7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

“ A nd why is that doctor coming yet again?”

Eyes forward and sitting as straight as they possibly could, Cal was the only one who dared answer their father. “Noah comes every two to three days and has since The Gathering.”

“But why?” Stephen Fairweather might have been keen on manners for his children and had even higher expectations of his wife, but he held no such regard for himself. Sitting at the head of the massive mahogany dining room table, he chewed with his mouth open, glaring at Willa as she fought not to squirm. “Hasn’t he fixed you yet, girl?”

One of the logs in the fireplace cracked like a gunshot, and Willa nearly jumped out of her skin, already a jumble of nerves under her father’s scrutiny. “No, sir. Not as of yet.”

“Imagine that.” Her father’s beady eyes assessed her, likely seeking a weak spot to strike and make it hurt. “It’s been a month.”

A month. Thirty days. All of it passing in a whirl as she spent time with Noah. He came three times a week, maybe more, if not busy treating the ailments and injuries of those working at the mills. Together in the library, they would discuss books and life. He would tell her of his travels, which he insisted were not grand but still held Willa in rapt attention. Noah had seen and done so much in his twenty-eight years of life—much more than she would ever do in the entirety of hers.

Of course, their talks also included ways to treat her condition. He had written to a friend in Ohio, a doctor who specialized in breathing ailments. Noah said the man would send them tea leaves to try during her next attack.

“The leaves come from a plant indigenous to South America and can be chewed or brewed into a tea you can sip on during an episode,” he had explained. “I’ve seen it in action, and it can honestly work if we catch the oncoming attack early enough.”

Calling on all her courage, Willa replied to her father, “Dr. Anderson is working through the information I’ve given him.”

“And what of Mr. Richards?” he barked, his fork scraping against the plate as he stabbed at the slab of meat there. “Why is John Richards not coming to visit?”

“Um, the bridge?”

Willa scrambled to explain what her father already knew. A piece of the bridge that connected Hollingsdale to Haven’s section of earth had been washed out during a horrific fall storm. It occurred a few days after John Richards came for tea, and while the repairs were scheduled to be completed next week, they had yet to hear when he would be calling on her again.

“He could have taken the ferry like everyone else.” Her father shoveled more food into his mouth. “There is nothing about you that is even remotely appealing, and you must work harder than other women to obtain a man. Show him that you’re interested, or he will forget you.”

“Letters.” The single word slipped from her mother’s lips. “John Richards and Willa exchange letters.”

Willa refused to glance at Lucy, the true mastermind behind the letters. When her mother demanded that she begin writing to John Richards, Willa had drawn a blank, relying on Lucy to fill the space with more elegant prose. John’s replies came quickly, with one or two a day arriving at a steady pace .

“How romantic, Willa.” Cal sneered, eating along with their father while no one else did. “Has he confessed his love for you yet?”

“No,” she answered through clenched teeth. “But I’m sure it’s coming any day now.”

“Let us hope,” Cal said from his seat beside their father. He always sat to the left, with Bonnie forever assigned to sit at Stephen Fairweather’s right. Willa, her mother, and Lucy were long ago banished to the farthest end of the table, or as they liked to call it, the wasteland of the unwanted. “Those acres of Richards are perfect for our future endeavors.”

Their father grunted, hunched over his plate as he finished his meal. “Good planting land.”

“Good building land, too,” Cal countered. “We could build an estate twice the size of Haven House on it and wi—”

Their father’s hand smacked the table, the plates rattling under the force of the hit. “Enough of that talk. I won’t hear it.”

Willa froze and waited with her mother and Lucy, the three of them understanding to keep silent. Silent and still or else .

“This is our land.” Her father’s finger stabbed the table. Punctuated again by the rattle of cutlery and porcelain. “This is our home.”

Another stab.

“Haven House belongs to the Fairweathers and us to it.” Leaning forward to speak directly in his son’s face, Stephen Fairweather hissed the same promise he uttered every time Cal brought up the idea of relocating to Hollingsdale. “I. Will. Never. Leave. This. Place.”

“Perhaps you won’t.” Unafraid, Cal met their father’s gaze head-on, his own uncompromising nature matching that of the man who sired him. “But I don’t want to spend my life here. I’ll run the lumber mill, but we don’t have to live so close.”

Willa imagined everyone at the table suddenly knew how she felt when a breathing attack struck. The air in the room simply vanished, sucked in sharply by all those present. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bonnie incline her head at the two serving girls standing quietly against the wall. They were part of the Port Michaelson set and hurried from the room without further instruction.

Stephen Fairweather watched the young women go, his wandering eye for Haven’s female staff nothing new. Neither was his love of the drink, and snatching up his cup, he downed the remainder of the noon-day wine as if it were water.

And only once the twelve-foot dining hall doors creaked closed behind the Port Michaelson girls did their father speak. “It doesn’t matter what you want. It matters what I want.”

Cal’s upper lip curled in disgust, his gaze sweeping over the remains of food and drink spilled across the front of their father’s clothes. “But what if John Richards doesn’t want Willa?” he asked. “The marshland across the sound is only deepening, and our groves continue to suffer. If we have no harvest, we have no mill, and without other avenues of income to fall back on, we’ll lose.”

