The lamps were still lit. Grant scowled at the sight, crossed the porch and opened the door. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. But his mother cared about Marissa. She’d want to know.
He took a long breath, tried to arrange his expression so he didn’t look as if he wanted to rip the world apart, and stepped to the sitting room door. His scowl returned. His mother was sitting at the end of the settee wearing a dark gray gown—no doubt “saving” the black mourning gown she’d worn to Chautauqua for when she was in public. He hated it. His mother liked red and blue and green.
What colors did Marissa like? Pain streaked through him. He’d never seen her in any but the somber black, purple and dark gray mourning gowns she wore in memory of her brother. He couldn’t even imagine how beautiful she would look in a yellow gown that matched her blond hair, or a blue one the color of her eyes. His scowl deepened. Wearing mourning clothes was a barbaric custom! What purpose did it serve but to keep people gloomy all the time? He’d had his fill of it. He grabbed hold of the black band on his sleeve, yanked it off and strode into the room.
“Mother, I’m the head of this house now, and I don’t ever want to see you in that dismal gray gown again. Father would hate it. I saw the way he looked when you walked into a room wearing your red dress. You wear that gown tomorrow in his memory.” He walked to the fireplace and threw the armband on top of the wood waiting to be kindled on a cold evening. “You don’t need to be walking around in somber colorless gowns, and I don’t need a piece of black cloth wrapped around my arm to remember Father.”
He sucked in a breath, turned and faced her. “She’s gone.”
“I’m sorry, Grant.”
He nodded, looked down at his shirt she was mending—the one he’d caught the sleeve of on a nail in the barn. It seemed as if his mother always had something to do with her hands. He unclenched his and shoved them in his pockets.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted...”
His snort burst out before he could stop it. “Sorry, Mother, I’m a little...angry. I’m being forced to accept a circumstance I want no part of.” He yanked his hands from his pockets and strode to the window that looked out on the porch. “If her father strikes her...” His jaw muscle twitched, his hands fisted. “If he hurts her...”
There was a quick rustle, the swish of his mother’s hems across the oriental rug. Her hand rested on his back. His muscles tensed at the touch. Countless times his mother had soothed his hurts with that tender touch, but not this time. Nothing would alleviate the snarl of emotions within him until Marissa was safe in his arms again.
“I understand your concern for Marissa, Grant. I was worried for her safety, too. But I’ve been praying as I sewed, and—I can’t tell you how or when—but I know everything is going to be all right. God is going to work this out.”
I can’t tell you how or when...
An image of Marissa standing in the doorway of the passenger car with tear-filled eyes and trembling lips flashed against the darkness outside. “Forgive me, Mother. But I’m finding it a little hard to believe that at the moment.”
“I hate to see you hurting like this.” Her voice had thickened; her hand rubbed his back. “Please, Grant, trust the Lord. He’ll work it out. Where’s your faith, son?”
The image flashed again. But this time Marissa turned away and hurried into the passenger car. The whistle blew...
“My faith, Mother?” He turned and looked down at her. “It’s on a train to Fredonia.”
* * *
The passenger car rocked gently in rhythm to the sound of the wheels against the steel rails. Clackity-clack...two years... Clackity-clack...two years...
Marissa tugged the black shawl she’d draped around her head a little farther forward and kept her face turned toward the window beside her to further discourage any attempt at conversation by the woman sharing the bench seat. For once, she was thankful for the black mourning gown she wore. It explained her tears, her swollen red eyes and the sodden wad of handkerchief she clutched in her hand—or so the woman would think.
Bits and pieces of the conversations among the other passengers floated through the car identifying those speaking as having been to the Chautauqua Sunday School Assembly. The conversationalists had been comparing notes about their experiences the entire trip.
One year and she could return. They would ride the Colonel Phillips to Fair Point together and—
The locomotive’s whistle blew. She jerked, blinked the film of tears from her eyes and searched the darkness outside the window. They were approaching the Fredonia Station. Her stomach knotted. She dabbed the wet handkerchief against her burning eyes and prepared to detrain. But she would sit on one of the benches under the wide overhanging eves of the station for a bit before she walked home. She did not want her parents to see her so...undone. And her father would send one of his employees to fetch her trunk tomorrow.
Steam hissed. The bell on the engine clanged. The car lurched then rolled to a stop. The door at the back opened. “All off for Fredonia!” The porter strode to the side of the car, opened the door at the center and lowered the steps.
She rose from her seat, avoided the glances of others getting off the train. A man stood in the narrow aisle at the end of his seat, held his hat in his hand and waited for her to pass. She approached the door and descended the steps assisted by the porter. A heaviness weighted her chest, made it hard for her to breathe. Would she find her mother well or bruised? Would her father be in his right senses or inflamed by wine? There was no way to know what awaited her at home.
