by Cathy Gohlke
Closing my eyes and wriggling my toes in my new and practical shoes felt pure luxury. They were a worthy first purchase, and I felt beyond grateful to shed those Sunday pumps. I just might never wear them again. The extravagance and rebellion of such a thought made me catch my breath.
Germany and Russia and the United States may be shouting at one another. Half a dozen countries may be at all-out war, and the US might be fearful of changing forever, but for this day, for this moment, I, Lilliana Grace Shepherd Swope, one of a long line of Belvidere women, am wearing new shoes, riding alone on a train, and I am free.
A new skirt and two blouses, a pair of slacks, stockings, and a summer dress appropriate for No Creek Sundays were tucked in the parcels beside me. At last I could retire my dark tweed suit, at least for the time being, and wear a pair of women’s slacks—forbidden all my life by my father, Gerald, and the church in Philadelphia. I’d felt guilty just trying them on, uncertain if I should. Then I remembered how practical and modern Gladys looked in her homemade slacks and blouse to work in the yard and around the house. I gave my guilty conscience a shake and plunked down cash.
A nightgown and slippers, needed underthings, and a few toiletries rounded out my purchases and wardrobe. There was even enough left over to buy flannel and a length of wool to make baby clothes for the Bundles for Britain—thanks to the generosity of Aunt Hyacinth, who’d insisted on paying me a stipend for work as her companion.
As if any of it was work. Being with someone who loved me—someone who’d loved and cared for my mother, someone Mama had loved and trusted before her life became all I’d ever known—was a new sensation, a delight I could barely comprehend. And the house itself, set against the mountain range and surrounded by flowers and an abundance of graceful, old trees, took my breath away and filled me with a sense of tranquility, of peace. It seemed wrong to feel so happy, but happiness was addictive in a way I hadn’t known.
When I ran away from Gerald and Father and Philadelphia, it had been without a plan. Part of me felt like a dirty thief in the night. Part of me felt like an unruly child run amok. I knew that one day I’d have to return, that one day I must go home and face the music.
I’d even tried to convince myself that given time, perhaps Gerald would come to miss me and regret his plans. Perhaps if I grew stronger, more confident, more womanly, he’d care for me as he’d said he did before we married. Perhaps he’d treat me better. I’d told myself that I just needed a little time to find a way to not be afraid of him, to learn to love him again. He was my husband, after all. Surely that was possible.
But after less than a week in No Creek, after going to sleep each night and waking each morning without fear of being slapped or pushed or kicked or ridiculed or shamed, without walking each day on eggshells with nerves stretched so taut I could barely breathe, I’d known I would never go back. Even if it meant running for the rest of my life or being shunned forever.
If only I could have God’s forgiveness, His love and approval, life would be complete. But I knew that wasn’t possible. God was too holy to look at sinners and smile—and I was chief among sinners, “a snake in the grass,” as my father had once labeled me. That message resounded through all my growing years and was reinforced in my married years. It ran like Aunt Hyacinth’s Victrola recordings in my head.
Aunt Hyacinth spoke again and again about the all-absorbing, ever-forgiving, never-ending love of God. She shared every day about her friend Biddy Chambers and her joy in living in relationship with and for the glory of God, as Oswald Chambers, Biddy’s husband, had done in his too-short life.
But I knew those things didn’t apply to me. Aunt Hyacinth would understand that, too, if she knew the anger and fear and even hatred I felt toward Father and Gerald. I was soiled and shamed, as if I’d actually pulled a trigger on one or both of them. And I’d thought about it. Once I’d contemplated lacing Gerald’s tea with sedatives to calm him down, or worse, rat poison. I’d even bought the sedatives. I never bought the poison. I didn’t want to kill him. I just wanted the pain to stop.
So all those gifts—happiness, new clothes, and sensible shoes—felt like a mixture of pleasures only God could give and surely take away. I knew I’d one day be called to account for each one, in no way able to justify or explain my enjoyment of them. The conflict wearied my soul. But just for now, I forced those pounding thoughts aside, sank into my seat, wriggled my toes in new shoes, and enjoyed my stolen pleasures.
