The Widower’s Silent Caretaker (Preview)

Chapter One

Vaselton, New York, 1881

The family was woken by a hammering on the door shortly before dawn.

The knocking came again, and Petunia realized dully that nobody else seemed to be about to answer it, so she had better do it herself.

Fuzzy with sleep, she was halfway down the ladder that led to her attic room before her father came flying out of his bedroom, raggy old nightshirt flapping, and grabbed her arm.

“Don’t!” he hissed. “It’s the collectors again.”

Petunia’s heart sank. “Already? It isn’t even light out yet.”

As if to highlight her point, the man at the door hammered even louder, propping open the letterbox and shouting into the hallway.

“I know you’re all in there! Up you get, out of your beds! You can sleep sound when your debts are paid!”

His voice resounded through the mostly empty house. Newly empty, actually. The furniture had fetched half-decent prices at various pawnbrokers—all outside their hometown of Vaselton, naturally—but it had been like a drop in the ocean.

Petunia stayed where she was, motionless as if frozen. In the doorway to her parents’ room, she could see her mother sitting up in bed, covers clutched up under her chin. The opposite doorway led into the boys’ room. They’d gathered silently just beyond the door, the resemblance clear in their green eyes and mess of disheveled blond hair. Her youngest brother, Reggie, had one small hand pressed over his mouth, trying desperately not to cough.

“Nobody move,” their father ordered, his small, dark eyes darting around nervously. “If they hear so much as a board squeak upstairs, they’ll jimmy open the door and just let themselves in. We’ll wait till they go.”

Petunia’s heart sank. The collectors never gave up easily. Once, they’d prowled around the house for close to two hours, peering through the windows and rattling the door handles. They were getting bolder and more determined, too.

The hammering started up again, and she heard the door handle being tried, a few kicks aimed at the sturdy wood.

“We can’t go on like this, Pa,” Petunia whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

Her father’s jaw tightened. “Quiet, Pet. Things’ll get better.”

She wished she could believe him.

***

At nineteen, Petunia was the oldest out of the four Sunderland children. Her nearest sibling, Jonathan, was fifteen, and was currently racing around the kitchen in a panic.

“I’m going to be late,” he kept hissing, under his breath. He’d brokered his apprenticeship to the local baker himself. “I can’t keep doing this. Mr. Jacobs isn’t that easy-going.”

He didn’t dare direct the accusation toward their father, so instead he directed it toward Petunia, glaring at her as if it were her fault he was late for work. She said nothing, concentrating on stirring the porridge.

Abruptly, their father got up and strode from the room without a word. Jonathan had the grace to look guilty, at least. Petunia still stayed quiet.

Their early-morning panic had exhausted their mother. Most things exhausted Martha Sunderland. She’d retired back to bed with a crippling headache, and Petunia made a mental note to bring up mint tea and a tray of something soothing later. If they could spare the food, of course.

The third Sunderland child, Edward, stood by the door silently, his book bag slung over his shoulder. The schoolhouse was only a short walk from their home, and he was reasonably assured of not being late, unlike poor Jonathan.

Edward was a quiet boy and had grown quieter of late. It worried Petunia. From what she remembered of her schooldays, the other children would be mocking him for his old, darned clothes, his dilapidated home, and the dented, rusted old lunch pail that generally only contained a hunk of bread and maybe a handful of foraged berries. They couldn’t even spare a lump of cheese these days.

Edward hadn’t complained, of course, but that meant nothing.

At last, Jonathan snatched up his cap, shot one last poisonous look at his sister, and hurried out the door. That left only Petunia and her youngest brother in the kitchen.

Reggie shifted in his seat.

“It’s my fault,” he announced, voice wobbling ever so slightly. “If we didn’t have to spend so much money on my medicine, we’d have more to spare.”

Petunia paused in her stirring. “Don’t say that, Reg. Of course it’s not your fault. You can’t help being ill. Ma’s ill too, remember? It’s… it’s unfortunate that we have to spend so much money on doctors and medicine, but that’s just the hand we’ve been dealt.”

