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Authors: Bette Lee Crosby
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pleasant natured, but from the minute that man opened his mouth there was something about him that rankled me.
“Elliott telephoned, just after I sold the farm,” Will said. “Imagine, him having the where-with-all to track down a Lannigan after all this time.”
“Imagine,” I echoed apprehensively. “How exactly did that come about?”
“With my Lannigan heritage and given the fact that Margaret Louise, my Grandmother was the first child of William Lannigan, I always considered the possibility that Will would call upon me to take over the farm. When I heard the place had been sold, I knew I should get in touch.”
Will nodded. “He’s right about his grandma. Margaret Louise was Papa’s first born. Eighteen-seventy-seven. Her name is in the Family Bible.”
I didn’t much care if the woman’s history was carved into the side of ThunderhillMountain; Elliott Emerson’s pretentious mannerisms had already convinced me that I had no desire to be related. “Margaret Louise Lannigan?” I repeated, “That name still doesn’t ring a bell.” Even then it struck me how Elliott was going to great lengths to establish the fact that he was blood kin to Papa and the Lannigan family.
“My grandmother, Margaret Louise, married Fred Potter,” Elliott said. “He was the youngest son of the Piney Creek Potters. My mother, Madeline, she was their only daughter, married Walter Emerson. Madeline and Walter Emerson were my parents.”
“Well you certainly have a sizeable amount of history,” I said. “It must be hard to keep track of all those Lannigans, Potters and Emersons.”
“Not at all,” he answered. “We Lannigan men take considerable pride in our heritage, don’t we, Will?” He looked over at my brother and winked like there was some secret to which only they were privy.
At that point I’d had about enough of the pompous Elliott Emerson, so I excused myself and trotted off on the pretext of lending a hand with dinner. Becky was hiding out in the kitchen and from the look on her face I knew she’d already had quite a few tipples of sherry. “Isn’t that man awful?” she said, then poured herself another sherry and set out a glass for me.
“Arrogant, for certain,” I answered.
“A month now, he’s been hanging around here; keeps following Will room to room, talking about how he’s always loved farming—claims it broke his heart when we sold the farm.” Becky took another gulp of sherry which, no doubt, was how she’d found courage to speak up as she was. “Just look at that man’s hands, why he’s never done a lick of work in his life. Certainly not farm work.”
“Could be he’s lonely for some kinfolk,” I said. True, I’d already developed a dislike for Elliott Emerson, but I felt I ought to make an effort for Will’s sake.
“Lonely?” Becky sneered, “Hah! More likely he’s looking to get something out of that farm. Mark my words, he’s a man who’d chew a person’s skin off then start on the bones—a scavenger, worse than a river rat!” She took a real big swig of the sherry then said, “I worry about your brother, Abigail. He’s too trusting.” She heaved a deep down sigh, like the weight of the world was square on her shoulders, then she switched over to her secret-telling voice. “If something happens to me,” she whispered, “you keep an eye out for him.” Becky wasn’t one for crepe-hanging conversation, so I probably should have realized something was wrong, but I didn’t. Many a time I’ve thought back to that day and wished I’d asked what she meant by such a thing.
All through dinner Elliott went on about how he was so successful and had all these bigwig contacts. When I’d had my fill of it, I asked, “And, just exactly who do you work for?” You’d guess a chicken bone was stuck in his throat the way his face turned bright red, but I knew the question had flustered him. Maybe I should have left it at that, but I
“Elliott telephoned, just after I sold the farm,” Will said. “Imagine, him having the where-with-all to track down a Lannigan after all this time.”
“Imagine,” I echoed apprehensively. “How exactly did that come about?”
“With my Lannigan heritage and given the fact that Margaret Louise, my Grandmother was the first child of William Lannigan, I always considered the possibility that Will would call upon me to take over the farm. When I heard the place had been sold, I knew I should get in touch.”
Will nodded. “He’s right about his grandma. Margaret Louise was Papa’s first born. Eighteen-seventy-seven. Her name is in the Family Bible.”
I didn’t much care if the woman’s history was carved into the side of ThunderhillMountain; Elliott Emerson’s pretentious mannerisms had already convinced me that I had no desire to be related. “Margaret Louise Lannigan?” I repeated, “That name still doesn’t ring a bell.” Even then it struck me how Elliott was going to great lengths to establish the fact that he was blood kin to Papa and the Lannigan family.
“My grandmother, Margaret Louise, married Fred Potter,” Elliott said. “He was the youngest son of the Piney Creek Potters. My mother, Madeline, she was their only daughter, married Walter Emerson. Madeline and Walter Emerson were my parents.”
“Well you certainly have a sizeable amount of history,” I said. “It must be hard to keep track of all those Lannigans, Potters and Emersons.”
“Not at all,” he answered. “We Lannigan men take considerable pride in our heritage, don’t we, Will?” He looked over at my brother and winked like there was some secret to which only they were privy.
At that point I’d had about enough of the pompous Elliott Emerson, so I excused myself and trotted off on the pretext of lending a hand with dinner. Becky was hiding out in the kitchen and from the look on her face I knew she’d already had quite a few tipples of sherry. “Isn’t that man awful?” she said, then poured herself another sherry and set out a glass for me.
“Arrogant, for certain,” I answered.
“A month now, he’s been hanging around here; keeps following Will room to room, talking about how he’s always loved farming—claims it broke his heart when we sold the farm.” Becky took another gulp of sherry which, no doubt, was how she’d found courage to speak up as she was. “Just look at that man’s hands, why he’s never done a lick of work in his life. Certainly not farm work.”
“Could be he’s lonely for some kinfolk,” I said. True, I’d already developed a dislike for Elliott Emerson, but I felt I ought to make an effort for Will’s sake.
“Lonely?” Becky sneered, “Hah! More likely he’s looking to get something out of that farm. Mark my words, he’s a man who’d chew a person’s skin off then start on the bones—a scavenger, worse than a river rat!” She took a real big swig of the sherry then said, “I worry about your brother, Abigail. He’s too trusting.” She heaved a deep down sigh, like the weight of the world was square on her shoulders, then she switched over to her secret-telling voice. “If something happens to me,” she whispered, “you keep an eye out for him.” Becky wasn’t one for crepe-hanging conversation, so I probably should have realized something was wrong, but I didn’t. Many a time I’ve thought back to that day and wished I’d asked what she meant by such a thing.
All through dinner Elliott went on about how he was so successful and had all these bigwig contacts. When I’d had my fill of it, I asked, “And, just exactly who do you work for?” You’d guess a chicken bone was stuck in his throat the way his face turned bright red, but I knew the question had flustered him. Maybe I should have left it at that, but I
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