Chapter Thirteen
CELIA WAS SURPRISED to see Reverend Willard at the train platform of an evening. He wouldn’t be going anywhere now. It was near dusk and the last train of the day. Who could he be waiting for?
It wouldn’t do to practice her Roberta run in front of the reverend. He’d smile and think it silly, though he wouldn’t say. So Celia ducked just out of sight, but close enough to watch.
The train jerked to a stop. Off stepped Miss Grace, so loaded down with brown paper packages tied up in string that the conductor had to help her down the steps, handing her more and a couple of big books besides. How she expected to tote that lot up the hill to Garden’s Gate, Celia couldn’t imagine.
But the reverend stepped right up, grinning as if he’d been waiting for her all day and had nothing better to do in life than heft those big books and parcels.
Miss Grace protested, Celia could see, but not enough to speak on. Celia followed at a discreet distance, not wanting to be thought spying, but close enough to eavesdrop. Accomplishing both things at once just wasn’t working, so she settled for interpreting from afar their facial expressions when turned toward one another, taking special note of the way they gestured and walked or didn’t walk on. All she could tell was that Reverend Willard was serious and sober and worried over something, if Celia was any judge of character—and she knew she was.
And it appeared that whatever he’d said made Miss Grace turn perturbed, maybe even frightened, stressed in her cat-strung-on-a-clothesline kind of way, and then beaten down. She’d looked so happy when she’d stepped off the train. What could Reverend Willard have said to her? It wasn’t like the reverend to bring folks to their knees except for prayer. Was something the matter with Miz Hyacinth? That’s the only cause Celia could imagine for such earnest sobriety . . . unless there was something scandalous, something tragic or unimaginable, something compelling for her to investigate.
She crept closer. Dusk gathered among the hills and spilled through the valley. It wouldn’t hurt to get a little nearer . . . near enough to hear Reverend Willard.
“Perhaps you know who she meant. I don’t know who this relative is—no one from around here, surely. How she came and went without Ida Mae reporting it is anybody’s guess. I don’t think anyone even knew Miz Hyacinth had living relatives until you came. The thing that concerns me is Miz Hyacinth’s heart. I’m worried she might work herself up into another stroke. Dr. Vishnevsky said that after one stroke it’s not unlikely to have another.”
Miss Grace stopped in the middle of the road. “I should never have come.”
“Please, you misunderstand me! Miz Hyacinth has not been this engaged or looked so well in these two years since her stroke. Except for today, she’s happier since you’ve come than I’ve seen her since I was a boy. You’re a spring tonic for her, Grace . . . for all of us. A breath of fresh air.” He shifted the parcels and Celia saw he was searching for words—an uncommon challenge for the reverend.
“You’d think with all this good air flowing off the mountain we’d be a spritely bunch, but the truth is, we’re not. We need new blood and the culture and refinement you and your cousin bring. Please don’t regret coming. I’m glad you’re here and hope you’ll stay.” Even in the gloaming Celia could see that speech had cost the reverend and caused him to blush.
Miss Grace didn’t seem to notice but, agitated, walked on. Celia knew she should break off and head for home, but a lightning bolt flashed across her mind that stopped her in her tracks. Reverend W
illard’s sweet on Miss Grace. He’s never looked at any of the local women like he looks at her.
Celia gave a low whistle to think of all she’d uncovered in one night: Somebody’d grieved Miz Hyacinth. Miss Grace was a spring tonic not only for Miz Hyacinth, but for the reverend. Why didn’t Miss Grace seem glad about that? Any woman in No Creek would give her eyeteeth for the preacher’s attention. He was a looker, as Ida Mae always said, and Miss Grace was a stunner. They didn’t look far apart in age. Why wasn’t this attraction producing sparks? And who in their right mind would worry Miz Hyacinth into a stroke?
Celia breathed deeply and headed home at a clip. She had some serious sleuthing to do.
