by Jody Hedlund
“Of course you will.” The matron’s expression was tender. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”
At the sight of a woman sitting on the edge of the bed, Abe halted abruptly, his frame filling the hospital room doorway. Mrs. Moresby hadn’t indicated anyone else would be present when she’d sought out a reverend earlier to perform last rites for the dying bride-ship woman.
Apparently, one of the women had already died and the second would soon join her companion in the afterlife.
Abe took in the unmoving form of the patient lying on the bed. She was so silent and still that Abe guessed he was too late, that she’d already passed. At least she’d had someone present with her during her last moments.
He shifted his attention to the friend. Holding the woman’s hands along with a colorful scarf, she was bent over with head bowed. Half of her dark hair had come loose from the knot at the base of her neck, and long wavy strands fell over her shoulders in disarray.
Hearing the muffled sniffles and seeing the slight shaking of her thin shoulders, Abe stepped into the room, compassion stirring within him. Even though he’d encountered plenty of death during his years as a minister, he hadn’t ever learned how to remain detached the way some of his friends had, not even with complete strangers.
Trying not to disturb the grieving woman, he treaded lightly and circled to the other side of the bed. Towering above the patient, he couldn’t see any evidence of life in her pale features or any movement in her chest to indicate breathing.
He wouldn’t be able to offer up any prayers on her behalf, but he could pray for this grieving one she’d left behind. He bowed his head. Bring her comfort, Lord. Let her know you love her and that she’s not alone.
At a sharp intake of breath, he lifted his head to find that she was sitting up, averting her head, and rapidly swiping her cheeks. “I didn’t know I wasn’t alone.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you—” Words fled as she shifted and gave him full view of her face, her beautiful face, the same face of the bride-ship woman he’d noticed coming ashore the other day.
Up close, she was even prettier in spite of her tousled appearance. Her eyes were a dark green, made darker by the long lashes that framed them. Her high cheekbones were elegant, her lips a deep rose, and her chin gently rounded.
Even though she’d tried to dry the evidence of her crying, tears still clung to her lashes and streaked her cheeks. Dark half circles under her eyes testified to sleeplessness. And the hopelessness in her expression spoke of previous pains that made this parting even worse.
Nevertheless, her beauty was mesmerizing, her body willowy, like a forest nymph from a Greek tale, with a tiny waist and gentle curves. He shifted on his feet, suddenly realizing he was much too conscious of her appearance.
This was neither the time nor place to concern himself with the beauty of one of the bride-ship women. Actually, he didn’t ever need to concern himself over the beauty of one of the newly arrived women. He was present to offer spiritual guidance. That was all.
“I am very sorry for your loss, Miss . . . ?” He attempted to speak in his kindest, gentlest tone, the one that never failed to put people at ease.
“Zoe Hart.” She glanced down at the bed and blinked back more tears.
He smoothed a hand over the cover of his Bible, drawing comfort from its solid presence in so difficult a situation. “People around here call me Pastor Abe.”
Her stunning green eyes shot back to him. “You’re a reverend?”
“I am.” He was accustomed to surprising people, especially since he no longer wore his suit or clerical collar, which, of course, was another of the grievances Bishop Hills had listed during their recent meeting. Shortly after arriving in the colonies, Abe had decided to shed the formal attire in favor of the corduroy trousers and flannel shirts the miners wore. Not only were the simple garments sturdier and warmer, but he felt as though the miners accepted him more readily as one of their own when he didn’t emphasize the differences in their status. If only Bishop Hills saw the benefit of the apparel.
“You don’t look like a reverend,” Miss Hart said.
“I didn’t know reverends were supposed to look a particular way.” He smiled with what he hoped was his most sincere, pastor-like smile.
She studied him openly. He was tempted to brush a hand over his hatless head and make sure his unruly locks were in place, but he resisted the urge. “Guess I always thought reverends were old and ugly. I’ve never met any who were young and handsome.”
