The Wolf's Wife (The Wolf's Peak Saga Book 1) Page 2

  Miles away, in a small shack in a nearby city, Christine’s father took a shuddered breath. In two hours, she would be an orphan. In two weeks, she would be the wolf’s wife.

  Chapter One

  If I didn’t know better, I would almost think he was sleeping. His eyes were closed, hands at his side, blanket tucked up to his chest just like when he was sleeping. He was pale, but it had been a long time since his face had held any color. He looked completely at peace.

  Of course, I did know better.

  He had passed several hours ago while I held his hand tightly. I knew it was coming. He knew it was coming. So I sat with him all night, whispering “I love you” over and over so that when he left this realm he would know how much he was loved. When his hand went limp and his eyes closed for the last time, I allowed myself a few tears of mourning before I finally lay down to sleep.

  It had been a long time since I had slept properly. Every time I closed my eyes, I was terrified he would be gone when I opened them again. I couldn’t let him go without someone by his side. I was the only family he had, and it had been that way since I was a young girl. He had raised me almost on his own. There was no way I was going to let him die on his own as well.

  I was shattered. I would miss my father, my only family. Even more, I was terrified of what was to come next. All the same, when he closed his eyes in peace, I was immensely relieved. After years of pain, he was finally free, and I was as well. I didn’t have to stay up at night, watching to ensure his chest was rising and falling. I didn’t have to stay cooped up in our tiny, one–room cottage to attend to anything he needed.

  Still, freedom only counted for so much. I was on my own now, with very few resources to support me. As soon as the doctor left, I would have to take what little money I had to pay for all the expenses of the funeral. I could make it through the week, maybe, if I rationed what little food we had in the house. After that, though, I would have to get a job. I didn’t even know where to start. Growing up, the only job I’d ever had was looking after my ailing father. I hadn’t even gone to a proper school. My father had taught me at home, and although I didn’t lack for knowledge, I had no credentials to show for it.

  The anxiety of the situation built up in my chest until Dr. Taylor interrupted me.

  “Christine, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  I looked up at him, forcing back tears. “Thank you, doctor.”

  “I’ll send a few of my students to pick up the body. I’ll have them watch over it until the funeral.”

  “I appreciate that.” I wiped tears from my face with the palm of my hand. The reality of the situation was slowly crashing down on me. I was alone.

  “There will, of course, be no charge,” said Dr. Taylor.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “Your father was a good friend and colleague of mine, Christine. I’m happy to help.”

  It did help, slightly. Not nearly enough, of course. If I didn’t find employment soon, I wouldn’t be able to stay in my home, never mind eating.

  Dr. Taylor turned to leave, but I called out to him.

  “Doctor?”

  He paused. “Yes?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any open positions at the hospital, would you?”

  He shook his head. “Christine, that’s hardly women’s work.”

  “I worked alongside my father for years before he fell ill. You saw me work. You know I could handle it.”

  “I know you can, Christine. That’s not the problem.”

  “Then what is?” Tears started falling again and I cursed myself. Being emotional was no way to convince the doctor that I was strong enough to work for him.

  “It’s inappropriate, Christine.” Dr. Taylor put on his hat and opened the door. “I’ll see you at the funeral.”

  I only nodded. After he left, I went to count the little money we had left. Two years into my father’s sickness, we realized we could not afford to pay the fees to keep the money in the bank, despite Dr. Taylor’s charity and free care. It was at that time that I assessed what funds we had left and made the decision to move us from the moderate home we lived in across from the park and into this small house that really could be called a shack.

  We were lucky there was any sort of running water here at all, although the roof leaked enough that it would have more than made up for it. The walls were drafty, which had been terrible for my father’s declining health, but what could I do? I had considered getting a job. I would have even taken factory work. It was then I discovered that the price of a nurse to watch him during the day would have completely negated anything I earned.

  I counted out the money. It was exactly how much I thought it was, which is to say, it was very little. I sighed, slipping it into a pocket of my dingy dress. I laced up my boots and took my cloak from the hook behind the door. Before I left, I planted a kiss on my father’s forehead. It was cold to the touch, which of course I should have expected, but it was still jarring. Another tear wove its way down my face as I left the house behind me.

  “This one is built of mahogany with a fine velvet interior,” the undertaker, Mr. Silas Payne, told me. Mr. Payne was a queer fellow, petite with a thick black mustache that curled at the edges. His legs were quite skinny, but he had a large pot belly that wasn’t well camouflaged by his vest. I wondered how he managed to maintain his balance.

  “I’m afraid that’s far out of my price range,” I told him.

  “Well, all right. This one is pine, with a cotton lining,” he said. I looked at the price and winced.

  “What is the least expensive coffin you have?” I asked.

  “Ah, not someone you cared much for?” Mr. Payne asked. “Your mother–in–law, perhaps?”

  “It is for my father,” I told him, my voice sharp. “And I cared for him very much.”

  This revelation didn’t seem to rattle Mr. Payne’s disposition. “I see. Well, this is our cheapest coffin. There’s no lining to this.”

