. He’s not sent me a single word through mail, Mother, or otherwise. He’s certainly not lent any support. Everything I knew and loved as Charlie Knight disappeared, leaving only a husk my mother and I were duty-bound to care for.

I scrutinize the handwriting on the envelope. It’s Charlie’s, but not quite. I recognize the wide letters, but the lines are shaky, as if penned by an arthritic hand.

Is this the Charlie I once knew? Shortly after accompanying him to the asylum, Mother wrote to me about the place. Like many asylums, the countryside retreat employed a regimen of sedatives, light exercise, and prayer. Additionally, they used dogs and horses to lift patients’ spirits—or so they claimed. Although I felt that the peace of the country would do Charlie good, I doubted a dog could help where my mother’s loving care had failed.

However, this letter is evidence that whatever the asylum’s done has wrought a change.

Not bothering to remove my hat and coat, I go to the parlor, light the lamp, and grab the letter opener. A quick slash, and the envelope’s open.

My eyes go wide.

Nestled within the folded pages is a money order. Fingers trembling, I pluck it out and drop it when I see it’s for ten dollars. What on Earth?

Curiosity consumes me, and I unfold the letter.

Thanksgiving Day, 1869

Dear Mattie,

How are you? I am doing good. That is something I thought I’d never say again, but I can honestly tell you I am doing good. The folks here have been good to me and helped me greatly. I have bad days, but nowadays, there are more good than bad.

It’s still hard to remember things, but I do know I’ve not been able to care for myself for a long time. I also know the reason I didn’t starve was your hard work. The faces and voices of the dead that haunt me are a trial worse than the war, yet I consider myself blessed because you never abandoned me. For that, I want to say thank you. And I’m sorry.

I’m sorry because you shouldn’t have been burdened so. I am the man of the family. Caring for you and Mother was my responsibility. Instead, you carried us. Maybe you resent me for that. I don’t blame you if you do. But I am doing my level best to become the reliable brother you deserve.

The doc has us try working when we feel steady. It’s taken a while, but I can put in a day’s work now if my mind is clear. I can’t yet hold down a job, but the folks here give me hope that one day I will. Until then, I want you to have this.

I want to pay you back, Mattie. $10 isn’t nearly enough, but I want to start. More than that, I want you to do all the things you couldn’t because of me. I want your dreams to come true, whatever they are, and I pray that someday I can help you reach them.

Your brother,

Charlie

I’m sobbing by the time I finish the letter. For so long, I’d thought of Charlie as a responsibility, not a person. Now I’ve got my brother back.

Or partly back. The Charlie I knew was a strong, happy-go-lucky fellow, not one crippled by ghosts. From the sound of it, he’s got a ways to go. Even so, he’s determined to beat it. For my sake.

My gaze flits to the money order. I want your dreams to come true, whatever they are …

And if he’s willing to carry my dreams forward, how can I lay them down?

I dry my tears and square my shoulders. “If you can keep up the fight, Charlie,” I murmur, picking up the money order, “so can I.”

Late the following week, Mrs. MacFarland returns. And she brings a guest.

“Uncle Thomas,” I exclaim, hurrying outside to take the baggage from the cab driver. “I didn’t realize you were coming.”

Mrs. MacFarland snickers. “He didn’t realize either. But when we stopped to call on him on the way home, the poor lamb seemed so forlorn in his empty house we were duty-bound to invite him for Christmas. Needless to say, he leapt at the offer.”

Uncle Thomas’s mustache twitches. “I do not leap, Aunt Ruth.”

“As you say, Thomas,” says Mrs. MacFarland, even as she gives me a surreptitious wink.

“Well, I’m glad to see you, Uncle Thomas,” I say, setting the baggage inside before helping him up the steps. “Mrs. MacFarland, which room should I prepare for him?”

“I’m not staying, Margaret,” says Uncle Thomas. “Too many stairs in this place. I’ll be sojourning with Eliza’s parents. I accompanied Aunt Ruth home because I have business with you.”

I cock my head. “Me?”

As I wonder what business this could be, Mrs. MacFarland says, “The two of you talk in the parlor. I’ll make tea. Ah, it’s good to be home.” Humming merrily, she disappears into the kitchen.

