After two days of riding, we found the perfect spot: a shallow, flat-bottomed valley with a meandering stream running into a small, clear lake surrounded by trees. I could see myself living out my life there, watching the seasons come and go, tending to my animals, building the kind of existence I wanted. Surveying the gentle, undulating hills before me, smelling the dry grasses, hearing the shrill cry of the circling golden eagles overhead, I felt the first moments of true peace and joy that I had experienced in a very long time, since before Hari died and John left for England. I felt at home.
The six hundred acres were owned by a Métis widow who wanted to move to Victoria to be near her daughter. The land had originally been a gift to her husband, a Hudson’s Bay factor, from Governor Douglas. With Mr. Roy at my side, we visited a land agent and made the purchase. Over the next three days, we engaged a builder and ordered a herd of cattle, arranging for them to be driven up from Washington Territory via the Okanagan Trail next year. People initially balked at doing business with a woman, but I soon saw the power of money. Once they discovered I had my own funds, they signed the contracts with a great flourish.
To celebrate, I took Henry out for the best meal I could find in town, complete with a bottle of champagne, and we toasted my new venture.
When we returned, I was dying to tell Sarah all my news, but she was out with Jacob, so I headed upstairs to unpack. I put all my new paperwork neatly in my desk drawer and stowed my revolver away in my jewellery box’s concealed compartment for safekeeping. I wouldn’t need it in Barkerville. Coming downstairs I heard a sharp knock at the door. Opening it, I was startled to see the mail clerk standing on the stoop.
“Looks like this is your lucky day, Miss Harding. A letter from England. I was passing by on my way home and thought to drop it off.”
I examined the thick envelope and thanked him profusely, even as a sense of dread swept over me. It was addressed to me in a script I didn’t recognize. The return address was a law firm in London. It had to be from Charles’s solicitors. I couldn’t bring myself to break the seal. What does he want now? Why can’t he just leave me alone?
I tossed the packet onto the dining table and went outside. Standing by Sarah’s flower garden, I let the warm afternoon sunshine wash over me and took a moment to calm myself, feeling the gentle caress of the warm breeze in my hair, hearing the languid droning of a passing bumblebee, smelling Earth’s pungent aromas, released from deep within her bosom. I breathed slowly and evenly.
The sound of a crying baby pulled me from my musings. Sarah and Jacob must be home. I gingerly picked up the letter and went to find Sarah. She was curled up in an old brown velvet chair, rocking her child on her lap. She smiled a warm greeting, excitement shining in her eyes.
“A letter from John?” she said softly, not wanting to unsettle her calming baby.
I shook my head. “No, it’s something else.”
“What, then?”
“It’s from some law firm in London. You read it, please—read it out loud to me. I think it’s from Charles.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow and pursed her mouth. “Me? I’m painfully slow—not much of a reader. You’ll be too impatient.”
“No, no, slow is just what I want,” I insisted. “Skip the preamble and just read the heart of the letter. Find out what he wants from me now.”
She nodded, but her lower lip protruded and her brow wrinkled as she accepted the envelope. She broke the seal and took a moment to find the right place to start reading out loud.
No doubt you’ve heard from John Crossman’s brother, Andrew, by now, so I won’t repeat the sad details. We understand there have been no arrests, but the police informed me that they are investigating an extreme political group who challenged John’s beliefs. Suffice it to say that the beating Reverend Crossman endured left him non compos mentis, not mentally competent.
Andrew Crossman has requested that our law firm contact John’s business and personal associates to inform them that we will be taking over all John’s private matters while he is incapacitated. Should John ever regain his metal capacity, we will relinquish our duty to him at that time. In the meantime, please address any future correspondence relating to John Crossman care of the undersigned.
Sarah’s face flushed and she stopped reading. My heart stopped for a moment, and I felt as though I had stepped outside myself. Sarah’s voice seemed far away, and I could barely comprehend what she was saying. Then the reality of the news began to sink in. Poor John. He had been so full of life and promise. To have endured a beating so bad that it left him unable to function. It was all too awful to contemplate.
Sarah tried to comfort me, but I gently told her that I needed to be alone. I had no appetite for dinner, so I headed up to my room, where I flopped on the bed and cried into my pillow. When I calmed and took a moment to reflect, I thought how John and I hadn’t even had a chance to explore our relationship, to discover our feelings for each other. But deep down, I already knew the truth. I had loved John from the first time we met. And now he was gone from me forever.
At four in the morning, I rose, lit a candle, and wrote a letter to John’s brother, Andrew. I