  While I hated having to scrimp on my father’s funeral, I knew it would be what he wanted in life. He wouldn’t want me to go hungry so his coffin could have a plush lining. And in death, he didn’t have an opinion anyway.

  “That one will do,” I told him. “Now, what are my options for the stone?”

  Again, I chose the least expensive option. It was a small plaque with just his name and date of death. Nevertheless, when Mr. Payne told me the total of all the items together, my heart fell.

  “That’s more than I have with me,” I said. I did the math quickly in my head. This would wipe out almost everything I had. “I’ll be back tomorrow with what I owe you.”

  “If you want the funeral to be in four days, it must be tomorrow and no later,” he said. I agreed and left, my gloves streaked from brushing tears from my face.

  I hurried home. Dr. Taylor’s students had come while I was out, and my father’s bed now was empty. It was so strange to see. It hadn’t been empty since we’d moved into this little house. The sight was too much for me, and I sat down on the ratty chair in the corner and allowed myself some time to grieve.

  About a half hour later, after a sufficient time of catharsis, I dried my eyes and stood up. I counted the money again, hoping against hope that perhaps I under–counted or missed something. I didn’t. It was the same amount it was earlier. I was unsurprised, but couldn’t hold back the flood of tears. The last glimmer of hope I’d had was extinguished.

  I needed to find work.

  There was a factory down the street. I could start there. Caretaking would be ideal, but I had no idea how to go about finding something like that. At the very least I could take a job in a factory until something more suited to my skills was available.

  I steeled myself as I walked down the street. I had heard terrible things about factory employment, stories of employees worked to the bone, stories of unsafe conditions. I had even heard about one girl who had gotten her hair caught in a machine and had effectively been s
calped. I shuddered. I must remember to pull my hair back before a shift. I took a breath before knocking on the door of the office. A large man answered, a thick blond mustache above his lip and a single monocle over his eye.

  “Yes?” he asked, looking me up and down in a way that made me exceedingly uncomfortable. “Can I help you?”

  “My name is Christine,” I told him. “I’m looking for employment. Do you have any positions open?”

  “Can you sew?”

  “Well, no, I—”

  He laughed in my face. “A woman who can’t sew? What use are you? Did your mother teach you nothing?”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “My mum passed when I was four.”

  “Well, sorry. Right now, I’m only looking for girls who can sew. Try again in the summer. Lots of girls can’t handle the heat upstairs, so we’re usually hiring.”

  He slammed the door in my face before I could protest. With a heavy heart, I started back home. I was only a few blocks from my house when I noticed a gathering of men outside a pub. I considered for a moment, and after thinking, I went inside.

  I attracted a lot of looks, but I tried not to show that it affected me. I went up to the woman behind the counter.

  “You lost?” she asked. Her accent was a heavy cockney, not something typical this far outside of London. Her blonde hair was piled in a mess atop her head, and her eyes looked tired. I wondered what her story was.

  “Actually, I’m looking for a job,” I told her. “Do you have any openings?”

  “Oh, sweetie,” she said, her voice low, “trust me, you don’t want to work here.”

  “It’s not so much a matter of want as it is need,” I confessed.

  I felt a slap on my rear, and I whirled around in surprise.

  “Hey there, missy,” said the man who hit me. He was completely unfamiliar, but his breath reeked of alcohol. “How about we go out back and get acquainted?”

  “Rex, you leave this poor girl alone,” scolded the barkeep. She turned back to me. “See what I mean? Honey, you’re much too sweet to work here. Find somewhere more dignifying.”

  “I don’t have the luxury of dignity,” I told her. “I need the money.”

  “You seem like a bright lass. That’s exactly why I won’t hire you, love. You can do better.”

  My eyes brimmed with tears of desperation. “Please…”

  Someone gripped my arm. I turned to see a second man, just as inebriated as the first. The barkeep reached over and pulled him off me.

  “Go home, love,” she said.

  Shaking, I couldn’t protest. I left the raucous bar behind me as I trudged back through the rain.

  It was time to sleep, and that in itself was strange. I wasn’t used to a bedtime, but the sun was down and I was exhausted. For a brief moment, I considered crawling into my father’s bed. Surely it was more comfortable than my mat on the floor. But the idea of lying where he died made me feel a bit sick, so instead I curled up in my usual blankets and cried myself to sleep.

  The following morning, I made myself a light breakfast—a half–slice of bread. My stomach growled, but I couldn’t risk eating too much. I didn’t know when and if I would be able to find work. After I ate I took most of my money and left to go back to see Mr. Payne.

  When I walked in, he looked up at me excitedly.

  “Miss Croft!” he exclaimed, “come look at what I’ve chosen for you!”

  I followed behind him curiously. He led me to the center of the room, where a large, sturdy casket was on display. It was beautiful: a solid, dark wood lined with a plush red fabric.

  “Mahogany with a velvet and silk inlay,” he said proudly.

  I shake my head. “Mr. Payne, I cannot afford this,” I told him. Just this casket alone was at least twice the amount I had in my bag.

  He frowned at me. “You don’t know?”

  I shook my head, utterly confused.

  “A man came in here this morning,” he said. “He offered to pay all your father’s expenses.”

  My knees went weak. “Dr. Taylor?” I asked.