She crossed the kitchen, bending down to smooth Reggie’s fair hair out of his eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” she repeated firmly. “You hear me? I don’t want to hear you say you’re to blame. You aren’t, and neither is Ma. It’s just… we’re just unlucky. We’ll pull through. We always do, don’t we?”

Reggie pressed his lips together, and Petunia saw at once that he didn’t believe her. Her heart sank.

Only seven years old, and already he thinks the downfall of the family is his fault.

Before she could say anything else, the familiar shape of her father appeared in the doorway again. He looked tired and haggard. He generally did, these days. Her father’s hair was graying at an alarming rate, and his hairline was slowly but surely pulling back from his forehead. He was much thinner than before—they all were—and his skin was starting to sag from his bones. In short, he looked tired and unhealthy. Their diet of cabbage, bone broth, and porridge was certainly not helping.

“Go on to school, Reggie,” he said shortly.

Reggie, whose ill health meant he generally missed more schooldays than he attended, blinked in surprise. “Pa?”

“You heard me,” Thomas snapped, an edge to his voice. “I need a word with your sister.”

“Reggie hasn’t had his breakfast, Pa.”

“Spoon it into his lunch pail with the bread. It’ll do him.”

Reggie pressed his lips together. “But the porridge will be clammy and nasty, Pa, and the bread will get soggy.”

Thomas strode forward, slamming a fist down on the kitchen table.

“This is my house, and I’ll be obeyed!” he roared. Reggie flinched. “The vittles are good, and you’ll eat them.”

There was a silence after that. Petunia imagined her mother lying exhausted in her bed upstairs, listening with resignation.

She deliberately ladled out twice as much porridge into the lunch pail.

“Here you are,” she whispered, handing the pail and a hunk of bread to Reggie. “Eat the bread as you’re going. Call it breakfast. Take this spoon and put it in your pocket.”

Reggie took the items bleakly. “They’ll laugh at me.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I know.”

Her little brother scurried out, leaving the screen door swinging, and then only Petunia and her father were left in the kitchen. She turned back to the pot and began scraping out the remaining porridge into two bowls. The bottom of the pot was permanently burned and generally left black crumbs in the porridge.

“That wasn’t kind,” she said after a pause.

Thomas sat down at the kitchen table with a sigh. The chair creaked beneath him, not because of his weight but because it was half-eaten with wormwood. They hadn’t been able to sell it.

“I’ll apologize later. Pet, things are getting worse.”

She sighed. “You think I don’t know that?”

“It’s bad enough with your mother, but all this business with Reggie’s lungs…” He trailed off, shaking his head. Petunia said nothing.

Reggie had been a weak baby, right from the start. Her mother, who had never been strong, had suffered for months after the birth, fighting off infection after infection. It was as if childbirth had drained the life from her, and now she barely had enough energy to rise from her bed. Cooking a meal would exhaust her for days. Sometimes, when the warm weather gave her extra strength, she could do light sewing in her bed and even come downstairs to sit in an armchair by the fire.

However, the armchair had now been sold, and they couldn’t afford coal for the fire. So, Ma mostly stayed upstairs.

In the first year, Petunia had been entirely sure that Reggie was going to die. The tiny baby could scarcely breathe, turning blue regularly, refusing to eat or settle, and crying constantly. He had survived regardless, and with the medicines the doctor prescribed, he could breathe fairly easily. At seven, he could be mistaken for years younger—he was small, thin, and pale, with massive eyes dominating his face.

Petunia was almost certain that if they could not afford the medicine he needed, he would eventually die from one of his attacks of breathlessness.

The idea was unbearable. Shuddering and doing her best to banish the thought of Reggie blue-faced and gasping hoarsely like a fish out of water, she set the two bowls of porridge on the table. She perched gingerly on a lopsided stool and began to eat.

Thomas did not eat immediately.

“This is watery,” he remarked after a moment.

“That’s because I’ve been making it with water rather than milk,” Petunia responded. “We’ll save money that way.”

He sighed. “You’re a clever girl, Pet. I’m glad to have you here.”

Praise from her father was rare, and Petunia allowed herself a moment to enjoy it.

“Thank you, Pa.”

“Have you talked to the bank about taking you on for more hours?”