Moths fluttered around the lanterns hanging from the wide eaves and threw huge swooping shadows against the brick building. The night air chilled her. She lifted the black shawl off her head, lowered it to rest around her shoulders, spurned the bench beneath the lantern and started for the one in the shadowed area by the corner away from the moths.
“Miss Bradley?”
She halted, turned.
A short, stocky man stepped away from the station door, removed his hat and gave her a brief, polite nod. “I’m Cyrus Nielsen, Miss Bradley.”
“And what business have you with me, Mr. Nielsen? And how do you know my name? We have never met.” She stepped to the side, glanced toward the station door.
“That’s true, Miss Bradley.” The man nodded, stepped back. “I’m sorry if I gave you a fright. Your father set me to watch for you. He told me to look for a young lady with golden curls wearing mourning clothes.”
“My father sent you?” A cold chill ran up her spine. “Why would he do that, Mr. Nielsen? I don’t understand.” Please, Lord, let my mother be all right. Please—
“He said I was to give you this letter, Miss Bradley.”
A letter? Why would her father send a man to her with a letter? Her stomach knotted. She stared at the sealed envelope the man removed from his pocket and held out to her. It was true. The bold B impressed in the sealing wax was her father’s insignia. A dozen dire reasons for the letter chased through her mind. She held her breath to quell her shaking and took the envelope into her hand.
“Good evening, Miss Bradley.” Mr. Nielsen dipped his head, put on his hat and walked away into the night.
She was trembling so hard she was afraid her legs would collapse if she moved. She inched her way over to the bench beneath the lantern and sat, her fingers clutching the letter, fear clutching her heart.
Men removed trunks and bags from the train, stacked them on the platform against the station wall. Hers was there, its alligator cover and domed lid plainly seen against the bricks.
Two men walked out of the station and boarded the train.
The whistle blew. The bell clanged.
“All aboard for Dunkirk and parts north!”
The porter glanced her way. She managed to shake her head, and he shoved the steps into the car, leaped up and closed the door. Steam huffed from the stack. The train rolled forward, grew smaller and smaller, then disappeared from view.
Her lungs wouldn’t obey her command to breathe. The band of fear squeezing her chest drew tighter. But delay would only make it worse. She slid her fingernail beneath the wax, lifted the envelope flap and pulled out the folded paper inside.
Our Dearest Daughter,
It was her mother’s handwriting. Her mother was all right! Still...why would her father send the man to meet her with a letter? She unfolded the paper, smoothed out the creases and read on.
Oh, Marissa, the most wondrous thing has happened. And, my dear daughter, it is all because of you.
It was good news, then. The painful constriction stopped. Air filled her lungs. She frowned, stared at those last words. Because of her? How could that be?
Yesterday, your father found your most recent letter about Miss Gordon choosing your lecture on the “abused victims of those who overindulge in wine or other strong drink” for her feature article in the Sunday School Journal. I was so frightened when I saw your letter in his hand.
And then it happened. Your father read what you wrote about the abused needing “a place where they can shelter and be safe until the imbiber sobers and the danger passes” and how “the abused require a place where they know they will receive understanding instead of judgment and not be made to feel shame” and he cried out, “What have I done to my family! God in Heaven, help me!” and he began to weep.
I scarce knew what to think! And then he ran to his study, smashed his wine decanter and glasses upon the wood laid up on the hearth, then leaned out of the window and emptied all the rest of his wine bottles out onto the grass. He promised me he would never drink wine again.
Her father had thrown away his wine! Tears welled into her eyes. She blinked them away and devoured the remainder of her mother’s letter.
Your father spent last night on his knees praying. This morning he told me to pack a trunk for each of us, that we are going to move from Fredonia, away from the many hurtful memories, and make a new life elsewhere. And that we are leaving this very day! He said he was going to give up town life and go back to farming, and that he had heard there was good land to be had to the south, near the Allegheny River. He also told me to write this letter to you explaining what has happened. His intent is to include a bank draft in your name so that you may live in the hotel until we find a place, settle and send for you. To that end, I have packed your things in a trunk to be delivered there. Your room will await you.
Your father will leave this letter with one of his trusted employees, a Mr. Nielsen, to give to you when the Chautauqua Assembly is over and you come home. There is insufficient time to reach you by post.
But to return to my story: I packed in a frenzy, uncertain of what would happen next, and then began this letter. In a short time, your father returned. He told me he had sold his business and our house, including all of the furnishings, to Mr. Ferguson, who has wanted to buy both for some time. And then he showed me the carriage and team of horses he had purchased.
