and the rest of the staff instructions, she buttoned up her sweater and headed out with Audrey and Sam toward the Wilder house. The drive was wearisome, watching Audrey fawn all over Sam as if he were a little boy who’d just fallen down and scraped his knee, and it became equally mind-numbing listening to Audrey chatter on about the upcoming wedding. Somehow she survived the trip, though, and soon they were parked in front of the Wilder house. It was more of a stone monstrosity than a home, but it rested on two hundred acres of the loveliest property she’d ever seen. Hard to believe, though, except for the hired help, Mr. Wilder was the only person living there.
As they walked the path up to the front door, their shoes chewed their way across the crushed granite—Sam’s loafers, Audrey’s knee-high boots, and Charlotte’s China doll shoes—all of them together creating some kind of erratic beat.
Charlotte hadn’t been on the Wilder estate in almost two decades, and she’d only seen the older man a few times over the years. She’d gotten glimpses of him at the local cemetery where he stopped to feed the birds. He’d never really acknowledged her existence during those years, let alone had a friendly conversation with her. To be summoned to his deathbed was no less than a shock. But Charlotte was the last one to discount God’s interference into the affairs of men.
Sam pulled out a key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock. He looked back at them both, but Charlotte wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he was giving her one last chance to run.
A plane flew overhead, taking out the sun as if the earth’s bulb had lost power for a second. It was a good thing Charlotte didn’t believe in omens.
Sam turned the key and let the three of them in through one of the heavy oak doors. Charlotte glanced around in the dimly lit entry hall. The house was just how she’d remembered it. Dark. Dusty. And foreboding. Mr. Wilder had not filled his home with elegant furnishings as would most people with his wealth; instead he had spent his fortune on relics. If memory served her, the house possessed artifacts from the Titanic, display tables full of old coins, military pieces, tables and chairs adorned with the horns of animals, mineral collections, and art and antiques from all over the world. In other words, Mr. Wilder’s home was a museum.
But rarely was anyone ever invited into his world.
A birdcage filled one corner of the room, and while Audrey held Sam’s attention over a statue, Charlotte leaned toward the bars of the cage for a closer look inside. No living bird squawked or fluttered its feathers, but a stuffed parrot sat lopsided on an inner branch. How odd.
When Mrs. Wilder was alive, had she no input in the furnishings and décor? Guess not. Mr. Wilder did tend to control life around him with such a military grip that it would make the government look slack. To say the least, Mr. Wilder was an eccentric man. The only other certainty about Mr. Wilder was that for some reason unknown to Charlotte—he had grown to hate her. She wiped the perspiration off her forehead with the back of her hand.
Audrey coughed, startling Charlotte. The three of them disengaged from their curiosities and without much falderal, they moved as one down a long corridor as if they were about to face a firing squad. Neither the house nor the circumstances seemed conducive to chatter.
Audrey touched an item here or there as they walked along. Perhaps she’d resigned herself to living in the house and was making an effort to find her place among the relics. Somehow Audrey Anderson must have found a fissure in the old man’s heart.
Charlotte didn’t feel resentment toward Audrey. Well, maybe a little, but the bulk of her emotion was confusion—even after all these years. Usually when two people fell in love in Middlebury, they got married. People were joyous. Good things happened to them. They had a family and carried on with life. But not for me. Percy Wilder had destroyed her flight of happiness as easily as the swatting of a fly.
Charlotte squelched the urge to cough. Particles of dust, which were lit by the gas flames along the passageway, swirled in the air. Sam opened a set of doors, which apparently led to Mr. Wilder’s bedchamber. Antiseptic odors mixed with a fusty smell prickled her nostrils. Mr. Wilder’s bedroom could boast of very little furniture, but what caught her attention was the incessant ticking of clocks, including the large mahogany grandfather’s clock. The only wall décor was a framed Confederate flag, which hung on the north wall. A nurse sat in a chair on the other side of Mr. Wilder’s four-poster bed, reading a book.
Charlotte recognized the woman—Lucy Loman—a tall woman with a kindhearted air and enough bobbing red curls and freckles to put anyone at ease. Lucy was also the nurse at her doctor’s office, and she liked to drop into the tearoom from time to time to order her unique brew.
Lucy closed the book and rose from her chair. “Mr. Wilder’s just dozed off.” She glanced at Charlotte, a look of perplexity flickering on her brow. There was a lot of that going around. They nodded to each other but didn’t say anything.
Charlotte had been avoiding looking at Mr. Wilder, but now she let her gaze drift over to his long, thin frame, which lay deathly still in the bed. He’d been a robust man in his prime, but now after succumbing to age and illness he was no more than a thin leaf of a man, and from the look of his ashen color he would not last beyond the night.
Chapter 4
4
Lucy stepped out of the room.
Mist clouded Charlotte’s sight until she had to blink back the tears. In spite of the past, in spite of everything, compassion flooded her and washed away any remnant of anger. Lord, I forgive this man for what he did. She would say whatever it would take to help Mr. Wilder find a peaceful end.
As if the man could read her thoughts, Mr. Wilder’s eyes fluttered opened, and he looked straight at Charlotte. He lifted the oxygen mask off his face and in a raspy voice, murmured, “Miss Hill. You’ve . . . come.”
“Yes, sir.” Charlotte stepped up next to the bed.
Mr. Wilder paused, trying to catch his breath. “Please . . . let me have a moment of your time . . . alone.”
Charlotte would have liked for Sam and Audrey to stay in the room for moral support, but it was not meant to be.
Audrey and Sam backed away, leaving Charlotte standing by the bed. “We’ll be just outside the room if you need us.” Then Sam smiled at Charlotte and mouthed the words, “Thank you.” That was twice he’d thanked her for something she’d done, and yet in both cases she felt no bravery. Mostly fear. Probably a clear sign of a weedy moral fiber on her part.
When they were alone, Mr. Wilder whispered, “Come closer.”
Charlotte sat down in the chair next to the bed. She could see Mr. Wilder fully now and the ravages left by time and sickness—the blue serpentine veins on his hands, his once clear eyes, now watery and deeply set, but most of all, one couldn’t miss the way torment clung to the man like a foul spirit. The look of Mr. Wilder was how she always imagined King David at the end of his reign when he was dying in his imperial bed. Only Mr. Wilder had never known God.
He lifted his head briefly and then fell back. “Are we alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I didn’t think . . . you’d come.”
“I was sorry to hear you’ve been ill.”
“You haven’t . . . been sorry.” Mr. Wilder took a few more shallow breaths. “You are glad . . . for my death.”
“Sir,