  “No, no, I didn’t recognize this man. He was tall, dark hair, kind of broad shoulders. I assumed he was family or something.”

  “I don’t have any family,” I told him.

  Mr. Payne shrugged. “I don’t know who he is. He declined to give a name, but he did pay in full. Now, would you like to see the marker?”

  Speechless, I followed him. He came to a stop in front of one of the more grandiose options, a beautiful stone with a cross at the top. My father would probably have called it ostentatious, but I thought it was a lovely way to remember him.

  “Whoever paid for this must have paid a lot,” I said. “There were less expensive options he could have chosen.”

  “Perhaps, but he didn’t seem concerned about the cost.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “He seemed wealthy enough to cover the cost, and he did.”

  I frowned. “I need to find him so I can thank him for this generous offering.”

  “Just remember, no refunds,” Mr. Payne said.

  I walked home, my head spinning as I tried to imagine just who in my father’s life would be philanthropic enough to cover his funeral expenses. A colleague from my father’s professional days, possibly, but none of them would have the wealth Mr. Payne described. I was at a complete loss, but I needed to do something. I had to find this man and thank him for what he had done.

  Chapter Two

  The morning of the funeral dawned with the sky dark and the air thick with fog. It was normal weather for central England, but it still seemed appropriate for a funeral. I woke up early, before the sun was completely risen. It was still strange living alone in this house. It wasn’t a large space—only one room—but without my father it seemed engulfing and expansive. Black curtains hung over the window and matched the black crepe on the door, announcing to the world that I was in mourning.

  Of course, I had done my mourning a long time ago, but tradition is a tricky thing.

  I climbed from my blankets and went to the kitchen in the corner. I filled the large basin about a quarter of the way with water from the tap, then heated a second bucket on the stove. When the water was boiling, I poured it into the basin, mixing the hot and cold together, then I stripped down, my skin prickling in the cool air. My teeth chattered as I stepped into the basin, the warm water lapping against my calves. I took a rag and slowly washed myself, rubbing off the dirt and grime so I would be presentable for the funeral. The water felt so nice I stayed in until it was only lukewarm. Finally, I climbed out and dried off.

  I had only one black dress, bought a few years ago when my father’s health took a turn for the worse. At that time, he had just quit his job, his hands shaking too much to do proper surgery. We still had a decent amount of money saved up at that time, but we moved into the shack to make it stretch as far as possible. I had taken a small bit of money to buy the dress with, and I chose the simplest, plainest black dress I could find. It was slightly out of fashion now, the sleeves too flat and the skirt too voluminous, but no one would say anything to me. I stepped into the dress, and it took a few minutes to get the hooks up in the back all by myself. It was too big on me; years of scrimping had taken its toll on my body. I tightened the sash as far as it would go. At least it showed off my waist.

  Finally, I ran a brush through my hair and tried to comb out some of the tangles. My hair was long and dark, stretching down to my hips. It took a while to get out all of the snarls, but finally, it fell in waves around my shoulders. I sat down in front of the dingy, cracked mirror and pinned my hair up away from my face, twisting it back. My face had grown sallow, the cheekbones and eye sockets too hollow, my skin too pale. I knew some girls added a touch of pink to their cheeks to give them color, but I had nothing of the sort in the house, and with my inexperience, I would end up looking like a prostitute.

  I la
ced up my boots and walked over to the church, pulling my cloak around me in the sprinkling rain. I had arrived early, and the only other people in the building were the preacher and Mr. Payne. Both nodded at me as I took a seat in a pew. At the front of the church, the beautiful mahogany casket that held my father’s body was closed. I didn’t remember my mother’s funeral at all, but I did remember the funerals for both my grandparents. At the time our home had been large enough to hold their funerals there, and the caskets were open so guests could pay their last respects. But my home now wasn’t big enough to host more than two or three, and it wasn’t proper to have an open casket in a church. So, it was closed, and no one would be paying their last respects in that way.

  When the sermon started, the church was by no means full. The building wasn’t large, with only ten pews, but only the first few rows were occupied. It was mostly my father’s colleagues, other doctors who had managed to outlive him despite their sickly profession. I peeked at them around my dark veil. I recognized only a couple of them, and the rest were unknown to me.

  The preacher’s sermon was simple and brief. My father and I hadn’t been to church since my grandparents died. They had been the religious ones, not him, and he hadn’t spent much time seeking Confession or Communion. As a result, the preacher didn’t know him well, and the sermon was somewhat generic and generalized.

  “He was a good man, and he will be missed,” the preacher said.

  Yes, that was fair, but by no one more than me. The men in the seats nodded firmly, agreeing, but really, most hadn’t seen my father in years. The exception, of course, was Dr. Taylor, who had tended to my father when he was ill, and Dr. Allen, who had stopped in every once in a while until my father got too sick. Anger welled up in my chest at these men. A room full of doctors, and no one could save him. Tears stung at my eyes, but I blinked them away. That was silly. My father had been nearly fifty. He had lived a longer life than some. I took a deep breath to steady myself. I was entitled to cry, but I didn’t want to do it in front of these men and these strangers. This was personal, and they were not.