Handsome?
Her gaze was direct and unabashedly curious, so much that he dropped his attention to his Bible.
She thought he was handsome. Part of him wanted to stand a little taller. At the same time, he was tempted to duck his head in embarrassment. After three years of living among miners, he was clearly out of practice at interacting with single young women.
And clearly, he was an oaf for focusing on himself at a time like this. What was wrong with him?
He shifted his attention to the lifeless woman on the bed. “May I read a few words of Scripture and pray with you? I know it won’t bring back . . . ” He paused, hoping she’d supply the woman’s name.
“Jane.”
He wasn’t accustomed to using a woman’s given name, but he couldn’t correct Miss Hart. Not in the wake of her loss. “Nothing I can say will bring back . . . Jane . . . but God’s Word and His presence can bring you comfort as you grieve.”
Miss Hart glanced at her friend’s pale face. Tears rapidly formed in her eyes and glistened. After a moment, she nodded.
Abe opened his Bible and read several verses. Then he prayed aloud for Miss Hart that Christ’s love would soothe her and be with her in the days to come.
“Finally, Lord, I pray you would bring along a husband for Miss Hart. She’s traveled here to the colony in search of a helpmate, and so we ask that you would direct her choices, give her wisdom, and make clear to her the right man. In the name of Jesus our Savior, amen.”
As he lifted his head, he was surprised to find Miss Hart staring at him. Framed by those dark lashes, her eyes were as wide and rich as the mountain forests. For a few seconds, he allowed himself to get lost there.
“My mum used to pray like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Like God is right here with us, listening.”
She was offering him the perfect opportunity to speak of God’s love. As a minister, he was always on the lookout for such openings. But somehow, today, around her, his brain was sluggish, and he couldn’t formulate a response.
“Do you really think God cares who I pick for a husband?” She tilted her head so that more locks of her thick hair fell loose and tumbled over her shoulder, making her look vulnerable, almost desperate.
A protective urge rose up within him. “He cares very much and will direct you if you let Him.” Sometimes grief led people to do things they normally wouldn’t consider, things they later regretted. He prayed this woman wouldn’t do anything rash in her sorrow.
“Pastor Abe?” A timid voice came from the doorway.
Abe started, guilt rushing through him, though he didn’t know why he should feel guilty. All he’d been doing was speaking words of comfort to this grieving woman. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?
A shabby miner stood in the doorway, holding a valise. With the hair falling into the man’s eyes and with his overgrown mustache and beard, Abe struggled to see past the scruffiness and identify him. His clothes were ragged and stained with mud and tobacco juice. And his body was as thin as a plank, the outline of his shoulder bones jutting through his coat.
“It’s me, Herman Cox. The nurse downstairs told me you were here.”
Abe sized up the newcomer again, this time noting the bloodshot eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks. This was Herman Cox? The robust miner from Richfield who’d married a native woman and recently had a baby? When his wife was having trouble
with her labor, Herman had brought her down to Victoria for help. A young ship’s surgeon, Lord Colville, who had arrived with the Tynemouth brides, had been kind enough to help the couple when no one else had wanted anything to do with the native woman due to the smallpox scare.
“Good to see you, Herman.” Abe crossed to the man and reached out for a handshake, another mannerism for which Bishop Hills criticized him, labeling the greeting as too familiar.
Herman returned the clasp, but his grip was weak. A waft of the man’s body odor hit Abe, causing him to breathe through his mouth instead of his nose. During his circuit riding between camps, he’d grown accustomed to all manner of stench. But Herman was especially ripe, and the bag he carried was worse.
“I came to find Lord Colville. He was kind enough to help me once. Figured he could again, but the nurse said he ain’t in Victoria anymore.”
“That’s right. He and his bride left a couple of months ago.”
Herman’s shoulders slumped, and he moved his bag to his opposite hand as if the weight had suddenly become too much to bear.
