The letter had been easy to write. More difficult was the problem of getting it to St. Joseph. The stage, which took the mail and passengers to St. Joseph, had already left and wouldn’t be back again until Friday. Francie considered the creamy white envelope lying flat on her vanity. When was her father next going to St. Joseph? Perhaps he would take it with him.
“I was going tomorrow morning,” he told her when she found him in his office at the hotel. “But I lent the mare to Hopkinson yesterday, and she went lame. It’ll be two weeks before she’s sound enough to ride.” He sounded disgusted. “I should know better than to lend my horse away. Even to Hopkinson.” He grunted, and then looked up at Francie. “Why do you ask?”
Francie held up the letter. “I want to get this to Mr. Court.” She saw her father’s eyebrows begin to draw together in a frown, but she went on. She’d already decided what to say—she might as well get it over with. “I finished counting the rings of that tree and I feel it’s important he get the information as soon as possible.” It wasn’t a lie, she told herself. She did write about the 3,252 rings. But she also told him what was happening with Carrie’s tree.
Francie met her father’s eyes with what she hoped looked like confidence, but inwardly she was shaking. Would he refuse to let her send the letter?
Her father drummed his fingers on the desktop, and then sighed. “I suppose I did give you permission to do this. So we might as well finish the job.” He held out his hand for the letter. “I’m sure I can find someone who’s going to St. Joseph in the next few days.”
Francie clutched the letter. “It’s important that the letter get there tomorrow.”
Her father raised one eyebrow. “Why the hurry? Those articles of his come out every week like clockwork. What’s the difference between one week and another?”
Francie sighed. She’d anticipated this question, as well. “It took me longer than he’d expected to count the rings,” she explained. “When he was here he told me he needed the information by the beginning of June, and it’s the middle of June already.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll see if I can find someone else who’s going tomorrow.”
“Frances.” The stern tone in her father’s voice stopped her. “I will find someone to take the letter tomorrow,” he said. “And if I can’t I will let you know.” He put his hand out for the letter again. “I am just as honest as you are, Daughter, and just as eager to keep my promises.”
He didn’t smile, but as Francie put the letter into his hand she felt that his face had softened, that he might smile any moment. “Yes, Papa,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “I trust you.”
He grunted again. “But this does not mean that I’ve changed my mind about the logging.”
“No, Papa,” Francie answered again. She bobbed a little curtsy, which made her father almost snort. He waved his hand, dismissing her, and she practically skipped out of the hotel. Her letter would get to Mr. Court tomorrow. As soon as he heard what was happening he would come as fast as he could. He’d get here on Wednesday. She closed her eyes. “Please let that be soon enough,” she prayed in a whisper.
• • •
But Wednesday came, and Mr. Court didn’t. It had taken Francie all day to make up the beds on the street side of the hotel because she spent most of the time watching out the window. But the only buggies she saw belonged to people who lived in Connorsville or guests at the hotel.
“What’s taking you so long?” her mother said when she finally came to find Francie. “Josie finished ages ago and you still have two rooms to do!”
Francie had been staring at the street, trying to will Mr. Court’s buggy into view; she jumped when she heard her mother’s voice and dropped the pile of sheets she’d been holding. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she answered. “I’m almost finished.” She picked up the sheets, piled them into her basket, and sank down into a chair. Then she popped up again and glanced out the window when she heard the clop-clop of horses’ hooves approaching the hotel. “It’s only old Mrs. Winters,” she mumbled, turning back to her mother.
Her mother came into the room, looked out the window herself, and then turned back to Francie. “Are you expecting someone? Is that why you told Josie you’d do all the rooms on this side of the hotel today? Who did you think would be coming?”
Francie’s mind went blank. “Nobody,” she answered too quickly. “Who would be coming?” She stared at her mother as if daring her to ask more questions.
