Thurston House (43 page)

Very well.

Is it going well?

I'd say it is, but I also don't think it will be soon, and she has to marshal her strength. It could be a very long night he glanced outside at the sun coming up and almost smiled a long day, I should say. I don't think your baby will be born before dinnertime. He glanced at his pocket watch and there was a stirring from the room.

How can you say that?

Because I know how things are. And I know how babies are born. And you do not, were the unspoken words.

But she seems so ' so far along' . John was suddenly worried about her again.

I'm afraid not.

He felt like banging his head against the wall as the doctor disappeared into the room again, and for the next five hours, John thought he would go mad as he paced up and down the hall, up and down the stairs, up and down the house. He finally drank two brandies and a Scotch, and wished he could give one to her but that really would have caused an uproar, and Anally at two o'clock, he sat forlornly on the stairs, beneath the stained-glass dome, with his head down, thinking about her. The nurses had come in and out several times, and the doctor had only come out once to give him a report that things were going well but it would still be a while, and finally at four o'clock in the afternoon John thought he heard her voice, she said something in a loud sharp tone, and then she groaned and he ran to the bedroom door and stood just outside, as he heard a terrible moaning sound and a stifled scream. He wanted to pound on the door and call her name, but he was afraid he would frighten her, but more than that he wanted to hold her in his arms, and then as he stood there, he heard her voice again and this time there was no stifling the scream, and he couldn't bear it anymore, he let himself quietly into the room and no one saw him at first. The blinds were drawn, and the curtains blocked all light from the room. There was a bright light on the table beside her bed, another on a table near her feet, and there seemed to be a stifling heat everywhere, and she lay in their bed, her legs spread apart, a sheet over her, her face drenched in sweat, her hair matted to her head, her eyes rolled back, clutching the sheets, and suddenly another pain seized her as her voice rose agonizingly again, and the doctor lifted the sheet and suddenly John could see hair and a little round head, and his jaw dropped as he watched silently. He wanted to cheer her on as she pushed instinctively, and there was blood spurting from a wound between her legs, but John couldn't even think of that now, all he could think of was that tiny head, and the miraculous woman who was pushing it out, and she screamed again and the nurses encouraged her to go on, as the doctor turned the shoulders of the child and the tears rolled from the father's eyes, and suddenly there he was ' a perfect little boy, lying bloody and wet in his mother's arms, as John went to her and cried and held them both. The doctor was shocked, but as he looked at them, he really couldn't be. It was the most unusual delivery he had ever done, but perhaps they weren't so wrong these two. The child had been conceived of their love once upon a time, and now he was born into their hearts, into their hands, as they held him close, both of them, not just one, and the child cried lustily, at five fourteen P.M. on the twenty-eighth of July, nineteen hundred and fourteen, as Europe went to war.

JONATHAN Thurston Harte was christened in Old Saint Mary's Church on California Street when he was six months old, in January of 1915, when all of Europe was at war, and his parents had a small reception for their friends at Thurston House. The Crockers and Floods were there, the Tobins, the Devines. It was a small but select group that raised their glasses and toasted him with champagne, and that night his mother and father quietly toasted him in the room where he had been born, and John smiled down at his wife happily.

How lucky we are, little one.

'indeed we are. There was nothing else she wanted with her life. She had a husband she loved, a child she adored, their respective mines were doing well, although she had refused to merge them again. She insisted that they had separate identities and it might hurt them to change that now.

Everyone knows that we're married and I run both mines. What difference does it make?

It makes a difference to me. She belonged to John, but the mines did not, and for some deep-seated reason she couldn't explain, she wanted to keep it that way, although he ran the mine for her, and he did a stupendous job of it. She had no complaints, and in fact she wasn't even interested in the mine now that she had tiny Jon. Even the continuing blight on her vines didn't seem such a tragedy to her now. Nothing did. All she thought of were happy things, and she insisted that he looked like John. He had dark hair and great big violet eyes, but in truth, he didn't look exactly like either of them. Hannah knew who he looked like. He was the spitting image of Camille, but she never said that to either of them.

They stayed in Napa for most of that spring, and celebrated her twenty-seventh birthday by going to the Grange Dance, and that summer was the prettiest she remembered since her youth. John turned fifty-five years old, and the only sadness was a letter that Spring Moon had died in an accident, falling off a bridge. She had hit her head on the rocks and died instantly. Her brother had written to John, through someone he knew who could write. He felt that John ought to know, and he was touched. She had been good to him, and when Sabrina heard, she was saddened too. Spring Moon had saved her life six years before, or certainly her virginity. It was difficult to believe that it had already been six years. It seemed to have flown by, and yet at the same time she couldn't imagine a life without John Harte now. It seemed as though she had spent her whole life with him.

And her predictions had come true. On the day Jonathan was born, Europe went to war, but there was no sign of America entering into it, and even when Jonathan was two years old, there seemed no real threat that the United States would get involved, or so the politicians said, but once again Sabrina didn't believe what they said.

How can we not, John? They're dying by the thousands over there. Do you really think we won't lend them a hand? And the trouble is that if we do, we're fools, but if we don't, we're the most heartless creatures that ever walked. I don't know what to think

You worry too much about politics. That's the trouble with women who used to work, they don't know what to do with themselves after that. He loved to tease her about her inquiring mind. She had plenty to do with little Jon, so much so that although she wanted to go very much, she decided not to go to New York with John. He had business to do for both of them in Detroit, and some investments to see about in New York. We could come back slowly through the South if you like. He was tempting her, he hated to travel alone. He enjoyed her company so much, and they were inseparable most of the time.

How long would we be gone? He thought about it for a minute.

Probably three weeks. Maybe four. They lost two weeks just getting across the country and back, or almost, but Sabrina shook her head now.

