Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(86)

Merritt’s stomach sunk. He felt transported back thirteen years. Ebba had been awfully forward that night . . .

“I never was pregnant.”

He swallowed. “I-I know. Your parents said . . .”

“You were eighteen. That’s the only reason I can think for why he approached me then. You were old enough to go off on your own. He faced no legal repercussions for cutting you off.”

Ice to the marrow, he shook his head, although not in disbelief.

The driver called.

Ebba turned away.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Venom burned his tongue. “You didn’t think to tell me that my father played me like . . . like a chess pawn?”

Tears ran down her cheeks. “I promised not to say a word.”

“Promised?” He was shouting now. “You also promised to marry me! You said you loved me, and then you pulled . . . this?”

She was readily crying now. The clarinetist and his crony were quickly approaching. “I’m sorry, Merritt. I had to make a choice.”

“And you did,” he spat. “You made that choice at my expense. I lost everything, Ebba. I haven’t seen or spoken to my mother and sisters in thirteen years. You lied to me and tore my heart out for what, a flute?”

“It’s not like that,” she countered. “You could never understand.”

“You’re right, I couldn’t.” He jutted an accusing finger at her. “I could never understand the selfishness of a person like you.”

She was openly sobbing now, but Merritt couldn’t bring himself to care. The clarinetist put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, Miss Mullan. Let’s be done with him.”

Ebba let the man pull her away. Halfway to the carriage, she turned back and had the decency to mouth, I’m sorry. Merritt received it like a stone wall. He watched her slip into her carriage. Watched the coaches pull away, until the street was bare and the city hall was dark.

It was oddly reminiscent of his time in the root cellar. He stood there, staring at nothing, until his fingers and toes went numb, wishing his heart and thoughts would follow suit.

Rather than go numb, they burned bright, a long pyre on a dark Pennsylvania street, consuming Merritt, alone.





Chapter 29


October 15, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt was exhausted when he came home the next morning. He’d managed to find a bed at a local coach house around eleven last night, which he’d shared with two men who snored louder than firing cannonballs. He’d then emptied his wallet to get back to Blaugdone Island. His body was sore, his eyes were dry, and everything else was . . . wrung out and still wringing. He needed to . . . he wasn’t sure. Run until he couldn’t move another inch, only so he could sleep for a week and force his mind to work out these new revelations in his dreams. Wouldn’t that be nice.

Bastard. Could it be true? What reason would she have had to lie about it? It worked with the events as they’d transpired, but . . .

Bury, bury, bury.

For now, he’d have to settle for staring at a wall. Perhaps Hulda knew of some sort of tea or tincture that would settle him down enough to get some rest. If only it were as simple as sleeping it off.

She’d taken his boat, after all, so he’d hired a driver to cross the bay. As he handed over his last coins, he noticed a new boat tied about two hundred feet east—larger than his, big enough for maybe eight people. He squinted at it awhile, until the driver of the boat he stood on asked, “Um. Could you get off?”

Merritt forced his feet to step into eight inches of water, eyes still on the unknown sea vessel. Who was visiting? Not Fletcher . . .

Slapping himself twice on either cheek, Merritt forced wakefulness into his person and trudged through the wild grasses and reeds toward the house. At least he had this quiet place for refuge. At least he could wrap himself up in normalcy while he reordered the story of his life and determined what to do next. At least he could depend on Beth and Baptiste to keep the days going, and Hulda . . .

He still needed to talk to her. He wanted to, as soon as he got his head around all of this—bastard—and stuffed it away like he always did. It took time and tears, and a few unfortunate trees would bear the brunt of his target practice and likely his fists, but he would piece himself back together, and they would talk. There could still be a silver lining to the mess of his life. God grant him just one silver lining.

That hope buoyed him. His porch grumbled under his weight—Owein was either happy to see him or anxious about something. The boat, perhaps? Concerned, Merritt quickened his step and opened the front door.

He tripped over a trunk sitting just behind it.

Hulda’s trunk.

“What on . . .” He left the door ajar and stepped around the trunk. There was a suitcase sitting beside it. He grasped its handle and lifted it—full.

What was going on?

Two men came down the stairs just then, complete strangers dressed in work attire. They nodded to him before pushing past, taking up either end of the trunk and hauling it outside—

Beth stepped out from the living room and started upon seeing him. “Mr. Fernsby! Are you . . .” She took him in—he undoubtedly looked a mess—and finished weakly, “. . . well?”

“Hardly.” He hefted the suitcase. “What’s all this?”