Her mother looked at her curiously, but then she shrugged. “The new guests will want to get into their rooms soon, so let Herbert know as soon as you’re finished.” Her mother’s trust made Francie almost break down and confide everything. But she couldn’t. If her father found out what she’d done, he’d tell Mr. Granger. And somehow she knew that if Lewis Granger thought someone was trying to stop him cutting that tree, he’d bring it down even sooner. She couldn’t take the chance.
Francie’s mother was almost out the door when she turned around. “Charlie is coming for supper this evening. He was in town earlier, and your father invited him.”
“Why wasn’t he working?” Francie wondered aloud.
Her mother shook her head. “You can ask him yourself when he comes,” she said. “Now I have some chores to do in the kitchen.”
Francie frowned. Maybe they’d stopped work at the big tree. Maybe Mr. Court had come and she’d missed seeing him. Her heart lifted a bit and she finished making the bed in a rush.
Even though she was hurrying now, it took her almost until supper time to finish her chores. In fact, her mother was putting supper on the table when she arrived. Charlie was already sitting at his place at the table, talking with her father.
“We’re clearing the area in record speed,” Charlie was saying as Francie brought in a bowl full of boiled potatoes. “All the smaller trees around the big one have to come down—we’re making a ‘featherbed’ of all the branches to cushion the big one’s fall. It’s on a downhill slope, but Granger is determined to bring it down in one piece.” He couldn’t hide the excitement in his voice, but at least the look he gave Francie as she sat down was tinged with guilt.
“How much longer?” she asked, feeling as if she were sitting at the bedside of a dying patient.
Charlie shook his head. “Couple of days at least.”
Francie’s mother came into the room carrying a platter of sliced roast beef. “I carved it in the kitchen,” she said, looking at Francie’s father. “I hope you don’t mind—it makes such a mess on the tablecloth when you carve it at the table.” She placed the platter in front of him and sat down in her place.
“Have they started the undercut?” Francie’s father asked as he began to spoon meat and potatoes on each plate. “I’d think it would take quite a while, seeing how massive the tree is.”
“Thank you,” Charlie said, taking the plate Francie’s father handed to him. “We’ll start tomorrow afternoon or Friday. Granger was shooting for tomorrow morning, but the team hasn’t even been chosen yet.”
The food suddenly turned dry as dust in Francie’s mouth. Tomorrow! Unless Mr. Court showed up early in the morning, Carrie’s tree would be cut and nothing Francie could do would stop them.
“Why were you in town today, then?” she asked Charlie. “Surely you’ll be trying to get on the team.” She knew her tone was bitter, but she couldn’t help it any more than Charlie could help his own excitement.
Charlie glanced quickly at her father and then at her. “I had some errands in town,” he said. “Cook needed some . . . supplies and stuff.” His answer was vague to the point of being odd. It was unusual for the loggers to come to town at all during the week, let alone in the middle of the day, but the furious look he gave Francie stopped her from asking any more questions.
She didn’t want to ask any more questions. She didn’t want to know anything more about what was happening to Carrie’s tree. It was going to be cut down—the oldest thing on earth. She kept her eyes on her plate, hoping that the others could not see her tears, and put one bite after another into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, but everything tasted like sawdust.
As soon as everyone was finished eating she stood up. “May I be excused?” she said. Her mother looked at her with pleading in her brown eyes, as if she were asking for something that Francie couldn’t give, and finally nodded.
“I have to be going, too.” Charlie quickly pushed his chair back and stood up. “Walk me to the door, Francie?”
Francie had turned to go upstairs, but his words stopped her. She looked over at him, feeling the hope rise in her chest. “Of course,” she said. Maybe he did have some news after all.
“That was a delicious meal, as usual, Aunt Mary.” Charlie gave Francie’s mother a kiss on the cheek and shook hands with Francie’s father. He nodded to Francie and she led the way out of the dining room.
Charlie walked behind her in silence, but when they were at the front door Francie couldn’t wait any longer. “Did Mr. Court come to the logging camp today?”
Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Not that I know of. Was he supposed to?”
