Chapter Seven

Sally didn’t understand. Neither did Mary. “I know Papa will come,” Sally insisted, right up to and including the graveside service two days later for Luella Wainwright. It was attended by none except them and the publican and his wife across the street, because aye, Miss Wainwright was a prickly woman and aye again, no one had come to know her as well as Mary in the last few months. She and Sally both mourned in honesty and solitude.

M r. Wainwright, you did not come, Mary thought. Thank God there was money in the strong box to purchase a modest coffin, grave clothes, and a spot in Liddiard’s cemetery. A tombstone would have to wait. Mary knew Aunt Luella had funds in the counting house, but they were not hers to access.

“It is this way, my dear,” she told Sally as they walked home from the cemetery. “I have a few more Christmas landscapes to draw, which I will finish today. I will use that money for the mail coach to get you to Plymouth.”

Sally took her hand. “What about you, Mary?”

“I don’t know, Sally.”

Sally started to cry. “I will be afraid by myself.”

“It’s not that far,” Mary said, then hated herself for saying that. “Not even a day’s journey.”

“But Mary, I am just me.”

“Indeed you are,” Mary said, remembering Sally’s fraught little life, even though her own had been harder. There were times in the Cooper family when no one ate much, but no one had ever pinched her arms and back until the cruelty turned into bruises, or grabbed her wrists in meanness. And now Sally’s own father was too busy to see her to Plymouth. She had thought better of Luke Wainwright; liked him, even. Maybe more than like. I suppose you are like all the rest , she thought in sorrow, but not in anger. At least he wouldn’t be too hard to forget.

Mary knew Plymouth wasn’t far and there would be good people on the mail coach. It was all safe and reasonable, and so she told Sally, who looked more mournful by the second.

“I will do this,” Mary added, hoping she had enough money. “I’ll send an express letter tonight, and your father will have someone there to meet you. Please, my dear, it’s the best and quickest way.”

“I suppose we must,” Sally said. “Oh, Mary, why is life so hard?”

“I wish I knew, dearest.”

They continued their slow walk to the shop, Mary mentally adding up the coins remaining in the strongbox after even their modest funeral expenses. She would finish the two landscapes tomorrow, deliver them and collect her fee, then knock on a few doors to collect the remaining fees. Surely that would be enough.

“For what?” she asked out loud, but softly, so Sally wouldn’t worry.

To her relief, there was a letter waiting for them in the letter flap. She didn’t recognize the handwriting, but the corner address was 152 Palmer Lane, Plymouth. She sat down and pulled Sally onto her lap as she read the letter. She read it through, then decided what to tell Sally. “This is from your father’s new housekeeper, Mrs. Caldwell,” she said. “It is as I thought, my dear. It seems your father was far too busy to attend the funeral, but he is hoping to see you as soon as ever possible.” She kissed the top of Sally’s head. “You are to pack everything. Let us have a little dinner, then get busy.”

Mary thought she did a fine job, keeping up the chatter and good will, and won’t it be nice to see Papa again? Sally went along with it well enough until she folded her favorite muslin dress, then put her hand on Mary’s arm. “It’s not fair,” she said, sounding so much older than she was. “Papa will not get home until I am asleep, and probably leave before I wake up.”

“Oh my dear,” was all Mary could think to say. It wouldn’t do to tell Sally that even though her own father was overworked and never paid enough, he had time for her in the evenings after Mama died, time to sit close together and listen to Mary read from Mama’s book, her pride and joy. Mama loved Shakespeare’s sonnets. Oh please, please, God, let there be a kind governess soon , Mary prayed in silence. Or let the housekeeper be kind and teach her things .

She probably could have carried it off, this farce of good cheer when neither of them were happy, and probably both of them wondering, in their own way, about Papa. Mary could have managed, if Gargantua hadn’t roused himself from his after-dinner stupor and plunked himself down in the middle of Sally’s luggage.

“I can’t leave him here,” Sally said suddenly. “I just can’t. And I can’t leave you.”

If some cosmic hand had just yanked her heart out, Mary knew this was the moment. It was also not the moment to make matters worse for this lovely child by mentioning it. It was time to gather her meager forces around herself and pretend they were great ones. Taken a day at a time, she realized she was adept at not making matters worse.

“Dearest, I will get you to Plymouth and your father,” she said evenly. “That is where you belong. Yes, take along Gargantua, by all means. I can’t imagine what I was thinking, to make you travel alone.”

The monster cat fit well in a market basket. Cheerful now, Sally lined the basket with a towel, and added his favorite treats, except Mary drew the line at trapping a mouse. But first things first. Calmly, she sat Sally with Gargantua overflowing her lap, and sketched them. You’ll be with me forever now , she thought.

The mail coach had other Christmas travelers, but no one took exception to a large cat, who fit quite well in the crowded space on their two laps. He purred when a little boy across the aisle petted him, and when an older lady did the same, her eyes shining with probable cat memories of her own tucked in her heart.

“Here we are,” Mary said when they reached Plymouth. The older lady obligingly gave directions when Mary held out the address. “That’s a posh part of town, dearie,” she said. “You must know the right sort of people.”