She bit her lip. “I did. They say they only need a part-time charwoman. I tried to explain how serious things were, but Mr. Smith only…” She paused, going back to that humiliating moment. “He said I wasn’t needed that much. I tried to explain, tried to ask for a raise, but he… ahem. He said no.”

She could almost feel the thick, opulent carpets of Coutts Bank under her feet. She could smell the whiskey-laced scent of Mr. Smith’s office. She could see his round face with its saggy jowls, twisted in amusement and condescension.

“Goodness, Miss Sunderland, how passionate you are! No, I must be firm. We only need you here three days a week. Heavens, the place doesn’t get that dirty, ha-ha! No, I really must be firm now. You’re a good girl and a hard worker, but don’t try to take advantage, hm? Let’s leave things as they are.”

“Oh,” her father said flatly. “I was counting on you getting more hours of work, or at least getting more money.”

Petunia said nothing. It was clear that her father had more to say, so she concentrated on finishing the last of her congealing porridge and waited for him to speak.

“A friend of mine almost ended up bankrupt, in New York, you know,” he said abruptly. “He wrote to tell me the whole story. His daughter bailed him out.”

“She had the money?”

“No, no. She brokered a marriage with one of his creditors. The man wanted a nice wife, and the girl saw an opportunity. The creditor wrote off the man’s debt to him—one can’t put one’s own father-in-law in prison, after all—and helped pay off the rest.”

“What a heartwarming story,” Petunia remarked acidly.

Her father had the grace to blush. “I’m only saying. The girl—can’t remember her name—lived a comfortable and rich life.”

“Indeed. I’m not going to marry one of your creditors, Pa. They wouldn’t have me, anyway.”

He pursed his lips. “I don’t know about that. You’re a pretty girl.”

That was a fair observation. Petunia thought physical appearance was hugely overrated, and resented the way men could look how they wanted when every detail of a woman’s face and figure was carefully scrutinized and compared. A pretty face was a piece of luck and nothing more.

Still, she had to admit that she had been very lucky. Even with her clothes hanging loose on her thin frame, Petunia was still a pretty woman. Her fair hair was thick, reaching down to the middle of her back and generally kept back in a fat braid. She had a round face and a collection of good features, and a pair of large, strikingly green eyes.

She liked her face, and complacently considered herself as pretty. But what use was prettiness when the collectors were coming to turn them out of their home?

“If I could just get a good crop again,” her father continued, half to himself, “that would go a long way to setting us back on our feet.”

Petunia bit back a sigh. Last year’s drought and the subsequent crop failures felt like the final nail in their coffin. Where money had once rushed into the house in a modest but sufficient stream, it now trickled. The money for Jonathan’s apprenticeship was a joke, and he was worked hard in return. Petunia knew why her brother had been so grouchy lately—their father had finally told him to take the baker up on his offer to live on the premises.

One less mouth to feed.

“Besides,” Petunia said, after a pause, “I’ve got Ferdinand, haven’t I?”

Her father allowed himself a half smile. “Yes, that’s true.”

Ferdinand Bottle Sr. owned the local mercantile. It was a thriving business, doing so well as to allow the family to open a modest diner next door, serving bank clerks, farm laborers, and ranch hands in the middle of the day.

Ferdinand Bottle Jr. worked for his father. He was a remarkably handsome man, with an easy smile, glittering blue eyes, and a head of rich, glossy black hair. If one ignored his father’s smooth, entirely bald scalp, one might think that Ferdinand would be beautiful forever.

It had come as a surprise to Petunia when Ferdinand asked her to step out with him. It was a full year ago, and since then, their courtship had only gone from strength to strength. Of course, their respective jobs often kept them apart longer than she would like, but that was life, wasn’t it? Petunia had always been a patient woman, and it had never bothered her that a marriage proposal had not yet been made.

Now, though…

She pushed aside her porridge bowl and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. The wormwood-eaten table groaned warningly.

“Pa, I have an idea.”

“Hm?”

“I’m going to ask Ferdinand to marry me.”

There was a brief silence.

“What?” her father managed at last.

