Visionary/Metaphysical Novels by Karen R. ThorneSome titles not yet released.
For a complete list and to order, visit the author’s website
www.krthorne.com
where you can also download free samples, read blog posts,and keep up with all the latest exciting offerings!
Paranormal Alternate Reality SeriesGiving Up the Ghost: The WalkIn
BLUE thread reality – Book One of the Alternate Reality Series
Giving Up the Ghost: The WalkInGREEN thread reality – Book One of the Alternate Reality Series
Hearing Voices: WalkIns WelcomeBLUE thread reality – Book Two of the Alternate Reality Series
Hearing Voices: Coming HomeGREEN thread reality – Book Two of the Alternate Reality Series
Giving Up the Ghost: The WalkIn The EVPsmp3s – available at www.krthorne.com
Marek: Diary of a WalkIn
Ghost Matter: The Story of OberonA QuantumVisionary Timebending Exploration
MusicGilding a Darksome Heaven (The Orchid)
Forsaken Sparrows in the Garden of Winter
The Devil’s Caprice
FantasyDartfoil
Dralácri (Tears of the Dragon)
Supernatural/Otherworldly BeingsReflections of a Vampire
A VisionaryMetaphysical Metaphor
Paradigm Swift
VISIONARY FICTION – FORGING NEW PATHS BY SHIFTING PARADIGMSAre you game?
Forsaken Sparrows in the Garden of Winter
5TH EDITION ©2015
COPYRIGHT © 2010, 2015 Karen R. Thorne (Karen Korwal)All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced by any means or in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, “fair use” in teaching or research, Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpts, without written permission from the publisher.
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.ANY RESEMBLANCE TO PERSONS LIVING OR DEAD IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.
PUBLISHED BY
VISUALLUSIONS LIGHTSOURCE PUBLISHING
GOLDEN, CO
Printed in the United States of America
Visuallusions logo image: paperball, www.stock.xchng.comCover image: House Sparrow, by soikha http://www.sxc.hu/photo/1152362
(Real name Juha Soininen, http://www.elisanet.fi/j.soininen)Illustration frame: clipartbest.coFreeVectorAntiqueFrame
(http://imgarcade.com/1/antiquewindowclipart/)Outside Border created in GIMP by Karen R. Thorne
Photoshop brushes: spiritsighs_dividers3_03, 018, 021 and 029 http://spiritsighsstock.deviantart.com/Cover design: Karen R. Thorne (Karen Korwal)
Cover Created in GIMP
A Note on the Extraordinary Nature of this Book
This is a story of hope.Of unfathomable sorrow, and tragedy, and triumph.This is a story of love.
This is a book I never intended to write.In 2010, after seven straight years of successfully winning
NaNoWriMo*, I had learned to listen to my Inner Muses, trusting what I am given, no matter how challenging.
So I sat up and took notice when, out of the blue—in midSeptember, no less—the story you are about to read came to me, literally in a vision. NaNo was still six weeks away, but I knew the story couldn’t wait. What to do? Fascinated, I had to know more.
I had no idea what I was getting into.
By far this is the hardest story I have ever written. Yet in so many ways I feel this is my best work to date, conveying this precious, precious tale as compassionately as I knew how.
As with all my writing, the underlying message is highly spiritual (not religious). I offer it to you as inspiration, and hope, however painfully raw its honesty, its brutal edge of truth.
It is my sincere wish the events herein will be seen in their true light: as a source of courage, nobleness, and dignity. In the fiery crucible of the most hideous circumstances can come the purest, most heartfelt love, rising above the pain, the wounding, and the scars to emerge triumphant . . . if we survive.
These are the lessons these young people taught me. May their message touch you, too, and transform your heart.
A final note is included in the Acknowledgements, after the story is done.
*National Novel Writing Month: Challenge to write a 50Kword novel in 30 days (http://www.nanowrimo.org)
In keeping with the story locale, British English is used wherever possible. Punctuation, for the most part, follows American customs.
Any oversights, omissions, or errors in British terminology (or otherwise) are solely the author’s shortcomings, and apologized for in advance.
1
In the bitter, late-winter month of February, 1921, my mother
remarried, to a man of honourable name and esteemed profession,
James Allen Matheson III. He brought with him a daughter, Laurie, a
timid young creature somewhat younger than I, whose radiant golden
beauty outshone both sun and stars, beside whom I was decidedly
plain, though I tried my best not to be jealous.
In truth, I was thrilled to at last have a sister—to be a sister. I’d
known more than my share of loneliness, nay despair, in my sixteen
long years as a singular child on a large isolated Kent estate in the
south of England. A place of woods and heaths and foxes and sparrows,
yet precious few companions with whom to while away the endless
hours.
Thus the arrival of my new step-sister opened up a whole new
vista: someone to talk with, share secrets with, teach to ride! For riding
horses I loved more than anything in the world, and there was no one
I’d rather spend my time with than my beautiful horse, Zusza. She was
the love of my life.
Until Laurie.
My new sibling was to me both a fascination and a mystery. Quiet,
utterly shy, reserved, speaking only when spoken to (with few
exceptions), and great liquid sorrowful eyes that reflected some deep
hidden pain she wanted no one to know. I could not imagine what
could possibly pain her so, as she was but fourteen and not much has
happened to a person by such a very young age. Even I, at sixteen, had
hardly seen more than the confines of Finchbrook Hall. My father had
spent all his time repairing and reconstructing it, my mother arranging
the same, which left the family little time for going on holiday.
2 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
PaPa’s untimely death was quite a blow. More so when my mother
remarried only nine months later.
My only consolation was my sweet Laurie, with whom I fell madly
in love the very first day. Well-mannered, unpretentious, sweet, kind,
generous . . . yet so reticent, so barely tolerant of me. For three months
I tried to draw her out, to little avail.
Gradually, however, as the weather became warmer, more
conducive to horseback rides, I managed to coax her into coming
along, an activity she did seem to enjoy.
And so it pained my heart sorely when one lovely Sunday
afternoon in late May, barely a week after my seventeenth birthday,
me all dressed in my pristine riding habit and mounted on my beloved
Zusza (as eager as I to be going), Laurie came striding back into the
stable, her polished tall-boots digging into the hard ground as she
dragged her gelding Samson to his stall.
The anger in her face alarmed me.
“Laurie . . .” I said in a gentle, questioning tone, “I thought you
were riding with me today. Are you all right?”
Deliberately she tended the huge black horse without looking at
me. “You shouldn’t have told.” Tight, the soft-spoken words.
My transgression was known.
“Oh, poppet, I’m sorry,” I said, “I never meant—”
“It wasn’t yours to tell!” Slender fingers tugged and jerked at the
snaffle bridle, unbuckling it, releasing the horse from its bit. “You
should not have told.”
Dismounting, I moved towards her. “Laurie, please—”
“Leave me alone,” she muttered, shrugging off my attempt at a
consoling hand.
“Would you just listen?” I insisted, stepping closer.
“I said leave me alone!” Horse still saddled and left standing
outside the stall, she stormed out.
For a moment I stood dumbstruck. So quiet she’d been, so
unassuming! Watching the petite form pounding across the open field,
Karen R. Thorne 3
riding skirts flying, I felt acutely the sting of her words, worse than any
hornet.
Immediately I set out after her. Such a little thing it had seemed at
the time. Why on earth should she be so put out that I had mentioned
her lovely singing voice to Father Morris? Pure and clear, like the
choirboys in Vienna. I was so proud of her, having overheard her
during the congregational hymns at services that morning—naturally
I’d commented to the good father on it. I’d no idea it would upset her
so.
Twenty paces in front of me, the diminutive figure was nearly at a
run. Tearing off the riding hat, she yanked at the wide nape-barrette,
freeing the length of her golden blonde hair. I felt a wee stab of envy:
what I’d give for such beauty. One of the angels, or the cherubim, a
seraph perhaps, with her soft brown eyes, smooth well-shaped
features, delicate hands, and that exquisite cascade of golden silk. Mine
was a coarser look, brown eyes a little too sharp (in more ways than
one), too much angle to my chin, dark unruly tresses the colour of dirt,
with far too much curl to behave properly—always a hassle to pin back
for dressage. Half a glance and anyone would know Laurie was not my
blood relative.
The fine, silken handfuls of that shining spun-gold lifted and fell as
a groomed show-horse’s mane, dancing past her shoulders with each
frustrated step, a determined increase of the distance between us. I ran
to catch up.
“Laurie—”
“What will you say?” she demanded, halting abruptly beside the
shallow rocky stream that flowed in from the wooded eastern
perimeter of the estate. “What can you possibly say that will make me
feel any better?”
Hazelnut trees shimmered above us in the slight spring breeze, a
handful of sparrows pecking about on the ground. “Perhaps nothing,” I
said softly, “if you refuse to hear it.”
4 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
“There is nothing,”—a small plunk as the flung stone she’d picked
up landed hard in the finger-deep water—“nothing you can say that
will make up for it. I trusted you!”
“What, and you cannot now?” Birds scattered; my own voice had
risen, the hot-headed fire that had always been my bane rushing to my
throat. “I meant not to say anything, it just slipped out.”
Laurie remained silent, her booted feet executing short paces
beside the stream, arms folded.
She had asked me not to tell—she didn’t want anyone to know. I’d
bungled it, but good.
Still, a little niggly nudged me. I frowned. “This isn’t about me, is
it,” I said, hand on one hip, jutting it out. “This is about you not being
able to decide whether you wish to be an artist or a religious aspirant.”
(She’d been wrestling with it for months.)
“No.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“I’m not!”
“Evelyn,”—using my formal name, Eve-lyn, long E like the sinning
wife of Adam in the Bible—“please keep your voice down. Sound
carries.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“No, it is not!”
“Is so!” I shot back, my fire fully riled. “A choice between the role
that’s been imposed upon you, or the role you’ve been God-given. And
you can’t decide.”
“Stop it, Evelyn—”
“I won’t.” Advancing upon her, I planted my feet firmly. “I don’t
care which you decide. You’re my sister now, and I love you. Can you
not see that?” Months of coddling her, coaxing her, like trying to hand-
feed one of these timid sparrows; my patience had run out. I took her
fragile bird-shoulders in my hands. “I won’t see you like this. I won’t
see you upset. Not because of me.” When she still didn’t answer I
stamped my foot. “All right, fine! Cut off all your hair and call yourself
Karen R. Thorne 5
Sister Benedicta Mary-Margaret George for all I care. What matters to
me is you.”
The little-bird shoulders stiffened, her angelic face turning away.
“You don’t understand,” she mumbled.
My nostrils flared. “No,” I let go of her, “perhaps I don’t. You have
your reasons, I suppose, even if it is not my business to know what they
are.” Boldly I stepped closer. “But it doesn’t change us.”
“Yes it does.” The soft, airy voice was forlorn, nearly despaired. “It
is futile—”
“Then we’ll run away!” Again I grasped her lean, firm arms,
strengthened from riding. “We can take Samson and Zusza and go
away together and be whomever we want. I’ve some money stashed
secretly,” I said, “in my trunk, money my father left me, enough to get
us far from here and make new lives for ourselves. . . .”
It was Laurie’s expression that halted me.
“Running away won’t help,” she said, arms falling to her sides as I
slowly let go of them. The soft brown eyes perched on the verge of
tears. “Where would we go, Eva? What would we do? Saved-up money
would only last us so long, and then what? Besides, it doesn’t solve
anything.”
Irresistible, her quiet, unassuming vulnerability. It made me want
to take her up and cradle her like a newborn fawn. Nevertheless, a
grimace overtook my face. “You wouldn’t have to be someone you
don’t wish to be,” I said, my fierce brow knitting. “You could just be my
beloved sweet Laurie, beautiful and perfect.” Taking her pale angelic
face in my palms, I kissed the curved cheek.
“Miss Evelyn!”
Nearly did I jump out of my skin at the shocked voice of the
housekeeper, behind us.
My face twisted into a scowl. “Ansey, you scared me half to death!”
I let my voice sharpen with reprimand. “Kindly announce yourself next
time. I did not hear you come up.”
“I can well see you did not. Twice penance you shall have to do,
m’girl,” her ample figure bustled, red-faced and panting, to a halt
6 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
before me, “for engaging in such disgraceful behaviour. What is the
meaning of this? No, wait—perhaps I do not want to know.”
