5. ~ Unexpected ~

CHAPTER 5

"Mr. Sterling has gone back to England," Zaira informed. "He left the day after Christmas."

"England?" I choked out. Somehow, I'd thought he would always be here, close to me. "Why?" I fisted my hand, crumpling the list of ideas for the renovation.

"I don't know." A mischievous light in her eyes indicated she did know.

"What is it? Tell me."

She sighed. "You are going to think I spend my life circulating gossip."

"Don't be silly. Tell me."

Zaira brought a pot of potatoes to the table to peel them, and like water through a broken dam, her words spilled out. "I happened to be dusting the paintings in the corridor when I heard them conversing in his office. Mrs. White huffed and puffed about the trip. Mr. Sterling's exact words were, ‘I can't die without knowing. I must find out for myself.'"

"What was he talking about?"

"That, I don't know. However, Mrs. White argued that he couldn't handle the trip in his current state and implored him to reconsider. But he said he'd made up his mind and ended the discussion."

"I'm afraid she's right about the trip. It'll be rough on him."

"Indeed. Although, if it's any consolation, Dr. Petersen dropped off some nausea medicine. That's his worst symptom, I think."

"Hopefully it helps." I picked up a potato and a knife, my anxiety rising. I pressed the knife against the brown skin with some urgency, the peel falling away in a curl. Soon, I finished the first potato and reached for another.

I can't die without knowing. I must find out for myself. Know what? Find out what? For the rest of the day, his words pressed into my mind like a sliver under my skin, causing a festering uneasiness.

Mrs. White left with Mr. Vines for New York City. The unusual trip took Zaira and me aback, but we welcomed the reprieve.

"Florence, will you stay with me for the weekend?" Zaira asked at the end of the day. She said nothing more, but I understood the prospect of being alone with the gruff Mr. Snider.

"Why don't you come to the monastery?"

"You know how much I'd like that, but I can't. Mrs. White left me in charge here." Zaira reached for my hand. "Say yes. We can sleep in the guest room."

"I'll call Granny and let her know. With one condition: tomorrow, we go downtown. There are a few shops I think you'll like."

"Oh, Florence, that sounds marvelous!"

The spacious guest room had tall ceilings and two windows facing northwest. Breathing deeply, Zaira lay sound asleep in the bed across from mine. Only a miracle would bring her back before morning. I wasn't so lucky. Staying overnight at Oak's Place didn't seem so dreadful—until the lights were out and an ominous silence settled in. Two women sleeping alone in a mansion in the middle of nowhere, with Mr. Snider in the cottage far from earshot and a stranger roaming the grounds would make anyone restless.

The harder I tried to fall asleep, the more alert I became. Perhaps instigated by Granny's analysis of my situation during the holiday, the whirlwind of questions I'd tried so hard to avoid came back with a vengeance. Who roamed the woods and why? What secrets did the staff conceal? What or who haunted Mr. Sterling? And, worst of all, why was I so resolved upon finding out?

Granny spoke of obsession. Was that my problem? I rubbed at my temples and the headache threatening to surface. I dealt with a complicated puzzle; no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't piece it together. Driven by my need for answers, I surrendered to my old friend, the spirit of disobedience.

Guided by the faint moonlight coming through the windows, I slipped out of bed and down the corridor. A chance such as this, with Mr. Sterling and Mrs. White out of the house, wouldn't come again.

The first stop was his bedroom. Locked. With a sigh of disappointment, I crept to the next location of interest. My sweaty hand turned the doorknob, and I slipped inside his office. I flipped on the light and moved to his desk. This was wrong, so wrong. I wavered momentarily but then, like a thief, tried every drawer. All locked. I checked the documents sitting on top. Nothing relevant. In a way, I felt relieved. It lessened the seriousness of my intrusion.

As I neared the lifeless fireplace, I felt a longing for him. I turned to the sofa. The frayed upholstery and decorative pillows told me he spent countless hours here. I wondered what memories occupied his mind as he lay in front of the fire, battling his illness.

My gaze fell to the floor, where a newspaper peeked out from under the front of the couch. I pulled it out and sat down, soon engrossed in the 1916 London edition, twenty-one years ago—a time and place that had been Mr. Sterling's world, a world I hardly understood.