Petunia grinned. “It’s perfect, don’t you see? With me married, you’ll have one less mouth to feed. I’ll keep working at the bank and send you all the money home. I’ll try and convince Mr. Bottle to give Edward a job, and then you’ll have another wage coming in. The Bottles are rich, Pa! Maybe they’ll even agree to give you discounts on crop seeds and groceries. In fact, I’m sure they will. Mr. and Mrs. Bottle are always talking about how important family is. And since Ferdie and I have been courting for so long, we can marry quickly without people being suspicious.”

Her father seemed a little pensive. Privately, Petunia was annoyed. This was the best idea any of them had had for some time. Sure, it meant she wouldn’t be around to cook and clean at home, or manage the account books, but she’d been courting Ferdinand for so long now that marriage was inevitable.

A small, selfish part of her was relieved, too. No more collectors hammering at the door in the gray pre-dawn light. No more managing Pa’s tempers, or panicking over the accounts, or getting complaints about her cooking when she was already making meals out of nothing at all.

I’d be safe.

She intended to bring Reggie with her, too, but that subject could be broached later. The Bottles could probably afford Reggie’s medicines more easily than his own parents, and that would be one less mouth to feed in the Sunderland household, too.

“What if he doesn’t say yes?” her father asked abruptly, jerking her out of her pleasant daydreams.

Petunia blinked, momentarily taken aback. Then she laughed.

“What a thing to say, Pa! Of course he’ll say yes.”

Chapter Two

Climber’s Creek, Ohio

One Month Previously

Emil awoke to the fresh, warm, and delightful smell of burning porridge.

He came all the way awake then, shoving himself up from where he’d flopped forward over the kitchen table and stumbling over to the stove before the sleep had even properly cleared from his eyes.

He cursed himself for falling asleep. He hadn’t meant to, of course, it was just that last night had been so long and tiring, and it hadn’t seemed so harmful to sit down just for a minute while the porridge cooked… and then he was suddenly face down on the table, arms pillowing his head, and their breakfast was ruined.

The porridge was, of course, unsalvageable. It was blackened almost all the way through, stinging smoke pouring off the pot and making his eyes water. He took the pot off the fire, wincing at the heat, and dropped it unceremoniously into a bucket of water left behind the range. There was an awful sizzling noise, and steam began to rise from the bucket.

Emil groaned, raking a hand through his hair. He felt stiff and gritty from lack of sleep, and there was a long and tedious day ahead of him. A good number of his cows were ready to calve, there were a few horses that needed gelding, and the sow and her piglets had smashed through the fence of their pen again and gotten into the kitchen garden.

They’re welcome to it, he thought sourly. The kitchen garden hasn’t been properly looked after since Tamsin was here to manage it.

He nipped off that thought. Tamsin was not here. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed it down.

“Papa?”

He flinched at the sound of his daughter’s voice, just managing to paste a smile on his face before turning.

“Hey, sweetheart. You’re up early, Janey.”

Jane Tamsin Cotton was just short of five years old, and even at that young age, she had a knack of looking disapprovingly at the world around her. She might have been a miniature version of her mother, with a dainty frame, chestnut curls, and large gray eyes, but in personality, Emil was sorry to say that his daughter entirely resembled him.

“Don’t want to eat that,” Janey remarked, pointing at the still-steaming pot of ruined porridge in the bucket. It occurred to Emil that not only would he have to clean and scrape out the pot sooner rather than later, but he would also have to fetch a fresh pail of water.

“You won’t have to,” he assured her, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “I’ll make bacon and eggs for breakfast, huh?”

Janey shook her head. “There’s no bacon and eggs.”

Emil’s heart sank. Of course. He hadn’t collected the eggs this morning, and they were out of bacon. He had money to buy more, of course, but it was a long trip into town and he simply did not have time.

“Toast, then,” he answered. There was bread, at least, because John’s new wife had baked them a loaf.

Janey nodded and said nothing. Emil scooped her up into his arms, holding her close just for a moment before setting her onto her seat. He breathed in deeply, nose pressed in the mess of her curls.

“Papa loves you, Janey. I’m sorry about the porridge.”

Janey mumbled something around the thumb still jammed in her mouth and laid her soft head on his shoulder.