I usher Uncle Thomas to the parlor couch and perch on the seat across from him. My perplexity must show, because he says, “No need to make that face, Margaret. In truth, my business is better called a delivery. When the Leaviltes heard I was traveling to Boston, it suited Ida to make me their errand boy.” Reaching into his tweed jacket, he withdraws a manila envelope. “This is for you. Open it.”

I do so, emptying its contents onto the tea table. I gasp when a money order for one hundred and fifty dollars drops out.

That’s not all. Five ten-dollar bills fall beside it. Flabbergasted, I stammer, “Uncle Thomas, what is this?”

He reaches inside the envelope to pluck out a smaller white one wedged at the bottom and hands it over. “This will explain it.”

I tear it open and read.

December 8, 1869

Dear Mattie,

We heard from Eliza what happened. We felt compelled to act, so we each swore to contribute $1 a week for your lawyer. This is what we’ve collected since November plus what we got from the turquoise bracelet Mrs. Yates donated. (We don’t know how she heard, but she did.)

This is not a gift. We owed you this when you won us our raise. Take it and fight for what’s yours.

Also, this $150 is just a start. We will send another money order after Christmas.

God bless you and grant you the victory.

It’s signed by the nineteen women of the West Workroom. A lump forms in my throat. “I can’t take this,” I murmur. “Why would they …”

“They did it because they thought it was the right thing to do,” says Uncle Thomas matter-of-factly. “You’ve always done what you thought was right, no matter what anyone said, so you ought to respect their decision and accept it, Margaret.”

I blink. Considering he deemed my patent aspirations foolhardy, I thought he’d declare a patent lawsuit further lunacy. But if he’s telling me to take the money, I feel compelled to obey.

However, I am puzzled. “Something’s strange, though. The letter says one hundred fifty dollars, but there’s two hundred dollars here.”

“That’s because the money order is from the women,” says Uncle Thomas with a huff. “The rest is from me.”

My confusion jolts to shock, and I jump to my feet. “You can’t afford that!”

Uncle Thomas isn’t poor, but he’s an old man on a fixed income with no surviving children. Fifty dollars is not an amount he can carelessly give away.

He sniffs. “Fear not. The principal in my savings account remains untouched. My brains haven’t become so addled that I’d do something so foolish.”

“Then how …”

He averts his eyes as if suddenly fascinated by the framed Scripture samplers to my right. “A widower has no need for a multitude of silver implements. Especially when he takes his meals out of home and rarely entertains. Now that I’m rid of them I’m rather glad to be freed from the never-ending task of polishing.”

He sold his wife’s silver? I sink to my chair in disbelief. This is the same man who downright refused to contemplate contributing toward my patent a year ago. “Uncle Thomas, why?”

“Because this is the right thing for me to do.”

I shake my head. “The factory hands feel obligated because of their raise, but you don’t owe me anything.”

“I don’t owe you anything, that’s true, but I have failed you, Margaret.”

His gaze meets mine, and I’m startled by the regret and self-loathing reflected there. “When you girls lived under my roof, you were my responsibility. As the man of the house, as your elder, it was my duty to provide guidance and protection from scoundrels who would take advantage of you.”

He feels guilty because of Daniel? “Uncle Thomas, that wasn’t your fault.”

“It was,” he snaps, his voice and color rising. “Not only did I fail to recognize the wolf in sheep’s clothing, I approved him. I even encouraged his visits into my house. And not only did he break your heart, he broke your trust. He broke everyone’s trust. If I was ten years younger, I’d hunt that weasel down and—”

Uncle Thomas catches himself, as if suddenly remembering he’s a church elder and not a vigilante. “Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat, “my neglect allowed that reprobate to steal from you. Theft is a violation of the Lord’s Commandments, and that demands justice.”

He slides the bills towards me. “The Good Book says, ‘The Lord secures justice for the poor and upholds the cause of the needy.’ God will uphold your cause, Margaret, and so will I.”

Tears prick my eyes. Uncle Thomas is not my father or even a blood relation. “Uncle Thomas, I don’t know what to say.”

He cracks a smile. “Say you’ll take it, Margaret. And that you’ll win.”