Читать книгу Joy for Mourning - Dorothy Clark - Страница 10

“I wish you would come to church with us, Laina.”

Laina looked up at her brother and shook her head. “Not today, Justin. I’m not going to make my first public appearance among Philadelphia society in widow’s garb or borrowed clothes. There will be time enough for church when I have my new dresses from Madame Duval.”

“But—” Justin stopped as Elizabeth laid her hand on his arm and gave a small shake of her head. A frown creased his forehead. “All right, Laina. Perhaps it’s best if you wait.”

“Thank you for agreeing, Justin.” Laina went on tiptoe and kissed her brother’s cheek, then turned and gave Elizabeth a quick hug as horses’ hooves clattered against the brick paving outside. “Thank you for the help.”

Elizabeth smiled at the whispered words and stepped back to slide her hand through her husband’s offered arm. “We’ll be back soon.”

The butler pulled open the door.

Laina shivered in the sudden draft of cold air and moved to the window to watch Justin and Elizabeth descend the front steps and climb into the waiting carriage. Thank goodness for Elizabeth’s intervention. Justin could be adamant when he felt the occasion called for it, and judging from his frown, he thought church was such an occasion.

Laina sighed and turned away from the window as the carriage departed. She hated to disappoint her brother, but she wasn’t ready to go to church and listen to empty promises about God’s blessings and answered prayer. If God answered prayers, where were the children she yearned for? If He blessed, where was the baby she longed to feel growing in her womb?

Laina’s face drew taut. She uncurled her hands, which had clenched into fists at her sides, and lifted her long skirts to ascend the stairs to get her cloak. She needed to walk off her anger before Justin and Elizabeth returned. Her sister-in-law could look at her in a way that stripped away every bit of artifice.

Laina shook off the thought, strode down the hall to the red bedroom and wrenched open the door. For once the color of the room didn’t cheer her. How could it? Red or black—what did it matter? Either way she was still a lonely, loveless, childless widow. And nothing would change that. No healthy man of her age would marry a barren woman.

Laina stalked to the wardrobe, yanked open the carved doors and grabbed her cloak. With a quick lift of her arm and a violent twist of her wrist, she swirled it around her shoulders, then fastened the braided loops over the self buttons, grabbed her matching coal-scuttle bonnet and rushed from the room.

Laina walked rapidly, heedless of her direction, wanting only to outpace the hurt in her heart. She was twenty-nine years old, strong and healthy. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life alone, without love. A shadow fell across her path. She turned her head, staring at the brick pillar beside her. It stood square and tall, a solid anchor for the black wrought-iron fence that marched off into the distance. Abigail’s fence.

Laina scowled. Why had she come this way? Of all the places she didn’t want to be right now, Twiggs Manor was foremost. She moved beyond the pillar, focusing her attention on the walkway, but she couldn’t resist a strong urge to look at the brick mansion. She lifted her head and glanced at the house. Blank, dark windows stared back at her. She shivered and turned to walk on, but for some reason her feet remained planted to the spot.

Compelled by a feeling she could not identify or ignore, Laina made her way along the gravel drive. Her reluctant steps carried her over the stone sweep, up the stairs and across the porch to the front door. It was locked. She strode to one of the multipaned front windows and cupped her hands on either side of her face to peer inside. White fabric draped the furniture and chandelier of Abigail’s beautiful drawing room. The carpet was rolled, the wood floor bare. There were no candles in the wall sconces, no fire burning in the marble fireplace. How sad.

Laina sighed. She could remember the wonderful lively parties Abigail had held in this house and in these gardens. Her mind’s eye retained visions of people playing quoits on the lawn, chess or checkers on tables set out in the shade of the trees, dining on fabulous foods served picnic-style.

