London, 1810...
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and blond with eyes as blue as the sea, standing a good head taller than most men he knew. He'd been out to sea for the last eighteen months and was anxious to be home, anxious to see his wife and daughter again, curious how much his little Sarah had grown and whether or not she still remembered her old Da.
His return to port was a bit of a surprise, even for him. They had not been expected for another six months, but whaling had proved most profitable this trip, and the captain had seen no reason to continue the voyage, and so, here he was, looking scraggly and in need of a bath, a shave, and a haircut, but wearing a broad smile on his handsomely-chiseled face, eager to see his wife and daughter again after so many months away from home.
"Tom!" he heard a familiar voice call to him from across the dock and spied an older man waving a hand to greet him. Word had spread quickly of the Annabella's return from sea, family and friends, wives and mothers and lovers, hurrying to the docks to welcome their loved ones home. It had, thankfully, been a successful and, more importantly, prosperous voyage, the ship returning home with a full cargo of oil, the likes of which would make them all rich men.
"Jasper!" the tall, blond man called back, a long-legged stride weaving his way through the crowd. "I wasn't expecting to see you here. How are you?" he asked as he clasped the other man's hand. "Where's Liz?" he asked, craning his head to search the crowd for the one face he longed to see more than any other.
"Liz," the older man echoed with a frown. "She, uh..." he stammered, uncomfortably. "Look, Tom, I've got some bad news."
"Bad news?" Thomas asked, furrowing his heavy blond brows. A lot of things could change in eighteen months. Did she no longer love him' Had she found someone else? What was it the other man wasn't telling him exactly'
The look on his brother-in-law's face didn't bode well, dark circles beneath his eyes and a frown that seemed indelibly stamped on his once-handsome features. "Here, let's go have a drink," Jasper started, turning to lead the way to the nearest pub where they could speak in private.
"No," Thomas said, grasping hold of the man's shoulder with strong fingers that prevented his escape. "What bad news, Jasper" Tell me. Has she found someone else? Does she want a divorce?"
"No, no, nothing like that," Jasper replied, though that foreboding look of worry had not left his face. He sighed, knowing what he was about to tell the other man was likely to be the greatest and most vile shock of his young life. "It was fever, Tom," he explained, as gently as he could. "Fever took them both, I'm sorry to say. Took a lot of lives this past winter. It hasn't been easy. We had no way to reach you, to tell you. She was a good girl, our Lizzie. And Sarah, too. May God rest their souls. The doctors tried to save them, but there was nothing they could do. I'm so very sorry."
The man droned on, explaining how a fever had swept through London taking countless lives, especially those in the poorest districts. How they had tried to contain it by quarantining the sick, but it had been too late as the fever had already spread. Only now that spring had arrived were the numbers of sick starting to finally drop. They weren't calling it an epidemic, and yet, that was exactly what it had been.
But Thomas had stopped listening as soon as he'd realized what the other man was telling him. Lizzie and Sarah....His wife and daughter, both dead of fever. How could that be? They'd been perfectly healthy when he'd left port eighteen months ago. He'd left them in good hands and good care. How could this have happened and more importantly, why'
"No," Thomas whispered, his face going pale as all the blood drained from his face. "No, no, no..." he echoed over and over, pushing past his brother-in-law to work his way through the crowd. He had to get home, to find them, to save them, to keep them safe. Wasn't all of this because of them' One last time, he'd promised his wife. One last voyage to make his fortune and provide a good life for them and he'd quit, be done with it forever. Why, why, why had God chosen to curse him this way'
He dropped his pack carelessly on the ground as he broke into a run, shoving his way through the crowd as he hurried home to the small house he had once shared with his wife and daughter, the house that had been their home. He heard that familiar voice shouting his name behind him, but he ignored it. He had to see for himself. It was a lie. It had to be. Some kind of sick joke. But when he at last reached the house, the warning still tacked to the door that declared it quarantined, he knew with a sinking heart that it was all too true, all too horribly real.