A heavy footstep on the porch reminded Emil that there was work yet to be done, and he hastily set his daughter down.

There was a brief tap on the door, and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped inside.

Emil was a tall man, but he was slim and wiry with it, whereas John Woolworth was broad and solidly built. John’s hair was blond, almost white, and he had startlingly vivid blue eyes. He was not generally considered handsome, and had recently married Merry, a round-faced, round-bodied young woman who lived up to her name.

Emil was aware of the contrast set between him and his closest friend. Next to John, Emil looked small, almost weedy, and very dark, with his black hair, deep brown eyes, and olive skin. He had never stopped to think of himself as handsome or otherwise, although Tamsin had always told him he was the most beautiful man alive.

But Tamsin had been remarkably short-sighted. Her little round-rimmed spectacles were still folded and left on the bedside table. Occasionally, Emil picked them up and cleaned them carefully.

“It smells like burned porridge in here,” John commented, leaning against the doorframe.

“Yes, that’ll be the porridge I just burned,” Emil responded acidly. “Give me a moment to clean up. Is… is Merry here?”

He immediately knew he’d said the wrong thing. John sighed, shaking his head.

“I told you, Emil, Merry can’t commit to coming every day. She loves Janey, but she’s got her own home to manage. And what about when we start having little ones, eh?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Emil muttered, sinking back down onto his seat. The tiredness was coming back, making his very bones ache. John watched him for a long moment, nibbling his lower lip.

The Woolworths were a large family, owning one of the biggest ranches in Climber’s Creek. John was the fifth son—or was he the sixth? Emil could never remember—and had decided that he wanted to strike out on his own rather than work with his own family, live in his family home, and not receive a wage. And so, he was now Emil’s foreman, and the newly married couple lived on the edge of Emil’s land in a decently-sized cottage.

If not for John and Merry’s occasional, good-natured help, Emil was fairly sure he would have gone mad a good while ago.

“I didn’t think it would be this hard,” he murmured, dropping his head into his hands. “Tamsin’s been gone, what, a year and a half? Two years? And since then, things have gone from bad to worse. I can’t do anything right.”

John sank down into a chair beside him. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Most men who lose their wives have family to help out.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “All I have left is an uncle and aunt over in Kansas. They wrote to me and said they’d adopt Janey, with conditions. I haven’t seen them in about a decade. They didn’t even… didn’t even come to Ma and Pa’s funeral, and they think I’d hand my daughter over to them? Not likely.”

John patted his shoulder. “You did the right thing there, Emil.”

“Did I? Because I can barely manage here. It’s such a struggle, just getting Janey fed and clothed. I don’t have time for anything. If not for you, I dread to think what state the ranch would be in right now. Something’s got to give.”

John didn’t answer immediately. He chewed his lower lip, thinking. Emil let his face rest in his hands and tried to calm himself.

How could it be that, at twenty-five years old, he had nothing and no one? Only his precious daughter, and then John and Merry, his only friends.

Widowed. Alone. Virtually friendless. I’ve got plenty of money, but I’m shaping up to be the worst father Climber’s Creek has ever seen. And that’s saying something.

“Merry and I were talking about you last night,” John said abruptly.

Emil snorted. “Talking about how I can’t cope, I imagine.”

“Don’t be so prickly. We were talking about what you could do to manage a little better. Running a ranch this size is a full-time job, and so is raising a small child. Lots of men in your position marry again…”

“I won’t replace Tamsin.”

“Yes, yes, I know that, and I told Merry as much. She said you ought to take on a housekeeper.”

Emil shook his head. “There’s nobody local who could do it. I asked around.”

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That’s why you need to look further afield. Put an ad in the paper. Advertise for a housekeeper, for somebody to cook and clean and take care of Janey. You’ve got the money to pay a decent wage, that’ll lure in some people.”

“But the place is so remote. Who’d come out here?”

“You’d be surprised. Besides, you have space for them to have their own room. Put it in one of the big papers and see what responses you get. Try it.”

Emil considered. It wasn’t a terrible idea. He’d considered hiring help before, of course, but nobody around had seemed interested, and he never really had to time to make enquiries. An advertisement in the paper, though…

“Merry actually wrote up an idea of something you could write,” John continued, whipping out a neatly folded piece of paper. “Take a look.”