She could close her eyes and see the winter parties—people skating on the pond out back, the flickering of torches against the cold night sky, the dancing flames of bonfires where shivering servants roasted chestnuts and made hot, mulled cider for the guests. If she listened with her imagination, she could even hear the jingling bells on the horses that pulled the sleighs on rides that began at the carriage house and ended with a late-night dinner in Abigail’s vast dining room. She’d met Stanford at one of those parties.

Laina stepped off the porch and looked up at the house, her heart swelling with protest. There should be warm candlelight shining a welcome from the windows, smoke pouring from the chimneys! There should be the sound of happy chatter and laughter. It was wrong to let this beautiful house sit empty and silent.

She stared at the house a moment longer, then turned and retraced her steps to the road. She would talk to Justin about selling Twiggs Manor to someone who would enjoy it. Someone who—

Laina stopped dead in her tracks, stunned by a sudden idea. Why not her? Why shouldn’t she buy Twiggs Manor? The house needed people to bring it back to life, and she needed something to give her life meaning. There was nothing left for her in New York. She…

She was out of her wits! Laina snorted, shook her head and started walking back to Randolph Court. She must be going stark, raving mad from boredom. What a ridiculous notion—her buying Twiggs Manor.

Or was it?

Laina paused at the corner, pursed her lips in speculation and stepped to the wrought-iron fence to look back at the house. At least if she moved to Philadelphia she would have a goal, a purpose. She could save the three-story brick mansion from its present forlorn state and fill her life by carrying on Abigail’s role as leader of Philadelphia society. It wasn’t much compared to a husband and children, but at least it was something.

Laina drew her cloak close against a sudden gust of wind, crossed Walnut Street and walked south on Fifth Street. There was no problem with finances—she had inherited Stanford’s sizable fortune. But her heart quailed at the thought of all the unknown legal processes involved.

Judge!

A tingle of excitement quickened Laina’s steps. With Judge to handle things in New York and Justin to handle things here in Philadelphia, she—

No! Laina clenched her hands and reined in her runaway thoughts. The idea was absurd. A pathetic attempt to change a life that could not be changed. She must put it from her mind, stop railing against her circumstances and accept her future with dignity, though she’d never been good at bearing adversity patiently.

Laina sighed and turned into the brick path leading to Randolph Court. The walk had done nothing but create more questions, more distress. Would anything ever be right again?

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Brighton, Master James is asleep. So is Miss Mary. But Miss Sarah is awake. She’s in the playroom having a tea party with her dolls and Mr. Buffy. Would you care to join her?”

“Would it be all right?” Laina shot an anxious glance at the connecting door to the playroom. “I don’t want to intrude if she would prefer to be alone.”

The plump nanny smiled. “I’m sure Miss Sarah would welcome your company—if you’re willing to drink pretend tea.”

Laina laughed. “I shall consume gallons of it!” She walked to the door, then lifted her hands as if holding a plate in front of her and stepped into the playroom.

“Good day, Sarah. I’ve brought some cinnamon biscuits for your party. May I join you until your mama and papa come home and I have to go down to dinner?”

“Oh, goody!” Sarah gave her a happy smile. “I like cinnamon biscuits.”

“Wonderful. They’re my favorite.” Laina grinned as the big black dog sitting beside the table gave a soft “woof” and thumped his tail against the floor. “So you like them, too, Mr. Buffy. You shall have two.” She walked to the small table and mimed placing a plate of cookies in the center. Bafflement took the place of amusement as she swept her gaze over the ragged-edged plates and lopsided cups that graced Sarah’s table.

“Mama and me made the dishes.”

“You did?” Laina cringed inwardly. Sarah had noticed her reaction to the dishes. She smiled, seated herself on one of the small chairs and hastened to repair her faux pas. “You did a very nice job.”

Sarah beamed. “Mama showed me how. Then she tickled me. And then the mean lady came and scared me. But she wasn’t really mean—she was Aunty Twiggs.”

Laina choked back a laugh at Sarah’s description of Abigail Twiggs and accepted the cup of pretend tea her stepniece handed her. “And did you and Aunty Twiggs become friends?”