The dismissive gesture she gave was altogether nauseating.
“What,” I said, stepping to shield Laurie from Ansey’s disapproving
gaze, “I cannot kiss my own sister?”
“Why you saucy little—” Washing-up wrinkled hands balled into
fists.
Only then did I realise the angle from which she’d seen us. I
narrowed my eyes. “You think I was being impertinent, don’t you?
What nerve! Well, you are wrong.”
“I do not see what I do not wish to see. I only know I caught a
glimpse of something highly inappropriate. God Himself,” here a
righteous finger jabbed skyward, “is the One who knows. It is to Him
you must make penance.”
“Phuh! What melodrama. I shall do as I please. Now leave us.”
Turning, I gave her a dismissive wave.
“The Lady Ashcroft has sent me to fetch you, m’girl,” Ansey said
with that slightly sneering tone letting me know she would win this
one. “I would advise you make haste. You know your mother does not
like to wait. Already it has been fifteen minutes I have spent hunting
you down.”
Anselmae Wigginbottom. An utterly irritating name for an equally
irritating person. (That propriety required she should be called Mrs
Wigginbottom was all the more reason I refused to do so.) “Poff and
pooh,” I said, knotting my arms and spinning on my heel to head off in
the direction of the house. “Ansey,” I called over my shoulder, “you are
much too full of yourself.”
Heavy middle-aged footsteps joggled after me. “I could say the
same of you.”
Ignoring her, I cast a meaningful gaze back at Laurie, who still
stood beside the stream. Her expression was one of thinly veiled pain
and, I fancied, sadness, as if she did not want me to go.
Perhaps I was forgiven after all.
Karen R. Thorne 7
“Half an hour,” my mother enunciated in her precise King’s English,
“since I sent Mrs Wigginbottom to fetch you.” Delicate tinkling sounds
rose from the porcelain teacup she held, the polished silver spoon
stirring round. “What took you so long?”
“Laurie was a bit upset. I wanted to find out what was the matter.”
“And did you?”
I fidgeted. “More or less.”
One thin brow raised. “Well, did you or did you not?”
“I did. It was . . . a misunderstanding. I apologised.”
“I see.” Thin lips pressed together, matching the line of her brow.
“You’d do well to watch your tongue, Evelyn. The affections of others
are won or lost not only by what we say but also the manner in which
we say it.” She took a dainty sip of her tea.
“Yes, Mother. What was it you wanted me for?”
The hint of annoyance that crossed her stern face let me know she
was not fond of my swift change of subject. “The Rothschilds,” she said,
“Aunt Maribel and Uncle William and their six children are coming for
the summer to visit. I’ve set about Mrs Wigginbottom making the
preparations. How I regret your father—God rest his soul—had not the
time to finish the reconstruction on the four additional bedrooms.
What we have will have to do. The four girls can pair up, two to a
bedroom, and the two boys will obviously share quarters. Laurie’s to
move in with you.”
“But Mother—!”
“I will hear no argument. If you’d prefer, you may move your
things into Laurie’s room instead, but since yours is the larger it only
makes sense she would move in with you. It is only temporary,” she
gave a flick of her manicured hand, “until the Rothschilds leave.”
“Yes, of course, but. . . .” I halted, only because I could think of no
good rebuttal.
Ever since my mother had announced her engagement to her
highly successful solicitor—Mr James Allen Matheson III, Esquire, in case
8 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
you forgot (he would make sure you didn’t)—I’d made it a point to
share as much of my life and my belongings with his quiet, reserved
daughter as possible. Yet as much as I cherished my beloved new sister,
I also cherished having my own room, my own private space, where I
could retreat, alone, whenever I liked.
Now the prospect of multiple guests descending upon the house,
not to mention rattling our barely settled routine, was less than
thrilling. The house had a total of a dozen bedrooms, one of which was
occupied by my recently married mother and step-father, and a
bedroom each for Laurie and me. Four bedrooms, as Mother so
painfully pointed out, were in no condition to be occupied; two, in
slightly less disrepair, were being used for storage. Eight long-term
visitors could not be expected to crowd into the three suitable rooms
that remained.
“Evelyn. . . .”
I sighed. “Very well,” I said, feigning resignation, “what am I to
do?”
“Go and speak to Mrs Wigginbottom for boxes. You’ll need to put
some of your things in storage to make room for Laurie’s. Dennis and
John will be moving down the large bureau from the attic, so you
shouldn’t have to share more than a drawer or two. Help your sister
gather up the clothing on hangers. . . .”
As my mother droned on, I felt my eyes glaze over and my heart
sink. Where was my privacy? Where was my personal space? Certainly,
I’d nothing against my quiet sister, who would likely have more of a
problem with this situation than I. (More times than not, she was off in
her room, door closed.) Yet it wasn’t so much her encroaching on my
private retreat: it was these others. Eight strangers I hardly knew, my
mother’s somewhat estranged north-of-England sister and her
husband and their brood, barely glimpsed at a wedding reception four
months before.
Now coming to live with us.
For three months.
Maybe longer.
Karen R. Thorne 9
“Well?” I heard my mother say. Blinking, I looked up. “Are you just
going to stand there,” —her arched-brow gaze swept downward, as if
she expected to find my feet cemented to the floor— “or are you going
to get to work?”
“Apologies, Mother,” I mumbled, ungluing myself and my riding
boots from their riveted spot, heading off in the direction of my room.
Which, apparently, would soon no longer be my own.
The ensuing week sped by faster than I would’ve ever thought possible.
Barely had we time to rearrange everything, move the furniture,
prepare the house and somewhat situate ourselves before the
conveyance was coming up the drive, a horde of relatives spilling out,
the cacophony of effusive greetings filling the late afternoon spring
air. Except, of course, from my reserved sister, who stood by wide-eyed
and silent as far on the sidelines as possible, watching it all with an
expression that looked as if at any moment she would violently sick up.
“So this,” I heard my Aunt Maribel say above the din, “is young
Miss Evelyn?” Though she was not yet old, perhaps middle-fiftyish, it
seemed she did not remember me.
“Yes, Auntie,” I said, forcing a smile as I caught my mother’s
expression, “we met briefly at the wedding.”
My aunt frowned, regarding me. “Oh, yes, yes of course. Your hair
was different then, pinned up or something. Now I recall.”
Mother’s reaction was instantaneous—my rebellious hair was a
continuing source of embarrassment for her. I poked at the strands
that had escaped the ribbon, feeling my cheeks go warm.
Up close, Aunt Maribel did not seem as repulsive as I’d imagined
her; rather nice, in fact . . . if she’d ever drop her carefully trained
façade. She turned to my mother. “Your only daughter, if I recall?”
I waited to see if the inflection caused any further unruffling; my
singular-offspring status had likewise always been a sensitive subject.
10 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
“Yes,” Mother said smoothly, “my only natural child. Dear Edwin
was away a great deal on his travels, seeking accoutrements and building
materials for the house before he passed away.”
Aunt Maribel had the decency to assume a properly sympathetic
look. “I’m so sorry,” she said, placing a gracious hand gently on my
mother’s arm. Then she turned once more to me. “Lovely child. And
how old are you, my dear?”
“Nearly eighteen.” Immediately I flushed. “That is, I’ve recently
turned seventeen,” I said, hoping I did not sound impertinent, “so
eighteen is not so far away.”
“Indeed! Well, we shall have to throw a spectacular birthday party
for such an auspicious occasion, when it arrives.” The way her eyes lit
up, parties were her particular speciality. “And this lovely young lady,”
she moved towards my reticent sister, “must be Laurie.”
Almost audible, the gulp the poor girl forced down.
“Yes,” I said, stepping in, beaming, linking an arm in hers, “at last I
have a sibling! We’ve been having such a lovely time getting to know
one another these last four months.”
Beyond my tall aunt I could see my mother’s dour expression—
obviously not happy with my choice of words.
“Four months,” Aunt Maribel echoed, “yes. It is not such a long
time, is it?”
I blinked. I could almost swear the woman felt as I did, that it was
far too soon for such a family visit . . . among other things.
“Maribel,” Uncle William’s voice cut in, “hadn’t we better take the
conversation inside? Those clouds look as if any moment it might
begin to rain.”
“Yes, Father, let’s do,” the eldest girl Christina, who’d nearly
reached twenty, said, twirling her lace-trimmed parasol over her
dressed-to-the-nines shoulder. (The very latest fashion from Paris, no
doubt.) “I should hate to ruin my new frock.” Then without waiting for
an answer she flounced into the house.
The two brothers, Carl and Reginald, aged sixteen and eighteen
respectively, exchanged knowing looks.
Karen R. Thorne 11
Catherine, or Cate as she was called, cast her brothers a slight
frown. “You two don’t have to worry about water spots on satin,” she
said, her hazel eyes flashing, implying a long-standing argument. “It’s a
wonder Mamma lets you out in public, the way you two dress.” Second
eldest of the girls, she was a young lady of chestnut hair and refined
demeanour; a year younger than Reginald, if I recalled.
Her criticism of the boys, however, in no way applied to the
patently new fashionable clothing they each sported for their arrival.
Smart button-down shirts, prim ties and equally smart jackets, sharply
creased pants and high-polished shoes—two models straight from Old
Bond.
(My own attire was at least half a decade out of date, perhaps more.
Had I cared a whit for fashion, I should’ve been embarrassed indeed.)
Carl, with his slicked-back dark hair and winsome dimpled smile
(no doubt he’d break a few hearts before the summer was out) merely
grinned, unperturbed. The elder Reginald maintained a more neutral
expression. His demure looks, however, were no less keen: beneath the
smooth brow lurked intelligent eyes and a knack for observation,
evidenced by the gaze I caught focussed upon me until my steady
return gaze caused him to look away.
“My name’s Anna,” said the strawberry-blonde girl, aged fifteen as
I remembered, standing to my left. She extended a milk-white hand
that surely had never seen the light of day.
Taking it, I shook it firmly and nodded. “Nice to see you again,” I
said, repeating myself as Anna introduced her remaining sister
Elizabeth, the youngest of the lot at age twelve.
During all this Laurie hid behind me, forcing a smile at each of the
girls and nodding when necessary but saying little. From the boys she
nearly ran away.
At last the procession made its way inside, and I felt Laurie’s hand
grope for mine, her palm moist as she found my hand and gripped it
tightly.
Privately I smiled.
12 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
An hour and a half and the mêlée was more or less settled, great travelling
trunks and boxes brought in and stowed away in the upstairs rooms,
finery hung in closets and arranged in cedar armoires, jewellery cases
set out on prominent display, the whole of it amidst a fair bit of
squabbling over who got which room, and who felt the arrangement
was unfair. Ansey, who also served as our cook, and our one remaining
servant girl Nell (the rest were let go after PaPa’s death), with the help
of John and Dennis (butler and assistant butler, respectively) all
scuttled to get everything done in time for dinner.
Which proved a rather strained affair, by my account, though the
four adults seemed to enjoy it.
Not surprisingly, Laurie said not a word, whilst the six cousins
were lively enough for all. I contributed my part (mostly to divert
attention from the semi-horrified Laurie), banal talk as I could manage
it, nothing at all of any real interest, from anyone. Mostly I secretly
amused myself coming up with nicknames for each of them: Christina
the Priss, Anna the Coordinator, Carl the Likeable Debonair. Elizabeth
preferred to be called Eliza, she was quick to point out; she became
Miss Muffet after a confessed fear of spiders. Reginald—Reggie—was
her protector of sorts, though they all seemed to look after her. His
brief but detailed explanation of which local spiders posed a threat and
which were quite harmless merely reinforced my initial impression,
earning him the nickname Mr Spot-on. Cate was simply Cate, for lack
of any particular distinguishing characteristic.
“Well, a fine meal, a fine meal,” Uncle William announced finally,
pushing back his chair a bit and patting his amply round, almost-
sixtyish stomach, “simply delightful. Promises to be a lovely summer,
James, if your cook’s always this good.”
Aunt Maribel leaned forward. “Grace has always had a knack for
selecting those with exceptional culinary skills,” she said, affording her
sister a proud glance.
