Tim Bowling - The Tinsmith

His chest rose and fell in great heaves. But he did not shift his braced legs. He lowered his voice, but the tone remained hostile.

“I would advise you to leave, doctor, on the next ferry. In the meantime, stay out of my business. Dare has not heeded this advice and he’ll be sorry for the lack. You’d be unwise to join him in his folly.”

With that, the Englishman stepped forward and smacked the horse on its flank, setting the animal straining at the ropes again. Then he squelched back into position behind the stump and threw his weight against it as if it was, in fact, William Dare, and he was trying to hurl the man into oblivion.

Anson was still reeling as if struck by a fist. It was not the Englishman’s anger that shocked him, but the wholly unwarranted and violent attack on Dare’s character, an attack that he now felt unable to repel. William Dare without morals? A scoundrel? The man who’d risked his life repeatedly in battle to save his comrades, who’d nursed the wounded until he himself was but a shadow on the tent walls? It was as close to blasphemy as Anson had ever experienced.

He stood on the wet earth under a blue sky alive with only the occasional bird and the dull echo of the tin press and felt as if he’d been reduced to the same level as the horse, struggling in vain to free itself of a burden it could not even begin to comprehend. At least it was obvious that Thomas Lansdowne had attempted to reduce him to that level. It was a vile attempt, and all of Anson’s sympathies for the man evaporated.

“I’m not done, sir!” Grabbing the bridle of the horse, Anson stopped the animal’s efforts. As the ropes slackened, he turned and faced the furious Englishman, who had clambered out from behind the stump, breathing raggedly, his cheeks blood-full. “I don’t know how such matters are conducted in your country, but in mine, when you attack the character of a man’s friend, you attack the man himself. You’ll have the decency at least to stand up behind your words a moment before returning to your work.”

With Thomas Lansdowne glaring at him, hands on his hips, Anson forged ahead.

“I would no more defend the character of William Dare than you would the character of your own brother. Dare is a business adversary of yours. I understand that. You do not know him as I do. I understand that as well. So I’ll put your attack down to ignorance and move on. Your wife, whether you wish to hear this or not, is in grave danger of harming herself and her baby. If a tragedy occurs, that will fall hard upon you. But I fear it will fall harder upon your other children, and one in particular.”

Anson did not flinch as Thomas Lansdowne raised one great fist and stepped forward, spluttering rage.

“Calm yourself, man, and listen! Your daughter, Louisa…”

“Louisa? What of her?”

“I said be calm. The girl is fine. Indeed, she’s much more than that. You know, of course, of her musical gifts. But perhaps you don’t fully grasp the extent of them.”

The rage slowly drained from the Englishman’s face. He unclenched his fist and lowered it. “She likes music, yes. It’s a pleasing quality in a female.”

Anson considered him at length. Ka-thunk-ka-thunk-ka-thunk. The tin press did not let up. Thomas Lansdowne’s face had softened and was now almost quizzical in its expression. But he did not speak.

At last, Anson said, “Your daughter has a rare talent. Though I am no expert, I believe her to be a prodigy.”

“A prodigy? Nay, she has but rarely touched a piano.”

“This is why I call her a prodigy. The piano on the wharf? I came upon her playing it. And she was playing Chopin.”

“Louisa?” His bewilderment was genuine, but Anson detected a small amount of pride and pleasure in it. The man might just have said, “My Louisa, my lamb,” instead of what he did say, which was merely a nod to social convention. “She’ll be of use at services, then. The Lord does not require Chopin for worship.”

“Perhaps not. But beauty of any kind is a gift from God and is meant to inspire us to higher thoughts and feelings. Your daughter can be a servant of that rare kind, given the opportunity. At the very least, you could find the time to move the piano indoors for her.”

Thomas Lansdowne’s round, wondering face resembled a clock missing its hands. Anson could almost hear the futile grinding of the works in the body.

The horse lifted its head and nickered. A dark flock rose on the horizon and fell away without sound.

“You heard my daughter play? When was this?”

Ah, now I’ve done it, Anson thought, I’ve made trouble for her. But it was too late.

“Last night, on the wharf. She and Edward had removed the front board of the crate. It was to be expected. The child loves music as you love her. To know a piano is near and not be able to play it—you must allow her the impatience.”

“Impatience is not a virtue. It’s to be discouraged.”

“Yes, well, I ask only that the discouragement isn’t severe. I wouldn’t wish to be responsible for having the child punished for what is as natural to her as the song is in a bird.”

“How I discipline my children is not your business.” But Thomas Lansdowne had more wonderment than severity in his tone now. Anson knew that the revelation about Louisa had unsettled him.

“Of course it’s not, nor is your wife’s health. I ask only that you consider both matters carefully. You are, after all, a fortunate man.”

Anson paused, embarrassed to find his voice breaking, his eyes watering. He composed himself and continued.

“I have no family myself. Perhaps if you think me overly concerned with the welfare of yours, you might take that fact into account.”

But Thomas Lansdowne appeared to be listening to the far-off sound coming from the direction of the river. It would have been almost an act of violence to disturb his silence. Anson felt he had done enough, in any case.

“Good day,” he said and took a few steps backward before turning his back on the sky-searching fathom of the Englishman’s gaze and returning to his own solitude and unprofound meditations of the day’s slow light.

Sunlight rarely penetrated the parlour, or perhaps Edney had simply not noticed it doing so for many months. As she poured a fresh cup of tea for the American guest, the sunlight appeared to flow from her hand as well and descend to the bunched bottoms of the velvet drapes. Had she even parted them since May’s illness? Edney could hardly believe the room contained a window that looked out on something as ordinary as this world.

As she placed the teapot on the table, her eyes remained on the sunlit glass—if she held the gaze long enough, surely May would appear, fresh as the last spring of her health. For the child had not vanished in the days succeeding the dinner at Henry and Mary’s; she hovered so close, just a whisper away. It must happen any time, the contact.

Mr. Richardson, sitting serenely on the ottoman beside her, his long legs crossed at the ankles, shared the opinion. No, not Mr. Richardson—Ambrose. Edney tried to remember his admonition that she address him so, but despite the pleasure of his conversation and sympathy she found it difficult. He was not a member of the family, nor even of the settlement. Yet he hardly seemed a stranger either. Hour by hour, in fact, Edney began to know a greater ease in his presence.

“It is,” he went on, lowering his teacup, “the one matter over which I disagreed with many of my countrymen, then and now. I took the view of our president, Jefferson Davis, who, upon hearing of the boy’s death, sent a note of condolence to the White House. This was in the second year of the war, mind. He did not have to do it. Lincoln was the sworn enemy of all we cherished, but even so, his profound grief touched me deeply. And this was before Sharpsburg, before my own devastating loss.”