Sarah nodded, offered Laina a pretend biscuit, then placed one on the floor for Mr. Buffy before taking one onto her plate. The dog sniffed, snorted, then crossed one paw over the other and lowered his head to rest on them. Sarah looked up at her. “Aunty Twiggs came to my tea parties in the garden. Now she’s with Jesus in heaven. She got deaded.”

“I see.” Laina didn’t want to talk about that subject, even with a four-year-old. “May I have some more tea, please? It’s very good.”

Sarah giggled, leaned forward and tipped a tiny yellow teapot decorated with red flowers over Laina’s lopsided clay cup. “Oh-oh.” She tipped her small head toward the open door, then jumped up and grabbed her plate and cup. “I have to put these away now. Mary waked up, and she breaks things.”

Sarah went on tiptoe, slid the dishes on the top shelf in an alcove formed by a brick fireplace, then glanced back at Laina. “She doesn’t mean to break them. She’s little.”

“I understand.” Laina gathered the remaining dishes and placed them on the shelf as Anna Hammerfield entered the room, carrying a sleepy-eyed Mary in her plump arms.

“I hope you’re not ruining your dinner by eating too many biscuits, Miss Sarah.”

The little girl giggled. “They’re pretend biscuits, Nanny.”

“All the same.” Anna Hammerfield lifted her hand higher to support Mary as the toddler twisted toward Laina and held out her arms.

“Tory.”

Laina glanced at the nanny. “May I?” At the woman’s answering nod, she took Mary into her arms. The toddler put her thumb in her mouth and snuggled close against her. Laina swallowed hard and laid her cheek against the baby’s soft brown hair. How could you feel joy and pain at the same time?

“Miss Mary likes to look at pictures.” The nanny glanced at Sarah and held out her hand. “Time for you to get washed up for dinner, missy.”

“All right, Nanny.” Sarah pulled a book off the shelf beside her and carried it to Laina. “Mary likes this one. It’s about aminals.”

“Thank you, Sarah.” Laina smiled down at the child.

“I’ll come back for Miss Mary when I’ve got Miss Sarah cleaned and settled, Mrs. Brighton. This one never tires of stories, but it’s her dinnertime, too.” The nanny tweaked Mary under the chin, then took hold of Sarah’s hand and headed for the door. Mr. Buffy rose and lumbered after them.

Mary pulled her thumb from her mouth and pointed a pudgy finger. “Doggy.”

“Doggy, yes.” Laina smiled at the toddler and headed for the rocking chair on the hearth. “His name is Mr. Buffy. Can you say Mr. Buffy?”

Mary shook her head. “Doggy. Tory.”

Laina grinned. It seemed Mary had a limited vocabulary and a one-track mind. “All right, precious. You shall have your story.” She sat in the rocker, settled Mary on her lap and opened the book.

Mary pointed. “Kitty.”

“Yes. A pretty, fluffy kitty. And he’s chasing a butterfly.” Laina glanced at Mary. “Can you say butterfly?”

The toddler’s lower lip came out in a stubborn pout. She poked the picture. “Kitty.”

Laina choked back a laugh. Obviously Mary was not going to tolerate instruction. “All right, Mary, we’ll read the book your way.” She began to rock. The toddler stuck her thumb back in her mouth and rested against her. Laina caught her breath against the sudden sharp pain in her heart and turned the page.

He’d lost her. Thad stared down at the pale, still face of the young woman on the bed. She shouldn’t have died. She wouldn’t have died if it weren’t for the bloodletting. He was sure of it. Barbara Grant had been improving before her mother sent for that other doctor!

Thad shoved aside the bowl of beef broth Barbara Grant had been too weak to swallow and walked over to close the window he’d opened on entering the stifling room. No amount of fresh air would help Barbara now. Thad’s mouth tightened. In truth, he wasn’t sure it would have helped her, anyway. It was only one of his theories. He didn’t know.