Karen R. Thorne 13
If only she’d been so discriminating when it came to a second husband, I
thought with some distaste. My new “father,” while nice enough I
supposed, was one of those sorts who always seemed to have some
secret hidden behind his pleasantries and smiles, never more apparent
than in present company. The entire meal he’d sat all but silent,
affording our guests at least a surface smile here and there, making
small inconsequential comments. Perhaps he felt his mere presence
was enough: a tall and slender man, with salt-and-pepper hair greying
at the temples and a matching moustache he kept trimmed at the sides
but rather bushy in the middle. (I’d never much cared for moustaches—
seemed rather unsanitary, somehow . . . and unpleasant for the man’s
wife, I’d imagine, like kissing a hairbrush.) Father’s eyes were grey as
well, piercing and intense, which no doubt came in quite handy in a
court of law when he needed to be intimidating.
More bustling suddenly, as everyone stood and began to talk at
once. Behind me I felt Laurie cringing; then I heard soft footfalls
hurrying away. Her sensitive nature simply could not handle so many
strangers at one time.
And so I took it upon myself to show the cousins the house and
grounds, to keep them away from my poor sister who obviously needed
to be alone.
“So here we have the sitting room,” I said, indicating the first room off
to the left after the front door. “Small but quaint, it makes for nice
reading, due to the light.” I gestured towards the broad window, with
its inviting deep-buttoned Georgian tub chair situated for just such a
purpose. I noticed Christina eyeing the chair with a raised brow.
Guiding the group to the slightly larger parlour across the hall, I
said, “This one we use for entertaining modest groups, perhaps twenty
or so.” I turned on the light for a better view.
14 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
Scrutinising the modestly furnished room, Christina was clearly
unimpressed. “I assume you have a larger hall where you host the true
parties, balls and cotillions and such?”
I pursed my lips. “Well, actually, no. When PaPa bought the place,
it required extensive rebuilding and repair, due to having suffered a
fire. The main ballroom, I’m afraid, was destroyed.”
“Oh.”
I blinked. Such condescension, in a single word. “However,” I went
on, leading them briskly down the corridor, “we do have a very nice
library,” I slid open the heavy walnut doors, “with a substantial and
widely varied collection. I think you should have no trouble finding
something of interest in here.”
Immediately Cate brightened, but it was Reggie whose eyes really
lit up. “Is that an 1849 French Navy ordnance pistol?” he said, striding
across the room to where the weapon was mounted over the fireplace.
He stared in awe.
“Close,” I said. “A duelling pistol, Belgian in origin, as I understand
it, though I don’t know much of the details. I’m told my grandfather,
my father’s father, used it in a duel for the hand of my grandmother,
Pearl Agnes. Apparently the other fellow, one Randall Tate, upon
seeing my grandfather’s steady aim, turned tail and ran!”
Everyone laughed, which did much to put us all at ease.
Eliza’s eyes, however, grew wide. “Oh, Evelyn, would your
grandfather have really shot the man?”
“I doubt it,” I said with a smile, “though I can’t say for sure, as I
never knew him. My father said he loved my grandmother very much.
So perhaps he would have, for the woman he loved.”
“Evelyn,” Christina said, all but interrupting, “I could not help but
notice the lack of telephones. Have you cleverly hidden them, or isn’t
your family able to afford such luxury?”
Difficult not to bristle. “Certainly,” I said, doing my best to keep my
tone of voice calm, “but Father feels the device is best suited for
business purposes only, not mere entertainment.” I did not elaborate,
Karen R. Thorne 15
as I did not want her to know he had the service shut off purposely, as
it was, in his words, “a trifling waste of money.”
We continued our tour with a brief pointing-out of the study,
which was now my step-father’s exclusive domain, and finally the
music room, complete with grand piano, which thrilled young Eliza no
end.
“I play, you know,” she said, skipping over to run her small
graceful fingers lightly over the keys, doing a little bobbing motion on
her toes at the sound.
“Then you shall have to play for us,” I said with a nod, glad
someone would be using it. Mother had tried, unsuccessfully, to entice
me to learn to play. Turned out I had four left thumbs, as they say—
dreadful results.
Carl was disappointed the outdoor pool was in disrepair, though
the basketball court appealed to him. Reggie, having a more
intellectual bent, was content with the prospect of spending time in
the library, as was Cate, who had a penchant for poetry.
(Which I myself do not, despite the momentary alliteration.)
Anna was the only one who had not yet found an area of interest in
our modest abode. All that changed when we switched to the outdoors,
and I showed off to everyone my pride and joy, the stables, and in
particular, Zusza and Samson.
“Oh,” Anna sighed with barely contained delight, “how perfectly
lovely they are. How often do you ride?”
“Every day, when the weather’s nice. Sometimes even when it’s
not.”
She paused a moment. “Can you teach me? I mean, would you
mind?”
My brows raised. “Well, yes, of course. Teach you, that is. I’ve not
taught a lot of people,” (one to be exact—Laurie) “though I could
certainly try.”
“Oh, thank you!” Effusive, Anna threw her arms round me and
hugged me. “I promise to be a good student.”
Indeed, I thought, giving a weak smile.
16 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
By the time I returned to the house it was just after nightfall. Dragging
myself up to the room Laurie and I would now share, I felt as if
Finchbrook Hall had hosted a massive party with all of Canterbury in
attendance.
“How was it?” I heard Laurie say softly as I came in.
Shutting the door, I sighed. “Interminably long and dreadfully
boring,” I said to her over my shoulder, rolling my eyes. I began to
remove my pinafore, worn to keep my frock from soiling. “I showed
them round, though I could never tell were they pleased, or did they
think our modest place beneath them? Except Christina, whom I’m
sure wouldn’t be happy with anything less than Buckingham Palace.”
In answer Laurie merely said, “Hm.”
I stood upright again, only then noticing she was already dressed
for bed, beneath the covers and propped against the bolstered pillows,
as far to the left as possible. “Are you not feeling well?” I said,
wondering she’d retire so early.
She shrugged. “I find it quite exhausting, having so many people
around. Father and I had the flat to ourselves, you know.”
As if that explained everything.
“Yes, well,” I undid my frock buttons, all thirty-six of them,
“despite my propensity to chat, I am not fond of crowds much myself. I
don’t mind people, but I do prefer—”
An-na! Christina’s plaintive voice interrupted, have you seen my blue
nightgown? I can’t find it anywhere.
“—peace and quiet,” I finished with a frown. Then as I looked over
at Laurie, my frown deepened. The covers were pulled up over her face.
I don’t know where your blue nightgown is, Anna’s voice called out in
reply, the sound moving from one room to the next, but you can borrow
mine. . . .
Siblings, I decided, were good to a point—when there was only one
of them. Five seemed rather excessive.
Karen R. Thorne 17
As for my own sibling, her odd behaviour once more left me
puzzled: she still had not emerged from beneath the covers.
Continuing to undress, I watched and waited for the linens to move.
They did not.
I went to clean my teeth.
When I returned, Laurie was sitting up again, reading Pilgrim’s
Progress.
Surreptitiously I stole glances at her in the mirror as I took my hair
down, unpinning it from all hundred and fifty pins (or so it seemed),
then brushing it out. Not once did she look up. Finishing up, I went
over and climbed into bed, my expression set. “Laurie, are you sure
you’re all right? You seem terribly spooked.”
“I’m fine,” she said, not looking up, not moving. I sensed the
tension in her every extremity, a rabbit in a field of foxes.
“I don’t believe you,” I said, fluffing the covers. Then I frowned.
“Listen,” I turned to face her, “if you’re still angry with me for spilling
your secret, I can understand, though I hope you’ll give me a chance to
explain.”
“I’m not angry.”
I looked over. “All right, then, upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“You were before.”
“Well, I’m not anymore.” She turned the page.
“No? What’s changed?”
“Evelyn, that was a week ago. Why bring it up now?”
Not once had she looked at me. And I wasn’t going for it. “Because
I’ve had the feeling all this time you haven’t quite forgiven me,” I said,
“that it still bothers you. Everything’s been so busy neither of us has
said anything—in fact we’ve hardly said anything at all—but I’ve felt it
just the same.”
“You were mistaken.” The room’s relative quiet registered another
soft turning of the page.
For some reason I wanted to tear the book from her hands and take
her up by the shoulders and shake her. Instead I drew my lips into a
18 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
pout. “Fine, then. If that’s how you wish to be.” Hunching down into
the pillow, I let out a forceful sigh. Then I folded my arms across my
middle and stared up at the ceiling.
“I can turn off the light if you’d rather sleep,” Laurie said, closing
the book and laying it aside.
“No, no, don’t let me keep you from your reading.” Snide, my tone,
though I couldn’t help it. I didn’t like this rift between us. Especially
now we had to share a room.
“Is that it?” I said, suddenly sitting up. “You’re upset we have to
share?”
Her large brown eyes slid warily towards me. “Are you?”
“I asked you first.”
She gave an audible gulp. “No,” she said slowly, her gaze falling to
the edge of the coverlet she now absently twiddled between her
slender fingers. “Of course I’d prefer my own room, as I know you
prefer to be alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. You’d rather have your own space, wouldn’t you.”
“Well,” I said slowly, “of course. But if I have to share,” I turned to
lay on my side, facing her, “I’d much rather share with you.”
Subtly she moved back, away from me. “What if I snore?”
“I don’t think you do.”
“But I might.”
“I’d’ve heard it if you did.”
“What if I steal all the covers?”
I shrugged. “I’ll get up and get another blanket.”
“What if . . . what if I talk in my sleep?” This last came out with
more than a hint of fear.
I couldn’t help a mischievous grin. “Then I shall write down every
word,” subtly I slid a hand towards her, “and use it against you!” I gave
her ribs a tickle.
Instantly she leapt from the bed. “Stop it!” she shouted.
I blinked. “What?”
Karen R. Thorne 19
She stood rigid, brow furrowed, hugging herself. “Don’t ever do
that,” she said, breath heaving in little gasps as she stared. “It’s not
funny.”
“Oh! Oh, poppet . . . I’m really sorry. I didn’t know—”
“Lots of things you don’t know,” she said, remaining very still
where she stood. Then after a minute or so she reluctantly crawled
back into bed, turning away from me, huddling at the far edge.
“Laurie, please. You haven’t enough room that way, and you’ll
likely fall off.”
She said nothing.
“All right then,” I said, likewise turning away, “suit yourself.”
Something told me, as I tried not to think about how distressing it
was having her angry with me, that this was not the last of the
conversation.
2
Over the next fortnight or so, Laurie and I did our best to be sociable to
the visiting cousins—each in our own way. Pleasantly exchanging
conversation, bringing them along on afternoon horseback rides (one
at a time, of course), engaging in mindless parlour games. Needless to
say, all this was easier for me than it was for Laurie.
It did not help matters that Carl and Reggie both seemed to have
taken a fancy to my reticent sister. Every time one of them noticed she
was alone, he’d sidle up and begin chatting, trying to draw her out. I
kept a wary eye so I could step in whenever possible, but sometimes I
was otherwise occupied and therefore unavailable. At such times I had
to resign myself to the idea that my barely-fourteen-years-old sister
was capable of managing things herself.
It did nothing to prevent me worrying.
(Thank goodness Laurie’s birthday was in March, before the
Rothschilds’ visit—it would’ve been no easy task, keeping Aunt Maribel
reined in on the birthday-party thing. Likely I would’ve had to clobber
these over-exuberant cousins who meant well but scared the living
shite out of my sister.)
Rescuing my poor Laurie, however, was not something I could
continue to do, as Anna held me to my promise of teaching her to ride
properly, and Cate proved to be an interesting companion, far more
intelligent than I’d initially given her credit for. Her knowledge of the
local flora and fauna—which I’d assumed would be unfamiliar to her,
seeing as the family hailed from Devon—surpassed even mine.
Christina was content to spend her time reading or badgering
Louise, our second-eldest maid who was also a fine seamstress. Miss
Priss was apparently convinced Louise was now her own private
seamstress, at her beck and call to make whatever stylish, fashionable
Karen R. Thorne 21
new frock Miss Priss-tina deemed necessary. (Or raising the hemlines
of the ones she already owned . . !)
Little Eliza stayed out of everyone’s way by either hanging upon
Ansey’s every word during meal preparations (it didn’t seem to bother
Eliza there was a difference between upstairs and downstairs), or
practising at the piano in the music room. And so it was by far easiest
for Laurie to warm to this little one, helping the younger girl with her
musical lessons, as Laurie—I was surprised to learn—had taken piano
lessons since she was four.
