Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

“Your father paid for me to go to Oberlin,” she confessed.

Merritt leaned back like he’d been pushed. “My father? Why?” And why hide it?

She drew in a deep breath. Found a spot on Merritt’s shoulder and pinned her gaze to it. “It was a bribe, Merritt.”

He still didn’t understand.

Her jaw worked. “It was a bribe. Not all of it. I did . . .” She cleared her throat. “I did care for you then. But he hated you. Said you always reminded him . . . that you were a ‘symbol’ of your mother’s unfaithfulness . . .”

Merritt stepped back and brought up his hands. “Wait. Wait. What do you mean, my mother’s unfaithfulness?”

Now she met his eyes. Her lips parted. The driver called.

“You don’t know?” she asked.

“Know what?” His head was throbbing. “Know what?”

“That you’re a bastard, Merritt!”

The silence of the night seeped around him like oil after the outburst. His ears rang. His skin pimpled. Nausea curled in his bowels.

She wiped her eyes again. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t have time—”

“He disowned me because I’m not . . . his?” he murmured.

Her eyes glistened.

He couldn’t process it. “Then whose am I?”

“I don’t know.” She glanced back to the carriages. Her cheekbones became pronounced as she pressed her lips together, readying to deliver another blow. “He offered to send me to Oberlin if I . . . if I faked a pregnancy.”

Merritt’s stomach sunk. He felt transported back thirteen years. Ebba had been awfully forward that night . . .

“I never was pregnant.”

He swallowed. “I-I know. Your parents said . . .”

“You were eighteen. That’s the only reason I can think for why he approached me then. You were old enough to go off on your own. He faced no legal repercussions for cutting you off.”

Ice to the marrow, he shook his head, although not in disbelief.

The driver called.

Ebba turned away.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Venom burned his tongue. “You didn’t think to tell me that my father played me like . . . like a chess pawn?”

Tears ran down her cheeks. “I promised not to say a word.”

“Promised?” He was shouting now. “You also promised to marry me! You said you loved me, and then you pulled . . . this?”

She was readily crying now. The clarinetist and his crony were quickly approaching. “I’m sorry, Merritt. I had to make a choice.”

“And you did,” he spat. “You made that choice at my expense. I lost everything, Ebba. I haven’t seen or spoken to my mother and sisters in thirteen years. You lied to me and tore my heart out for what, a flute?”

“It’s not like that,” she countered. “You could never understand.”

“You’re right, I couldn’t.” He jutted an accusing finger at her. “I could never understand the selfishness of a person like you.”

She was openly sobbing now, but Merritt couldn’t bring himself to care. The clarinetist put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, Miss Mullan. Let’s be done with him.”

Ebba let the man pull her away. Halfway to the carriage, she turned back and had the decency to mouth, I’m sorry. Merritt received it like a stone wall. He watched her slip into her carriage. Watched the coaches pull away, until the street was bare and the city hall was dark.

It was oddly reminiscent of his time in the root cellar. He stood there, staring at nothing, until his fingers and toes went numb, wishing his heart and thoughts would follow suit.

Rather than go numb, they burned bright, a long pyre on a dark Pennsylvania street, consuming Merritt, alone.

Chapter 29

October 15, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Merritt was exhausted when he came home the next morning. He’d managed to find a bed at a local coach house around eleven last night, which he’d shared with two men who snored louder than firing cannonballs. He’d then emptied his wallet to get back to Blaugdone Island. His body was sore, his eyes were dry, and everything else was . . . wrung out and still wringing. He needed to . . . he wasn’t sure. Run until he couldn’t move another inch, only so he could sleep for a week and force his mind to work out these new revelations in his dreams. Wouldn’t that be nice.

Bastard. Could it be true? What reason would she have had to lie about it? It worked with the events as they’d transpired, but . . .

Bury, bury, bury.

For now, he’d have to settle for staring at a wall. Perhaps Hulda knew of some sort of tea or tincture that would settle him down enough to get some rest. If only it were as simple as sleeping it off.

She’d taken his boat, after all, so he’d hired a driver to cross the bay. As he handed over his last coins, he noticed a new boat tied about two hundred feet east—larger than his, big enough for maybe eight people. He squinted at it awhile, until the driver of the boat he stood on asked, “Um. Could you get off?”

Merritt forced his feet to step into eight inches of water, eyes still on the unknown sea vessel. Who was visiting? Not Fletcher . . .