Thinking of the books I'd read, I imagined a land dotted with ancient castles, marvelous architecture, and extensive estates with breathtaking manors, all of which sharply contrasted the young, bare America. I envisioned Britain's high society setting the tone for behavior and fashion as they enjoyed luxurious social gatherings, oblivious to the work the domestic engaged in to make it happen. I saw their elegant clothing and structured manner of courting and marrying.

Then came the middle class, striving for improvement and progress while filling their free time with gossip and unrealistic expectations. Regardless of their social status, they all faced a common challenge—the Great War. Little did they know in 1916 how many hundreds of thousands of their children, poor and rich alike, would die defending their country. Their time had been so different from ours, and now, two decades later, America stood apart from the Old World in just about every possible way.

But why had Mr. Sterling kept this paper? I turned a coffee-stained page, scanning the articles. Nothing seemed unusual until the name Sterling jumped out at me. As luck would have it, the page had been damaged, the coffee stain blending smoothly with the ink, blurring some lines.

. . . made it clear on several occasions that . . . and Lieutenant Alexander Sterling are deeply in love, and their affection is the foundation for their engagement and upcoming marriage . . .

The recent scandal and the allegations the lieutenant is pursuing the well-recognized lady to advance his rank have been dismissed by her prominent fa . . .

The article matched what Zaira said about him. He had been married. But here was a new proposition. Had he married for power and ambition, or had he loved her? How would it have been to be the wife of the young Alexander Sterling?

The sun had barely risen when I rolled off the bed only to discover Zaira had already left hers. I searched the house to no avail. After waiting in the kitchen for an hour, I couldn't wait any longer. This was out of character for her. I slipped into my coat, buttoned it, raised its collar against the cold, and crossed the yard toward the cottage.

I let myself into the sitting area Zaira had shown me last night. From there, a short hallway led to the dormitories and washroom. I was about to tap on Zaira's door when a loud noise came from Mr. Snider's room, then another, as if he was tossing furniture about. The pricking of my skin and the quickening of my heartbeat told me I shouldn't be here. But where in the world was Zaira? Ignoring my gut feelings that I should leave, I tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. I stepped inside her quarters to find them empty.

With stealthy steps, I returned to the corridor. There was a creak. My gaze flung to Mr. Snider's door. It swung inward with the sound of splintering wood, and he stood on the threshold. In a sleeveless top, pajama bottoms, and a mane of unkempt hair, he appeared menacing—and judging by his muscular arms, a man of great strength, which I hadn't considered. Beyond him, I spotted an overturned chair and a few other things scattered across the floor. Finding the direction of my eyes, he moved as if to block my view. Now that he stood inches away, I saw a dark gleam in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Snider. I didn't mean to bother you. I'm looking for Zaira." Almost imperceptibly, I sidestepped toward the exit. "Have you seen her?"

He grunted and shook his head—the veins in his neck bulged, pulsating with an emotion that I couldn't place. Was he surprised to see me here and annoyed that I had disrupted his morning? Or was it something else entirely?

No matter. Without thinking or breathing, I simply shuffled out of the cottage and across the yard, overwhelmed by the awkwardness of the encounter. Once inside the house, I sunk into a chair, wondering what had just happened. Mr. Snider was in a dreadful mood.

Midmorning, Zaira walked into my office grinning, evidently unsuspecting of my worries over her absence.

"Where have you been?" I rose from the chair glad to see her.

"For a morning hike."

"You should have told me. I was worried about you." I sounded like Granny. "A whole lot of nonsense went through my head." I had contemplated the awful scenario of Zaira being attacked in the woods by a wild animal to being assaulted in the cottage by Mr. Snider—yes, I was now ashamed to have gone that far—to other similar, but not likely misfortunes.

"I'm sorry. I decided last minute, and I didn't want to wake

you so early," she explained. "Once I started walking, I lost track of time."

Since I wasn't the epitome of honesty, I had no right to question her. Nevertheless, my encounter with Mr. Snider and her lengthy disappearance overrode my conscience. "Do you expect me to believe that?"

Zaira appeared taken aback. "I do."

"Well, I don't."

"Well, you should because it's the truth."

Unwilling to drop the subject, I further said, "I was so worked up about you that I even went to the cottage."

Her eyes widened. "You did?"