Mary returned some vague answer, but with a smile. It didn’t look too far to walk, if they took turns carrying the basket of cat, and Sally’s possessions. They passed through the Barbican, noting people carrying presents. A fellow outside a pub invited one and all the come inside for the best Yuletide eggnog ever, but Mary and Sally hurried along.

And there it was, 152 Palmer Lane. “My, this is a grand house,” Mary exclaimed. And thank goodness there was a Christmas wreath already. She knew Luke Wainwright well enough to suspect that it hadn’t been his idea. Poor, forgetful soul! If any man needed a wife…

“I don’t like it,” Sally said, rubbing her arms where, thankfully, the bruises were gone.

“Your father said he installed new domestics,” Mary reminded her. “And look, there is a wreath. Up we go.”

A knock summoned a kind-looking maid, to Mary’s relief, who summoned the housekeeper. “This is Sally Wainwright,” Mary said simply. “And Gargantua.”

The housekeeper’s eyes softened. “They are welcome. The master is so sorry, but war demands his attention and he regrets he was unable to attend the funeral of his aunt. And you are…”

“Mary Cooper,” Mary said. “He…he sent us a letter, and Sally is here. I’ll leave you now.”

“You can stay, too,” the housekeeper said. “I doubt the master will be home before dark, but …”

“No worries,” Mary said. “If I hurry, I can catch another mail coach home to Liddiard. I believe it runs regularly.” Whether that was true or not, she had no idea, but it wouldn’t do to stand here and make it even harder to leave Sally.

Before the child could protest, Mary gave her a kiss on the cheek, and a hug to remember. “Write to me, Sally,” she said, then turned and fled down the street before her emotions betrayed her and troubled Sally more.

She didn’t go far, but waited until Sally and Gargantua were ushered inside by what she hoped were good people. It was only a little after noon. When the door closed, she walked back to Palmer Street and took out her sketchbook and pencil. A tear she didn’t wipe away fast enough smudged some of her rapid artwork, but never mind. She planned to copy the whole thing and add colors when she returned home, and mail it here to 162 Palmer Lane.

There was another coach heading north in an hour, which gave her time to work up her courage to go into a nearby public house for something to eat. She had enough for tea and toast with a dab of marmalade, which tasted better than she thought it would, since all she wanted to do was curl up somewhere and die of loneliness. Another cup of tea, that wonderful British elixir of glad tidings, convinced her that life would go on. Whether it would without Luke Wainwright, she wasn’t so certain. No, no, it would. After all, she told herself, even the Mary Coopers of the world deserved one fellow to moon about and imagine being far better than he was, most likely.

She lingered a moment in front of a stationery shop, wanting more crayons, because hers were getting short. She cast caution to the wind and bought two, a green the color of ivy, and a bright red for berries. That preliminary sketch of the Wainwright house, firmly in her memory, occupied her until the mail coach arrived.

Mary sat between a farmwife on one side of her and an old gentleman on the return trip. Two stops from Liddiard, a frowsy-looking woman and a sailor squeezed in. Thank goodness she wouldn’t have to make this trip again. Looking on the bright side was easier than she thought. There wouldn’t be anguish in saying farewell again to someone she had grown attached to, and glory be, she had seen the ocean, two blessings for the price of one.

Or was it three? No, no. She hadn’t grown attached to Luke Wainwright. Not at all.

She hurried the short distance to Notions. Her mental inventory included a cup of tea and at least shortbread and raisins. She came up behind a group of carolers, singing with more enthusiasm than expertise, which suited her, even if several of the singers were Sally’s age, and broke her heart a little, but only a little, she assured herself.

When she turned the corner, she took out her key, then put it back in her reticule, stunned. She couldn’t overlook a large padlock securing the front door. She felt her face drain of color, so she leaned against the wall until she saw a sign next to the lock. It was still light enough to read. Attention all and sundry. Until and unless a new owner is secured, the premises of Notions on the High Street belong to Mallard Counting House.

Mary wasted a brief moment cursing the law, the day, the phases of the moon up to and including God, Himself. She apologized to God, then took inventory of her choices, which were few but sufficient unto the day thereof.

Looking around to make sure no one was about and eager to tattle to the constable, Mary walked to the rear of the shop, the yard all weedy and overgrown. She wouldn’t know until she got closer.

Ah, there. Only two months ago, she had cut out part of the door and installed a flap for Gargantua to come and go as he pleased. She had soon added an inside brace against the flap when she knew Gargantua was indoors, which discouraged the occasional arrival of mice.

To Mary’s memory, the brace hadn’t been in place since before Aunt Luella’s death. Mary sat down by the door and patted the flap. To her relief, it swung to the side. It was wide enough for her to stick in her whole arm and reach up inside to make sure the key was in the lock. It was. She turned it, and sighed with relief when the door opened.

In a short while, she had three things working in her favor: The last of the eggs boiling on the range, water heating for tea, and a plan. Granted, it was a feeble one, but it was better than no plan at all.