“If your wife and child need attention, I’ll speak to one of the other doctors. I’ll do my best to convince them to offer assistance.” Now that the worst of the smallpox scare was over, surely Herman could bring his family into Victoria without causing any trouble.
“Rose didn’t make it.” Herman’s lips trembled as he spoke. “The smallpox took her.”
Genuine sorrow speared Abe’s heart. “I’m so sorry, Herman. So sorry. I know you loved Rose very much.”
Tears pooled in the man’s eyes, and he blinked rapidly, struggling to compose himself.
Abe didn’t approve of the way miners invited native women into their shanties, using and discarding them at will. So when Herman had asked him to officiate a wedding ceremony for him and Rose, Abe had been more than willing, especially because he’d witnessed Herman’s kindness and gentleness to the native woman.
“She’s got no family left,” Herman said through a wavering breath. “I tried to find them, but they’re all dead.”
Abe wasn’t surprised. Last year a smallpox epidemic had ravaged the tribes on Vancouver Island and had spread to the mainland, killing thousands upon thousands of Indians who seemed more susceptible to the disease than European immigrants did. Abe had recently learned how to administer vaccinations and had done his best to inoculate the natives living around Yale. But like many doctors and missionaries, his attempts to protect the Indians had come too late.
“Is there anything I can do?” Abe asked.
“Aye, Pastor.” Herman’s face contorted with heartache and desperation.
Abe’s chest squeezed with a need to ease the man’s burden.
At a wail rising from the valise, Herman held out the bag. “Find a home for my baby.”
four
A babe?
Zoe jumped up from Jane’s bed and started across the hospital room, her focus upon the battered leather bag the miner was holding.
Another muffled cry came from inside, this one angrier than the last.
“I can’t take care of her no more, Pastor.” Herman extended the bag toward Pastor Abe, but the young minister took a step away, confusion—and fear—rounding his blue eyes. Even though Zoe had just met Pastor Abe, she suspected he’d never held a babe and wouldn’t know the first thing about looking after one.
“Are you sure you can’t care for her, Herman?” With stiff arms, Pastor Abe shoved his hands into his pockets, clearly having no intention of accepting the bag.
“I ain’t fit to be her father.”
“You can be,” Pastor Abe said gently. “God will give you the strength you need.”
“She needs a mother and father,” Herman insisted. “I was hoping Lord Colville could find a place that would take her. But with all your connections, I bet you can find her a new family.”
“What’s her name?” Zoe asked as she approached.
“Violet.” Herman’s outstretched arm shook. “Rose wanted me to give her the name of a flower, same as her.” His jitters and bloodshot eyes were the same symptoms Zoe had seen in her father countless times, which meant he was in need of his next drink.
When her fingers closed around the handles, Herman offered no protest and relinquished the burden. He stank of rum, tobacco, and urine. But the bag smelled even worse. When was the last time the man had changed the babe’s napkin?
Zoe placed the valise on the floor and knelt beside it. “How long ago did she eat?”
Herman lowered his head, but not before she caught sight of his shame. “Think it were last eve.”
“Last eve?” Indignation rose in Zoe, but she bit back her angry retort. After Zeke was no longer around to protect her, she’d earned the back of her father’s hand across her mouth one too many times for speaking her mind, especially when he was drunk or in need of his next binge. As a result, she’d learned to control her temper when necessary.
Instead of giving Herman the tongue-lashing he deserved, she made quick work of unbuckling the strap and pulling the bag open. The stench was enough to wrinkle even the stoutest of noses.
Yet, the second Zoe laid eyes upon the wee infant inside, she forgot all about the urge to gag, especially when the babe peered up at her, then reached out tiny fingers and grabbed a handful of Zoe’s hair.
In that instant, Zoe fell in love.
She scooped up the child in spite of the foul odor and damp blankets. She cuddled the wee one in her arms, unable to tear her gaze away. “Oh you precious, sweet babe.”