Ignoring the warning tacked to the door, as well as the lock that had been put in place to prevent break-ins from looters, Thomas put his shoulder into the door and shoved it open, stumbling inside and blinking to find the familiar space dark and musty with disuse. Whatever or whoever had been here last had done little to clean the place up, more than likely too terrified of catching whatever ailment it was that had taken his wife and daughter to stay overly long.
Memories flooded him as he stumbled from room to room, looking for some proof that they were still alive, or lacking that, some memory of them to take with him. Somehow, he ended up in the bedroom, where the best memories had been made. They had made love for the first time there in that bed, and Lizzie had born their daughter there. Somehow, it didn't seem right that she'd died there, in that place that had known so much joy and laughter.
There wasn't much left behind of them, but memories. Not even his daughter's favorite doll or his wife's wedding ring. Nothing but memories and grief and regret. All the what ifs. What if he hadn't left' What if he'd stayed behind" What if, what if, what if" Perhaps he'd have died, too, but what did he care about that now that they were gone? All the questions in his head amounted to nothing. No amount of grieving would ever bring them back. He wanted - no, needed - to see their graves. But not yet. He didn't think he could bear it just yet, to see their names etched on cold granite. Elizabeth Ann Morgan. Sarah Elizabeth Morgan. Born....Died 1810.
It wasn't until he stumbled on his young daughter's crib that the full impact of what had happened hit him like a punch in the gut, and he crumpled to the floor, balling his hands into fists and crying out in agonized grief.
It was there Jasper found him, collapsed on the floor, clinging tightly to the rails of the child's crib and sobbing hysterically. Jasper, too, found himself weeping, though he had already cried himself dry over the loss of his sister and niece. There was nothing either of them could do to bring them back. All they could do was say good-bye and pray for their mortal souls. He, at least, found comfort in the fact that he knew their souls would go straight to Heaven. He was not so sure his sister's grieving husband would find any comfort in that.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and blond with eyes as blue as the sea, standing a good head taller than most men he knew. He'd been out to sea for the last eighteen months and was anxious to be home, anxious to see his wife and daughter again, curious how much his little Sarah had grown and whether or not she still remembered her old Da.
His return to port was a bit of a surprise, even for him. They had not been expected for another six months, but whaling had proved most profitable this trip, and the captain had seen no reason to continue the voyage, and so, here he was, looking scraggly and in need of a bath, a shave, and a haircut, but wearing a broad smile on his handsomely-chiseled face, eager to see his wife and daughter again after so many months away from home.
"Tom!" he heard a familiar voice call to him from across the dock and spied an older man waving a hand to greet him. Word had spread quickly of the Annabella's return from sea, family and friends, wives and mothers and lovers, hurrying to the docks to welcome their loved ones home. It had, thankfully, been a successful and, more importantly, prosperous voyage, the ship returning home with a full cargo of oil, the likes of which would make them all rich men.
"Jasper!" the tall, blond man called back, a long-legged stride weaving his way through the crowd. "I wasn't expecting to see you here. How are you?" he asked as he clasped the other man's hand. "Where's Liz?" he asked, craning his head to search the crowd for the one face he longed to see more than any other.
"Liz," the older man echoed with a frown. "She, uh..." he stammered, uncomfortably. "Look, Tom, I've got some bad news."
"Bad news?" Thomas asked, furrowing his heavy blond brows. A lot of things could change in eighteen months. Did she no longer love him' Had she found someone else? What was it the other man wasn't telling him exactly'
The look on his brother-in-law's face didn't bode well, dark circles beneath his eyes and a frown that seemed indelibly stamped on his once-handsome features. "Here, let's go have a drink," Jasper started, turning to lead the way to the nearest pub where they could speak in private.
"No," Thomas said, grasping hold of the man's shoulder with strong fingers that prevented his escape. "What bad news, Jasper" Tell me. Has she found someone else? Does she want a divorce?"
