Chapter 13

© Copyright 2008 by Elizabeth Delayne



We miss you.

In Charleston, with her sister over at the family home for the afternoon, Rachel reread the words from the letter that had arrived that mornign. She couldn’t help but press it to her heart as she repeated the phrase over and over in her mind. It said more, of course, but those words were what she longed to hear.

From Matt ... of course. The we refered to Matt and his grandfather. James ... she had no idea what James thought or wanted.

“We come from a long line of teachers and I know you must be a fabulous one,” Rebecca looked up from her embroidery with a twinkle in her eye. “But not matter how great a teacher you are, I know a five year old didn’t write that letter.”

“No,” Rachel looked down at letter she’d already read three times over before he sister’s arrival. It was obviously an adult’s handwriting with an educated sense of grammar. It wasn’t Millie, as she’d also received a letter from Millie that day as well. The handwriting was different, less formal, and much longer than she ever would have expected.

Maybe Ma James, or possibly Gregory Forester, or anyone else in town. Plenty of people were willing to aid Matt in writing.

Maybe.

And maybe it had been written by James himself. She couldn’t forget the look in his eyes as the wagon had carried her away from town. Every other memory seemed to fade when she thought of him.

Except for the sweet goodbye from his son.

“And you’re sure it’s not from the father?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you want it to be.”

“I want ...” Rachel thought over the last year, of James breaking her heart. Hurting her heart. Of him, his home, and the way he looked as she pulled from town.

And of Matt.

“You love the father.”

“I don’t know.” How could one moment make up for all the tears and uncertainty? How could she claim love, when she didn’t even know his heart?

She glanced down at the letter. And wondered. She just wondered.

Rebecca simply smiled and reached over to pat Rachel’s knee. “You do, or you will. You’re going back.”

Rachel looked across the room to where Mrs. Jones sat working on her own needle work sewing some clothes for Rebecca’s baby. She’d worked along side everyone else when preparing for meals. She participated in the evening readings of poetry out on the back porch, that Rachel’s father had instituted even before his children were born. She walked the streets of Charleston, sometimes with people with her, sometimes alone.

Like Rachel, she went to shops, she made friends, she went to church.

But when she was alone with Rachel they both talked of going back. Oddly enough, living in the same house she’d grown up, with her family, she felt more connected to their guest. They shared that longing for Lenox, for the people, for the land ... even though neither of them had family in Lenox.

“It’s home now.”

* * *

James sent his father and Matt home from church and rode out alone toward the mountains. He pushed his horse Bella hard, needing to release some of the pent up strain. All of the feelings, all of the emotions, had somehow come uncorked. He couldn’t relax, couldn’t stop thinking about Rachel outside of a few very busy moments of the day.

He saw her everywhere. In his home, in his barn, with the dogs ... especially nuisance, the one Matt said she had fallen for ... the one he was saving for her when she returned. There was no choice, really, but for her to return.

His slowed his horse to a canter, then a walk and finally stopped. He stared forward at the mountains and remembered the day he’d stood with Rachel on the edge of town. She’d been looking out at the mountains, their glorious peaks rising toward the sun. He could never get enough of the scene. Even with the pinch of summer, it almost made him forget the horrors of war he’d experienced as a child.

The sounds, the bloodshed.

The loss of life.

The loss of Anna.

But nothing ... nothing would ever make up, keep him from remembering the stark contrasts of life and death he’d experienced during his own life. He stared forward at the mountains and tried to forget. For just a moment, to clear his mind.

Still, as with everything, Rachel was there. He hadn’t realized how much he had accepted her presence; looked for it, really. He’d kept Matt away–or tried to, but even now he looked for her when he went into Barton’s store. She’d been there, more often then not, talking with Millie, but not just talking. Helping out. Moving things. Doing unpaid work of a clerk.

She’d never seemed to mind. Of course, she’d never seemed to mind anything but him. No one’s fault but his own.

He smiled a little ruefully.

The new doc and his wife had settled temporarily into the little house that had been Rachel’s. Mrs. Jenkin’s had kept up the small patch of flowers Rachel had planted on either side of her front stoop. He almost expected to look over and see her when he rode out of town.

Of course he hadn’t ... he wouldn’t, but there had been other times throughout the year when he had looked for her and found her. Watched her. He hadn’t even told himself, hadn’t wanted himself to believe ... or want to believe.

And yet here he was, missing Rachel.

Wishing for Rachel.

And she was gone.