He took the paper and read through Merry’s neat, sloping handwriting.

Widower seeks housekeeper.

Mr. Emil Cotton seeks a woman to perform cooking, cleaning, and light kitchen garden maintenance. Duties will include caring for a girl of five years old. A generous wage is provided, along with food and board, including a personal bedroom.

Mr. Cotton is a kind, well-respected gentleman in the community, with excellent references and a fine reputation. Enquiries can be made as to these references. A successful applicant will be welcomed warmly and treated with respect as a member of the family. A woman of health and energy is preferred. Applicants must be able to read and write, and do light accounting and mathematics. Experience in managing a household and a budget is preferred.

Any applicants must write to the above address. Some communication will be required before work begins, and possibly an interview.

“What do you think?” John asked, eyes lingering hopefully on Emil’s face as he read. “I thought it was a good advert. Comprehensive.”

“It is a good advertisement,” Emil admitted. “It was kind of Merry to think of it. I just… I worry about inviting a stranger into my house. About leaving Janey with a stranger.”

John nodded slowly. “I understand. But this can’t go on, Emil. Today, for instance—you can’t leave Janey alone, so I suppose I’ll have to do the work alone. We can’t keep it up. And Merry…” He paused, gathering himself. “We think that Merry might be pregnant.”

Emil blinked. “Pregnant? Oh, that’s lovely. Congratulations.”

The congratulations fell flat, and he knew it. Swallowing hard, Emil looked away. John laid a hand on his shoulder.

“It won’t be like it was with Tamsin,” he said firmly. “Merry’s mother and sisters pop out babies like they’re shelling peas. She’s a sturdy girl with childbearing hips. Merry’s not afraid.”

Emil shook his head. “I know, I know.”

In his mind, however, he was standing in the hallway upstairs, the hallway of the house they’d only lived in for a year, listening to Tamsin’s screams. He could see the strain on his wife’s face in the months leading up to the birth, her huge, swollen belly sticking out grotesquely on her thin body. Her small frame had seemed about to topple over. She had toppled over, in fact, many times.

The birth hadn’t killed Tamsin. Not straight away. It had taken a few years. Years of pain and lethargy, a slow decline until she melted away to nothing at all.

Not every woman was designed to give birth.

“I’m sorry,” Emil said, voice barely louder than a whisper. “I miss her.”

John nodded, hand squeezing his shoulder. “My point is that Merry is going to have her hands full soon. Both of us will. And when that happens, we won’t be able to give you and Janey the help you need. The help you deserve. So, start thinking about hiring help now, eh?”

Emil glanced across the table to where Janey sat, still and silent. It probably wasn’t normal for a child of her age to be as quiet as she was. His daughter regarded him solemnly, eyes large.

“Okay,” Emil whispered. “You’re right. I’ll use the advertisement. I’ll get a housekeeper.”

Chapter Three

Vaselton was not a pretty town at the best of times. It was on the outskirts of the city, a growing, bustling place that soon seemed likely to swallow up dull old Vaselton altogether. The main street of the town was narrow, and buildings towered overhead, blocking out the sun and sky. Petunia was used to it, of course, but the claustrophobia would set in again if she let it.

It was a fine day aside from that, and she walked quickly. She had chosen her best dress—well, second best, the one she wore for church if her best dress needed repairing or washing—and had borrowed Ma’s good bonnet for the occasion, the one with wax fruits on it.

The bonnet, of course, was sadly out of fashion, but one could not have everything, and Petunia was pleased enough in the way she looked to walk out of the house with her head held high.

The sign for Bottle and Son loomed high, sticking out into the street, as if to attract attention. Really, no extra effort was needed. Everybody in Vaselton went to Bottle’s mercantile, and people from several towns away came, too. It was the largest and best mercantile for miles around. Of course, Petunia and her family had been very careful with what they bought here over the past year. With Ferdinand courting Petunia, it was likely that their bill would eventually be written off as a wedding present, but until then, it was imperative they avoid being asked to pay it. If their credit was no good at Bottle’s, then the butcher and baker would follow. Then, disaster.