Sarah's Legacy (15 page)

She paused and smiled and added, “So, anyway, wish me luck! I'm going to try to find one by next week.”

Even though we'd talked about getting a car before it had always seemed far away. The thought of having
one as early as the coming week was exciting, and I pleaded with Mom to take me with her when she went car shopping.

“Sorry, no can do,” she said. “I'll have to go while you're in school.”

I opened my mouth to ask why we couldn't go together right after school, but I shut it again quick, remembering my plan to argue less.

“Don't worry,” Mom said, “I'll try to pick out something that's cool.”

“I know you will, Mom.” I forced a smile with the words. “You have great taste. And it will be awesome to actually have our very own car.”

“Yes, it will.” Her voice and eyes seemed suddenly far away. “You know, Sarah, things are better for us than they've ever been. We have a lot to be thankful for. A lot. We need to be grateful for that and not think about what we're missing.”

And the way she said it, the hollow sound of it, like she was trying to convince both of us, brought back the day she'd told me she was lonely. I nearly ran from the room in tears.

It seemed that the only thing that completely distracted me from my nagging conscience was reading Sarah's diaries, and I was only too happy to crawl into bed that night (yes, with my usual companions) and open book two to the next entry.

I'd asked Mom earlier what a fortnight was, remembering that Sarah had written how Mr. King had promised that their wedding would take place within that length of time. Mom wasn't sure, so we'd looked it up together and found out it was two weeks.

I guess that probably didn't seem like very long to Mr. King, but I had a feeling they were the longest weeks of Sarah's life.

Sarah's next few entries were much like the last one I'd read. They gave me a picture of her as a young
woman, pacing day after day in her hotel room, waiting for word from her fiancé, waiting to become his wife.

The first sign of a problem came more than a week after her arrival in Montreal.

July 07

So heavy is my heart that I can barely think straight to write. And yet I must, for it seems this diary has become my only solace and friend these past days. To think that I almost burned my journals in the fireplace before leaving home, rather than concealing them in my skirt and bringing them with me.

I grow faint with worry and despair that something has happened to prevent my dearest Mr. King from contacting me. He promised faithfully to send word (as well as additional funds for my lodging and meals) as immediately as possible. Each day that passes is a nightmare of dragging moments, ticking away into tortured hours, and each night a restless suspension of hope.

The hotel manager begins to look at me with unease and yesterday asked if Mademoiselle wished to make some payment toward her account. Mademoiselle most assuredly did not wish any such thing, but fearing I should be turned out into the street, I gave him all but three dollars of what I had in my possession. This did not quite pay my account up to date, but it satisfied him for the moment at least. I doubt another full week will pass before I am asked again for payment.

Mr. King gave me a sum of money when he paid my fare and put me on the train, but it was not enough to last past a week. Of course he meant to send more at once.

I don't suppose it helps my situation that I have but two dresses in my possession. No doubt this has been noted by the staff, who must wonder how someone can afford to stay in a hotel and yet own only two frocks. It is just fortunate that I was able to layer two gowns in a manner that did not show or I should be here with but one.

Or perhaps it is not so fortunate at all. If Mother had noticed anything odd about my attire, if she had discovered the second dress, she would surely have prevented me from leaving the house and I would still be home in my beloved room.

But there is no point to such thoughts. I am here and that is that.

I am fearful now of taking my meals in the hotel dining hall and billing them to my room, as I have done previously. I fear this can only afford the manager more cause to be concerned about payment and I have nothing to offer should he request another deposit toward the balance.

At the same time (though my appetite is waning) I must eat. With the little money I have left I can manage a loaf of bread and a pint of milk each day, but if Mr. King does not soon appear or send word, I fear I shall be in desperate circumstances indeed.

July 09

Oh wretched luck! Today as I returned from my walk, wherein I had secured my food for the day, I encountered a street urchin who clutched at my leg and begged me most piteously to give him a piece of bread. I did this gladly, moved to compassion by the hunger in his eyes.

But the horrid child meant only to rob me, and this he did as soon as I had loosed the grasp on my pocketbook in order that I might tear him off a portion of my loaf. He was gone
—
disappeared down an alley before I could catch my wits enough to cry out for help.

I returned to the hotel more downcast in spirit than I have ever been. Even so, I checked with the desk perchance something had arrived at last (Mais non, Mademoiselle, nothing today) and came to my room with my bread and milk.

There remains little hope that Mr. King will come to me. Whatever has happened to prevent him must be serious indeed, though I struggle not to think of what ill might have befallen him. I know only that he would be here if he could.

What shall become of me remains a question without answer. I cannot return to Brockville to bring disgrace upon my family and, clearly, I cannot remain here (although I am loath to go perchance Mr. King somehow escapes whatever keeps him from me and makes his way here after all). I fear I shall be forced to sneak away in the night, like some criminal.

But where shall I go? And how shall I live?

July 12

The last of my bread was gone yesterday noon. I had meant to save some small bit of it for later in the day but I could not. Strangely, rising this morning and knowing there was naught to eat was less torturous than yesterday, when the thought of the last dried piece of bread tormented me steadily until I fell on it and ate it like some ravenous bird.

I have spent the day trying to ignore the hunger that gnaws at me. Earlier, I took a walk along the river where I encountered a happy couple lunching on cold chicken and bread and cheese. The sound of their voices, low and murmuring, then light and full of laughter, made me want to flee. But I waited, standing a short way off, pretending to be watching something on the water. I prayed and hoped that they would leave behind some morsel, but they did not.