Naturally, all this led to an impromptu concert.
Laurie tried to decline, of course, insisting she’d been away from it
so long she was out of practise. (Not once had she even mentioned it
the whole of the time she’d been here.) But Eliza’s imploring,
beseeching eyes she could not refuse.
Seating herself at the piano, Laurie took a moment to compose
herself. The rest of us sat quietly in loose rows a few feet away, the
music room ample but not overly so. At Mother’s nod Ansey lowered
the lights, leaving only the small overhead lamp above the piano to
cast a radiant glow upon that magnificent shimmering of gold gathered
back into a neat black bow.
Placing her hands lightly on the keys, Laurie gave a soft sigh. Then,
the gentle, quiet, slow refrains of Chopin began wafting into the room.
My mouth fell open. No sheets of music before her, no other
musicians to lend accompaniment; just the bowed golden head slightly
swaying with the music, pale cheek in profile, the lovely undulating
melodies floating upon the air. Breathtaking . . . and sad and poignant
and marvellous and wonderful. Such bittersweetness in her playing, a
veil beneath which lay all the loveliness and the simple grandeur and
everything in between, though the veil kept it hidden. A million things
left unsaid, heartaches too profound for words. The music said it all,
yet revealed nothing. Nothing but the most fragile hints of wounded
depths too agonising to plumb.
It took everything I had not to weep.
22 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
I looked around. Several heads were nodding in time, nearly as
deeply touched as I. Mother’s face was as stone (to be expected; rarely
did she display the pleasanter emotions); Father sat beaming, as did
Eliza, who was likewise in awe of Laurie’s ability and longed to emulate
it. The three older girls ranged from impressed to aloof (one guess as to
whose expression that was). The boys, of course, were more than rapt—
I fully expected both to jump up at the end and propose marriage.
When the piece concluded, spontaneous applause broke out,
peppered with more than a few Bravos. (Bra-va from the purists, Cate
and Reggie.) Laurie appeared to come back to herself then, as if she’d
been someplace faraway. Realising the attention, she ducked her chin
and gave a slight bow, quite self-conscious.
“Now it’s Eliza’s turn,” she said, all too willing to turn the spotlight
over to the young student, who eagerly took the stage. Laurie slipped
into the seat next to me, in shadow.
Eliza was a good little pianist herself, making very few errors and
inflecting the music with surprising personality, flair, and not a little
technical ability. Of course, there was no comparison: the two
performers were neither the same age nor the same level of
experience. Still, I could hardly listen with the same ear, once I’d heard
my step-sister’s amazing, heretofore hidden talent.
Which she was more than anxious to downplay, politely thanking
everyone afterwards before making a swift retreat to our room.
I hurried to follow.
“That was wonderful!” I gushed as I came in the bedroom, closing
the door. “I’d no idea you were so talented.”
“I’m not,” she said, shaking her head with a shrug. Her tone begged
to drop the subject.
I plopped onto the end of the bed. “You are. You’ve talent enough
to be a concert pianist. Why do you dismiss it?”
At this her eyes went wide; she seemed too taken aback to speak.
“What? Surely it’s not the first time someone’s mentioned the
possibility.” When she didn’t answer, I grimaced. “I don’t understand
Karen R. Thorne 23
you. Clearly you love to play, and you’ve talent to spare. What are you
afraid of?”
“Nothing.” She went to the armoire, removing her light wrap and
hanging it up. “I just don’t want to be a concert pianist, that’s all.”
“You’d rather be an artist.”
The oddest expression crossed her face, as if suddenly reminded.
“Perhaps,” she said slowly, shutting the armoire door.
The mischief in me rose. “Or is it that you’ve decided to be the
aspirant,” I said, unable to resist goading her just a little bit. “Sister
Mary Lucretia Pious.” I slid back against the pillows with a most wicked
grin.
“No,” she said flatly, “I do not wish to be that.”
I gave a relieved sigh. “The artist, then.”
“As I said, maybe.”
“You don’t have to, you know,” I said, leaning forward. “You could
always just marry a rich man,” my tone turned coquettish, “one of the
Rothschild boys, for instance.”
A throw pillow promptly impacted my head.
“Ay, what was that for?” I rubbed the spot.
“You’ve no right to tease me,” she said, delicate brow knotting.
“You know I don’t like their attentions.”
My feathers drooped. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.” (Though it had been
fun.)
Laurie sank into the pillowless chair. “I’ve no wish to marry for
money,” she muttered, “or status. Should I ever decide to marry, it will
be for love and no other reason. If I marry at all.”
“If?” This made me sit up. “Why should you not?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure I want to.”
“It’s not that pious religious stuff again, is it?” Her religious views
were not a subject we had particularly discussed, but I had the feeling
they were rather staid, to put it nicely.
“No,” she said.
“Then what?”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
24 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
“Why not?” I pressed.
“I just wouldn’t.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“Is so.”
“Is not!”
“Why do you care?” She gazed at me with veiled eyes. “It makes no
difference to you.”
“Yes it does. You’re my sister.”
“Step. Not sister.”
“All right, step-sister. I care for you all the same.”
“Anyway,” she reached across to the bed for the wayward throw
pillow, “it’s my own business, not yours.”
“Says who?”
“I do.” Sitting back in the chair, she hugged the pillow to her.
“Being your step-sister makes it my business.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes it does.”
“Eva, stop it!”
Fortunately no one came to the door. A bit awkward, if we’d had to
interrupt the conversation to explain the sudden shouting.
I heaved a sigh. “Look, Laurie, I don’t want to fight with you. I’m
just . . . I want to get to know you better, all right?” She seemed a bit
mollified, so I went on: “Before all these people showed up,” I made a
broad gesture, “you and I were just starting to be comfortable with
each other. Each learning who the other was, you and I. Now it’s all
muddled.”
For one brief moment I thought she would come hug me, or at least
sit next to me. Instead she quietly got to her feet, placing the pillow
back on the chair, her arms falling to hang limply to her sides. She
stood a moment, as if torn. Then, going to the armoire, she took out
her dressing gown, retrieving her nightgown from the bureau. “I won’t
be long,” she said. She did not look back as she went out and closed the
door.
I fell back against the pillows, wondering if I’d ever figure her out.
Karen R. Thorne 25
By turns the days grew warmer, then hotter, and the skies even bluer,
the long daylight hours dragging on with that endless, stifling summer
monotony that makes one long for crisp autumn evenings with a hint
of snow. A long way off, unfortunately, as it was now the middle of
June, and then July, when the humidity soared and every flying bug
and creepy-crawly seemed hell-bent on sucking the life juices out of
one’s skin. Even the horses suffered.
All the brilliant summer weather should have bolstered my sister’s
delicate constitution; instead, she grew more pale, insisting upon
staying indoors until the cool of the evening (such as it was), eating
little, and frequently asking to be excused because of a headache.
She wasn’t sleeping well, either.
One afternoon, after an obligatory game of croquet with the boys
and Cate, I came in to find Laurie seated in the small sitting room
downstairs, sketching. Dark circles lined the pale skin beneath her
eyes, yet I could almost swear today there was a slight hint of pleasure,
or contentment. Little had I witnessed her indulging her artistic
interests; I went to see what she was drawing.
“Sparrows,” she said by way of explanation, holding the sketch pad
a little sideways for me to see. “Just sparrows, on the lawn.” She didn’t
look up.
A pencil sketch, of four or five of the small birds, two together, the
rest scattered, pecking at titbits on the ground. Yet she’d captured the
scene perfectly: the walk, the lawn, the little birds, whose every tiny
feather was drawn in perfect detail.
Before I could comment I felt someone leaning over my shoulder.
“Rather common, aren’t they?” Christina said with that snooty lilt.
“The birds, I mean. Hardly worth drawing.” As if the subject matter was
so very beneath us.
I turned. “They’re lovely,” I said coolly, wishing she’d step away
before I smacked her one. She’d no cause to be so snotty—none of her
26 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
siblings were. “And I don’t recall anyone asking your opinion,” I said,
moving a little to shield Laurie.
“No,” Christina admitted, “but art is meant to be seen, to be
critiqued, is it not? Besides, I only meant perhaps it would be more
interesting if she drew peacocks, or swans perhaps. They’re such lovely
creatures, graceful and elegant. No one cares about any old common
sparrows.” In a flounce she twirled and glided away.
My gaze shifted to Laurie, still seated. “Don’t pay any attention to
her. She’s just jealous.” I gave a sniff. “She probably wishes she had
some talent, other than being the snippiest old thing this side of the
Channel.”
“Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings,” Laurie said quietly,
gazing at the sketch, “and not one of them is forgotten before God?”
Immediately I recognised the quote, from the Book of Luke in the
Bible. “Absolutely,” I said, kneeling before her, giving her a big smile.
“You draw anything you want, poppet. Sparrows are every bit as
important as any old peacock or swan, as important as any of God’s
creatures on this earth. Perhaps more so, for they’re mentioned by
name in the Good Book.”
She gazed down at the sketch a long moment, on her delicate brow
a tiny frown. Then she tore it from the pad and started crumpling the
page.
I snatched it from her, scowling. “Laurie!” I said, straightening out
the crinkled paper, giving her a pained look. “Why would you want to
ruin such beautiful art? After all the time you spent making it perfect.”
I held it up, wishing it weren’t rumpled but nonetheless appreciating
its simple beauty. “May I have it?” I said, hopeful. “I should very much
like to hang it in our room.”
Unsure, she hesitated, then nodded.
Karen R. Thorne 27
So much I wanted to tend to her, my ailing sister, to devote my time
exclusively to helping my increasingly fragile sibling in whatever
manner I could. But the cousins were still gambolling about in full
force, and I could not renege on my promise to teach Anna to ride—
which, in truth, proved quite enjoyable. Not merely the riding but the
teaching as well; more than once it crossed my mind to perhaps one
day pursue a career as an equestrian trainer. (If my mother did not
marry me off to some wealthy aristocrat first. Ha!)
Taking Anna through her paces, and continuing Samson’s training
—with Laurie not riding as she had before, the horse had become all
but neglected—helped the hours pass quickly in an otherwise
interminable summer. We’d start in the morning, Anna and I, round
about seven or eight, and quickly lose track of time; every day Ansey or
John or Dennis would have to come fetch us for midday meal.
Yet the whole of the time, even as I thrilled at the sheer joy of
being in the saddle, at being out and away from the house on my
delightful Zusza, and sharing my love of horses with Anna and
revelling in the freedom, I very much missed Laurie. Our daily rides
together had been our bonding time, the time when the two of us went
off together into our own little world, trotting along in conversation or
galloping at top speed, in silence. Many a time we’d slow the horses to
a walk, still without speaking, and continue this way for an hour or
more. At such times we’d no need for words, just the silent
understanding slowly forming between us.
Only occasionally did that happen now, our wordless
communication, sometimes as Anna and I would pass by the house and
I’d catch a glimpse of Laurie in the upstairs window, looking down.
She’d wave at me and I’d wave back, and my heart would twang as a
plucked violin string, wishing she’d come along. Adamant, she always
said no.
“Why doesn’t she come?” Anna asked one day, glancing back at the
house over her shoulder as we headed east, towards the stream.
28 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
Slowing Zusza, I shrugged. “I don’t know. She used to ride, all the
time. But that was . . . before.” Barely did I catch myself: I was about to
say before you people came.
“Before what?”
My lips compressed. “Before she fell ill.” Tugging at the reins, I
steered Zusza left, taking the steeper trail leading away.
Anna made a soft sound. “So what’s wrong with her?”
I looked back to make sure she didn’t let Samson falter. “The
doctor doesn’t know. He’s given her blood strengtheners and
prescribed a rich diet, but she eats so little it does no good.”
“Maybe he’s not a very good doctor,” Anna said, scrunching her
nose in a frown. “Maybe your parents should try someone else.”
I shook my head. “Father insists on Doctor Penrose. He’s been their
doctor since before Laurie was born.”
“Their doctor?”
“Mother and I had a doctor of our own—” I pulled up Zusza a bit, to
let Anna catch up, “before she married Father. But Doctor Wilkins is
getting old, and Father said Doctor Penrose is excellent, more than
adequate for the whole family.” Even as I said it, I felt a knot in my
middle . . . as if what Mother and I had wasn’t good enough.