"Mr. Snider wasn't happy about it."

"You saw him?" She seemed taken aback. "You shouldn't have gone there."

"Why not? What's wrong with Mr. Snider—and don't tell me nothing. There is something odd about him. Tell me."

"Florence, seriously, I don't know what has gotten into you, but I assure you there is nothing wrong with me or Mr. Snider." She sounded almost convincing. "His bedroom is off-limits because it's his sanctuary, that's all."

Sanctuary? The state in which I had seen his room resembled a battlefield, not a refuge.

"Besides, you might have misunderstood his mood. You know, he might be a bit lonely, and seeing a gorgeous woman at his door might have excited him," Zaira joked with a sparkle in her eyes.

I frowned, but perhaps she was right, and I had overreacted. After all, if someone barged into my quarters at will, especially so early in the day, I wouldn't exactly be happy about it.

"Now, it's a nice day. Shall we go to town?" she proposed, dismissing the edginess of the previous topic.

"Let's go." I reached for my handbag. An outing to town would benefit us both.

Outside of her disappearance on Saturday morning, the weekend turned out to be a riot. Zaira's bright eyes and charming accent left few heads unturned in town. And she had been favored by Granny, who enjoyed her visit. "She's such a beautiful, intelligent young lady," Granny said. "Make sure to invite her again."

I was about to leave Oak's Place when Mr. Vines and Mrs. White returned from their outing.

"I think they had a good time," Zaira observed as the couple stepped out of the car. Mrs. White, so unlike her, giggled at something Mr. Vines said. He had a noticeably pleased look in his eyes.

After a brief greeting, I drove away, eager to get home. Zaira's boundless energy and vivacity wore me out. I parked the Buick near the kitchen and flung open the door, stopping short at the sight of Sister Callahan, who launched from her seat when she saw me. She looked just as I remembered her—stocky, chubby face, and black habit.

"Fannie, dear, you've grown so much!"

I disliked the nickname tremendously. I must have been seven or eight years old when she first assigned it to me. Over the years, I repeatedly told her that I preferred to be called Florence. But it was no use. I would always be Fannie to her.

Sister Callahan launched in my direction. I scanned the room for Granny. She stood by the stove, smiling. Two other sisters, also in black habits, waved from the table. Before I could react, Sister Callahan hugged me with the strength of a bear.

"Hello, it's nice to see you," I managed to say.

"Come, now. Don't just stand there. You're letting in a terrible draft." She pulled me in by the arm and slammed the door shut, nearly hitting me with it.

"Florence, this is Sister Miller and Sister Sullivan. Like Sister Callahan, they originate from the Church of Saint Mary in Cambridge. They oversee the young sisters currently settling in upstairs," Granny introduced, and a brief greeting followed.

Sister Miller, a woman about Granny's age, had a round face filled with shyness. Sister Sullivan was older, with a frail frame, thin face, and long fingers. Her bright gaze revealed a great wisdom accumulated over a lifetime.

"Enough about us. Tell us, Fannie, what have you been doing since last I saw you?" Sister Callahan inquired.

"My name is not Fannie." I couldn't resist telling her. Not that it would do any good. "It's Florence."

"I know it's Florence," Sister Callahan replied as if I had said the dumbest thing. "But why tell it to the whole world when Fannie is a prettier name?"

I rolled my eyes in defeat.

"Biscuits are ready." Granny pulled a batch from the oven.

I helped serve tea, and after discussing the sisters' exhausting journey to America—which only intensified my angst for Mr. Sterling's trip—and their plans for the upcoming weeks, I escaped to my bedroom. My determination to avoid Sister Callahan cemented itself. I knew she meant well, but she wore my patience thin.

On the way, I encountered some of the younger sisters, their youth startling. Some looked barely out of childhood. Why had they decided to become nuns? I admired them, for it was a noble calling, but it involved giving up so much. I couldn't renounce my freedom and personal desires that easily. I suppose I lacked not only patience but also selflessness.

With a sigh, I lay on my bed and drifted into sleep.

The sun rises, casting golden hues over the meadow. Against its sphere, a young Mr. Sterling appears, filled with resplendent light. He holds my hand, and I feel a profound connection transcending time and space, a connection that makes my heart burn with deep affection for him.