In truth, after spending thirty-six hours buried under blankets in a darkened room, my original notion began to wear thin. With little more to occupy myself other than sleeping, crying, or staring at the canopy above my bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about Henry. And it didn’t take long before I began second-guessing my decision to send him away.
Not that it mattered anymore. He was probably in Philadelphia by now, awaiting the next ship to England, while I gained nothing but heartache from this continual rehashing of past events. I needed a new course of action to chase these thoughts away, something distracting that would keep me busy. My determination renewed, I pushed up from the chair, resolved to clean my apothecary from top to bottom.
The afternoon was spent when I put the last of the jars back on the shelf and wiped my hands on a clean towel. For five hours I had washed and sorted, until there was not a speck of dust to be found or a single strip of linen out of place. Now, if only the same thing could be done with my own head. But regardless of how hard I worked, Henry had stayed constantly in my thoughts.
Well, if pure physical labor failed to dull my mind, then mental strain might prove more effective. Fed up with crying and feeling miserable, I set off for the study to tackle the mound of invoices and correspondence that had accumulated since my father’s death. It should have been done much sooner, but one reason or another always kept me away—like how much I despised balancing ledgers or composing letters of business.
With a heavy sigh, I tackled the correspondence first. A score of letters needed to be answered, covering a variety of issues from purchasing wheat seed and new equipment for next spring’s planting to various men seeking employment at Brighmor. I found a fresh stack of parchment in one of the desk drawers, and choosing a new quill, started to write.
It took hours to answer them all properly. My fingers were cramped and stained with ink by the time I had finished the last one to a Mr. Smyth, explaining that we were not presently in need of a new stable master, but would keep him in mind if a position opened up in the following year. I pressed Brighmor’s official seal into a pool of red wax to close the letter when Mary came in with a supper tray. She must have forgiven my rudeness, for her sweet disposition had returned and she smiled kindly at my mumbled appreciation.
Not yet ready to eat, I poured a glass of wine and opened the large leather bound ledger that contained all of Brighmor’s expenses. Flipping through page after page of my father’s neat handwriting, I came to the final entries dating to the middle of May about two weeks before I had left for Philadelphia. A thick stack of invoices needed to be entered, and I started to record each merchant and the amount paid.
I had only completed the first two when my mind began to drift. Composing business letters had required significant attention, but simple transposing left my thoughts free to roam, which they did, and straight to Henry. Since he had left, two rather large concerns remained unresolved: If it had been the right thing to do, then why was I so unhappy? And why, if given half a chance, would I have changed everything that had happened the night we returned from the Lenape village? While mulling over these issues, I temporarily forgot the quill suspended in my hand over the ledger. A large drop of black ink collected at the tip and dripped onto the page right in the middle of my two entries.
“Blasted!” I cursed, snatching up a linen napkin from the supper tray to mop up the mess. Carefully alternating between dabbing and wiping, the final result was even worse than when I started. Several entries had been mucked up, and a decently good napkin ruined to boot. Frustrated, I started to cry, the tears slipping down my checks to the page below, making an even bigger mess of the ledger. Giving up altogether, I folded my arms over the book and rested my head, heedless of how many tears might wet the paper.
Try as I might, the facts were undisputable: I was a terrible accountant and I had made a serious error by sending Henry away. Footsteps sounded in the hallway as one of the servants approached the study. I hated to be discovered in such a manner, but lacked the fortitude to even lift my head from off the ledger. Whoever it was had stopped at the doorway to watch me. Oh, just go away! I thought angrily.
“Ben told me how much you hated bookkeeping.” Henry’s deep voice resonated in my ears, bringing my head up with a snap. “But I never thought it enough to make you cry.”
For two days I had wanted him back so desperately, I feared his presence nothing more than a hallucination.
“Or may I flatter myself to think those tears are for another reason?” He leaned against the doorframe, smiling.
The delusion turned to real flesh and blood. “You left,” I said, my voice a hoarse whisper. “I watched you ride away.” I had thought never to see him again, yet here he stood less than ten feet from me.