"No, no, nothing like that," Jasper replied, though that foreboding look of worry had not left his face. He sighed, knowing what he was about to tell the other man was likely to be the greatest and most vile shock of his young life. "It was fever, Tom," he explained, as gently as he could. "Fever took them both, I'm sorry to say. Took a lot of lives this past winter. It hasn't been easy. We had no way to reach you, to tell you. She was a good girl, our Lizzie. And Sarah, too. May God rest their souls. The doctors tried to save them, but there was nothing they could do. I'm so very sorry."
The man droned on, explaining how a fever had swept through London taking countless lives, especially those in the poorest districts. How they had tried to contain it by quarantining the sick, but it had been too late as the fever had already spread. Only now that spring had arrived were the numbers of sick starting to finally drop. They weren't calling it an epidemic, and yet, that was exactly what it had been.
But Thomas had stopped listening as soon as he'd realized what the other man was telling him. Lizzie and Sarah....His wife and daughter, both dead of fever. How could that be? They'd been perfectly healthy when he'd left port eighteen months ago. He'd left them in good hands and good care. How could this have happened and more importantly, why'
"No," Thomas whispered, his face going pale as all the blood drained from his face. "No, no, no..." he echoed over and over, pushing past his brother-in-law to work his way through the crowd. He had to get home, to find them, to save them, to keep them safe. Wasn't all of this because of them' One last time, he'd promised his wife. One last voyage to make his fortune and provide a good life for them and he'd quit, be done with it forever. Why, why, why had God chosen to curse him this way'
He dropped his pack carelessly on the ground as he broke into a run, shoving his way through the crowd as he hurried home to the small house he had once shared with his wife and daughter, the house that had been their home. He heard that familiar voice shouting his name behind him, but he ignored it. He had to see for himself. It was a lie. It had to be. Some kind of sick joke. But when he at last reached the house, the warning still tacked to the door that declared it quarantined, he knew with a sinking heart that it was all too true, all too horribly real.
Ignoring the warning tacked to the door, as well as the lock that had been put in place to prevent break-ins from looters, Thomas put his shoulder into the door and shoved it open, stumbling inside and blinking to find the familiar space dark and musty with disuse. Whatever or whoever had been here last had done little to clean the place up, more than likely too terrified of catching whatever ailment it was that had taken his wife and daughter to stay overly long.
Memories flooded him as he stumbled from room to room, looking for some proof that they were still alive, or lacking that, some memory of them to take with him. Somehow, he ended up in the bedroom, where the best memories had been made. They had made love for the first time there in that bed, and Lizzie had born their daughter there. Somehow, it didn't seem right that she'd died there, in that place that had known so much joy and laughter.
There wasn't much left behind of them, but memories. Not even his daughter's favorite doll or his wife's wedding ring. Nothing but memories and grief and regret. All the what ifs. What if he hadn't left' What if he'd stayed behind" What if, what if, what if" Perhaps he'd have died, too, but what did he care about that now that they were gone? All the questions in his head amounted to nothing. No amount of grieving would ever bring them back. He wanted - no, needed - to see their graves. But not yet. He didn't think he could bear it just yet, to see their names etched on cold granite. Elizabeth Ann Morgan. Sarah Elizabeth Morgan. Born....Died 1810.
It wasn't until he stumbled on his young daughter's crib that the full impact of what had happened hit him like a punch in the gut, and he crumpled to the floor, balling his hands into fists and crying out in agonized grief.
It was there Jasper found him, collapsed on the floor, clinging tightly to the rails of the child's crib and sobbing hysterically. Jasper, too, found himself weeping, though he had already cried himself dry over the loss of his sister and niece. There was nothing either of them could do to bring them back. All they could do was say good-bye and pray for their mortal souls. He, at least, found comfort in the fact that he knew their souls would go straight to Heaven. He was not so sure his sister's grieving husband would find any comfort in that.