Marissa, I feel I am dreaming, but it is all true. I am finishing this letter to you while your father loads our trunks and the few little things I cannot part with into the carriage.
And now it is time for us to go. But I cannot close this letter without telling you how different your father is today. He is the man I married so many years ago. He has returned to me. Please do not worry about me, Marissa, my dear. I am safe. I am well. I am happy. There may be days and nights ahead when troubles arise, but I now have hope that your father and I will face those times together.
Your father gives you his love. His provision for you is enclosed.
Be well, our dearest daughter. We will send for you when we are settled in our new home.
Your loving,
Mother and Father
It was wondrous indeed. And impossible to believe. She wanted to, but— Her father had sold his business and their house? That gave her pause. Perhaps it was all true.
She read the letter again, and then for a third time, her emotions swinging between worry and elation. In the end, it didn’t matter. She did not know where her parents were, and had no way to help her mother now, should her help be needed.
The bank draft was in the envelope. She tucked it and the letter into her purse and stood. Her trunk sat alone beside the station wall. She stared at it, pulled open the station door and managed a polite smile when the stationmaster looked up from his papers with a query in his eyes. “I shall return for my trunk tomorrow.”
“Very good, miss.”
The hotel was not far. Flames flickered in the gas lamps atop posts that bordered the walkway, whispered their sibilant hiss as she passed. The brass knob on the ornate door was cold to her touch.
She entered the large lobby, adjusted her shawl and crossed to the long, paneled counter.
The clerk swept an assessing glance over her and lifted his lips in a polite smile. “May I help you, madam?”
“I’m Miss Bradley. I believe you have a room prepared for me.”
“Oh.” The polite smile warmed. “We do indeed, Miss Bradley. If you will sign here, please.”
* * *
The room was spacious and well appointed. The hot bath was a glorious luxury after two weeks of washing from a bowl full of warm water in the tent. Marissa fastened the loop closures on her dressing gown—a yellow dressing gown. She ran her hand over the lovely bright-colored fabric. It made her feel brave to wear it. Not that she had a choice. There were no dark mourning clothes in the trunk her mother had packed for her. She yawned and cast a covetous eye toward the bed.
A blue-and-white woven coverlet was spread over the mattress. She stepped to the side of the four-poster, placed her palm on the coverlet and pushed. No crackles. She would sleep on feathers tonight. After her hair dried. She moved to the fireplace and bent forward to fluff her wet curls in front of the small fire that had been started to chase the chill from the room.
What was Grant doing? An ache spread through her at the thought of him. Was he sitting on the back porch with his mother drinking coffee and talking? Was he thinking of her? Worrying about her? What if he came to find her, to see if she was all right?
She jerked erect, horrified by the thought. Grant would go to her home and she wouldn’t be there! She would miss seeing him, unless— Unless...
The notion floated at the edge of her mind, drifted closer. A perfectly lovely notion. A tempting...beguiling...absolutely wonderful idea.
She would stay at the hotel in Mayville.
A smile touched her lips. Not next year...tomorrow! Oh, Grant...I’ll be with you again tomorrow! Energy spurted through her. She whirled around the room, then returned to her task, fluffed her damp hair in front of the fire and thought about the details. She would select the dress she would wear, then repack and have the hotel deliver this trunk to the train station the first thing in the morning. But what of her parents? The thought put a damper on her excitement. How would she get her parents’ letter telling her where they had settled? She had no idea of when to expect it. She frowned, nibbled at the corner of her lip. There has to be a way...
She walked to the window and looked out at the street, watched a carriage pass and thought of her parents starting a new life together. Oh, Lord, grant them happiness, I pray. Let my father’s promise to my mother be true. Help him, Lord, to never indulge in strong drink again.
A whistle blew. Light split the darkness, then swept out of sight.
The train.
Yes, that might work. Excitement bubbled up, made her stomach flutter. She would leave notice at the desk downstairs that she was expecting a letter from her parents and ask them to take it to the train station. Then she would ask the stationmaster to please give it to the porter and have him give it to the stationmaster in Mayville. The hotel there was only a few steps from the train station. She could check every day to see if the letter had arrived.
It would work. It had to work. Now to choose the gown she would wear tomorrow so she could hang it over a chair to let the packing wrinkles fall out of it. She hurried to the trunk and went to her knees to begin her search. She knew the very gown she wanted to wear, if her mother had packed it. The blue one, with the two-tiered, blue-and-cream-checked underskirt. The blue matched her eyes, and Grant had said he loved the color of her eyes...