Will’s name together on any document, much less one that connected them to the land that they had in fact lived on, quite happily, far, far away in a place called California. She had known that her father had told Will it might be a lucrative territory, but that he had owned it, much less deeded it to his oldest daughter and former valet, confounded her.
She rose to her feet with some difficulty, and then went as quickly as she could down the stairs, calling for Mrs. Schmidt.
“When did Mr. Cairns say he would be returning?” she demanded when the wide, flat face of the housekeeper emerged below her in the foyer. Elizabeth clutched the curved railing for balance. From below, her swollen figure must have appeared tremendous.
“I expect him home any moment now….” The housekeeper was wiping her hands with a cloth. “What can I do to assist you in the meantime, Missus?”
“Please tell him that I am in the second-floor sitting room when he returns.” She covered her mouth with her hand and tried not to feel woozy. “Tell him I must speak to him as soon as possible.” She did not know how long she waited. It might have been several hours or only a part of one that she reclined in the ivory wingback chair in the sitting room next to where she slept, and felt her heart rise and fall over recollections that she could not keep at bay. They were a deluge. By turns they washed her onto high, dry land and then back to rough waters. In moments she was there—making dinner for Will while he searched for the oil he believed would make them rich, her skin a little browned in the sun, her body warm—and in the next, she was on the platform at Grand Central Station with the sound of bullets ringing horrifically in her ears and the smell of blood turning her stomach.
“What is it, my dear?”
Snowden came rushing through the door, as though she really were his wife and it really was his child whose birth he was nervously anticipating. Elizabeth’s pale lashes fluttered. But of course she was his wife, she reminded herself, as he knelt by her side. He grasped her hand, and she realized that he had scarcely touched her since kissing her in the carriage after he’d first shown her the new house.
“Please—can you explain this to me?” Her voice broke over the words as she thrust the peculiar document in his direction.
Snowden’s small mouth twitched. Slowly it became a gentle smile. He wore a waistcoat of striped brown silk, which had not in the past been a fabric he favored. He took the paper, glancing over it before folding it away in his pocket.
“This is a deed,” he began. “One of the ownership docu ments of a piece of land your father purchased, in California, near a little railroad town called San Pedro….”
“Yes,” Elizabeth whispered. She looked into her husband’s eyes, imploring him to explain it all for her.
“I know that land.”
“Yes.” Snowden’s eyes darted across her body to the floor and back again. Then he went on in a rapid voice. “Your mother and I discussed it, of course, when you returned from California with—your first husband. He had mentioned there was oil on the land, and as a close family friend, your mother confided file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009
Page 25 of 128
in me. I told her that of course oil speculation was a very complicated business, and awfully difficult to turn a profit on, but that Will seemed like a capable boy, and that if he didn’t make it there he would make it some other way….”
The sun was falling out of the sky, and shadows touched all the objects in the room. Snowden’s face, a few feet away, was growing indistinct in the waning light. Breath had escaped her, and she had to remind herself to inhale. She nodded at him that he should go on.
“After…the tragedy, after Will’s death, I began to piece together an explanation for an odd series of documents that I’d found amongst your father’s
She rose to her feet with some difficulty, and then went as quickly as she could down the stairs, calling for Mrs. Schmidt.
“When did Mr. Cairns say he would be returning?” she demanded when the wide, flat face of the housekeeper emerged below her in the foyer. Elizabeth clutched the curved railing for balance. From below, her swollen figure must have appeared tremendous.
“I expect him home any moment now….” The housekeeper was wiping her hands with a cloth. “What can I do to assist you in the meantime, Missus?”
“Please tell him that I am in the second-floor sitting room when he returns.” She covered her mouth with her hand and tried not to feel woozy. “Tell him I must speak to him as soon as possible.” She did not know how long she waited. It might have been several hours or only a part of one that she reclined in the ivory wingback chair in the sitting room next to where she slept, and felt her heart rise and fall over recollections that she could not keep at bay. They were a deluge. By turns they washed her onto high, dry land and then back to rough waters. In moments she was there—making dinner for Will while he searched for the oil he believed would make them rich, her skin a little browned in the sun, her body warm—and in the next, she was on the platform at Grand Central Station with the sound of bullets ringing horrifically in her ears and the smell of blood turning her stomach.
“What is it, my dear?”
Snowden came rushing through the door, as though she really were his wife and it really was his child whose birth he was nervously anticipating. Elizabeth’s pale lashes fluttered. But of course she was his wife, she reminded herself, as he knelt by her side. He grasped her hand, and she realized that he had scarcely touched her since kissing her in the carriage after he’d first shown her the new house.
“Please—can you explain this to me?” Her voice broke over the words as she thrust the peculiar document in his direction.
Snowden’s small mouth twitched. Slowly it became a gentle smile. He wore a waistcoat of striped brown silk, which had not in the past been a fabric he favored. He took the paper, glancing over it before folding it away in his pocket.
“This is a deed,” he began. “One of the ownership docu ments of a piece of land your father purchased, in California, near a little railroad town called San Pedro….”
“Yes,” Elizabeth whispered. She looked into her husband’s eyes, imploring him to explain it all for her.
“I know that land.”
“Yes.” Snowden’s eyes darted across her body to the floor and back again. Then he went on in a rapid voice. “Your mother and I discussed it, of course, when you returned from California with—your first husband. He had mentioned there was oil on the land, and as a close family friend, your mother confided file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009
Page 25 of 128
in me. I told her that of course oil speculation was a very complicated business, and awfully difficult to turn a profit on, but that Will seemed like a capable boy, and that if he didn’t make it there he would make it some other way….”
The sun was falling out of the sky, and shadows touched all the objects in the room. Snowden’s face, a few feet away, was growing indistinct in the waning light. Breath had escaped her, and she had to remind herself to inhale. She nodded at him that he should go on.
“After…the tragedy, after Will’s death, I began to piece together an explanation for an odd series of documents that I’d found amongst your father’s
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