Chapter Fourteen
BY THE TIME I REACHED GARDEN’S GATE and relieved the reverend of my parcels, I was spent. Though he stood a long moment on the front porch, I would not invite him in. Evening had settled and it would not do for neighbors to talk. Why he didn’t seem to think on that was a puzzle to me. Besides, no light shone in the windows, and though that might mean Aunt Hyacinth was sitting in the dark, still dressed and imagining it was day, it might also mean she’d gone to bed early, especially after such an upset as Reverend Willard had revealed.
Gerald was surely her upset. From what the reverend had overheard, it had been my husband on the telephone, rather than my father. Yet the only way Gerald would know Aunt Hyacinth’s full name or address was from Father. Further evidence of how the two worked in league. The thought sickened and frightened me.
The evening was warm, but I shuddered to imagine his call. In Gerald’s search for evidence that I wasn’t stable, he’d gladly construe my running away as, in legal jargon, “desertion.” Either way, it did not portend well for me, or for Aunt Hyacinth, if he pursued his search.
By the time I’d entered the foyer, found the light, and deposited my packages on the table beside the stairs, I knew I needed to move on before Gerald or Father came looking for me. I couldn’t put Aunt Hyacinth in danger or through humiliation in No Creek, and I certainly did not want to be caught and dragged back to Philadelphia for public disgrace or to be “put away.” The very thought sent shock waves through my system.
“Who’s there?” Aunt Hyacinth’s voice came from the dark parlor, causing me to jump.
“It’s me, Aunt Hyacinth. I’m alone.”
“Thank heaven. We need to talk.”
I turned on the Tiffany lamp by her chair. It wouldn’t matter to Aunt Hyacinth, but I needed light to chase away the demons. I sank into the chair opposite her. “Reverend Willard met my train. He told me what happened.”
“I don’t know how much he overheard.”
“Enough to know that you have some crazy relative who ran away from her dangerous husband.”
“He doesn’t suspect you.” It was both statement and question.
“No, I don’t think he does. But he surely will, once he thinks things through.”
“I don’t believe he will, and I don’t believe he’ll share what he heard with anyone else. He’s smitten, you know.”
“What?” But I did know, or at least I’d begun to suspect. I didn’t know the reverend well enough to know if his attentions to me were singular or if such solicitude was habitual for him, but I’d been on my guard since our first meeting.
Aunt Hyacinth sighed. “He’s never fallen for anyone—at least no one here in No Creek. I think there might have been someone when he was away at seminary, but for whatever reason it didn’t work out, and he came back to us. He doesn’t know you’re married, and because he doesn’t know, I think he feels rebuffed.”
I closed my eyes, weary to the bone. “I can’t help that. You know I can’t encourage him and I can’t tell him why not. That’s one more reason.”
“For what?”
“Reason that I must go. Believe me when I say that Gerald is dangerous. He won’t give up because you told him to. And threats won’t keep him away. He’s fearless. His typical response to a challenge is to rise to the occasion and thwart any and all in his way, and I’m afraid, from what Reverend Willard said, he might see you as that challenge. He won’t trust that I’ve left. He may very well show up here, and soon.”
“But he may not.”
“We can’t take that risk. I can’t put you in danger, and I won’t, I absolutely won’t, go back to him.” The trembling came through my bones.
“I’d never expect you to or want you to. But I do want you to stay.”
“Aunt Hyacinth, you don’t know him. He can be oh so charming but turn on a dime. And when he comes here, everything will come out. Everyone in No Creek—Reverend Willard, Gladys Percy, Olney Tate—Ida Mae, for pity’s sake—will know that we’ve both lied to them. It will be awful, a scandal for you. You’ve lived here your whole life. You’re the most dearly loved and highly respected member of this community as near as I can tell. I won’t take that from you.”
“You wouldn’t be. Gerald’s the one—”
“Yes, Gerald, my husband, my infernal mess.” I shook my head. “No, I love you, Aunt Hyacinth. These few weeks have been the best of my life and I’ll never forget them. I’ll never forget you or your love and kindness. But I must go, for your and my protection, before he gets here.”
Aunt Hyacinth’s shoulders slumped. She looked as if she’d shrunk two sizes during my tirade. “Please,” she said. “Please, Lilliana, my darling Lilly, don’t go.”
