26

So, you’re going to teach Hannah to sew.” Grace cut a slice of bacon into small bites, then mixed them with her scrambled eggs. Catherine tried not to smile at the routine. Each day of the week, Grace ate a variation of bacon and eggs. Today was Friday, the day for the meat to be stirred into the eggs. The one other day when she scrambled eggs—Wednesday—she cut the bacon into thick slabs and sandwiched one between two slices of toast, keeping the eggs separate.

“When I lived in San Antonio and saw mothers and daughters in the dry goods store picking out fabric and lace, I would wonder if someone was doing that with my daughter.” A frown crossed Grace’s face. “You’d think that by now I’d be used to the idea that I might never know where she is or what her life is like, but not a day goes by that I don’t think of her.”

Catherine wasn’t surprised. Not a day went by without her thinking of her mother.

“It’s the oddest thing, Catherine. I keep dreaming about Paris. Even though I never see my daughter in the dream, I always waken with the belief that she’s there.” Grace took a breath and fixed her gaze on Catherine. “It’s time for me to plan my trip.”

That meant it was time for Catherine to present her proposal. She had thought about it numerous times since the idea had floated into her head, and the more she thought about it, the better she liked it. Both she and Grace would see their dreams become reality.

“Can you wait until fall? We might have a guide who speaks French then.”

Grace looked up from the toast she was buttering, her eyes wide with surprise. “We? What do you mean?”

“You know I’d planned to tour Europe with my mother and that visiting Europe, especially Paris, has been my dream for years. I’d almost given up on it, but if you’re going, I thought maybe we could go together.” Catherine hesitated as a thought assailed her. “Unless you’d rather go alone.”

Grace laid her knife on the plate and shook her head. “What a ridiculous idea! I’d love to have you as my traveling companion. But you can’t just leave the school, can you?”

When Catherine explained about Rachel Henderson’s cousin, a smile lit Grace’s face. “God has worked everything out, hasn’t he? He means for us to go to Paris. But you said something about a guide. Who would that be?”

“Austin.”

A frown was not the reaction Catherine had expected. Grace had been so excited about the thought of their traveling together, and now she looked like a deflated balloon. “I suppose that would be all right,” she said slowly. “He’d be our guide, and I’d be your chaperone.”

Though she hadn’t planned to say anything yet, Catherine didn’t want Grace to worry. “I might not need a chaperone. Austin has asked me to marry him.”

There was a moment of silence as Grace digested the news. Then her frown turned upside down. “That’s wonderful! I knew you two were meant for each other, and I was right.” Her smile widened. “Now sweet little Hannah will have a mother. Oh, Catherine, it’s perfect! When is the wedding?”

This was the Grace Catherine knew and loved—exuberant and easily excited. “There’s no date, because we’re not officially courting yet. We both agreed that we need to wait until my year of mourning ends and he’s convinced that Sherman Enright is no longer a threat.”

“That makes sense, but when he does propose, your answer will be yes.” Grace was like a terrier digging for a bone. Nothing would deter her from her goal.

“It will.” Catherine had thought of little else since Austin had asked her to marry him, and each time she thought of it, her decision became more clear. Austin was the man she loved, the man God intended for her.

“Oh, Grace, I love him so much. I can’t wait to be his wife.”

Grace’s smile was as bright as the summer sun. “I couldn’t be happier if it were my own wedding I was planning. This is just what Cimarron Creek needs—some good news. The fact that I’m Joan Henderson didn’t excite people for very long.”

“But it did take attention away from Warner.” Though Catherine knew he would never fully recover from the loss of his family, he had looked less haunted when she’d seen him at the Independence Day Celebration.

Grace glanced at the wall clock. “It’s time for me to do some shopping. I wish I could share your news with everyone, but I won’t.”

“You’d better not, since it’s not official.”

“But it will be soon, and then the town will have something new to talk about. They’ll be as happy for you two as I am.”

Catherine stared out the window after Grace left, wondering why she felt so unsettled. She ought to be happy—and she was—that many of her dreams were coming true. In a few months, she would be Austin’s wife and Hannah’s mother. In a few months, she would experience the beauty of Paris. She ought to be satisfied, and yet she felt as if something was missing from her life, as if there were something important she needed to do.

She turned, intending to retrieve her Bible from her room, then stopped. She knew what it would say. Every time she had opened it lately, her eyes had lit on a passage exhorting forgiveness. Seventy times seven, Jesus had said when his disciples had asked how often they needed to forgive, yet she had not forgiven a single time. She still harbored anger and resentment in her heart, as corrosive as the purges Doc Harrington had administered.

“Forgiveness helps you,” Mama had said.

“He acted out of ignorance, not malice,” Austin had told Catherine.

