Saturday's Lady

Fifteen

Emma hadn't said a word to anyone about the man at the mercantile. She didn't want to.

She resented him, still, she thought as she polished shoes. If it was her father there, she wanted nothing to do with him. He had left them all to die, and though she was told that God would want her to forgive, that anger did nobody any good, and while she wanted to believe it, she could not forgive her father. She chose to ignore him.

But seeing him had brought everything back, and she couldn't keep pushing it down.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she fiercely wiped it away. If it wasn't her father, why would she care?

And if it were her father, why should she care?

*****

A letter waited for Emma on her bed. She did not recognise the handwriting.

She put on her nightgown and brushed out her hair, then decided to read it as she braided. Then, with the letter propped open on her bedside table, she grabbed her brush and began to read.

Dear Emma.

I am not a very good writer which you know. it was always your Mother who was good at writing letters and saying what needed to be said. I am very sorry for what happened to her and to you because I left. I was happy when i came to Ledvil and met Hanna who told me about you and that you were doing very well despite my failing to be a good father. I do not drink much anymore and am working very hard so i can be comforteble as an old man and so my children may want me back. 

Please tell me what has happened to everyone and help me to write to them as well. I regret what I did in Ireland when you children needed me most and i am very sorry that i cannot get to you now but I am happy I can write to you even if it is not very good. Please tell me the adreses of your siblings because i miss them and want to tell them too that i am sorry.

I miss you teribly and I love you.

Your papa.

Emma stared at the paper blankly as a fire began to burn in her belly. She pulled out her pen and a paper to reply.

She gripped the pen hard, seeing red on the edges of her vision as it blurred, and didn't bother to put a proper greeting:

I'll give you my siblings' information solely in the hope that they are more charitable than I am going to be. 

You say you feel remorse and I am able to believe that fully, but I still cannot trust you. You did not come to America looking for us, you came across me by accident. While I'm rather glad you're begging forgiveness, I fear I cannot give it to you. Perhaps Mary or Iain will. Anne might, but I believe she's harboring plenty of resentment of her own. 

I've made a new life for myself here. I'm employed well and am poised to marry a wealthy man. Having any connection to you could ruin me! It is thought that I come from good stock and breeding, not some drunk who left his family for a whore after ruining them completely. My future depends on the illusion I have created and you will only shatter it. I've gotten something of an education and I have many marriage prospects from the best Denver can offer, which is a thousand times better than anything you ever gave me.

You may feel remorse but I do not. I have hated you since the day you left us. I hated you while we starved aboard a dirty ship. I hated you while I watched my mother die. I hated you while we walked across a continent. I hated you outside the mercantile in Denver (I knew immediately it was you but I could not bear to acknowledge you). I hate you now, and I will hate you for a long time. Hate is a strong word, but it is still not enough.

All the same, I hope you have great luck in Leadville. I hope that you find silver and gold, and can make a wealthy man of yourself, and then I hope I can tell my husband someday that it does not matter my father was a terrible man, he is at least rich now.

Emma realised that tears were blotching some of the letters, but she did not care. It got her point across even more effectively. She also knew that the letter was selfish and childish and completely true. It excluded the wishes she'd had for years that he would come back a changed man. Somewhere, those hopes had festered and died.

*****

"I thought I should let you know that a few people are coming over to play cards tomorrow afternoon," said Mrs Remigrant over her breakfast. "Just a few young people, nothing large."

Emma set down the teapot and placed a sugar cube in the lady's cup. "Who will be there?"

Mrs. Remigrant stirred her tea and lifted it to her lips. "Oh, the Barnes twins-- you know Eleanor and William, they're both just a bit older than you are. And then that Mr. Liniski, as he's younger than the rest of the social circle he resides in but he's still fabulously wealthy."

Emma nodded as Mrs. Remigrant looked at her expectantly. "I think it ought to be a lovely get-together," Emma said carefully, putting toast on the old lady's plate. "I'll look forward to it."

*****

There was a knock on Emma's door as she dressed for the afternoon guests.

"Yes?" she called, pulling on a petticoat.

"It's Abigail. Can I come in?"

"Yes. What is it?"

The door opened and little Abigail stepped in. "Do you need help?"

"I've gotten the hang of this by now," said Emma cheerfully, pulling on her brown overskirt, "but thank you."

"Mrs. Remigrant just received a note that the Barnes twins have gotten sick and they won't be able to come for a visit today," said Abigail, still standing in the doorway with something in her hands. "It'll just be Mr. Liniski."

"I'm sure Mrs. Remigrant is absolutely devastated. I wouldn't be surprised if they were never invited in the first place."

Abigail giggled and held out the tiny box on her hand. "She said you should wear this." It was a small gold brooch, with several pearls clustered in the middle. 

"This really does show what she wants," laughed Emma as she took the brooch. "She's pulling out the heirlooms. She hopes the next time I'll wear this will be my wedding to Mr. Liniski, I'm sure."

"You should have seen the look on her face as she gave it to me! I really wouldn't be shocked if she set this whole thing up to just be you two."

Emma pinned the brooch at her throat and craned to look in her little mirror. "Neither would I."

I realised last night there's definitely going to be some continuity issues between the three Irish Thistle stories, so if there are any particularly terrible ones please let me know! Otherwise just let me have a little wiggle room given I wrote the first story almost five years ago and it's all over the place, adapted from characters I had from previous things, and that were partially created by a few friends of mine as kids. It's a long story. Anyways, let me know any enormous gaping holes and I'll do my best to patch them!