“But still,” Anna said, fumbling a bit with the reins, “if Laurie isn’t
getting any better, maybe a second opinion wouldn’t hurt.”
You don’t know Father, I thought blackly.
Evening found Laurie propped up in bed again, reading as usual.
“How’s Cathy doing?” I said in a light tone, moving to the armoire
to stow my riding cap and gloves.
“Hm? Oh. I finished Wuthering Heights. Now I’m reading The Fall of
the House of Usher.”
Karen R. Thorne 29
I turned. “Short stories now? I thought you were so fond of longer
works.” I paused to straighten the framed sparrow sketch, which had
gone a bit crooked on the wall.
She shrugged, scooting away (her habitual reaction) as I came over
and sat down. “I felt like a bit of lighter fare,” she said, “poetry and
such.”
“Lighter? Poe?” My laughter bounced off the high ceiling,
somewhat louder than intended.
“What’s so funny?” She gave me a sideways scowl. “I only meant
lighter than novel-length. Nothing wrong with that.”
“No,” I laid a hand atop hers, “nothing at all, poppet. Don’t pay any
attention to me. I’m only being silly.” In truth I wanted to engage her,
to get her to laugh. She looked even paler than when I’d left that
morning.
I sat a moment, watching her read. Finally I couldn’t bear it.
“Laurie, my love,” I said, taking up her cool hand in mine, “what’s
wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, giving yet another of her offhand shrugs,
taking back her hand, eyes not leaving her book.
“Not nothing, look at you! You won’t eat, you won’t go out, you lie
in bed reading the hours away. You’re so pale you’re nearly the same
white as the sheets, and you’ve hardly skin on your bones.” To prove it,
I reached for her arm, extending it and pulling the nightgown sleeve
back.
I let out a gasp.
“It’s nothing,” she muttered, pulling the sleeve back down.
“Where did you get those?” I demanded, shocked at the multiple
bruises and welts on her arm. “Is that what that Doctor Penrose has
been doing to you?”
“No!” she answered a little too quickly. Then she added, “Sort of,
yes, sometimes. He has to sample my blood, to test it. My levels or
something.”
“All of that?”
Visibly a knot came into her throat; she looked away.
30 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
My mouth set in a line. “I think perhaps Anna’s right. I think we
need a second opinion.” Getting to my feet, I strode for the door.
“Eva, no!”
Hand on the knob, I halted. “Why not?” I said, surprised at the
desperation—no, fear—in her voice.
Her lower lip trembled. “Doctor Penrose has been with us since
before I was born,” she said.
“I know. Father told me.”
“So he knows me best. I . . . I don’t want anyone else.”
No, love. That isn’t the reason. I knew it wasn’t, but I wasn’t going to
say so. “All right,” I said gently, coming over to her, “if Doctor Penrose
thinks this is best for you, so be it.” Leaning down, I lightly hugged her
bird-shoulders.
Yet even as she allowed it, I could feel her shrinking away. I sat
back. “Laurie,” I said as gently as I could, “why are you so afraid of
me?”
“I—I’m not afraid of you.”
“You are. I can feel it. Every time I come near you, every time I
climb into bed, I feel you pull away. I know you want me to have plenty
of room, to have space, but I can’t help feeling there’s more to it than
just that. Like you’re afraid for me to touch you or something.” I
waited, but she was silent. “Are you afraid it’s sinful, two sisters who
aren’t blood-related sleeping together?” I knew that wasn’t it, or it
wasn’t all of it, but I had to try to draw her out.
To this she shook her head.
“Well, what, then?”
“I—I can’t tell you. I don’t know.”
The second clearly a contradiction to the first. Though it seemed
pointless to continue to press the matter. I gave a dejected sigh. “All
right. Go back to your reading.” Getting to my feet, I hauled myself
over to the bureau, opening the drawer and taking out my nightgown.
“Aren’t you going to dinner?”
Without turning I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.”
Karen R. Thorne 31
The book snapped shut behind me, followed by a thud on the
bedside table. When I looked, Laurie had lain down, covers drawn up,
eyes tightly closed.
Thus ends the conversation, I thought, moving to turn off the light.
Sometime well after midnight I woke, from a sound that in my dream-
stupor sounded like Laurie moaning.
Pulling myself to sitting, I tried to focus. No sound came from the
other side of the bed. The covers had fallen from her shoulders, and as I
reached to replace them my hand grazed her cheek—ice-cold.
“Laurie?” Quickly I placed a finger against the side of her throat;
my breath escaped when I found the pulse, steady if not exactly strong.
Unlike her cheek, the base of her throat was quite warm, overly so.
Fever, pulling the warmth from her face even as it heated her throat
area.
Rising from the bed, I tiptoed down to the kitchen, to the pantry
where Louise kept medicinal supplies. A bowl, a folded length of cloth
and a handful each of dried hyssop, licorice root, and thyme I took back
upstairs; these I made into a moist compress, pressing it gently against
Laurie’s throat. That seemed ineffective, though, so gingerly I undid
the first few buttons of her nightgown, so as to have a broader area on
which to place the compress. I suppressed a gasp—she had no bosom at
all.
Just then she uttered a small moan. Not wishing to upset her, I re-
buttoned the nightgown over the top of the compress, leaving it in
place (though it was a bit damp) as I lay back down beside her.
The full light of the moon shone in the window at my back, over
my shoulder and onto Laurie’s sleeping face. A slight sheen reflected
on her moist brow and upper lip, evidence of the compress working.
Damp tendrils of golden hair darkened about her face, clinging moistly
to her forehead and cheek; gently I brushed them away. For once she
did not flinch, unaware of my motions.
32 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
Images of her bruised and welted arm came to mind; instantly my
anger flared. How dare that doctor do such a thing! Injuring a patient
for the sake of curing her? Nonsense! Next time I saw him, I’d let him
know just what I thought of it, I would.
Laurie moaned again then, her eyes fluttering open. “Eva?”
“Yes, Laurie, I’m here.”
“I don’t feel at all well. I think I shall be sick.”
“Oh—hold on.” Leaping from the bed, I grabbed up the small waste
bin under the night table; promptly she sicked up in it.
“I’m sorry,” she said weakly a few moments later, sinking back
down.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. You just lie there and rest. Do you
feel you might be sick again, or are you all right for a few minutes so I
can tend to this?”
“I . . . I think I’m all right for now.” Gasping and winded, she lay
back on the pillow.
As quietly as I could manage, I slipped into the lavatory, hurriedly
cleaning the bin in case it was needed again. Something was not right
about this. She hadn’t even eaten dinner. If she sicked up again it’d
likely be dry heaves.
Yet it was more troublesome than that. Not the general
unpleasantness (that never much bothered me), but rather the mystery.
Or. . . .
“Eva?”
Hustling, I ran back to the room.
Laurie was sitting up, shaking visibly. “I’m . . . cold.”
“It’s the fever,” I said, setting the bin down and reaching to wrap
her in blankets. Still she shivered. “Is the compress still in place?”
Glancing down, I saw it wasn’t; I retrieved it from where it had fallen
onto the floor. The bowl with the herbal mixture I’d left on the night
table, easily accessible to refresh the compress as needed. Laurie
recoiled as I went to replace the pack beneath her gown, but I shook
my head. “You needn’t worry. I won’t look.”
“You . . . did this before?”
Karen R. Thorne 33
I nodded. “I didn’t look then, either.”
Modesty I could understand. This seemed a bit excessive.
Nevertheless, I respected her privacy and went to extreme lengths not
to embarrass her. After all, a lack in any womanly department held its
own shame.
The blankets were doing little good. I knew the fever needed to run
its own course, within reason. With a small sigh I came round onto the
bed and slid up next to her, taking her in my arms and rocking her
gently, murmuring soothingly in her ear. Her hair smelled like warm
chestnuts.
“Ev-a, you should sl-eep.” Her voice was becoming hoarse.
“Nonsense. Would you rather I fetch Ansey to look after you?”
She didn’t answer, but I knew she’d prefer anything to that. The
woman was about as comforting as a bee sting.
I continued to rock Laurie, murmuring soothingly to help her calm.
Gradually the chills began to lessen, coming less and less frequently. At
one point I thought perhaps I should release her, so she could lie down,
but another spasm prompted me to continue a little longer.
Then at some point I felt Laurie relax. At first I thought she’d fallen
asleep, until she shifted . . . towards me. Leaning her head against my
shoulder, a motion of trust. My heart leapt. The memory of my
imprudent words to the priest fluttered by . . . had I truly hurt her so?
Still the guilt weighed on me.
I sighed. Whether it was her mother’s tragic death (she would not
share the details), or having to leave her family home to come and live
here, or perhaps something else entirely, I did not know. I only knew
that something had affected her, deeply. More so than merely my
unthoughtful words. Wounded, she was, as a small bird by arrow-shot,
and the wound had never healed.
My arms wrapped closer round her. “I love you, my sweet Laurie,” I
whispered, “my poppet.”
In the darkness there was only the holding of breath.
34 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
Anna’s lesson was short the next day.
“Aren’t we going to work on my Swedish oxers and combinations?”
she said, disappointed.
“Not today.” Bringing Zusza into the stable, I dismounted, leading
her to the water trough while I gathered some feed in a bag.
Likewise dismounting, Anna watched me a few moments. “Looks
like you’re going somewhere,” she said in a leading tone.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “I’ve a friend I haven’t seen in
awhile, all summer, in fact. I thought I’d pay him a visit.”
“Him . . . ?” From the lilt in her tone and the cock of her brow, Anna
read more into my answer than was there.
“Yes, him. I’ve known Quinn since I was little. Besides, he and his
mother know more about curing what ails a person than most
doctors.” Spinning on my heel, I pressed a finger to Anna’s lips. “Not a
word to anyone! Understand?”
Wide-eyed, she nodded.
“I can trust you, right? Though I guess I’ll have to, since you
already know.”
“Do you think your friend can help Laurie?” All eager, Anna trotted
along on my heels as I readied Zusza.
“I don’t know. But I have to try.” Hoisting myself once more into
the saddle, I assumed a stern expression. “Remember, keep hush!”
Then with a slight nudge to Zusza’s flanks, I headed off.
Quinn was surprised to see me, of course, but it was if no time had
passed.
“Been wond’rin when ye’d come around,” he said in his refreshing
Scottish accent, all grins as he opened the door of the modest cottage
he and his mother shared.
Karen R. Thorne 35
“Things have been busy.” Smiling, I threw my arms round his
sturdy form, appreciating his earthy strength and glad for something
familiar. “Though I come now not so much for a visit, but to ask your
help.” Briefly I explained Laurie’s condition.
“Hm,” Quinn murmured, sun-bleached brow furrowing. “Ye did the
right thing, makin’ that compress. But that’s only for the fever, not
what’s ailin’ her.” Extending a hand, he indicated we should sit at the
broad rustic table.
As he went round it I noticed how tall he’d got. All of eighteen, he
looked more like twenty going on twenty-five. His arms and chest had
filled out (more so than before), and as he muttered to himself I could
tell his voice had deepened, settling more into an adult tone. The
angled afternoon sun caught in the thick stubby scrub of solid whiskers
jutting from his chin at odd angles.
“You’ve grown up,” I said, unable to suppress a grin.
“Huh? Oh,” he gave his chin a self-conscious rub, “yeah, I guess ye
might say that. I dinna so much notice, but me mum sure did. Said I
grew three feet overnight—at long last!” He laughed his hearty laugh,
also deeper than before, yet no less infectious.
“What’s Aurelia think of it?”
Quinn’s left brow went up. “Aurelia? She’s old news.” He waved a
dismissive hand. “Mary Francis—she’s my one and only now.”
At this I couldn’t help but laugh. “One and only . . . for the week,
you mean.”
“No, no,” his Scottish brogue overtook him, “I’m tellin’ ye, Mary
Francis is a keeper.”
“Sure, right. So when’s the wedding?”
In answer he clouted my shoulder. Then his expression sobered.
“Enough o’ this banter. We need t’ be thinkin’ ‘bout helping your
sister.”
“Agreed. So what are you thinking? Nettles, maybe, for the welts,
tea packs for the bruises?”
He shook his head. “All that’s easy enough. What we’ve got t’ do is
figure out why she won’t eat, what causin’ her t’ be so weak.”
