5

June flinched. Her eyelids batted back tears as she drew in short gulps of air. Her distress was genuine. She finally appeared composed, but when she spoke, her voice quivered. “I know Victoria is your daughter. She’s subject to your will and your authority, as she should be. That’s why I insisted she come home.”

Her hands curved protectively over her abdomen. “I would never do anything to come between a daughter and her mother. Please believe me.”

Moved by the woman’s plea, Martha softened her gaze. Her resolve remained firm. “Then convince Victoria she must stay here. Her place is with me. Here in Trinity. I simply can’t allow her to traipse back to New York City and live with . . . with strangers. I mean no offense, but I know nothing about you or your husband. I don’t know exactly what position she has in your household. I didn’t raise my daughter to become someone’s . . . servant.”

June’s eyes widened. “A servant? Is that what you think she is? My servant?”

“Most likely, just one of many,” Martha quipped.

“I have three,” June admitted. “A nanny for the children, of course, a housekeeper, and Mrs. Paulson, our cook. We also have a gardener and a young man who keeps the stable.” Her gaze hardened. “Instead of hiring our servants through an agency, I suppose you think we find it more convenient to lure runaways from the streets and never encourage them to contact their families.”

She paused and tilted her chin. “If that’s true, why in heaven’s name would I travel all this way in abominable weather to chaperone Victoria? Because I wanted the girl to have your blessing so she could be a mere servant?”

Properly chastised, Martha struggled to find her voice. “I just assumed—”

“You assumed incorrectly,” June countered. “Victoria is a member of our staff, a valuable contributor to the magazine my husband and I publish. Did she show you next month’s issue?”

Martha blushed. “Yes. She did.”

“Thaddeus handles the advertising and the actual printing at his office. I work from our home, editing submissions, organizing the content of each volume, and corresponding with our authors and subscribers. The magazine has been surprisingly successful. By last summer, the volume of work had grown so much I was literally up to my throat in paperwork. When Victoria arrived, she was an answer to my prayers. She was able to take over almost all of the correspondence, and I’ve even been able to let her begin editing.”

June paused and caressed her abdomen. “I want to spend more time with my children, even if that means I have to give up my duties with the magazine. I can always return to those tasks later, perhaps when the children are older.”

She turned in her seat so she faced Martha. “I know it’s selfish of me to ask, but I will anyway because it’s so important to me. And to Victoria. Let her come back to New York City with me. Just until fall, at the very latest. By then, the baby will be born and I can have my permanent replacement fully trained. It would be so much easier for me if I could have Victoria there to help me. I really need her,” she murmured.

“I need her, too,” Martha challenged. She did need her daughter. She did. But she could not argue against the fact that June Morgan did, too. She could not find fault with June’s goals. Indeed, she lauded the woman’s decision to spend more time with her children, but it did not seem fair that Martha would have to sacrifice her needs for the sake of someone else’s needs. Again.

While Martha weighed her own needs to have Victoria home against June’s needs, the other woman rushed ahead and continued to plead her case. “It’s only for a few months. We’ll see she eats well, gets plenty of rest, attends meeting every Sunday, saves a good portion of her wages, never leaves the house without a chaperone, and writes to you at least once a week. I—I brought references with me. They’re right upstairs. I have a letter from our pastor, Reverend Blackstone, and another our housekeeper dictated to me since she’s never been schooled in her letters.”

Overwhelmed, Martha suspected she had been out-talked and outmaneuvered, if not outwitted. June had cleverly addressed almost every concern in Martha’s heart, and she just wanted to . . . to hate her.

But she could not.

She just could not.

June Morgan had not prompted the crisis tonight.

If Martha had let Victoria explain about her life in New York City, if she had treated Victoria like a young woman instead of a child, if she had only listened to her daughter, Victoria would not have left the kitchen in tears or issued her own ultimatum.

Martha herself and her all-fired pride and strong maternal emotions had driven her child straight to another woman for comfort tonight, just like she had driven her from home last June.

Truth be told, there was much more at the root of her turmoil that nourished her determination to keep Victoria in Trinity. Her late husband, John, had turned his back on both family and social standing when he quit his studies at Harvard and moved west. He had built a good life for them all as a yeoman farmer, and it was only after his untimely death that his father, Graham Cade, had entered Martha’s life.

She had steadfastly refused all of his efforts to have her move to Boston so he could see to his grandchildren’s welfare, but when Oliver turned fourteen, she could not argue with his decision to go to Boston to begin studying law under his grandfather. Today, he practiced in his grandfather’s law firm.

The irony never ceased to confound her. Oliver now had the life his father had rejected, but to lose Victoria to a city, too, was almost too much to bear. Her eyes filled with tears, and her heart ached with every heavy beat that pounded in her chest.

Had God blessed Martha with these two children, only to have them reject the life both she and John had wanted for them here in Trinity?

Was she being completely selfish?

Probably.

That thought did not sit well, any more than the next thought. At least she and Oliver remained close. He visited at least once a year and always left with her promise she would come to Boston to see him. If she totally alienated Victoria, if she forced Victoria to disobey her and return to New York City without her mother’s blessing, could Martha ever hope to see her again?

The answer cut to the very essence of her spirit.

And if she were honest and fair, she would realize that this was an opportunity for Victoria that Martha could never give to her. She could not ever hope to match the Morgans’ wealth or station. She could not help Victoria to pursue her talents, any more than she could have done for Oliver. Not without Graham Cade.

