Grace clasped her hands together in front of her and bowed her head. “Yes, sir. I promise I will look after her. She was in good spirits after you ate dinner with her.” She peered up from under the ruffle of her cap. “If I may suggest. You might eat breakfast with her in the morning. If it pleases you, I mean.”
He thought about it for a moment and decided they did have much business to discuss. “Yes, I will. Tell Cook.”
“Yes, sir.” Grace skittered into Cora’s room.
Ed returned to his office, and for the first time in his life, the large room felt empty and lonely. The fire blazed with warmth, yet he still struggled with the cold inside him. He poured himself a generous amount of whiskey and retired to the couch, watching the city below, still alive despite the late hour.
Sitting by Cora’s bedside reminded him of the night before he’d left for the west. He’d tucked his sister in for the last time. He couldn’t bear watching another sibling starve to death under his care, so he did the only thing he could. The next day he carted her to the local orphanage and went on his way. He’d only received two letters from her over the years. One to beg him to return to get her and another to announce she had married. Of course, he’d sent money to set her up in a girls’ school and often over the years, but had only sent two letters.
He sipped the whiskey and savored the slight hint of orange in the flavor. Perhaps he should try again to reach his sister. Maybe this time she’d answer his letter. With a little liquid courage, he retrieved paper and sat at his desk, dipped his pen in the ink, and wrote to his sister.
September 12,1868.
Dearest Peggy,
It has been some time since we exchanged correspondence, but you’ve been in my thoughts often. I know you have married and have no time for your old brother, so I’ll make this short. It’s always been my deepest regret that I wasn’t able to care for you. I hope that your husband is kind and you have a good life.
Your brother,
Edward O’Neal
He setthe letter to the side to decide if he’d mail it tomorrow, finished his whiskey, and headed to his room down the hall from Cora’s.
The dampness snaked in under the seal of the window, so he stoked the already blazing fire then crawled into his bed. A too-large, too-lonely bed. His mind traveled the short distance to the stranger a few doors down. A woman of beauty and intelligence. He didn’t want to care for her, but he did.
She wasn’t like most, who wanted to laze around and be served. Cora had a fire inside her that matched that blazing hair of hers. The one thing he hated and yet wanted to touch all in the same breath. Why did she have to be Irish?
He drifted in and out of sleep. Dreams of Cora tending to a garden, walking arm-in-arm with him on the streets, parties and balls and political events all full of laughter and joy. The dreams faded, and nightmares took hold. Him as a boy holding his mother’s scabbed hand as she faded from this world. A young boy at his side, coughing, heaving, and crying for food.
He jolted upright, sweat pouring down his face and back. One, two, three breaths until he could settle his pulse and realize where he lay at the moment. The safety of his home. A home he wouldn’t have much longer if he didn’t focus on what was important.
The image of the child starving at his side drove him to dress and return to his office to work and work and work until he remembered why he never wanted a real family. He could never watch another child starve because he couldn’t save them. Cora didn’t belong here, especially in his current circumstance. If he couldn’t care for his own sister, he couldn’t care for a wife. He rubbed his eyes free of crust and stretched the kinks from his back.
Ghost entered his office. “You need anything?”
“Post this letter for me.” Ed pointed at the note addressed to Peggy. He couldn’t help Cora by caring for her, but he could make sure she would survive. She was beautiful and strong and patient. A good match for any man. Any man but him. “And help me think of a good match for Miss McKinnie.”
Ghost put the letter in his pocket and swished his lips twice. “Mr. Owens has no wife.”
Ed grimaced. “No. He isn’t…rich enough.”
“Mr. Grayson?”
“No. Not smart enough. The man once set fire to his own hat.” Ed waved off the notion.
“Mr. Smith. He’s a rich man and smart, too.”
“No, he doesn’t like entertaining. Cora wouldn’t enjoy a life with him.”
Ghost stood in silence.
Ed pushed from his desk and walked to the window to see how far he could make out through the fog that had returned. “There are so many men in this city who need wives. Certainly there has to be a good match.”
“Only one person I can think of that’s smart, rich, has good manners, and can entertain.”
Ed studied the streets he could make out below, as if to find the man Ghost spoke of. “Who’s that?”
“You.”