I just can't. Could we take Jon?

John thought about it and then shook his head sensibly. Can you imagine ten days with him on the train?

She groaned and they both laughed. I can, but I can't imagine ever regaining my sanity. He was two years old and into everything in sight. He was a lively, healthy, happy child, and Sabrina was sorry she hadn't gotten pregnant again. She had hoped to ever since he was born, but it hadn't happened again. But it seemed less important now that they had Jon. For some reason, and the doctor had no idea why, she didn't get pregnant easily. But they were both happy with their only son. I hate to let you go alone, sweetheart, and for so long.

So do I. He didn't look pleased. You sure you don't want to leave Jon with Hannah here?

I really don't think I can. He's too wild for her just now. And there was no one at Thurston House that she would trust him with, although they were often there. I just can't this time.

All right. He went ahead and made his plans, and on September nineteenth, she went to the station with little Jon and they kissed him good-bye, and he waved from the private car he had availed himself of for the trip, and he headed east as Jon and Sabrina went back to Thurston House to wait for him there. She had some business to do in town, with her bank, and she wanted to order new curtains and some new upholstery and rugs for Thurston House since they were there so much. She had enough to keep her occupied while he was gone, but it seemed terribly lonely there after he left. She rattled around in the enormous house, anxious for news of him, and more anxious still for him to come home, but it would be weeks before he did. And she sat in the garden playing with little Jon, and went downtown to select some of the fabrics she needed the next day, and wondered where John was at that point in time. And she stopped on the street and watched the paper boy hand out the newspapers, and suddenly her heart stopped. TRAIN WRECK ON CENTRAL PACIFIC LINE. HUNDREDS DIE the headline read. She felt dizzy as she pushed her way through the crowd to see what the newspaper said, yanked it from the boy's hand and pressed a dollar bill in it, and stood there trembling. There were no names, no list of casualties, but it was the train her husband had been on. The wreck had happened in Echo Canyon, east of Ogden, Utah. She stood in a numbed state, and without thinking, went to her bank, not even sure how she had arrived there, and stood numbly with tears of terror running down her face until someone realized who she was.

Mrs. Harte ' may we help you? ' She was ushered into the office of the president and handed the paper to him with a look of terror on her face.

John left on that train yesterday. Is there any way to find out' She didn't even dare say the words. It was possible that he was unharmed, or that he was among the casualties they talked about. And if he was, she would go to him at once. Jonathan would have to stay with the help until she returned, there was no question about that now. Her mind was already racing ahead, as she looked imploringly at the bank president. Can't you find out? He nodded worriedly.

We'll cable our corresponding bank in Ogden, and have them get the information for us. The train had stopped there and had not gone on. It was too disabled to continue the trip, and an empty train had gone out from San Francisco that afternoon, to pick up the survivors of the wreck.

What if we call the railroad line? They must have a list of casualties.

The bank president nodded again. We'll do everything we can, Mrs. Harte. Where will you be?

I'll wait to hear from you at home, or should I stay here?

No, I'll have one of my men drive you home, and I'll let you know the moment we hear something. He was terribly upset. The Hartes were their biggest customers, as had been Mrs. Harte's father before that, and he only hoped that Mr. Harte had been unharmed in the wreck. He helped her into the car of his vice-president, saw to it that she was taken home, and hurried back to issue frantic orders to everyone. Cables were sent to the Central Pacific with a request for an immediate response, he sent a messenger to the head of the railroad office, and waited himself for the news, and when it came it wasn't good. John Harte was on the list of casualties. He had died in one of the six cars that had been totally crushed when the train jackknifed on the tracks, and fell hundreds of feet into a ravine below. His body had been recovered from the canyon only hours before and his identity had been unknown at first, but it was evident now who he was, and the corresponding bank answered the inquiry with regret and sympathy extended to the family. It did nothing to sooth the bank president's nerves as he drove through the gates of Thurston House late that afternoon, and sounded the knocker somberly. A maid answered the door, and he asked to see Mrs. Harte, if possible. She came instantly, the moment she was told who it was, leaving Jon with one of the maids upstairs, and hurrying downstairs with a hopeful look on her face. Surely they had discovered that John was helping everyone. He was so accustomed to disasters at the mines over the years, that he was marvelous in times such as those. Sabrina looked down the broad staircase with a nervous smile, but the look on the man's face stopped her where she stood.

John? ' It was barely a whisper beneath the great dome. He ' he's all right, isn't he? She walked a few more steps and then stopped as the man shook his head, and then she ran to him. He's not ' He had wanted to tell her differently, wanted her to be sitting down so she wouldn't faint in his arms. And for nothing in this world did he want to be the one to tell her the news, but he had no choice. The task had fallen to him, and he looked at her now with a stricken face. It shouldn't happen to people such as these, people who loved each other so much, who led such decent lives, who had found each other after so long, I'm so sorry, Mrs. Harte. We just got word ' He took an enormous gulp of air and went on. It wouldn't get any easier, it could only get worse now, for her anyway. He was killed last night in the wreck. They recovered his body he hated to tell her this but there was no turning back now from a ravine just this afternoon. There was an almost animal moan of pain from her, as when she had given birth to Jon, but this was so much worse than that, and there was no baby at the end of it. And now there was no more John. She looked up at the bank president with more pain in her eyes than he had ever seen before, and he had no idea what to say to her as they stood on the stairs of Thurston House, beneath the dome her father had built, and that she had replaced after it was destroyed in 1906. But neither of them saw it now. They saw nothing but each other's eyes, and he saw hers fill with tears, and then she walked him slowly to the door. She didn't scream, she didn't cry, she didn't faint, or have hysterics in his arms. She simply walked him to the front door and looked as though the world had just come to an end. And for Sabrina Harte, it had.