The infant stared back, as though trying to figure out who Zoe was. Dark brown, innocent eyes, a smattering of downy hair, rounded cheeks.
An ache swelled inside Zoe with a need so deep she couldn’t begin to explain it, even if she’d tried. With the small bundle warm and wiggling against her chest, pain came rushing back along with memories. Memories of holding Eve in just the same way, of blowing bubbly kisses against her belly, of snuggling her close and singing lullabies.
If only Meg had been home that fateful morning. If only Meg had paid the infant more attention. If only Meg had been more responsible. Instead, Meg had been out all night and hadn’t returned. And Zoe, as usual, had been watching over Eve.
The ache in Zoe’s chest squeezed into her throat. She’d cared for the babe as best she could, and she’d loved the babe when no one else would. All she’d done was lay Eve down for a morning nap like she always did. She’d made sure the child was asleep before starting on the laundry.
But for a reason Zoe still didn’t understand, Eve had never woken. When Zoe had checked a short while later, she discovered Eve wasn’t breathing or moving. Though she rushed to the nearest dispensary, the infant never cried another cry or breathed another breath.
No one, not even the doctor, could determine what had caused Eve’s death. After all the months that had passed, Zoe still blamed herself, figured she’d done something wrong. Meg hadn’t passed any judgment, had acted almost relieved not to have an illegitimate child anymore. Or maybe she’d been relieved she no longer had to listen to Zoe’s scolding and ranting about her need to be like their mum.
Whatever the case, Zoe hadn’t been able to save Eve, but she could help this child here and now, couldn’t she?
The babe began to suck her thumb noisily, making angry grunts in the process. She was tiny and delicate, and yet she didn’t have the look of a newborn.
“How old is Violet?”
“Four months.” Herman slanted a glance toward the door. No doubt he was wondering how much longer he had to stay before he could slip away and drown himself in drink.
Violet slurped at her thumb but apparently realized she wasn’t getting any nourishment from the sucking. Her lips wobbled and her eyes squinted as she released another wail, a demand for something to fill her stomach.
“Do you have a bottle for her?” Zoe directed the question at Herman, who shook his head and focused on the floor.
“We’ll need bottles and pap or milk—maybe both.” She bounced Violet in an effort to calm her.
Neither of the men moved.
Zoe glanced first at Herman then at Pastor Abe. “Right away.”
Pastor Abe jerked his hands out of his pockets and straightened. “Of course. Bottles and milk.” He started toward the door but then paused before exiting, looking back at her with the kindest eyes Zoe had ever seen. “Will she need anything else?”
“I’m sure the attendant can provide me with a few rags for making a clean napkin.” And warm water for bathing the child. No telling what kind of rash the babe had from lying in her own filth for so long.
Pastor Abe nodded and then glanced at Herman. “We’ll talk more when I get back, okay?”
“Sure, Pastor.” Herman spoke with forced cheer but didn’t meet Pastor Abe’s gaze. Zoe was well acquainted with the tactic of avoidance, the one that meant the need for drink was more important than anyone or anything.
Pastor Abe, however, seemed satisfied with Herman’s assurance. He continued on his way, his footfalls in the hallway and on the stairs loud and urgent. When the hospital door gave a resounding thump of closure, Zoe straightened and faced Herman.
“I’ll take care of Violet this afternoon,” she said as nonchalantly as she could manage. “You needn’t worry about her.” The truth was, she wouldn’t hand the babe back over to Herman, not even if he threatened to beat her. The man didn’t deserve to have the child—not now, not in his current condition. But she’d learned that some people—like her father—worked better if they thought they were in control.
“I’ll take her back to the Marine Barracks with me,” she continued, “and you can come and get her there later.”
“Thank you, miss.”
“I don’t mind.” She refused to look over at the bed where Jane lay motionless, having breathed her last over an hour ago. Zoe had been nearly mad with her grief when Pastor Abe had arrived, hadn’t wanted to leave her friend’s side, hadn’t been sure she could go on.
