Chapter 7

Paul unfolded the paper, an obviously hastily scrawled note written by his brother yesterday, though it hadn’t reached Paul until this afternoon.

Fire devastated our business, but worse for Virginia as she has lost all.

Please come to the city.

Yours, John.

     P.S. You are an uncle.

Frowning, Paul reread the few words that contained such a mix of horrid and joyous news. It was bad enough for John to lose the contents of his office—irreplaceable records, deeds, letters both corporate and personal—but for Virginia?

He may have given as little thought to his wife as she’d spared of him these past five months or more, but he wouldn’t have wished anyone to suffer what she must be facing right now.

And yet … The rest of the words made an impression as well. He was an uncle. Of what, he wondered? Did he have a niece or a nephew? That alone was enough to warrant an unprecedented visit to the city he normally chose to avoid.

“Mrs. Higgins! Would you please pack a bag for me? I must leave immediately.”

Virginia watched Sarah with the baby, as she talked to him gently and lovingly stroked the cheek that Virginia knew was softer than any silk she used to cover her bonnets.

How she wanted these first days of little Elijah’s life to offer only the joy-filled memories that they should. She wanted to be happy for Sarah, proud that she’d done so well during childbirth, remarkably withstanding the pain. Not only that, she’d produced an amazingly healthy seven-and-a-half-pound baby boy who looked very much like his father. And uncle.

Virginia turned back to the window in Sarah’s room where Sarah was recovering her strength since giving birth two nights ago. Despite the peace they’d had all day inside the closed door, John’s home was no longer the untouched, quiet sanctity the baby had been born into. No one had been more surprised than John to learn the tailoring shop upstairs had not only employed but also housed a half-dozen young apprentices who had barely escaped the fire with their lives. One young girl had suffered a broken leg from jumping out a window, breaking the arm of the desperate friend below who’d tried catching her.

They were just as homeless as she was, and John, having invested in the building itself, had seen fit to take several of them in. His partner, Mr. Thackery, had done so as well, and so even had the Schumachers.

Thankfully for Virginia, John was taking care of the paperwork end of things, following through with insurance claims. Because Virginia’s father had taken John’s advice about ample insurance, they should be able to rebuild without too much trouble once they collected on their policies.

A carriage drew her notice as it stopped in front of the house. If she’d slipped off to await dinner in the room she’d been using at the back, she’d have missed seeing the arrival of none other than her very own husband.

Paul tapped on the door. When he heard a variety of voices coming from within, he double-checked with a glance thrown over his shoulder to make sure the front yard was as familiar as he remembered it to be. It was more than odd that he would hear multiple young female voices. Laughter, even one voice raised in song. Perhaps a brood of women celebrating the arrival of his new niece or nephew?

While plausible since no life had been lost in the fire, it did seem too grim a time to be having a party.

He swallowed hard. Being in the city was distasteful enough without being subjected to a bunch of women congregated in a small room fawning over a baby. He nearly marched right back to his carriage.

But he did want to ask about Virginia, at least to see how she was doing after her great loss. So when the door opened—after a second knock—he squared his shoulders and asked to see John.

The girl who received the question was dressed in an ill-fitting cotton gown, one that was obviously meant for someone a good deal older than this person’s perhaps dozen years. Nonetheless both the gown and she were clean, hair neatly brushed and gathered with a matching ribbon.

“Oh, Mr. Turnbridge hasn’t come home yet. But I can tell him you visited if you like.”

“I am also a Mr. Turnbridge, the brother of the owner of this home. I’ll wait. Will you let Mrs. Turnbridge know that I’m here?”

“Thank you, Mossie,” said a voice from the staircase that ended not three feet from the front door. “I’ll let Mrs. Turnbridge know her brother-in-law has arrived.”

Paul looked at the woman on the stairs with some relief, though he was surprised at the quality of her clothing. If she was a servant, she dressed extraordinarily well even for a housekeeper. She finished her descent, crossed the few steps between them, then greeted him with what he could only call a stiff smile.

“Good afternoon … Paul. Sarah is upstairs resting with the baby, but John should be home soon. I’m afraid there aren’t many quiet places to be found around here, except perhaps John’s office. I’m sure you know the way … don’t you?”

What was this? Paul? Sarah? John? Who was this housekeeper, that she would address the family with such familiarity—even if she had said his name with a definite edge of awkwardness?

She led the way he barely remembered, not having visited his brother’s house since John had purchased it shortly after his marriage to Sarah some three years ago. He passed by the archway connecting the parlor to the foyer, seeing a few girls as the fountain from which the majority of the house noise originated.

John’s office was at the back of the house, opposite the kitchen and behind the dining room. It was, as this woman had suggested, somewhat quieter here, although he could still hear the muffled voices from the parlor and a sporadically opened water pipe from the kitchen. If he wasn’t mistaken, the baby was crying from somewhere above.

He was surprised when the woman closed the door with herself inside the room along with him. Looking at her for the first time, he found a touch of pleasure accompanying his surprise. While he was in no way a philandering man, he was fully human and appreciated the wide eyes, graceful movement, and full lips that blessed this woman with something not far short of absolute beauty.

Then, noticing her hair was the exact color of the woman he’d married the previous spring, he felt his heart lurch and his jaw drop. “You—you’re Virginia?”

Her brows lifted, first in surprise he guessed, then with a slight dip of disappointment and perhaps even a bit of hurt. He couldn’t blame her there. After all, it wasn’t often that a man didn’t recognize his own wife.

“As you can tell by the number of houseguests, your brother was kind enough to take in a number of us after the fire two days ago.”

Reflexively he stepped closer, taking her hand in his as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And wasn’t it? Shouldn’t it be?

“I’m so sorry to hear of your loss, Virginia,” he said softly. His heart swelled with compassion as other words he hadn’t quite expected came to his tongue. “It’s been quite a year for you, hasn’t it? First losing your father, forced to comply with a will you obviously would have contested if possible, and now losing both your home and business. I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

When she raised her eyes, he might have been alarmed to see tears welling at the rims, but it was as if some mysterious force filled him, making him unexpectedly unvexed around this woman who was obviously about to cry. If Mrs. Higgins could see him now, as he prepared to gather up this woman for a good cry on his shoulder, she would likely accuse him of having lost the wits that usually restrained him.