Sycamore Hill Read Free Page A

brownstone? I had seen little of Boston and nothing of the
world, and it was frightening to think of setting off on my own.
    “I’ve been such a fool,” I breathed, and Dobson’s face softened.
    “There was no way you could have known what they were doing, Miss
McFarland. And even if you had, I doubt if you could have stopped them.”
    “I should have left years ago before I allowed my life to pass me
by!”
    The solicitor smiled then. “At the age of twenty-three your life
has hardly passed you by,” he remarked with some humor.
    "You said yourself that most women my age are married with
families of their own,” I countered with wryness.
    “You are a very attractive young woman—”
    “Please don’t be kind, Mr. Dobson,” I said quickly, embarrassed
that he should feel he needed to say such a thing. Marcella Haversall had been
most clear about my limitations in that area.
    “Kindness has nothing to do with it, Miss McFarland,”
    Dobson insisted. “With the right clothes and hair style….”
    He stopped and spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. “I
overstep myself. I do apologize.”
    “You spoke of my guardian’s nephew,” I primed.
    “Yes. I’m afraid Wendall Haversall wants this house and all his
uncle’s holdings sold.” Dobson lowered the final blow.
    “In other words, the new Mr. Haversall wants me out of this house
almost immediately,” I said, somehow managing to not allow the fear that was
beginning to prey wantonly on my nerves to show. Where could I go? What could I
do?
    “Yes. He already has a prospective buyer.”
    “He didn’t waste any time. My guardian has only been dead ten
days.”
    “What will you do. Miss McFarland?” Dobson asked as delicately as
he could.
    “I don’t know. I... I don’t know,” my voice shook in spite of my
efforts. “Find a position, I suppose,” I said with more control. “That would be
the most sensible thing to do.”
    The first thing that popped unwelcome into my mind was the
Haversall factory, that looming gray edifice that blighted the landscape of
Boston. In my imagination I could hear the men and women moaning as they
dragged themselves exhausted to labor in the bowels of the rat-infested
building. I could hear the children screaming as they were caught and ground in
the merciless machines. I shivered, and my mouth twitched.
    “What kind of position, if I might ask?” Dobson pressed.
    “I... I don’t know,” I admitted, licking my dry lips and
determinedly pressing away the picture of the factory. “House service... I
don’t know.” The despair of my situation was beginning at last to sink in, and
I started to shake.
    “You completed your secondary education, did you not?” Bradford
Dobson asked, reaching across to pat my hand with his own. Mine were ice-cold
and clutched tightly in my lap.
    “Yes,” I nodded, staring into Dobson’s clear, intelligent gaze.
    “Would you consider teaching?”
    “I’m sure I lack the necessary qualifications, Mr. Dobson,” I said
with near-certainty. “Boston requires—”
    “I wasn’t thinking of Boston.” He smiled.
    “No?”
    “No.”
    “Then where?” I asked, curious now.
    “Perhaps out West someplace. Their requirements are not nearly so
rigid. You could make a life out there for yourself, Miss McFarland,” he
suggested.
    A quick rush of excitement pushed my gray thoughts away. “I’ve
always had a great interest in California,” I admitted.
    Dobson’s eyes moved assessingly over my face. “You look quite
different when you smile like that, Miss McFarland.” I was not sure what he
meant, and I chose not to answer. “Do you like children?” he asked.
    I laughed slightly. “I don’t know, Mr. Dobson. I’ve never been
around many young children.” I thought of maid Ann’s three boys and frowned.
“Those I have met hardly qualify as children.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Annie Callaghan’s three boys have been working since they were
six. They seem very old.