He read her letters, wondering if she’d realized that he was the one writing to her. Wondering if when she wrote her letters if she was thinking of him, writing to him.

Reining Bella around, James headed toward home. It was time, he thought, to write another letter.

* * *

Dearest Miss. Lynne,

As I sit down to write, I really have no idea what to say and so many words that I wish I could say if I knew how. I must ask forgiveness then, if this letter comes to you as improper or too forward. It has been a long time since I have had to court a woman. Though, I’m not sure I have ever properly courted a woman. Anna and I grew up together. We knew for so long that we would marry, that her hand was mine long before we were engaged. Thinking on it now, perhaps I did not really court her at all.

I have many regrets, most that come to mind fall within the last year. You were right to push me. I was not the father to Matt that my father was for me. I was not the father that Anna knew from me.

I also regret the way I handled meeting you. I was not ready to meet the bright sunlight that came in from the east. It broke through my heart, and perhaps, hurt a bit. I am sorry for my actions, especially as they hurt you.

I have been so lost since we lost Anna. I did not expect to find you. I do not believe that I deserve you. I had planned to wait for your to return, to win your hand without such forward a gesture as writing a letter as if I were wishing for a mail order bride. However, if you find it in your heart to court a man such as me, then it would be an honor bestowed upon a grateful heart to continue this correspondence until your return.

Yours in imperfection and anticipation,

James Forester

* * *

It was oddly natural to crawl up on Rebecca’s bed and lean against the head board next to her sister. After placing the warm newborn baby in Rache/’s arms, Rebecca leaned her head on Rachel’s shoulder and simply watched.

Rachel gently traced the warm cheek with a gentle finger. Her niece opened her blue eyes and looked up at her, so calmly, as if they’d already met.

In a way, Rachel supposed, they had. She wondered if the baby knew that it wasn’t her mother she was seeing—if she understood the way of things at all.

It didn’t matter. She was beautiful.

Rachel dropped a kiss on her forehead. It felt like a breath of sunshine.

“Rachel Anne,” she said, repeating the name her sister had already bestowed on the baby; named for both sister and mother.

Everyone had cleared from the room, leaving them alone in the soft lamp light and evening. She pressed her cheek to Rebecca’s head, as they watched the baby together. Rebeeca reached up and ran her knuckles over the thin crop of blond hair. Rachel marveled at the differences in their hands; twin sisters and so, suddenly, very different.

Rachel stared at her fingers, still darker by a shade or two from her time in the sun, more toned and defined from her work, rougher from the daily chores in the western town. She could still hear the sounds of horses down main street–somehow different then those here in the southern city–and even remember the distinct sounds of different visitors.

The minors, coming into town. The wagon train, that still rode in from Cartersville. The wagons. Old man Jones’ thoroughbred who was on his last leg of life. Mr. Shatler, coming in at his slow pace.

And Matt, coming up, riding with his grandfather on horseback.

As little Rachel Anne closed her eyes sleepilly, Rachel shifted down slightly in the bed, still resting against Rebecca.

“We used to fall alseep like this all the time,” she said.

“I know. I miss this,” Rebecca reached over and ran a hand over Rachel’s. “We were going to live beside each other, raise our kids together, grow old together.”

“You moved out first.”

“You were the one who moved away.”

As Rebecca sat up, Rachel turned surprised to not find the meloncoly in her sister’s eyes that she felt. “What?”

“I don’t guess I ever really expected you to stay. You were the one climbing trees, reading the books full of adventure, asking questions of anyone who had ever been anywhere. You were the first one to ride a horse—“

”And fall from one.”

Rebecca chuckled. “I tried so hard to be mad at you when you packed up and headed out west, wanted so bad to ask you not to go. But I couldn’t. You fell in love with that place long before you got on that train. Long before a cranky widower stole your heart.”

“I–“

”You don’t know. For sure,” Rebecca said. “But I do. And when little Rachel Anne grows up, I want her to be like you. Willing to do the unexpected. The different thing. The adventurous thing. So I’m going to tell her every story about her aunt Rachel that I have in my memory and depend on you to fill your letters with many, many more.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And you better come visit. She needs to know her aunt Rachel, not just hear of her.”

“I will,” Rachel shifted so that she could hold onto her sister. Her twin. The part of her she would have to leave behind. “And I’ll always make a place for you to come out and see me.”

“Your west, your man ... and your little boy,” Rebecca leaned her head against Rachel’s shoulder again, and the two sat in the silence of the room, feeling, as they always had, the internal connection of twins. “We just might do that.”



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