Читать книгу A Marriage in Middlebury - Anita Higman - Страница 11

Chapter 4

4

Lucy stepped out of the room.

Mist clouded Charlotte’s sight until she had to blink back the tears. In spite of the past, in spite of everything, compassion flooded her and washed away any remnant of anger. Lord, I forgive this man for what he did. She would say whatever it would take to help Mr. Wilder find a peaceful end.

As if the man could read her thoughts, Mr. Wilder’s eyes fluttered opened, and he looked straight at Charlotte. He lifted the oxygen mask off his face and in a raspy voice, murmured, “Miss Hill. You’ve . . . come.”

“Yes, sir.” Charlotte stepped up next to the bed.

Mr. Wilder paused, trying to catch his breath. “Please . . . let me have a moment of your time . . . alone.”

Charlotte would have liked for Sam and Audrey to stay in the room for moral support, but it was not meant to be.

Audrey and Sam backed away, leaving Charlotte standing by the bed. “We’ll be just outside the room if you need us.” Then Sam smiled at Charlotte and mouthed the words, “Thank you.” That was twice he’d thanked her for something she’d done, and yet in both cases she felt no bravery. Mostly fear. Probably a clear sign of a weedy moral fiber on her part.

When they were alone, Mr. Wilder whispered, “Come closer.”

Charlotte sat down in the chair next to the bed. She could see Mr. Wilder fully now and the ravages left by time and sickness—the blue serpentine veins on his hands, his once clear eyes, now watery and deeply set, but most of all, one couldn’t miss the way torment clung to the man like a foul spirit. The look of Mr. Wilder was how she always imagined King David at the end of his reign when he was dying in his imperial bed. Only Mr. Wilder had never known God.

He lifted his head briefly and then fell back. “Are we alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I didn’t think . . . you’d come.”

“I was sorry to hear you’ve been ill.”

“You haven’t . . . been sorry.” Mr. Wilder took a few more shallow breaths. “You are glad . . . for my death.”

“Sir, I don’t mean to contradict you, but I’m sorry for everything.” Charlotte let go of the piece of dress she twisted in her fingers. “If I did anything to offend you, I’m truly sorry. Please forgive me.” She wasn’t sure why she needed to apologize, but maybe it would ease the way for Mr. Wilder to say whatever he’d hoped to say.

“I did not bring you here . . . for apologies.” The man gasped for breath, and appeared even paler if that were possible.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” The grandfather clock chimed the hour, making her startle. How could Mr. Wilder stand so many noisy clocks? It only served as a reminder that the march of time reigned over each of them as an enemy, relentless and unmerciful. “Sir, do you need your oxygen?”

“No,” he growled.

If Charlotte had hoped the man had softened over the years, she had been mistaken. His voice could still grip like the jaws of a crocodile, and his eyes were just as fearsome. The resemblance between Mr. Wilder and his son in appearance had always been uncanny, but they were so far removed in spirit, it was as if they had never been related.

“You have met Miss Anderson. She is a good match for my son.” Mr. Wilder’s eyes brightened, and he seemed to rally a bit as he talked about Sam’s fiancée.

What could she say? “I hope they will be happy.” Why had Mr. Wilder brought her to his home? Was it for one final round of torment? Charlotte desperately wanted to ask him why he’d so vehemently opposed Sam’s proposal to her those many years ago, but she was determined not to harass a dying man.

“I brought you here because I owe you . . . an explanation.” Mr. Wilder closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. “Now that my son is marrying a woman who is worthy of our family’s heritage, I feel I can be generous and tell you why you were not acceptable. Why you could never marry my son.”

At last. The truth. “Sir?” If he was willing to tell her some truth with the last of his energy then she was more than willing to listen.

“I will . . . tell you a story.” Mr. Wilder took in several more wheezing breaths. “I love birds, but I have a phobia of them too. Got the fear put in me as a child and have never been able to shake it off. I would go to the cemetery to watch them. Study them. Enjoy their beauty, but because of fear, I could never go near them. Do you understand?”

“Maybe a little.” But what did his love and fear of birds have to do with Sam’s proposal?