36 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
I thought a long moment. “Quinn, could you come up to the house
to see her? We could say we ran into each other and I invited you to
stop by, to meet the cousins. If you could see her in person, maybe you
could figure something out.”
“Hm. Least it’s worth a try. When should I come?”
Eager, I leaned forward in my seat. “This evening? If you’re not
busy.”
“I’ll be there.”
True to his word, Quinn stopped by around seven. Everyone had gone
off to their respective evening activities, so I casually took him round
to introduce him, playing up the story we’d concocted so he could
come visit. (Father was none too keen on Quinn for some reason,
though I suspected it was because his family status was “beneath” us.)
Socialities out of the way, Quinn and I went up the stairs. I cast him
a sideways glance. “I see you brought your shoulder pack,” I said,
eyeing the nondescript drawstring sack.
“Absolutely. Can’t go out without me bag of magic tricks.” Catching
my eye, he winked.
Laurie was surprised I’d brought a guest in to meet her, especially
as she’d remained ill in bed the whole day, until I explained in hushed
tones why Quinn had come.
A fearful scoonching-back against the pillows followed.
“You’ve nothing to be afraid of,” I said softly, so no one beyond the
room could hear. “Quinn is excellent with herbal folk remedies. Maybe
he can help you.” Then as an afterthought I added, “And he respects
people’s privacy.”
With great reluctance Laurie allowed the sleeve of her nightgown
to be pushed back, revealing the ugly marks and discolourations. Quinn
had the presence of mind not to react; he merely took a gentle hold of
her arm, turning it a little to assess the situation. Nodding, he slid the
Karen R. Thorne 37
shoulder pack off and untied it, taking out a small bottle and a few
cotton balls, with which he dabbed some of the brown liquid on the
wounds.
Laurie’s nose wrinkled at the pungent smell, and Quinn smiled.
“Aye, it smells like th’ Dickens, but it works wonders. I’ll leave th’ bottle
here so you can treat it some more tomorrow.”
His tone of voice was light, soothing, comforting—for Laurie’s
benefit. I knew from experience it was his way of not frightening his
patient.
Taking up the glass of water beside the bed, with his other hand he
extricated another small bottle from his bag, removing the cap and
droppering some into the water. The purplish liquid disappeared. “A
few sips of this,” he said to Laurie, “an’ ye’ll feel more relaxed.” He held
the glass while she drank.
“Will that help her throat?” I said, hopeful.
“Aye,” he said, setting the empty glass down, “the balm in it’s good
for calmin’ throats as well as nerves.
“Oh, good. She’s—” I stopped myself on the verge of mentioning
her singing voice, “her throat’s been sounding scratchy.”
Quinn made a soothing sound. “Therre now,” he said, Scottish
tongue rolling the words, “much better, eh? Ye just lie back and rest,
and tomorrow perhaps ye’ll feel so much better,” here his voice took on
a lilt, “ye’ll come visit me.” He gave her a broad smile, and she
managed a weak one in return.
Already her eyes were drooping.
As Quinn retied his shoulder pack, I studied his face for some clue.
Motioning, he indicated we should talk outside.
“All right,” I said when we’d gone a fair distance from the house,
“you’ve kept me on sticks and thorns long enough. What’s wrong with
her?”
38 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
Frowning, he shook his head. “It’s a strange, strange case. Never
seen anythin’ like it. I cannae imagine wot that doctor’d be givin’ ‘er to
do all that. I know one thing, though: we need t’ get her away from
here a few days, t’ see if she improves. As long as that doctor’s comin’
round, pokin’ her arm like that, she’ll never get better.”
“But what can we do? Father insists on Doctor Penrose seeing her—
only Doctor Penrose.”
This titbit did not please Quinn. “Som’thin’s not right,” he said,
shaking his head. “That doctor’s up t’ som’thin’, I know he is. I just
don’t know what.”
I set my jaw. “We’ll see about that.”
3
Father was in the study when I found him. Over his gold-rimmed
glasses he looked up from his thick law book. “Yes, Evelyn?”
Without thinking my arms crossed. “I’m worried about Laurie.”
“As are we all.” Thoughtfully he turned the page. “Doctor Penrose
is handling the situation.”
“No he isn’t!” Catching myself, I lowered my voice. “What I mean
is, she isn’t getting any better, she’s getting worse. Last night she woke
in the middle of the night quite ill, vomiting and feverish.” One of
Father’s brows arched a bit, though he did not look up. “She’s so weak
she doesn’t feel like eating,” I went on, “and she hardly leaves the bed.”
I waited, but Father continued scrutinising the page. Perhaps he
was considering what I’d said.
“I’m afraid if this continues,” I said, urgency creeping into my
voice, “she might not make it.”
Absently his left-hand fingers stroked his moustache. “So what is it
you wish me to do?” he said at length, turning another page.
“I think we should have a second opinion.” Stated firmly, no room
for debate.
“Do you.”
My nostrils flared. “I do,” I said, not backing down, “with all haste. I
cannot bear to see her deteriorate like this. If it continues, she could
die.”
No reaction. Then he gave a long sigh; reaching up, he removed his
glasses, placing them on the secretary with exaggerated care. “I do not
recall,” he said, taking up the leather bookmark, placing it in the book,
“anyone putting you in charge. Not of this household, and certainly not
of your sister’s health.”
Watery grey eyes came to meet mine, a look of aged steel.
40 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
I felt myself swallow. “No,” I said more quietly, “no one has put me
in charge. Nor have I taken it upon myself. Yet I cannot simply stand by
and watch my sister waste away.” I itched to say more, but left it at
that.
“Very well,” Father said with an exhale of annoyed resignation,
tossing his pen on the table. “I shall enquire in Chatham tomorrow—”
“Doctor Wilkins could come,” I said. (Too hastily, but my anxiety
was getting the best of me.)
The arched brow raised even higher. “Evelyn—” already the word
was a reprimand, “we have previously discussed the abilities or the
lack thereof concerning the honourable Doctor Wilkins. For you and
your mother I am sure the man was an excellent physician, in his day.
Now he’s advanced in years, and I do not feel he is capable of meeting
the task.”
“Doctor Wilkins is a fine doctor,” I said with some vehemence, my
brow knitting. “Sixty-two is not that old. It’s . . . experienced.”
A full half-minute hung in the air.
“Very well,” Father said finally. He smoothed the greying hair at
his temples, likewise his moustache. “Tomorrow when I go into town I
will look up the good doctor and make an appointment for him to come
round.”
“Oh, thank you, Father,” I said, uncharacteristically hugging him.
(He was not fond of affectionate physical demonstrations.) “May I tell
Laurie?”
“Certainly,” he picked up his book, “do as you wish.”
I nearly skipped from the room.
To my delight, Laurie seemed pleased.
“I think I should very much like to hear what another physician
has to say,” she said hoarsely—despite Quinn’s elixir—her voice all but
Karen R. Thorne 41
gone. I held the refilled water glass I’d brought for her, as she sat up a
little to drink. Then she fell back, winded.
I frowned a little. Then, composing my face, I smiled. “You’ll like
Doctor Wilkins,” I said with a nod, keeping my enthusiasm in check
that she’d changed her mind. “He’s taken care of me since I was a baby,
and Mother before that. I think he used to be a slender man, but as he
got on in years he’s put on a bit of weight. In a red suit he’d look just
like Santa Claus!”
The tiniest of smiles creased the corners of her pale lips.
It struck me then how drawn and withered she looked. Having
been bedridden, she hadn’t bathed or washed her hair; small dried
tendrils stuck to her forehead. I imagined Ansey or Nell had been
sponging Laurie down, as she wasn’t . . . well, heavy perfume wasn’t
necessary. But real cleansing could only be accomplished by a proper
bath or shower, neither of which Laurie seemed capable of managing
herself.
Reaching over, I freed one of the stuck tendrils. “Perhaps you’d feel
better if I helped you have a bath,” I said gently.
Immediately she stiffened. “No,” she said, “I’m fine.”
“Now, Laurie, you can’t feel so very good when you haven’t bathed.
It would refresh you, help to renew your energy. Quinn says it’s
excellent for the constitution.”
Feebly she shook her head. “I’ll wait until I can do it myself.”
My brows lowered over my eyes. “You’re a stubborn little thing,
aren’t you.”
“No more than you,” she mumbled, eyes closing.
Not fair. Not fair at all, that she could still retain that ethereal,
almost heavenly beauty despite being unwashed and ill.
“Well, fine,” I said, assuming an aloof air, “let me know if you
change your mind.” Then, despite myself, I leaned down to kiss her
moist forehead, catching the muted fragrance of her chestnut-scented
hair, the golden tresses dulled from days of inactivity and nights of
sweating, fevers and chills, yet no less beautiful. A waft of envy went
through me; I lingered a moment at her cheek, unwilling to leave her.
42 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
Then I got to my feet and headed outside for a walk, hoping the
night air would take away my urge to bury my face next to hers and
weep.
Doctor Wilkins did not come.
When I asked Father why, he said the elderly gentleman had been
taken ill, and was in hospital.
“Goodness!” Mother said, concerned. “Nothing too serious, I hope?”
“That I do not know,” Father said. “His assistant informed me of the
news, but did not elaborate on the details.”
You might have asked, I thought blackly.
“I’m so sorry to hear it.” Mother’s voice was tinged with what sounded
like real concern. Impressive, coming from her. She’d grown quite dour
since marrying Mister Aged-Steel. “Were you able to find anyone else,”
she said, “or will Doctor Penrose continue seeing the child?”
My mother’s choice of words bristled me; I tried not to let it show.
“As a matter of fact, Doctor Brudiger will be able to make a trip out
tomorrow.”
“Splendid!” Mother’s half-smiling eyes swung to me. “Perhaps he
will be able to add to the expertise of our good Doctor Penrose. Two
heads are most certainly better than one.”
This time I could scarce not roll my eyes at my mother’s lame
reliance on cliché to make her point. Outwardly I gave her a return
smile, taking solace in the fact that at least another doctor would be
tending my fading sister.
“No,” Laurie said when I gave her the update.
I moved to sit next to her. “But why not? You said you thought it a
good idea to get a second opinion.”
Karen R. Thorne 43
She shook her head. “Doctor Brudiger is just like Doctor Penrose.
They used to share a practise.”
“All right, but still he could offer another opinion—”
Again she shook her head.
I exhaled a sigh. “Well, there isn’t much we can do about it now.
Father said the doctor will be coming here tomorrow. Not likely I can
get him to cancel the appointment.”
“Nor should you,” Anna said, standing at the door. Hesitant, she
came a few steps inside. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but
the door was open.” With large eyes she looked over at Laurie. “How
are you feeling?”
“The same,” Laurie answered, though I knew otherwise.
“Well, I think it’s good this other doctor’s coming,” Anna said, her
enthusiasm infusing her tone. “About time someone did something for
you to really help.”
I flashed the girl a cautionary look. Our discussions of Doctor
Penrose’s ministrations—or the lack thereof—were meant to be
private.
Anna seemed not to notice. “I think it’s just awful,” she said to
Laurie, moving to take her hand, “that this Penrose is so inept. No
offence, Laurie, but he seems to have made you worse, not better.”
“Anna,” I interrupted, “didn’t Cate say she needed your help this
afternoon with memorising Yeats? Something about wanting to be
ready when you return to school. . . .”
“Oh! Yes, I’d nearly forgotten. Please forgive me,” she nodded to
Laurie, then trotted off.
A little waft of relief brushed over me. Anna was a sweet girl, and
an eager pupil, but right now I didn’t feel it was in Laurie’s best
interests to have her around. The girl blurted out whatever came to
mind (though I was fully guilty of the same), and Laurie’s delicate
health needed no more upsets. Especially from visiting cousins.
“Shouldn’t you also,” Laurie said, voice gravelled, expending great
effort just to turn onto her side, “be tending to matters elsewhere?”
44 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
I tried to read her question, unsuccessfully. “I’ve nothing more
important than tending you. Unless you don’t want me here?”
She gave a faint shake of her head. “If you’ve nothing else,” she
murmured, “I wish you’d stay.”
“Then stay I will.” Moving to pull over a chair, I sat down next to
the bed, leaning forward to take her cool hands. “Shall I read to you,” I
said, noticing her untouched book on the night table, “or would you
prefer to sleep?”