Francie’s heart suddenly felt as if it were made of lead. “I wrote him a letter,” she began in a small voice. “I was hoping he’d make it here in time to stop them cutting Carrie’s tree. I thought that was why you came to town.”
Charlie shook his head. He opened the door, motioned her to go ahead of him, and they both went out on the front porch. “I wanted to let you know what was happening—how close we were.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “If there’s anything you can do,” he said, not looking at her, “you’ll have to do it soon.”
Francie studied him. “Whose side are you on?” she asked. “I thought you wanted to bring it down.”
“I don’t know.” He looked up when she didn’t say anything. “That’s the honest truth. If I was on the team that cut the biggest tree in the world it would be . . . well, at least then I would have done something big in my life, something everyone would remember. And people like your father are saying that all the extra lumber would save the company and help lift this depression. That’d be a good thing.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “But when I think about you and Carrie . . .” He sighed. “I’m not sure that’s how I want to be remembered after all.” He scuffed his boot back and forth, drawing an invisible line on the porch floor. “But I guess you didn’t come up with anything.” He looked at her. “Besides writing Mr. Court.”
Francie shook her head. “If only I could prove somehow that the tree really did belong to Carrie they couldn’t cut it, could they?” She shrugged. “But to prove that I’d need the will. And who knows where that is.”
“Probably burned up in the cabin,” Charlie agreed. “If there really was a will.”
Francie closed her hands into fists. “There was a will. I know there was. Why would Carrie write in her diary that she’d seen it if she hadn’t?”
Charlie shrugged. “But who knows if it was a legal will.”
“She said it looked official. ‘He showed me the will and it looks very official.’ That’s what she wrote.”
“How would Carrie know what looked official or not?”
Francie knew he was right—Carrie wouldn’t know what a legal will looked like. But an idea was beginning to grow in her mind.
“If Old Robert did have a will, where would he have put it, do you think?”
Charlie sat down on the porch swing, and Francie sat beside him. “In a box? On a shelf? Did Carrie mention anything about a box?”
Francie closed her eyes, trying to remember. “She said he kept two books on a corner shelf—the Bible and Shakespeare’s sonnets. Nothing about a box. But she said one day he showed up in a suit that she thought he must have had put away somewhere. There was probably a chest for his clothes.”
“That sounds right,” Charlie agreed. “He would have kept anything valuable there, too.”
“And that means it would have been burned up in the fire,” Francie said. She brought her fist down hard on the swing’s wide armrest. “If I were going to hide something, I’d put it where it wouldn’t burn.”
“Now you would,” Charlie added. “Maybe he buried it.”
Francie looked at him. The light from inside the house shone out and lit his face dimly. “If he buried it, it might still be there,” she said slowly.
Charlie shook his head. “He could have buried it anywhere! You’d have to dig up half an acre and even then you might not find it.”
But Francie refused to be discouraged. “It’s worth a try. If I could find the will, I could save the tree. I know it!” She stood up. “I’ll go tomorrow. Early. I’ll look until I find it.”
Charlie put a hand on her arm. “Your parents will never let you go there. It’s too close to where we’re logging.”
“They won’t know where I’ve gone. I’ll figure out something. I don’t care if I get in trouble, if they never let me go to the woods again in my life. If I can save Carrie’s tree, I don’t care what happens afterward.”
“Well,” he said, giving her shoulders a little shake. “Just be careful. Don’t do anything dangerous. Promise me?”
Francie bit her lip and didn’t answer him.
Charlie dropped his hands. “If you don’t promise, I’ll have to tell Uncle James.” His face looked white and strained.
Finally Francie nodded. “I promise,” she said. “Nothing dangerous.”
Charlie nodded, satisfied. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then clomped down the steps and out into the dark street.
Francie watched him go. She’d promised, but if she had to break this promise, she would. Carrie’s promise came first. I am the knight, sworn to protect my Emperor or die in the attempt. Carrie had sworn. She wasn’t here to keep that promise, but Francie was. She would keep Carrie’s promise. No matter what.