Tonight I shall leave the hotel, creeping away like some thief. It occurred to me, as I prepared a note for the hotel manager, promising that I would write to make arrangements to settle my account as soon as I am able, that I am giving up more than just a room in which to lay my head at the end of the day.

For the shortest of times this has been my home
—
at first, a happy one. Now, leaving this temporary sanctuary, I must go forth without connection to anyone or anything in the world.

I feel as though my very soul has been set adrift.

I found myself swallowing hard and then brushing tears off my face as I carefully put in a bookmark to mark my place and closed the diary.

I wasn't sleepy but I couldn't bear to continue reading. If things had worked out okay, Sarah's whole life would have been different, so I knew that there was more bad news to come. I just didn't feel like I could face any more tonight.

One day, when there was an unexpected knock at the door, I saw a little flash of hope cross Mom's face. It was gone in a second but I knew what it meant and the nagging voice that I'd been trying to get rid of started up a bit louder again.

I swung the door open thinking how nice it would be if it could just be Stan — if nothing had happened and he was just dropping by and everything was the way it had been before I'd opened my big mouth and said those mean things at the pool.

Of course, it wasn't Stan. It was Allison, the lady with the baby, though Ginny wasn't with her this time.

“I made it for you myself,” I heard her say, “to thank you.”

She was holding out the prettiest doll I've ever seen. It was all made of cloth, with a ruffled dress and apron. An old-fashioned bonnet was perched on its head, and the face was so cute I wanted to take and hug it.

“Why, Allison, this is beautiful!” Mom wasn't exaggerating, either. “I've never seen anything quite like it.”

“I been making them for a while,” Allison said, blushing at the compliment. “Ginny has a whole bunch, though she don't play with them much yet.”

“All sewn by hand” — Mom seemed to be talking to herself — “and so original. How long does it take you to make one?”

“It's pretty slow, 'cause my sewing machine don't work no more, but I used to be able to finish one in a couple of hours before it broke. The man said it would cost fifty dollars to fix.” She paused, and added, “I just use old clothes people give me for them.”

The next thing I knew, Mom was asking Allison if she would be interested in making dolls to sell at the Hope Chest.

“We'll get your sewing machine fixed right away, and you can pay me back when you sell some dolls,” Mom went on after Allison eagerly agreed to the plan. “People will be happy to pay twenty-five to forty dollars each for these, depending on the size.”

After she'd left, I noticed that Mom seemed happier than she had since Stan stopped coming around. It always
makes Mom feel good to do something for someone else, though it didn't used to happen often. Before Great-Aunt Sarah died,
we
were usually the ones who needed help.

There's a line Mom used to quote once in a while, from a play or something, that talks about depending on the kindness of strangers. It was one she used whenever someone did something to help us out or gave us something, and for some reason, she always said it with a southern accent.

That night, curled up in bed with Sarah's diary, I discovered that someone had befriended and helped
her
, too. The next entry was more than a month after the one written in July, when she'd been on the verge of sneaking out of the hotel.

August 27

How much has happened since my last entry! It may be just as well that I had no writing implement for some weeks and could not record the misery of the past month and a half. Perhaps writing of the shame and degradation would have been the impetus needed to put into action one of the dark temptations that haunted my every moment. Those dreadful days when walking into the mighty river often seemed as happy a solution as any.

Hunger, and oft-times thirst, had become my constant companions. I slept beneath empty old buildings, begged pennies for
food, and struggled to escape the clutches of men and women whose hearts are full of darkness and evil.

One day I ate discarded heads of fish from the garbage at a seafood restaurant. Another, I found myself trembling with jealousy for the marrow in a bone being eaten by a large dog. Every moment hunger consumed me, made its demands, caused me to sink ever lower.

A man offered me a fine meal one day if I should accompany him to his lodgings and, God help me, I may have gone but for the fear that he would either murder me or fail to make good on his promise of food. Such horrors as I never dreamed existed were, for a mercifully short time, my world.

But it is past now. I have left the nightmare behind
—
but I have also left behind much that was good and worthy.

Alas, Mr. King has proven to be neither of those. Rather, he is a charlatan and a thief. I learned this yesterday when I received a reply to the first letter I was finally able to send to my family. It brought tears to my eyes for many reasons, one of which was discovering for what manner of man I placed myself in such straits.

Mother wrote that he had taken the townsfolk's investments and tried to flee. I shudder to think that he almost certainly intended to meet me with his ill-gotten gains. How thankful I am that he was apprehended before he could make good his escape, for what I have been through would pale in comparison to finding myself the wife of a gangster.

It seems that the people of Brockville were not his first victims, for under a variety of aliases, Mr. King has robbed others in like manner using equally persuasive schemes. He is nothing more than a confidence man.

It occurs to me that I do not even know his real name. How easily I allowed myself to be persuaded by his charm and good looks! What a fool I have been.

I must tell myself very firmly that what has happened is over and done, as Mrs. Taylor, my kind benefactress, has reminded me on more than one occasion.

I met this good woman during one of my darkest moments. I had fainted in the street and she, passing by, called out to her driver to stop. When she learned that I was not ill but starving, she insisted on taking me to a nearby café, where she ordered us a lunch of a thick, creamy soup, sandwiches of cold beef tongue, and tea.

While we ate, we talked, and I found myself telling her the whole story of my foolhardy descent into the sad state in which she found me.

Having learned that I was born and raised a gentlewoman, Mrs. Taylor then told me that if I was willing to accompany her to New Brunswick, she was in a position to help. It had just fallen to her to find a replacement for a departing schoolteacher. I accepted the offer most eagerly and she made arrangements for me to join her party for the journey.