“I’ve done nothing but sleep,” she said, though her eyes drifted
closed. A moment or two passed. Then she said, “You can read to me if
you like.”
Releasing her hands, I took up the book and opened it to the
bookmarked page. “ ‘The loveliness of Eleonora’,” I read softly, “‘was that
of the Seraphim. . . .’ ” I read to the end of the page, now and again
glancing over to see if she’d fallen asleep.
“Go on,” she murmured, pulling the covers up.
“ ‘She had been made perfect in loveliness’,” I continued in the same
soft voice, “ ‘only to die.’ ” As I read, I wondered at the subject matter . . .
too morbid for her to hear right now?
“ ‘And she yielded up her innocent life’. . . ”
“I won’t be here when the doctor comes,” Laurie said quietly.
Instantly my stomach fell. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes slid open. “I don’t want to see him.”
“Laurie, we’ve been through this before. How do you expect to get
better?”
“I don’t want to get better!” she shouted hoarsely, voice breaking.
“I just want it to end.”
My heart turned to water. “Laurie, no,” I murmured, all but a
whisper, “you can’t say that.”
The vehemence of her outburst had taxed her; it was a moment or
two before she could speak. “I am tired of this,” she said, the words
drawn out, the resignation clear. “I am tired of . . . so much.”
“No,” I said, desperate, leaning forward, putting the book aside,
“you can’t be. I mean, you’re young and brilliant and beautiful. A
Karen R. Thorne 45
precious, precious life! Please,” my plaintiveness surprised even me,
“you can’t leave. You can’t leave me now you’ve come.”
Staring at me with those great sad eyes, she shook her head. “You
don’t understand,” she said.
A rock came into my throat. “I want to understand. I want to know
all about you, to come to know this new thing called ‘sister,’ something
I never had. In all my younger years growing up in this house, it was
always too big, too indifferent, too empty. For all its servants and
Mother and the occasional friend who stopped by, I was always alone.”
This last came out bitter. “Sometimes I loved it,” I said, “the solitude.
Other times, I felt abandoned in the remotest corner of the world.” I
laid my palm against her pale cheek, staunchly not reacting to its chill.
“When you came,” my voice caught, “all that changed. My world has
been brighter ever since. Now . . . it all means something.”
I could not tell whether my words had any effect. In truth, until
that moment I was unaware it was how I felt.
My throat welled. “I love you, Laurie,” I heard myself say, “as I have
never loved anyone. Or ever will again.” I took up her frail hand and
pressed it to my cheek. “Please live. For me.”
Her features shifted. “Perhaps,” she said, “I do want to get better.”
This last held a flickering of renewed hope. “But doctors cannot help.”
I frowned. “Surely you don’t mean the church. . . .”
She was shaking her head. “Your friend Quinn,” she said. “I want to
see him.” Withdrawing her other hand from under the covers, she
reached over to squeeze mine. “Please,” she said, “take me to him.”
“Oh, Laurie, I don’t think you should travel, it wouldn’t be wise. I’ll
bring him—”
Again she shook her head. “I need to get out. As soon as possible.”
The rock still in my throat, I nodded.
46 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
Quinn was hardly surprised and more than glad to see us, as I brought
the carriage to a halt in front of his vine-covered home the next
morning. “Ah,” he said in his inimitable accent, “I knew ye’d come.”
Together we helped Laurie down, and Quinn offered to carry her
into the house, but she insisted on walking. Even still, she clung
heavily to the both of us just to maintain balance.
I was relieved to see Quinn’s mother had returned from visiting her
sister, who’d just given birth to her fourth child. Mrs Fletcher, like her
son, had the forethought not to react to Laurie’s condition. “Let’s put
you in here,” the kindly woman said, moving towards the guest room
off to the left. “The bed is comfy and the window affords just the right
amount of light.” Together she and Quinn helped settle Laurie,
bolstering her with pillows so she could sit up without tiring.
“Are you hungry, my dear?” Mrs Fletcher said, tucking in the
covers with a gentle, practised hand. “Or perhaps thirsty?”
“Some water,” Laurie said, hoarser than before, “if it’s not too
much trouble.”
Quinn ran off to get it, while Mrs Fletcher moved about the room
making sure the window was open just a bit for fresh air and there
were enough blankets on the bed in case Laurie felt chilled. Everything
about the slender motherly woman said caretaker, from the way she
moved to her loosely tied back wheat-blonde hair as yet untouched by
the grey of age. Only the few small crow’s feet about her
compassionate eyes when she smiled said she’d matured; that, and the
quiet confidence of experience and wisdom that permeated her entire
being, not the least of which her skilled hands.
“There we are,” she said, plumping the pillows, “much better.” The
patient comfortably situated, mother and son set about assessing
Laurie’s condition, mostly by way of simple questions: Did anything
hurt? What symptoms was she feeling? Did this or that make them
worse, or better?
Karen R. Thorne 47
I admired the skilful way the questions were put so the answers
could be given with a nod or a shake of the head. Ever since I could
remember, I’d trusted Quinn and his wise-woman mother when it came
to one’s health; my faith was once more validated.
“All right, dear,” Mrs Fletcher said with a final smoothing of the
bed linens, “you just lie back and rest. You’re welcome to stay as long
as you like, and Quinn and I will do all we can to put you right as rain.”
Softer than Quinn’s, her accent, yet motherly-Scottish all the same.
I smiled.
Already Laurie looked better. Maybe it was the light, but her skin
didn’t look as sallow, and her eyes seemed a tad brighter. Then I noted
her gaze followed Quinn as he brought in an herbal tea and set it down;
it crossed my mind that perhaps she liked him. I hadn’t the heart to tell
her he was taken.
“Ye can drink the tea,” he said to her, giving the brew a stir, “or ye
can just breathe th’ aroma. Both are good for ye.”
“Thank you,” Laurie said, a thousand-times relief in her failing
voice. She took the tea up, holding the small cup with both hands as
she sipped; a small pleased sigh escaped her throat.
Mrs Fletcher subtly motioned for me to follow as she exited the
room. “Quinn will settle her,” she said to me in hushed tones as we
moved into the living room. “He has a way of soothing people like none
other.”
“How well I know,” I agreed, casting a glance towards the room
from which low murmuring issued. I’d not forgotten the time I myself
had come down with a high fever, on the verge of delirium, when
Quinn had stopped by. Had my mother or Ansey come to answer the
door, he never would’ve been admitted; instead, Nell (thirteen at the
time and easily charmed) had let him in to see me. His gentle soothing
words calmed my agitation, brought me back to myself, and the herbs
he’d brought with him, fresh off the heath, did me a world of benefit.
Else, I might have succumbed. “If anyone can help Laurie,” I said with a
nod, “Quinn can.”
Mrs Fletcher just smiled.
48 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
Leading me to the small parlour, she indicated I should sit. “I’ll
bring us some tea,” she said, going off.
After a few minutes Quinn joined us. “She’s resting now,” he said,
holding out a cup and saucer while his mother poured. “Terrible fearful
little thing, that girl,” he said, Scottish r’s rolled, his brow tightening.
“Whatever that doctor’s been doin’s got her all quakin’ with fright.
That, and an arm lookin’ like a railyard full o’ tracks.”
“You treated it with the tincture?” his mother said.
“Aye. Gave her some t’other day, too, when I was up t’ th’ house.
Though it’ll take more’n just daisy tincture to cure that.”
From his expression I could tell Quinn’s concerns stemmed more
from what was being done to Laurie than whatever ailment had taken
hold of her.
I felt Mrs Fletcher’s gaze.
“How long do you think she can stay?” she said to me.
My stomach knotted. “Not long, I’m sure. I only told Father that I
was going out for some fresh air, not that I was bringing her along.” I
glanced towards the clock on the mantel. “I should probably be
heading back.”
The looks Quinn and his mother exchanged let me know my
meaning was not lost on them. “Leave her here awhile,” Quinn said,
laying a warm hand on my arm, “an’ just tell your father she didn’t feel
well enough t’ return today. Ye can let him know my mother’s takin’
care of her, so he won’t worry.”
As if that were possible.
“If your father has any questions,” Mrs Fletcher said, “send him to
me.” Her expression said, And I’ll deal with it, period.
I looked from one to the other. “Thank you,” I said, taking each of
their hands and giving them a squeeze.
Quinn’s mother smiled, then pulled me to her and hugged me.
“Don’t you worry, lass. We’ll take good care of your sister.”
Karen R. Thorne 49
“I know you will. I’ll just go let Laurie know I’m leaving.”
Returning home without my beloved sibling proved harder than I
thought. So used to checking on her, I felt my stomach drop when I
came into our room and she was not there, despite I knew full well
where she was. Then it hit me: What would it be like if she were gone?
Aching, the emptiness that descended upon me. As if all the air had
been sucked from my lungs, a vast hole left in the middle of my chest.
How close we’d become in so short a time; her moving in to share a
room had only hastened the process. Her quiet demeanour, her pensive
moods, her ability to listen to me ramble on at length about anything
at all—everything I loved about her all came into vivid relief in her
absence.
Father was out, most likely gone to town, so my having to account
for Laurie’s whereabouts enjoyed a momentary reprieve. Time enough
to mull over what we’d done, the coup we’d pulled off, and how I was
going to explain so Father would not be upset. Though there was little
chance of avoiding that.
Especially when Doctor Brudiger arrived.
“Just up here,” I heard my father say, coming up the stairs.
“Fine, fine,” answered a robust doctorly voice, along with footsteps
approaching.
Quickly I wiped at my face, scrubbing at it and grabbing a
handkerchief to blow my nose. I composed a hasty smile.
“Oh Father,” I said, going to meet them at the bedroom door, “I am
so sorry! I forgot all about the good doctor coming today. Laurie isn’t
here just now.”
Never had I seen someone’s eyes “about to pop.”
“Not here?” Father said, with emphasis.
I shook my head. “Regrettably, no. She was feeling very closed in,
suffocated even, so I decided to take her with me when I went out for
50 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
air. In the carriage,” I added hastily, “quite leisurely, so as not to tax
her. It was such a lovely day,” as you rehearsed it, Eva, “we went all the
way out to Westbere, and since we were in the neighbourhood we
stopped by to see Quinn. She met him a few days ago. Then Laurie felt
tired, so Mrs Fletcher suggested she rest there awhile. She’s taking care
of her.”
A long explanation, too long perhaps. I waited to see Father’s
reaction.
“Well,” he pulled himself up, “this is most embarrassing. I’m afraid
we’ve had you come all this way for nothing, Doctor Brudiger. I do
apologise.”
“Nonsense,” the doctor said, “ ’twas no trouble at all, none
whatsoever. I quite enjoy getting out of the city awhile and taking in a
bit of country air. Good for the lungs and the sinuses.” He inhaled a
long breath and let it out, for emphasis.
My insides unknotted ever so slightly; there was still Father to
contend with. Not for one second did I believe his composed façade.
“Still,” Father said, “I did so hope you could take a look at the girl.”
He guided the doctor back towards the stairs. “Her condition is most
baffling. . . .”
Not if you’d stop that hacksaw from chopping up her arm, I thought,
screwing my face into a grimace behind his back. And whatever else the
quack may be doing to her.
To be polite, I followed them down, listening as Father went to
ridiculous lengths to apologise to the doctor. What must the man think
of him, making such a fuss?
“Well, again, thank you for coming all this way,” Father said at the
door. “Perhaps if my daughter feels like travelling into town, we can
stop by your office, if you’ve time.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Doctor Brudiger said, nodding until his jowls
jiggled. “Glad to do it, happy to. Any time. Good-bye.”
As the medic’s gaze met mine I smiled, hoping my true feelings
were not apparent.
The smile faded, however, as soon as the door closed.
Karen R. Thorne 51
“Out for air?” Father said, teeth gritted as he turned to me. A swift
backhand impacted my cheek before I could reply.
Stars, the room darkening. I swayed, then somehow caught my
balance, the light slowly returning. Along with a pulsating sting in my
cheekbone.
“Never,” my father said in my face, “leave here with my daughter
without informing me first. Understand?”
I think I managed a nod.
“See that you do.”
Footsteps retreating told me he moved away.
I didn’t go to dinner.
Mother was surprised but did not argue when I complained of a
headache—migraine, brought on by worry over my ill sister—and
needed to lie down in the quiet dark.
And so I did.
