Page 1 of The Mercy of Chance

The fire in Papa’s study stood cold and dark, his leather chair empty. It seemed wrong—Papa was always there in the mornings, a book open on his lap, whilst steam rose from his teacup. But today, the only sound was his coughing echoing from the bedroom above.

“It is a mere cold,” Papa said, waving away Mamma’s worry as she tried to drape another blanket over his shoulders. His laugh turned into a cough that seemed to rattle the bedroom windows. “I shall be fine in a day.”

Elizabeth and her sisters huddled in the doorway. When had Papa ever stayed in bed for the day long? During last year’s harvest, when he had worked from dawn until well past dusk, and he still found time to read stories before bed.

“Girls, pray attend your grandfather at breakfast,” Mamma said, but her eyes never left Papa’s face. The usual laughter in her voice—the silly giggles that made Papa call her his ‘sunshine girl’—had vanished. Her hands trembled as she pressed them against Papa’s forehead.

Kitty, the second youngest at nine, clung to her skirt. “But I want Papa--”

“Later, Kitty Cat,” Papa whispered hoarsely. His attempt at a smile did not reach his eyes, which burned too bright in his pale face. “Tell Grandpa … tell him we will discuss the south field tomorrow.”

Jane, ever practical even at sixteen, tried to guide them away. But Elizabeth lingered, watching how Mamma’s fingers intertwined with Papa’s, how his chest struggled with each breath. Something cold and heavy settled in Elizabeth’s stomach, a dread she could not name.

That night, Elizabeth woke to Mamma’s screams. Heavy boots thundered up our stairs—Mr Jones arrived too late. In the hall, Grandpa stood as still as marble, his lined face blank with disbelief. Just yesterday, he and Papa had been planning the harvest together.

“Thirty-eight years old,” he muttered. “My darling boy was but thirty-eight years old.” His weathered hand pressed against the wall as if he might fall without its support. In her fourteen years, Elizabeth had never seen him look so old.

Five sisters huddled together in Jane’s bedroom, listening to Mamma’s sobs turn to screams and back to sobs again. Mary clutched Papa’s bible to her chest, her lips moving in silent prayer. Lydia, too young at seven to fully understand, had finally cried herself to sleep in Jane’s lap. Outside the window, the first snow of winter began to fall, covering the farm Papa would never see again in clean, unforgiving white.

Elizabeth was employed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning objects through the other. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass, watching the snowflakes dance in the darkness. Tomorrow, the world would expect them to know what to do with death. Tomorrow, they would need to be strong for Mamma, for Grandpa, for each other. But tonight, they were just girls who wanted their father.

Across the side yard, through the swirling snow, Elizabeth saw the lamp still burning in Papa’s study window. Someone—probably Mr Hill—had lit it out of habit. It cast a warm glow across the freshly fallen snow, like a beacon calling Papa home. But he would never again sit in that room, never laugh at Mamma’s silly jokes, never teach them about the estate ledgers he had only just begun to explain.

The snow fell harder, erasing the familiar shape of the land beneath its blank white sheet. Tomorrow would bring decisions, responsibilities, changes. But for now, she watched the snow fall and remembered how, just yesterday, Papa had promised to take them sledding when winter came.