“I thought you would know,” she whispered.
He shook his head, putting on a brave front. “What Captain O’Malley does is none of my concern.” He turned the page of his book, pretending to study, but his eyes did not move.
“I’m sorry. If I hadn’t dragged you to the harbor that day, your life would be normal.”
Charlie stared down at the book, his curly locks hiding his expression.
“I’m sorry.” Each word took enormous effort. “I-I know you’ll never forgive me. I accept that. It’s my fault. I wish I could change things, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Still the bowed head. Still the silence.
Elizabeth backed away, sick at heart. If he would not accept her apology, what could ever bring them together again?
The answer came in an instant. “I will wait for Rourke.”
Charlie finally looked up. “Do what you want, Lizzie. You always have.”
The truth of the accusation struck harder than the tallest wave. Her selfish desire had cost Charlie the use of his legs. Then she had let Rourke take the blame. Now they were both lost to her. A sob rose up her throat. She could not let it out. She could not let Charlie know how deeply the guilt hurt. Blinded by conscience, she yanked open the door and ran.
15
Elizabeth pored over the diary, looking for something that could mend her relationship with Charlie. The next entries consumed the weeks leading to her birth. Her mother had turned her anguish into busyness. She oversaw every detail of the new nursery, made baby clothing, and followed every directive of the midwife.
Still, the question lingered. Who was the other child? Finally, a month before Elizabeth was born, Mother wrote just one line in the diary.
I asked Charles, and he did not deny it.
Elizabeth clutched the diary to her chest and wept. She had a half sibling. Mother had married her parents’ choice only to discover her husband loved someone else. Such pain. How her mother must have hurt during what should have been a joyous time.
Who was this illegitimate child? The offspring of a newcomer, certainly. Mother had lamented the woman’s arrival in town. She must also have become a friend of the family, someone who brought her baby to the house often enough that Mother couldn’t imagine raising Elizabeth with the other child so near. The association had been close enough that Mother could not even write her name in her private diary. In such a small town, everyone knew each other.
Maybe the baby had died. Mother had never hinted at another child. Elizabeth knew it was wrong to wish for anyone’s death, but she couldn’t suppress the hope.
She read on, seeking the answer.
The diary bounced between notes of commonplace occurrences to prayers for strength to deal with “the situation.” Then came a conspicuous break in the dates. From March until May of 1830, Mother wrote nothing. Elizabeth had been born on the first day of spring.
Mother had always called Elizabeth her “little light of hope” because of her birth date. The dark days of winter were gone. Spring had arrived. In Mother’s native South Carolina, that meant the planting of crops and the hope for a good growing season. Here in Key West, it meant the return of abundant fishing as the waters warmed.
Elizabeth’s birth also seemed to usher in new confidence for Helen Benjamin. In the first entry after the gap, she wrote:
What a treasure this perfect baby girl is. Charles wanted a son, of course, but God has blessed me with a daughter, as if an answer to my pain. A son would have pleased Charles, but beautiful Lizzie’s smile wipes away every fear and jealousy of the past months. No other girl can compare.
Father had wanted a son.
Most men did, but seeing it written in ink turned conjecture to cruel knowledge. No wonder he had doted on Charlie growing up. The accident must have destroyed his plans. If he knew Elizabeth had dragged Charlie into that disaster, he would never forgive her.
Father had wanted a son. But he got a daughter. Two daughters, if she read her mother’s entry correctly. What had happened to that other baby girl?
Mother’s joy overflowed onto the page as she recorded every little thing that Elizabeth did. That joy even washed away the anger and grief over Father’s mistress.
How can I harbor anger with her, when she must feel the same as I? A perfect girl, beautiful in every way, is a blessing from God, regardless of the sin that led to her existence. I must forgive. Indeed forgiveness has already soothed my heart. I cannot explain such a change except as God’s grace. If He has forgiven me, shall I not also forgive others? So I have, and with that I see now that grace has granted me an advantage. As I have been forgiven and blessed with this child, so shall she. These precious children will be raised alike, neither one better than the other. I will ensure it.
Elizabeth turned the page, eager to read what Mother had done, but she was met with just one line:
It is done.