I arranged for Bert Cornes—the night watchman at the mill, who, as his last task before going home in the morning, knocked his long pole on the windows of the mill workers’ homes to wake them—to come past Mrs. Clem’s establishment and knock me up as well.
Less than a week after I moved out, Mr. Wilson announced to me that his sister-in-law and Mrs. Brewer had arrived, though he needn’t have bothered, for his changed demeanor made that clear almost immediately. He spoke even less than before, and his work habits altered as well. He took to coming in earlier and staying on much later, even after the machines had shut down, as if he craved that peace and respite.
I was indeed invited to the Wilson home for Christmas dinner, and Miss Little did not drive me away from the table, but even so it was not a particularly pleasant occasion. Poor Mrs. Wilson was in a dither the whole time, and in fact I imagined that she was often beside herself since her sister had come: she gave her cook and her housekeeper one order after another—often countermanding a previous one. As for Mr. Wilson, he buried himself behind his newspapers and appeared at table only long enough to not seem completely unsociable. His distraction was such that I wondered how he managed to stay through the pudding, which I thought was delicious, though Mrs. Wilson complained that it was burned and Miss Little wandered off after only a bite or two, Mrs. Brewer scurrying after her. As they disappeared, Mr. Wilson seemed to lighten, and Mrs. Wilson, though still apologizing for everything, appeared more relaxed as well.
“You can see how it is,” Mr. Wilson said to me.
“Yes, sir, I do,” I said, knowing that Mr. Lincoln might scold me for such an abrupt and inadequate response, but there seemed nothing more to say.
He stared off into space for a time. “It can’t be helped,” he said. “It’s not what anyone would choose, bringing a person losing her mind into one’s own home, but it must be done. Even the fiercest of beasts—wolves and bears—take care of their own.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, for it seemed all there was to say.
And, to my relief, he changed the subject. “How are you getting on, by now?”
“I have no complaints. Mrs. Clem keeps a tidy place.”
“I understand she is respectable,” he responded. “You have done very well under the circumstances, I should say. And you have taken hold well at the mill.”
It was the first direct approval he had given me since his conversation with Rowland. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me; thank the father who taught you that a gentleman can work hard and still be a gentleman. There are too many in this world who think being in trade is shameful.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, wise enough not to dispute the point.
“Has your father ever told you what he has in mind for you?”
“No, sir, he has not,” I said, suddenly sitting straighter.
“Nor do I know, but it’s clear he wants you to be able to run a facility—a mill or a manufactory of some sort—on your own.” He smoothed the tablecloth beside his place and waved to the maid for another brandy. “You are too young for such responsibility now, but that is what I think he has in mind. Would that suit you, do you think?”
“Yes, sir, it would, sir,” I said, my heart suddenly beating so wildly that it was a wonder he didn’t hear it. No one had ever asked me if any plans of my father’s, whatever they were, suited me. It would not have occurred to me to refuse them, but, in fact, at the time I could not imagine anything that would be finer. I still had a great deal to learn.
*
A few weeks later, a letter came to Mr. Wilson from my father, announcing his impending visit. I was stunned into panic. I had not seen my father since I was seven years old, before I had been sent to Black Hill. I did not know what I would say to him or how he would react to me or what he expected of me or, worst of all, if I would even recognize him.
“Well, now, that’s a welcome bit of news,” Mr. Wilson said, after reading the letter. “We’ll be settling a new arrangement for you, since I cannot house you as I had originally agreed.” Then he looked me up and down. “You’d best get yourself a new pair of trousers and a new coat.”
“I don’t know, sir,” I said. “My father does not truck well with dandies.” I had no idea why I said that, since I could not remember my father’s opinions on almost anything. And surely Rowland did not dress as if he were concerned about such a thing.
“Well, at least,” Mr. Wilson amended, his eyes not having left me, and I now understood that he was seeing me as he thought my father would, and, further, that he would be held accountable if my appearance were less than what my father would be expecting. “You must at least get your hair trimmed up nicely.”
I did that, and even wandered past a tailor’s shop or two, but I could not bring myself to order anything new. Much as I wanted to impress my father, I didn’t want him to be aware of it. I was, still, young and foolish.
I shouldn’t have been concerned about not being able to recognize him, or him me. The astonishing thing was that I had not fully realized it until I came face-to-face with him, but I was the picture of what he must have been in his youth, and he, in turn, showed me how I would appear in my later years. I was the taller by a couple of inches, but he was the broader, his face more lined, of course, his black hair paling but not yet gray, his posture still erect, his step firm.
He gazed at me, and I at him. I had been right about the new clothes; my father wore a well-used black traveling outfit with black top boots. With his hat removed, his hair proved to be longish, scraping his shoulders, and slightly waved, just as mine was at that length. We had the same black eyes, the same intent expression. His skin was darker than mine, a result, perhaps, of his years in the Jamaican sun. “Edward,” he said to me. It was the first time he had ever called me that, to my recollection, and, as it turned out, the last.
“Sir,” I responded. Then I added, keeping Mr. Lincoln in mind, “I’m pleased to see you again after all these years.”
“Yes,” he said, already turning to Mr. Wilson, who was hovering about us. The countinghouse once again seemed overly small.
“May I get you a chair?” Mr. Wrisley asked solicitously.
“I think not,” my father said, not even deigning to glance his way. “We shall be off, I think. It’s past noon and I am hungry, and I understand, Wilson, that there’s an inn not far.”
“Of course,” Mr. Wilson said. “Young Rochester here—young Edward, I mean—knows the way.”
“I was counting on your attendance as well,” my father said.
“Of course,” Mr. Wilson said, “I would be only too glad to join you. It is just that I thought—”