They were both right. She knew that. But, oh how difficult it was to lay aside the anger she had felt for so long. It had been easier to blame the doctor for her mother’s death than to remember that Mama had willingly submitted to his treatments, even though Catherine had begged her not to. She had wanted someone to blame, because anger kept her from dwelling on the loneliness that had engulfed her after Mama died. It was time to move forward.

Catherine looked around the kitchen, nodding when she spotted the pudding Grace had made for today’s dinner. Mama had often commented on the fact that Doc Harrington lived alone and probably did not eat well. Perhaps he would appreciate a bowl of tapioca pudding.

Before she had a chance to reconsider, Catherine dished out a serving of pudding, adding two of the cinnamon rolls she had made yesterday. Three minutes later, she was knocking on the doctor’s door.

When the heavyset man with gunmetal gray hair opened the door, his eyes widened in surprise. “What do you want?”

Catherine couldn’t blame him for his hostility, not when every encounter they’d had for the past few years had been fraught with hostility on her part.

“I thought you might enjoy some pudding and rolls,” she said, wondering if this had been a mistake. When he said nothing but looked at the food as if it might be poisoned, she continued. “I paid your bills, but I never thanked you for trying to cure my mother. I know you did your best.” His treatments may have seemed barbaric, but they were the only ones he had been taught.

The doctor’s eyes narrowed, and Catherine knew he was gauging her sincerity. At length, he nodded. “Are those cinnamon rolls I smell? They’re my favorite.”

As the man she had distrusted for so long accepted her peace offering, Catherine felt her anger disappear. She could not change the past; she could not predict the future; what she could do was control the present, and right now the present felt good.

When Grace returned from running her errands, Catherine was leafing through Godey’s Lady’s Book, searching for a pattern for Hannah’s dress. It was a mundane activity, yet she found herself humming as she turned the pages. Her time with Doc Harrington, brief though it had been, had left her filled with peace.

She smiled and looked up when she heard the door open and her friend approaching the parlor. To Catherine’s surprise, Grace did not remove her hat or gloves, but marched toward her, her face redder than usual, as if she’d been running. Catherine’s smile faded when she realized that something was amiss.

“What is it, Grace? You look upset.”

“There’s a letter for you,” she said, holding out an envelope. “It’s from Ladreville. I didn’t know you were in touch with anyone there.” Curiosity and something else, perhaps fear, tinged Grace’s voice.

Catherine accepted the envelope, her happiness over receiving the answer to prayer mingled with concern for Grace. Though it had taken far longer than she had expected, the wait was over. Within minutes, she would know whether the Russells remembered anything about Grace’s daughter. But first she needed to soothe Grace and pray that the results of her impulse to send a letter were not as harmful as her urging Seth to enter the contest had been.

“I’m sorry, Grace. I probably should have asked you before I did it, but I didn’t want to raise any false hopes. Now I’m afraid you’ll feel I was meddling when I wrote to Pastor and Mrs. Russell. I wanted to know if they had any idea where your daughter might be living. You see, when Lydia and Aunt Bertha visited them, they only asked about you.”

Grace sank onto a chair, the color that had flushed her face beginning to fade. “You were meddling, but how can I be angry? I should have done that myself. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it, other than that I was convinced I’d find my parents here and that they would have the answers.” She gestured toward the envelope. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Unwilling to tear the letter open, Catherine retrieved the letter opener from the desk and slit the envelope. Withdrawing the one sheet, she scanned the contents, then began to read.

Dear Catherine,

You must think I’m either rude or uncaring not to have responded to your letter sooner. I assure you neither is the case. The truth is, your letter arrived only a week ago. The envelope was filthy and water-stained, as if it had been dragged through mud or left out in a storm, leaving the address barely legible. Perhaps that is the reason it took so long to be delivered. I am thankful that it did reach us, albeit much later than it should have.

Unfortunately, neither Sterling nor I recalled the name of the couple who adopted Joan’s daughter. She was not baptized in either Ladreville church, so there are no records. I thought we had reached a dead end until our midwife Priscilla remembered that Isabelle Lehman had acted as an interpreter, since the couple spoke little English.

Though Grace nodded as if the names were familiar to her, Catherine was puzzled by the fact that the adoptive parents were obviously immigrants. She had thought that immigration had slowed by the time Grace had gone to Ladreville and that those who came to Texas were primarily from the eastern states. It appeared she was wrong.

“Let me finish,” she said.

Unbeknownst to us, Isabelle remained in contact with the couple for the first year after they adopted Joan’s daughter. It seems their plans to emigrate to San Francisco failed, and they returned to their home in France.

Catherine paused for a second as her brain registered the final word, then she continued quickly.

Isabelle has not heard from them since, but she told me their names were Jean-Joseph and Denise Jarre, and they lived in a town called Maillochauds. Sadly, she cannot recall what they named the girl.

There was no need to read the remainder of the letter, for it was only the usual pleasantries. When Catherine looked up at Grace, she saw that the woman was beaming.

“I was right. Those dreams were a message from God. My daughter is in France!”