The Cottage in the Woods (26 page)

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.

With a heavy heart, I boarded the train, and, having no task to occupy me, I beguiled the time by turning my thoughts to the life that awaited me at the Vaughns’. I was most worried about Goldilocks and Teddy. Whatever the trouble was, I knew that they needed my help, and now, with no other home to go to, it was more important than ever that I earn my keep. I must do better than my best, try to go on in a way that would win Mr. Vaughn’s approval, and more importantly, a way that would have made Papa proud. My paw went to my heart seeking the comfort of the locket with Mama and Papa’s picture—the locket that was not there. Now that Papa had passed on, it would be all the more precious to me if ever it were returned. I sighed heavily and tried to think of something else.

My thoughts wandered to the men’s choir. Had I missed any new developments? I thought how grateful I was to be allowed to be of some help to them and their cause. I remembered the last night when I had played the accompaniment for them,
and Mr. Vaughn had proposed the new newspaper. Perhaps the printing press would be delivered soon, I mused. Surely it would not be long now until the first edition would be printed, and the
Plain Truth
would be spread far and wide. Would it make a difference? I wondered.

But mostly my mind kept harking back to Mr. Bentley. Did he think about me as much as I thought of him? Did his heart feel the same thing, soul-stirring and sweet, that grew in mine? Had he ever given me any indication? No, he hadn’t, I chastised myself, and tried to push the thoughts from my mind, but the rhythm of the wheels seemed to chug out his name, and I hastened along in the inexorable train, lost in a deep reverie.

On my arrival, Mrs. Vaughn informed me only that Mrs. Van Winkle had been called home for a week because of a family emergency, so that instead of playing together in Goldilocks’s chamber as had been planned, Goldilocks and Teddy had been allowed to play in the nursery under Nurse’s supervision, the very thing I had sought to avoid. Now Nurse claimed that Goldilocks had bitten her—that she had run in a perfect frenzy of rage and defiance about the room, knocking into furniture and throwing things. It had so far been impossible to determine exactly what had incited Goldilocks to violence, but having laid down the rule at the outset that any misbehavior would be punished by separating the two youngsters, the Vaughns had no choice but to confine Goldilocks to her chamber. There Betsy and Mrs. Vaughn herself had attended to her until Mrs. Van Winkle returned.