My heart nearly burst and I knelt before her, taking her weathered hands in my own. “It’s for the best. Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t see. I only know that I’m not long for this world and—”
“Please don’t say that.”
“I’m not the one saying it. Dr. Vishnevsky told me—two or three months at most, and Granny Chree, my dear old friend, my nanny from childhood and the mountain’s best midwife and herb doctor, has confirmed it.”
“What? Because of today—because of Gerald’s call?”
“No. That shock didn’t help, but it’s my heart. It’s giving out. I won’t be here long, and I don’t care two cents what people think or say. I love you and I want you here with me, if you’re willing to stay. I know it’s a risk to you if you’re afraid he’ll come. I can’t even give a name to a man who hits his wife. But if you could stay, if you would share these days with me in my time that is left, and if we could restore Garden’s Gate together—make it what we’d both like it to be again—it would be a gift beyond measure.
“After I’m gone, as long as you’re free of that man, you’ll be able to do what you want with the house, the land—to stay or sell, whatever you wish. I’ve already talked with Rudolph Bellmont, my lawyer, and explained everything. His office is in North Wilkesboro. He’ll administer the trust in your interests alone. Any questions you have, and anything you need, just go to him. We’re making certain through a discretionary trust with a spendthrift clause that Gerald doesn’t inherit or benefit from a penny, and he can’t force you to sell. While you’re married to him, you’ll receive enough to pay for repairs and taxes on the house, pay Gladys and Olney for their help, and collect a stipend for your living expenses—nothing more. If that man should outlive you, everything I own goes to someone else I’ve designated. I won’t say who, for I expect you to live a long, full life.”
I didn’t know what to say—not about staying or inheriting Garden’s Gate or all that Aunt Hyacinth had set in place for my welfare. It was too much to think on. What I cared about more, what tore at my heart, was all she’d said about her dying—expecting to die so soon. I couldn’t take that in, couldn’t cope with the horror. Not after Mama’s going. Losing Aunt Hyacinth would be like losing Mama all over again. She was the last of Mama—of my mother’s family.
More than that, Aunt Hyacinth had grown precious to me in her own right. I closed my eyes. Leaving now might be as dangerous for Aunt Hyacinth as staying. Either way, Gerald or Father might come, bully her, hoping to get information of my whereabouts. That idea was u
ntenable. I must protect her, though I couldn’t fathom how. I pulled myself together as best I could and whispered, “Of course I’ll stay. I’ll stay as long as you want me. We’ll pray he doesn’t come.”
Aunt Hyacinth squeezed my hands. “Thank you, my darling girl. Thank you. We’ll do all we can in the time we have, and we’ll trust, and we’ll pray, God’s will be done.”
I didn’t answer that. I feared God’s will if it was anything like Gerald’s or my father’s or Pastor Harding’s. They’d proclaimed it so. Their will had ruled Mama’s life until her dying day, and mine until the day of her funeral.
I helped Aunt Hyacinth up the stairs to her room, then helped her prepare for bed, tucked her in her grand four-poster bed, and kissed her good night. My heart rose in my throat. Her smile was so like Mama’s. Dear God, I don’t want to lose this dear woman. Not now. Not so soon. Please, please give us time.
Bone tired, I headed toward my room, leaving wallpaper books and parcels unopened. Passing the gilded hallway mirror, I stopped and stared. The woman looking back at me, weary and surely older than her appointed years, resembled in bone structure my mother and my grandaunt. I was glad and sad of that, realizing I’d all too soon be the last of the Belvidere women.
Chapter Fifteen
CELIA HAD NEVER SEEN HER MOTHER or Olney Tate work at the pace they did. Olney and his nephew, Marshall, had stripped peeling paint from the clapboards of Garden’s Gate and sanded the whole thing, roof to ground, inside two weeks. Her mother and Miss Grace had scrubbed every inside wall and inch of woodwork on three floors by the day the paint was delivered. It reminded Celia of news she’d heard on Miz Hyacinth’s radio about the German army’s march into Russia—whoosh, and in one fell swoop!
