Saturday's Lady

Seventeen

"Have you had any response from her?"

James looked up at Hannah in the doorway, and shook his head. "I got letters from all of them," he said sadly, with a smile. "My son, he told me that he'd been working a long time to forgive me, and he wasn't there yet but he was trying. He's a father now too, says he understands a bit better. And my daughter in California, she acted as if nothing wrong had ever happened! Just let me know how she was, is all, how funny her neighbor is and all that. My youngest got engaged, too, and her fiance wrote a note asking my permission now that I'd reappeared. He's a lovely boy, haven't seen him since he was a child, but it's an absolutely mad chance they found each other, isn't it?"

Hannah shifted. "What from Emma?"

James sighed and pulled off his work boots. "She told me she wanted nothing to do with me. Honestly, I don't think I blame her. It doesn't make me feel any better, though, knowing she still resents me. I resent myself." He sighed again and looked up at Hannah. "I didn't bother to write a response. I wouldn't know what to say."

Hannah wasn't sure what made her do it, but a terrible idea sprang to her mind. "I knew her well. I could write to her and say--"

"No, no, don't do that. She'll come to terms with things, and if she doesn't forgive me it's nobody's fault but my own."

Hannah shrugged. "Suit yourself, then," she said, standing straight and closing the door.

She sat at her table, in her tiny room, and pulled out a pen and paper. Her idea would destroy Emma MacEilan beyond repair, if only she could figure out how to write it down. That wretch, she thought, who thinks she's so high and mighty with her dinner parties and her young man. Heaven knows she's no better at anything than I am, so why wasn't I chosen to be the doll? Why isn't it me that's likely engaged to a railroad millionaire, dancing in silk gowns?

And Hannah realised, with glee, that she had written the perfect letter without even knowing she'd really written down anything.

*****

The letter was postmarked from Leadville, but the handwriting wasn't her father's. Emma panicked for a moment. Had something happened to him, and someone had found out she was his daughter, and she needed to take care of something? She broke the seal and began to read.

Dear Emma "Remigrant":

I'm sure you remember me, although it's been several months since I last saw you. It's Hannah, the one who not only dressed you but who lied about you, and most importantly the one who told your father where you were. He's a dear old man now, completely heartbroken by the letter you sent him. I haven't told him your secret yet, don't worry, but I suspect he's figured something out. He keeps blaming postage for not hearing more from you, but he's gotten two letters to California and two back, so he knows that's not the issue.

This is a shameful way to treat your father, Emma. Have you no dignity? Has your head been turned by the gowns and your brain clouded with perfume? Did Duncan McDonald put you up to it? Or have you still not told him?

Don't you hate living a lie?

Remember that I can get messages to anybody if I want to . You and old Augusta would be ruined forever if I decided I wanted you to be.

There was no proper ending. Emma stared for a moment, then scoffed.

"She's bluffing," she murmured to herself, "she has to be. What could she possibly do?"

And she tore up the letter.

*****

On the last day of February Mrs. Remingrant hosted a party. It was packed full of people, and Emma had escaped to the parlour to watch whatever card game was going on. She stood by the window, watching the snow fall on the street, illuminated by the streetlamps. It was quite magical to see; everything was soft and quiet and she wanted to stay like this forever.

She looked around the room happily: there were the shelves full of books she'd read to Mrs. Remigrant, or had read on her own for "academic growth," as Mrs. Remigrant put it. The fire was blazing and there were a group of ladies at the table gossipping cherrily as they played bridge. Music could be heard from the other room, where a few people were dancing; in the dining room standing food had been provided. It was times like these that Emma really did love the parties and their comfort. It was times like these she also felt a little guilty.

There was movement at the window, on the sidewalk, and Emma craned her head to get a better look. It was two people trudging through the snow, a man and a woman, wrapped in plain jackets and shawls. They opened the Remigrant gate and began up the walk, and the man stopped for a moment, looking up at the house, and said something to the woman with a smile.

The window was frosty and the light was dim, but Emma felt it in her heart-- a thudding of dread as she saw the man's thick red beard and the girl beside him. It was her father, here on the walk, just a few yards away from her, and Hannah was next to him. 

She bolted from the window and went to the dining room where she knew Mrs. Remigrant would be. Sure enough, the old lady was sitting with a glass of sherry in one hand, laughing with several of the other women. 

"Aunt Augusta," she whispered in the old lady's ear, aware that the other women were watching her intently, "I've just seen some people come up the walk as if they're going to come in, but all of our guests are here."

Mrs. Remigrant only looked confused. Emma bent closer and whispered, "It's Hannah, and she's brought my father. I don't know how any of it happened."

The old lady reacted with surprising speed, bolting up and putting down her glass. "I beg your pardon, ladies," she said, "but there's an emergency I must attend to."

Emma and Mrs. Remigrant rushed to the door, which was thankfully out of view from most of the guests. Emma yanked it open.

"What are you doing, Emma?" asked the lady, aghast. 

"I have to speak to him," she replied, stepping out into the snow. "I'll tell him to go away." It was bitingly cold, but she wrapped her arms around herself and faced her father. He was at the edge of the porch.

"Emma," he breathed, reaching for her. "Emma, you look so wonderful."

"Get away from this house," she spat. "You're not welcome here, especially not now."

Hannah pushed past her, forcing the door open. Mrs. Remigrant sputtered behind her, but Emma could only see her father. A disgruntled former employee was one thing, but the father that could expose and ruin her was completely another.

"If I could just talk to you," he said quietly. "I want to tell you--"

"I don't care what you have to tell me!" she whispered angrily. "Just go back up the mountain and keep up your silver mining, and leave me alone. I'm happy here." Before he could reply she turned on her heel and went back inside, where Mrs. Remigrant was whispering to Hannah, holding her arm in an iron grip.

Hannah took one look at Emma and wrenched her arm free. "We'll go, then," she said bitterly, stepping out the open door. "Toss out your father into the cold again, won't you?"

Emma stared at her coldly. "It's nothing compared to what he did to me."

Mrs. Remigrant shut the door. "Forget this happened. If anyone asks, it was just the maid who came back after I'd fired her, and that's all you know."

Numbly, Emma nodded, and went to the dining room to warm up. Andrei was talking to someone, but when he saw Emma he excused himself. "Are you alright?" he asked.

She nodded and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine. There was just a problem with an old maid of my aunt's."

He smiled in relief, though she was still as tense as could be. "Would you like to dance?"

She took his hand. "I'd love to. The crisis is all over now." She was smiling as he led her to the dance floor, but she could not help the feeling that the crisis had been very far from averted.