“I threatened you with the scandal about the affair between your father and my wife to make you leave my son, but what I never told you was why I did it.” Mr. Wilder’s fingers, which rested on the bed, crawled toward Charlotte’s hand like a pale spider. She resisted the urge to recoil. “I knew of your inferior bloodline. Your dark secret,” he hissed. “I knew the defective relative that you harbored in your past.”

“What could you mean?”

“Your grandmother, on your father’s side, was a half-breed . . . born in America, but she was only half white. Her other half was of the Negro race.” He spat out the words as if they were a curse.

“Yes, that’s true. I never had the opportunity to meet her before she passed away, but I’ve never kept it a secret. Why should I? I’m proud of all of my roots, including my grandparents.” Was the man serious? Had her grandmother’s background really been the only thing that had kept Mr. Wilder from approving of their marriage?

In seconds Mr. Wilder’s face flushed with color, and his eyes glinted with anger.

Charlotte leaned over him. “Sir, do you want me to call Lucy in?”

“Call no one.” Without warning, Mr. Wilder snatched Charlotte’s hand in his. He clamped down on her fingers like a trap snapping shut on the paw of some poor animal.

“Mr. Wilder, you’re hurting me.” She rose, trying to struggle free, but the man had a sudden, almost supernatural burst of strength. His muscles quickly gave out, though, until she could slip her hand from his damp fingers. “If you do that again I’ll need to call for Sam.” Charlotte rubbed her hand, trying to calm the pain. How could she discuss anything with such a man? He was heartless. But surely he had loved once. “Mr. Wilder, I know you must have cared for your wife. Doesn’t it help you to see my predicament? What if someone had told you all those decades ago that you wouldn’t be allowed to marry the woman you loved?”

“I would have been wounded, but then later I would have thanked the person who had done such a deed on my behalf.”

What a strange and fruitless reply, unless he had grown to dislike his wife in some way. But there was no reasoning with the man. She sat back down. “I no longer know what to say.”

“I’m dying, but I’m not blind. I know why my son wanted to marry you. You’re beautiful. Still are after all these years.”

Charlotte wasn’t in the mood to be grateful for his compliment, since he was bound to use it against her before the conversation ended.

“And I realize . . . there was only a chance you might produce black offspring . . . but I could not allow you to foul our heritage. Legacy, you see, is all I have left. My own father had a saying, ‘Negroes are the help we hire, never the children we sire.’ ” A sneer consumed Mr. Wilder’s face, and then he covered his mouth with the oxygen mask.

“Excuse me for saying this, Mr. Wilder, but your words are offensive and unfair.”

With quivering hands he yanked off the mask and glared at her. “Doesn’t your Christ preach that the truth will set you free?”

“The truth I can handle, but I will not tolerate bigotry. Nor would Christ. And to use the Lord’s words for your sinister purposes only fouls his good name.” Charlotte rose from her chair again. So, that really was it. All the pain and the mystery and the good-byes were about a grandmother she had never even had the privilege of meeting. Talking about bloodlines the way he did made Charlotte feel like an animal with a blemish on her pedigree. Certainly not a respectable woman who was well-liked in her community. “I forgive you, Mr. Wilder.” They were difficult words to say, but she knew they had to be spoken.

His eyelids drifted shut. For a moment Charlotte thought he’d stopped breathing. Just as she was about to call out for Lucy’s help, his chest rose, and with a stark movement, he opened his lids and gasped for air. Then he whispered, “I don’t want your forgiveness.”

“I offer it to you anyway.” Charlotte backed away a step, but her gaze could not fully sever from Mr. Wilder’s stare. His lids were almost closed, and yet she knew he was watching her, assessing her, just like he did with the birds at the cemetery. “I wish things could have been different. That you could have gotten to know me. Over time, you might have grown to like me, and you could have set these other feelings aside.”

“Never.”

“Life is short, Mr. Wilder, and eternity is forever. You will face God soon. I beg you to talk things over with the Lord. Ask for his forgiveness . . . as I have had to do.”

“The only people who need mercy are those who live a life of regret. I do not need a Savior,” he said, “but I’m sure you do.”

His face ignited with such fury, it seemed the entire inferno of hatred Mr. Wilder had fueled through his lifetime blazed in his eyes all at once, making them appear otherworldly and frightening, as if Charlotte were staring into the mouth of hell.

“The only thing I require now,” he hissed, “is your absence.”