The door creaked open. Thad turned and looked at Barbara’s mother.

“Hubert says your buggy is ready.”

The woman’s face was stiff with anger. Why wouldn’t it be? She blamed him for her daughter’s death. She thought Barbara should have been bled when she first became ill, and he couldn’t prove her wrong. But Barbara had been gaining a little strength daily, until that doctor bled her yesterday morning and again last night. If Hubert had come home earlier, maybe—

Thad broke off the useless speculation and picked up his bag. “Goodbye, Mrs. Stone. I’m sorry about Barbara. She—”

“She’d be alive had you bled her and kept the windows closed so the bad humors couldn’t get in!” The woman spat the words at him, then turned her back.

Thad absorbed the criticism. What else could he do without proof to the contrary? He started for the door, then stopped. Hubert Grant stood in the doorway, his lips so compressed it looked as if the taut skin around them would split. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her, Hubert.”

The man opened his mouth, then promptly closed it again and stepped aside. Thad walked out into the parlor and crossed to the front door. The cold air made him shiver after the excessive warmth of the sickroom. He hunched his shoulders and walked to his buggy.

“Doc.”

So Hubert had followed him outside. Thad turned to face the angry, grief-stricken husband.

The big man cleared his throat. “I wanted to say I know you did all you could, Doc. An’ Barbara was gettin’ better doin’ like you said. She told me she felt stronger—that she thought she’d be gettin’ up in a few days. That’s why I went on my sellin’ trip. But I shoulda known her mother…”

Hubert’s face tightened. He made a visible effort to calm himself. “That butcher never would’ve got in the door if I’d been home.” His wide shoulders sagged. “I don’t know how I’m ever gonna tolerate seein’ that woman around here, but I have to, for our kids’ sake. I reckon that’s my cross to bear for leavin’ Barbara to her mother’s mercies. But that’s nothin’ to you.”

Hubert took a deep breath and stuck out his hand. “Thanks for tryin’ to pull Barbara through, Doc. I reckon you could’ve saved her if she hadn’t been so weak from the bleedin’.” He pumped Thad’s hand, then spun on his heel and walked rapidly toward his barn.

Thad’s heart ached for the grieving man. Anger spread through him at the needless waste of life caused by the common medical procedures of the day. Why wouldn’t his colleagues listen to him? Why couldn’t they see that their patients only got weaker when they drained off their blood?

Thad clenched his jaw, shoved his bag onto the seat and climbed into his buggy, picking up the reins as his horse moved forward. It did no good to think about it. Thinking never changed anyone’s mind. He needed proof. And now, thanks to Barbara Grant’s mother, his proof was gone. Who would trust him to treat them according to his theories now?

Thad shook off his anger and looked around. His horse had automatically turned onto Second Street, heading for home. People were gathered in small groups on the walkway in front of Christ Church, chatting. Families were calling goodbye to friends and climbing into their carriages. Church was over. He’d missed the service again. Disappointment settled in his chest. He’d been looking forward to a good sermon.

A man nodded in his direction. Thad returned the polite greeting and urged his horse to pick up the pace. This was the part of Sunday he didn’t like. It was hard watching the families go home when all that awaited him was a cold meal and an empty house. Maybe he’d go check on Martha Bauer—her cough was getting worse.

“You missed a good sermon today.”

Laina glanced at her brother, laid aside her fork and reached for her cider. “I’m certain there will be others.” It was the most polite way she could think of to say she was not interested.

“Yes. But this one was stimulating.” Justin cut a bite off the thick slice of roast pork on his plate and dipped it in his apple-raisin sauce. “The core message was that the purpose and result of freedom in Christ is service.” He paused with the meat halfway to his mouth and glanced at her, his eyes holding a silent dare for her to question or challenge him. She remained quiet. “Does that not sound like a paradox?” He put the pork into his mouth.