Hours after everyone had gone to bed, I lay in the blackness of my
room staring at the ceiling, the pale moonlight dancing patterns on the
walls. My eyes were hot and dry from staring; my cheek still throbbed a
little, despite the ice Nell had brought. (For the “migraine,” of course.)
I’d known Father would be displeased, but his actions shocked me.
So much so, I’d said nothing. Not one word when he’d smacked me . . .
not even a breath of indignation. Oh, he’d always been protective of
Laurie, doting on her every eyeblink as if she were the princess of the
land, treating her as if she were made of the most delicate glass. Not a
move she made was he inattentive to—fetching servants at the
slightest inkling she needed anything, coddling her, fawning over the
poor little thing at every turn. It surprised me he had not called in
every last doctor within a hundred miles to try to diagnose her
52 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
condition; though I suppose he felt Doctor Penrose was the very best
available, considering the physician’s intimate firsthand knowledge of
his patient.
Turning over onto my side, I forcibly blinked my burning dry eyes,
gazing at the empty pillow beside me. A hollow, sinking feeling filled
my chest. I let my hot eyes close; to Laurie I sent encouraging thoughts.
Was she sleeping now? Resting well? Getting better? Perhaps even
missing me, as I missed her?
Squinting at the clock, I could barely discern the hands: ten past
two. I hadn’t slept.
Then I guess I did, because it was morning and Anna was shaking me.
“Evelyn, wake up. Evelyn, can you hear me?”
“Hm?” Groggily I half-opened one eye. “What time is it?”
“Half past nine. You’ve missed breakfast.”
That got my attention. “How’d I manage that,” I said, sitting up,
“when Ansey never lets me sleep in?”
“She did this morning. Said she didn’t give a whit and a fly if you
ate or not.” The inflection in Anna’s voice as she imitated the head
maid nearly made me laugh. “I sneaked a scone for you, though, in case
you were hungry.” Reaching into her frock pocket, she brought out a
small wrapped bundle. “Don’t worry,” she said as she handed it to me,
“the handkerchief’s clean.”
With a smile I took it, glad to have a cohort (in the food
department, at least). “Thank you,” I said, unwrapping and biting off
the corner of the scone. Honey and cinnamon permeated the light,
crumbly texture. Too bad she couldn’t have also purloined some tea to
go with it.
“So are we still having our lesson this morning?” Anna said,
perching herself on the edge of the bed, eyes as eager as her schoolgirl
voice.
Karen R. Thorne 53
“Of course,” I said, jostling bits of scone in my full mouth not to
spew crumbs. Swallowing, I said, “Let me just finish this and I’ll get
dressed.”
Twenty minutes later I was moderately put together (praying Mother
didn’t catch a glimpse of my haphazard manner of dress, my half-
pinned mane bunched loosely in a snood), and heading for the stable.
Anna was already saddled up and ready to go.
“Nice job,” I said, noting her preparations had improved. All her
tack was neatly in place, including boots, wraps, and the running
martingale.
“Thanks,” she said, modesty showing. “You promised to teach me
to jump today, remember?”
“I remember.” Only because she’d reminded me—in truth I hadn’t
given riding much thought, being so wrapped up in Laurie. “We’ll get
the horses good and warmed up first, before we attempt anything
more vigorous. Last thing we need is a pulled flank muscle.”
Zusza was moderately patient as I saddled her up and prepared her
for the morning’s lesson. Alert and ready to get out and stretch her
legs, she whinnied at me a couple times; I was slower on the take. Part
of me still felt dreadfully tired, not having slept. My limbs I could swear
were clogged with river muck.
And so the lesson with Anna proved long and tedious, at least for
my part. I kept forgetting to mention key points until after the fact;
twice Anna nearly fell from her horse as a result.
“Lean into it,” I reminded her again, as she came round for another
jump. The small dip was not deep, but could break a horse’s ankle if
missed. This time Anna remembered, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Evelyn,” she said finally, coming up alongside, “would you rather
call it a morning? You don’t seem quite all here.”
54 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
I couldn’t help but notice her eye went to my slightly swelled
cheek. “I’m not,” I said, dismayed at how the clipped words flew from
my mouth. “I mean, I didn’t sleep well last night, so I’m a bit tired.”
With an understanding smile, the girl nodded.
Heading back, I was glad Anna remained quiet, not engaging in idle
chitchat as had been her habit on leisurely rides.
Especially as we neared the stable and I saw Quinn standing there,
face sober, arms at his sides.
Jabbing my heels into Zusza’s flanks, I galloped the remaining
distance at nearly a full run, pulling her up at the last second to
dismount. “What is it? What’s wrong?” I said, barely able to breathe.
“Nothin’,” he said, aware that Anna was bringing up the rear. “I
just thought ye might like t’ know how Laurie’s doin’ this mornin’.”
Anna joined us, and I introduced Quinn (she’d been off someplace
when he’d come before), briefly explaining about Laurie.
“Oh, yes,” Anna said, “I remember Evelyn mentioning you, and
your healing skills—” She clapped a hand to her mouth.
“It’s all right,” I said, glad she remembered her promise. “No one’s
around.”
“So how’s Laurie doing?” Anna wanted to know.
“Much better,” he said, assuming that charming smile of his that
always reassured (even when the news was grim). “She slept well, an’
Mother’s gettin’ her to eat. Scottish porridge goes down easy an’ sticks
to th’ bones, ‘specially when it’s Mother’s special recipe!”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Anna said, relieved. As was I, though I knew
there was more; I could read it in Quinn’s carefully composed
expression. “Will she be coming back today?” Anna said.
He shrugged. “Per’aps, if she feels up to it. The air’s a bit diff’rent,
where I live. There’s a lake nearby, an’ the wind th’t comes off it is
moist and fresh. Just what she needs.” This last was accompanied by a
subtle sideways slide of the eyes towards me.
Immediately I gathered his meaning. “Well, that’s fine, then,” I
said, joining the game. “Seems wise for her to perhaps stay a little
Karen R. Thorne 55
longer, then, if it’s all right with your mother.” My tone was leading,
mostly for Anna’s benefit, and purposely light.
“Aye, t’be sure. Mother’s callin’ in this world is carin’ for the waifs
and weathered.”
“Anna,” I said, all casual-like, “go and put Samson away, would
you? I’d like to talk to Quinn a few minutes.” I gave a small smile.
Again the girl’s astuteness was a blessing: with a nod she bade
farewell to Quinn and went off to tend the horse.
I turned. “All right, the truth. And don’t sugar-coat it. You know I’ll
know.”
My good friend’s mouth pressed into a line, his glance on the
stables. “She’s better, as I said.” Subtly he began to stroll in the
opposite direction, away from the stables as I followed alongside.
“Eatin’s helped, as did the quiet and rest.”
“You’re stalling.”
Now it was his eyes that indicated his reluctance to speak. The
vague expressions that crossed his face implied he was searching just
the right words.
“Is it hopeless?” I blurted out.
Quinn shook his head. “No, not at all. Though of course that’s up to
her, whether she wants t’ get better or not.”
I recalled Laurie’s words, her morbid thoughts.
“She doesn’t want to come back,” Quinn said suddenly. “She’s
afraid of comin’ back here again, afraid this doctor,” the word came out
sarcastic, “will ruin her health, past the point of no return.”
Forcibly I inhaled deeply, letting the breath out slowly. “Well, I
thought as much,” I said quietly, though the notion had never come
clear in my mind until now. “But she has to. She has no choice. Father
will never allow her to leave.”
Quinn did not appear to be listening. His gaze had fixed on my
swelled cheekbone.
Instinctively my hand went to cover it, feigning something in my
eye. “Father was none too happy she wasn’t here yesterday,” I said,
56 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
increasing my pace a little to gain ground ahead of him. “He’d brought
in another doctor, from Chatham—”
“Was that before or after he cracked ye across th’ face?”
I halted. Flat, his tone; he brooked no mincing about. Frowning, I
lowered my head in answer.
“Ye needn’t defend the bastirt,” Quinn said, coming round to face
me. “I suspected as much.”
“Really? Why?”
A twitch arched Quinn’s brow; he started to say something. “He
just seems the type,” was what he settled on.
Stepping squarely in front of him, I levelled my gaze. “Quintin Lars
Fletcher, you know something you’re not telling. What is it?”
“I doan. I mean, nothin’ more’n I already told ye.”
“You do! And I demand you tell me this instant.” My foot stamped
the firm ground.
Ill-at-ease flushed all over him. He was quiet for several moments.
Then, reaching for my elbow, he pulled me close. “That lass has been
abused,” he said in a low voice.
Heat, then cold; then ringing in my ears. “By whom?” Though I
fully suspected.
“I cannae say. But those marks on ‘er arm . . . not all of ‘em are from
injections.”
There was more to it. That much was obvious.
“Doan say anythin’ to the lass,” Quinn pleaded. “She doesn’t need
to be upset her more’n she already is. She’s ‘ad a lot lately, an’ she
needs time. As much time as she can get.”
“I don’t know how much we can manage. Father was livid over a
single day. He told me in no uncertain terms to obtain his permission
first, before taking Laurie anywhere.”
This last did nothing to improve Quinn’s opinion of Father. “What’s
‘e now, a bloody dictator? Not enough ‘e’s a bleeding bastirt. . . . Sorry,”
he ran a hand through his shock of sun-dappled hair, “I dinna mean
that. Him bein’ your father an’ all.”
“Step-father,” I corrected.
Karen R. Thorne 57
“Little difference, when it comes t’ ordering you two around.”
Resuming our stroll, Quinn fell quiet.
“We have to find a way,” I said after a few moments.
“Aye.”
“And soon.”
“Aye, no doubt.”
I glanced over. “Today, even.”
“Right.”
Taking a large step, I moved in front, turning to walk backwards
facing him. “Where can we take her? We can’t just leave her at your
house. It’s the first place Father’ll look.”
“Way ahead o’you.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“She’s already gone,” he said, a tiny grin crooking one corner of his
mouth. “First thing this mornin’—”
The clout landed hard against his shoulder before he could finish.
“Quinn, how could you! You moved her without telling me? Without
even letting me know?”
“Calm down, will ye? What’dj’ think I came here for?”
“Yes, after the fact.” I knotted my arms, looking away.
“We thought it best,” he said in a quieter voice. When I looked up
he said, “Mother and I were worried your Father might not react well.
So we suggested perhaps she’d be better off in a safer place,
somewhere your father wouldn’t know about.”
“And where’s that?”
He returned my gaze, but said nothing.
“You’re not going to tell me? Bleeding Christ!” This time my foot
stamped in earnest. “I want to see her. I want to know she’s all right.”
“She is.” Warm sturdy hands wrapped around my upper arms.
“Trust me, it’s best she ‘as a bit o’ time away, just on ‘er own. With
Mother lookin’ after ‘er, a’course.”
This did not feel good at all. In fact it felt awful. Not that I didn’t
believe him, or thought it wasn’t a good plan. Except where Father—
never mind the rest of the family—was concerned. “Just what am I
58 forsaken sparrows in the garden of winter
supposed to tell everyone? That she’s up and run away in the middle of
the night?”
“If ye like. Whatever’ll keep ‘em happy.”
Nearly did I clout him again. “And just how long will this little
sojourn be?” Quinn was trying to help, I knew he was, but for some
reason this whole thing made me agitated, even irrational.
“A week, perhaps, maybe a fortnight.”
“No,” I said flatly. “It cannot be that long. Father will never stand
for it. He’ll have the constable after you and your mother for
kidnapping.”
“Aye, will ‘e now? An’ what happens when we tell the constable ‘e’s
been abusing his daughter, an’ show ‘em the proof?”
My mouth clamped shut on that one.
“We wouldn’t do it, a’course,” Quinn said more softly, “unless we
absolutely had to. It mightn’t bode well for the young lass.”
“True. So then, we’re back to where we started.”
“Not exactly.”
“Why not?”
The tiny grin stole back into the corner of his mouth.
“Quarantine,” he said, pleased as a bird with a worm.
At once my heart leapt and my stomach dropped. “And how would
you manage that?”
“Mother’s close friends with a local doctor, Henry Kirkendoll. A
word t’ him and all’s good.”
I pressed my lips together and frowned. “You really think it’d
work?”
“We have to try.”
Another moment passed. Then I gave a firm nod. “Let’s do it.”
~End of excerpt~
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