She could, however, offer Victoria what no one else could—a mother’s love and understanding and encouragement to nurture the gifts the Creator had given to her.

Martha let out a deep sigh and knew what she must do. “I think the water is ready now. If you could fetch those references, I’ll fix the tea. But be careful not to wake Victoria. Not just yet,” she added, just in case June thought Martha was completely ready to give in.

With a relieved and hopeful smile on her face, June rose from her seat. “I think there are some oatmeal cookies left from supper. Do you think Fern and Ivy would mind if we had some? I simply can’t resist sweets.”

Martha chuckled, in spite of herself. No, she could not harbor any ill feelings for this younger woman. Jealousy, perhaps. Even a little envy that a woman who hankered for sweets like June said she did could remain so trim, even when she was teeming.

Loving sweets might be all they really had in common, save for one seventeen-year-old girl who was precious to them both.

Martha finished her third cup of tea and read through all the references again. She reached for another cookie and found it hard to believe the plate was empty. Empty? She groaned and found little solace in what she had read, either.

If she believed only half of what each person had written, she would be forced to put a halo around June Morgan’s head. No one could possibly be that saintly. Or kind. Or generous.

Being skeptical, even with all the references that lay before her, was being cautious, not unfair, and Victoria was too precious, too priceless to risk.

She looked at June and pointed to the letters. “All this is well and good, but references can be . . .” She almost said forged, but caught herself. It would serve no purpose to offend the woman, especially if she were all the references claimed her to be. “The references can be considered, but I’ll have to confirm them, of course. Since we’re so far from New York City, it will take time.”

“Of course. Write to any or all of the people who provided the references. Except for Mrs. O’Malley. She relies on me to do that for her.”

“Beyond that, I still have reservations,” Martha countered.

June wiped the corner of her lips with a napkin. “Please. Go ahead. I’d be happy to answer any questions you have.”

Did the woman have to be so . . . so sweet?

Martha folded her hands and laid them on top of the table and decided to cut right to the vortex of her concern. “How can I be certain you won’t hire Victoria as your permanent replacement so she’ll want to stay in New York instead of returning home to Trinity in the fall?”

“I give you my word,” June responded. “Victoria shows great promise, but she’s still relatively inexperienced. It would be several years before she would be qualified—”

“But she might want to stay on as an assistant, like she is now,” Martha argued.

“I’ll make it clear that staying in any capacity is not an option.” She smiled. “You and I are very much alike, you know. I don’t think Victoria truly realizes that yet.”

“We are,” she insisted when Martha’s mouth dropped open. “We’re both capable, efficient women with a strong sense of duty and faith. We’re both blessed with good constitutions and a strong will that’s both a blessing and curse.”

Martha huffed. “Nevertheless, our worlds couldn’t be more different.”

“True, but it’s what we each do with the gifts we have been given that matters. I was raised to believe that wealth and position are gifts that should be used to benefit many. That’s why I started the magazine. I admire the work you do. Helping sick women and children and delivering babies are gifts, but they’re not mine. And they’re not Victoria’s. They’re yours. But each of our gifts is equal in His sight because He chose to give them to us, and we must all use our gifts to His glory. That’s the message I hope my magazine carries to women everywhere.”

It was a message that touched Martha’s heart and eased some of her reluctance to admit June might be all she had presented herself to be. And more.

An urgent series of knocks at the back door interrupted their conversation, reminding Martha that only that morning Russell Clifford had knocked at that door, summoning her to duty. Fearful that Nancy might have taken a turn for the worse and Russell had returned to summon Martha again, she rushed to the door. Much to her relief, she found young Dr. McMillan shivering outside.

“I s-saw the light and hoped it was y-you. S-still up,” he chattered. “I . . . I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

An uncommonly short man with a wide girth, he must have been out in the cold for some time to have gotten so chilled. His plump cheeks were chafed from the wind and cold, and his nose was the color of ripe summer cherries. He bore a few scars on his face from scratching at the chicken pox, a recent, embarrassing malady, although he had resented Martha’s nursing more.

At least at first.

“Come in. Come in. You sound half frozen and you look even worse. Come in, but get that snow off your boots, first. I’ll get you some hot tea to warm you up. I think we still have some oatmeal cookies around.” She stepped aside to let him enter.

“Nothing to eat. Just something hot, then we need to talk,” he responded. He stomped his boots to knock off the snow, then came inside.

Concern quickened her heartbeat. He had come to her before with concerns about his patients, but he had never turned down something to eat before, especially some of Fern and Ivy’s treats. She followed him into the kitchen and prayed whatever errand had brought him here so late could either be settled quickly or resolved later.

After she had resolved her dilemma about what to do with Victoria.

As she followed him, she remembered that June was in the kitchen, dressed in her nightclothes. Before Martha could ask him to wait so June could slip upstairs, the doctor was already in the kitchen.

He took one look at June and braced to a sudden halt.

Martha nearly collided with him. “I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you—”

“June? Is that really you?”

She chuckled. “Benjamin! I almost didn’t recognize you. I’m . . . I’m afraid you’ve caught me in my nightclothes. You look frightfully cold. Come. Warm yourself by the fire.”

Absolutely confused, Martha peeked around him, glanced from one to the other, and clamped her gaping mouth shut. Again. Of all the people she expected to be able to confirm June Morgan’s identity and attest to her character, Dr. McMillan would be last in line.

Dead last.