Laina refused to be drawn by his question. The best way to end this conversation was to agree with him. “Yes. I suppose it does.” There! She ignored the flash of disappointment in Justin’s eyes and took a bit of mashed potatoes onto her fork.

“Ah, but it’s not.”

Her brother’s quiet comment brought a sigh up clear from her toes. Laina resigned herself to her fate. Justin wasn’t going to give up. She would hear about the sermon whether she wanted to or not. Irritation rippled through her. She stabbed a piece of meat. When had he become so enamored of God again?

“As Pastor Brown pointed out, God does not call us to the fullness of life in Him simply for ourselves, though we obviously reap the benefits of such a life.” Justin leaned toward her. “Rather, freedom in Christ enables us to become and do all that He made us capable of being and doing when He created us. It sets us free from our own selfishness.” He leaned back and shook his head. “It’s amazing.”

Laina breathed a sigh of relief. Thank heaven that was over. Now perhaps—

“And Jesus Himself is our example. He said, ‘For their sakes I sanctify myself, that they also might be sanctified.’”

Laina tensed as Justin leaned forward again, his gaze fastened on hers. What was he doing? He knew how she felt about God! Though that didn’t seem to matter. He was still droning on.

“Jesus did nothing for Himself. It was all for us. Including suffering death on the cross so we might be free to choose to live in heaven forever with Him.”

A shiver ran up Laina’s spine, spread throughout her body. Justin’s words brought back that moment fifteen years ago when she had given herself to the Lord. She looked down at her plate to break eye contact with him. She still believed in her salvation through Jesus. It was only the other things preached from the pulpit—answered prayer, God’s blessings in this life here on earth—she didn’t believe. She knew from her own experience those things weren’t true, and in her estimation it was cruel for those in the pulpit to give people false hope.

Anger chased the shiver away. From the corner of her eye Laina saw Justin relax back against his chair. Evidently he was through preaching at her. Good! She couldn’t—wouldn’t—listen to any more. Not even for Justin. And she really didn’t want to walk away from his table.

Laina drew a deep, relaxing breath and seized the opportunity to change the subject. She forced a light note into her voice. “I had a lovely time with the children while you were gone. Sarah and I had a tea party.” She looked at her sister-in-law and smiled. “Elizabeth, you must tell me the story behind those dishes….”

Thad pumped water into the trough, forked fresh hay into the rack and spread more on the floor. “All ready for you, Faithful.” He opened the door and stepped aside as his horse gave a soft whicker, walked into the stall and stuck his muzzle in the trough to get a drink.

“It’s been a hard day, boy.” Thad thumped Faithful on the shoulder, then picked up the brush and began to groom him. For long minutes he brushed the horse, emptying his mind of the stressful events of the day, concentrating on the munching sound of the animal eating hay, the soft swish of the brush against the warm, muscular body. By the time he finished, the tightness in his chest had lessened, the tension between his shoulder blades had eased.

He smoothed out Faithful’s mane and forelock, worked a tangle out of the gelding’s long silver tail, then put down the brush, grabbed the old towel hanging over the stall wall and began to rub him down. The horse turned his head and gave him a gentle nudge. Thad laughed and rubbed the velvety muzzle. “Feels good, does it?”

Faithful whickered and nudged him again. “All right. All right…I’m done.” Thad walked into the grain box, scooped up a measure of oats, mixed in a little bran and went back to pour it into the wood manger. “There you are, fellow. If you’re lucky, we won’t get called out tonight and you’ll have time to eat it.” He gave the horse a last affectionate pat and walked to the carriage to get his bag. His stomach rumbled.

Thad grinned and gave his flat abdomen a swat with his free hand. Its turn would come. He shut the barn door and headed for his cold, dark house. If he remembered right, there was bread left from the supper Mrs. Harding had fixed yesterday. And maybe some cheese or apple butter…