Blotches of red broke out across their father’s face. One at a time, growing larger and larger until he resembled an overripe apple. Next to Willa, her mother struggled. Margaret might be a terror to her children, but at times like this, when their sanity during the upcoming holidays hung in the balance, the venom she usually sputtered dried up.

Only one person at the table could diffuse the situation.

“Stephen.”

Their story was no secret to the family. Stephen Fairweather, the sinner. Bonnie Sikes, the saint. The tale of a wretched man’s heartless ways chasing him into the long years of his life.

“The boy has been to school and gained fantastical ideas,” Bonnie said while father and son continued to glare at each other. She looked lovely today, dressed in a handsome burgundy tea dress instead of her usual dowdy wrapper and apron. Her dark brown hair was styled as well, drawn up into a neat coiffure with rolls and plaits that only her slender fingers could manage. “You should listen and be proud that Calvin is looking for ways to improve your family’s fortune. ”

If an outsider ever heard household staff members speak to an employer in such a way, they would be appalled. Outraged beyond belief. Yet where Margaret Fairweather lacked the talent to reason with her husband, her faithful companion excelled at it. And why shouldn’t she?

Bonnie had nearly a lifetime of practice.

“The mill is our future, Bon.” The reddening in his cheeks lessened, and Willa exhaled slowly as her father poured himself more wine. “You know it, and I know it.”

“I also know times are changing,” Bonnie said, laying her hand on his. “Who are we to argue with the changing times?”

Her father spared a glance at the tiny woman he respected more than anyone else. “Indeed.”

Sweethearts .

They had been sweethearts growing up.

Not only did the entire county know how Stephen Fairweather preferred to bed serving girls rather than his own wife, but they also remembered the time he had once fallen madly in love with one of them. A pretty kitchen maid named Bonnie, who loved him in return. It had been quite a scandal, and when forced to give her up and marry a bride worthy of becoming a Fairweather wife, Stephen Fairweather had done so without much of a fight. But in a move no one expected, he made Bonnie a permanent fixture in their lives, requiring her to work as his new wife’s companion forevermore.

“But there will be no land or any future if John Richards is not swayed to marry you, Willa,” Bonnie intoned, cutting her meat carefully as any grand lady would. “Invite him for another visit now that the repairs are done on the bridge.”

Knowing not to argue, Willa nodded. “I will.”

“And do not allow your time with Richards to conflict with those visits from Dr. Anderson.” Bonnie paused in her cutting, issuing a clear message with her stern gaze. “Sharing is not something men handle very well. ”

Not caring to be chastised as if she were a child, Willa’s temper roared to life, burning as hot as the flames in the dining room’s ornate fireplace. “And yet, some women are required to do so for a lifetime.”

She should not have said it.

It was reckless.

It was dangerous.

It would get them all in trouble.

Her statement elicited a gasp from Lucy and a horrified look from her mother. Bonnie remained unmoved, as did Cal when their father laid his knife and fork down to address her.

“I’ve never been the type of man to turn away a free service.” He didn’t raise his voice—he never did—that deadly calm her father possessed was enough to frighten anyone. “But I will end Dr. Anderson’s time at Haven House if he hinders an attachment between you and Richards. I’ll even go as far as to suggest to Ulrich that he send his nephew away. Is that what you want, Wilhelmina?”

“No, sir.” Head down, Willa searched for a reason to let Noah continue his visits. “I believe we’re making progress, and Dr. Anderson’s treatments are helping me become stronger so I can be a good wife to John Richards.”

None of that was true. While she and Noah did use their time to discuss her health, they also spent entirely too much time chatting about other things. Bonnie knew this as the eyes and ears of the house, yet she remained surprisingly silent.

“That’s good to hear,” her father said, and with that, rose from the table and left them.

Having gone pale there at the end, Cal went for his wine glass when the dining room door clicked closed, and their father was well and truly gone. “Thank you, Bonnie.”

Bonnie didn’t reply, too busy assessing Margaret. “How are you doing down there?”

Willa noticed her mother appeared more angry than scared now that they were alone. “Thank you for alerting us to his arrival,” her mother said to Bonnie. “I knew we were close to the mill's holiday closing date, but I didn’t think it would be this soon.”

“The mill is slowing down for the holidays earlier than normal because of the lack of pine harvest. That means he’ll be home from here until January arrives.” Bonnie took a deep draw from her own wine goblet. “Everyone best ready themselves.”

“I’ll write to John this afternoon while you visit with Noah,” Lucy said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We should know by tomorrow when he’s available to visit.”

“Why are you writing to him, Lucy?” Cal asked.

Lucy’s smile brightened in an instant. “John and I are friends, much like Dr. Anderson and Willa.”

Margaret paused in bringing her wine goblet to her lips, staring at Willa over its rim. In the last couple of years, her mother had become many things.

Evil.

Spiteful.

Hateful in a way no one outside their family would ever truly be able to comprehend.

But Margaret was also cunning to a fault. Her intellect was the single gift she had bestowed upon Willa. Grace had received her beauty, and Lucy had gained her ability to easily manage social situations, but when it came to herself, Willa knew her keenness for knowledge came solely from their mother.

“This is your one and only warning,” Margaret said. “Do you understand, Wilhelmina?”

“Yes, mother.”