by Janette Oke
“Then we need new friends,” said Belinda, biting her lip in concentration.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth just looked at her in bewilderment.
“I know,” said Belinda. “I’ll stop by the church and see if one of the ministers knows of any new folks in town who are away from their families. How many should we ask for?”
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth began to chuckle. “I don’t know. As many as you like, I guess. The formal dining table seats twelve.”
“Then we’ll need ten more,” concluded Belinda matter-of-factly.
When Christmas Day dawned cold and windy, Belinda thought about their plans as she prepared for the morning worship service. Will there be any guests on such a day? She had talked with one of the ministers, and he had agreed to seek out guests to fill their table. But with the weather so cold, Belinda began to have doubts. She was also concerned about Mrs. Stafford-Smyth going to the church—should she be chancing an outing this morning? Perhaps she would prefer to stay at home by the fire.
But when Belinda descended the stairs, she found the lady already clothed in her warm woolens and furs and ready for the carriage trip to the large stone church.
Belinda thought that the music of Christmas was especially beautiful as the well-trained church choir sang the story of Christmas. The deep recesses of the building seemed to echo back the praises. Her eyes filled with tears as she thought of her little church back home and the handful of faithful worshipers who would be gathered there singing Christmas carols and hearing the story of Jesus’ birth.
The ride back home was a silent one, with both Mrs. Stafford-Smyth and Belinda busy with their own thoughts.
Tea was served in the drawing room and all of the staff was in attendance. The gifts that had been tucked under the festooned tree were distributed amid cries of appreciation and gleeful laughter. It was a good time, and Belinda felt a closeness to the staff she had never sensed before.
As the five-o’clock dinner hour approached, Belinda paced the room, looking first at the clock and then at the frosted windows beyond which the snow still blew in fitful gusts. We’ll be all alone unless the weather improves, she warned herself. But at ten of five the knocker sounded, and Windsor admitted a young couple who had been married only a few months. New to Boston, this was their first Christmas away from their families. Shortly after, a family of three arrived. The little boy, Robert, stared in wide-eyed fascination at the decorated tree. His parents had not yet been able to afford such “luxuries.” Then a young teacher with her father, and another woman, newly widowed, brought the guest list to ten, just as Belinda had required. None of them were previously known to the household or to one another. Coming from various stations in life by manner and clothing, they very quickly sensed their common bond. It was Christmas and they were lonely. They needed one another.
After the meal and an evening of fellowship with a small gift distributed to each one, farewells were said, and Belinda looked out on the wintry evening with deep satisfaction. It was a great success! she exulted inwardly. And the wind has died down. It would not be as bone chilling for those who drove or trudged home through the snow.
After Windsor had seen the last guest to the door, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth and Belinda settled before the crackling fire in the marble fireplace for a last cup of hot cider and a few more minutes together to review the day.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth softly, and Belinda turned to look at her.
“Thank you for giving me anothah Christmas,” the older woman said, and Belinda saw the glitter of tears in her eyes.
“Oh, but I didn’t give Christmas,” Belinda corrected gently. “He did. We just accepted His gift.”
Belinda felt a bit let down after Christmas was “packed away” in the storage boxes and put back in the attic. The old house seemed to settle back into its normal quiet with only the sighing wind or the rustling fir trees to stir one’s thoughts. Belinda was tired of reading—tired of needlework and more than tired of winter. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth must have felt the same way.
“I’ve been thinking,” she mused one day as they sat by the fire, “I think that it’s time to take a trip again.”
Belinda’s eyes lifted quickly from her knitting.
“I’m feeling perfectly well enough to travel now,” the woman continued. “There’s no need for us to sit heah listening to the wind day after day. We could be out seeing new things and meeting new people.”
Belinda’s heart quickened in her chest. Oh yes! she wanted to cry. Let’s. Let’s!
Instead, she held her peace—and her breath—and let the woman go on. “I think the south . . . maybe Italy or Spain. It’s always nice there this time of year.”
Italy or Spain? Belinda could not believe she was hearing correctly. She had only dreamed of such places.
“Then we will swing up into France. Visit the boys. I wonder if Frank has married that young woman. We could spend spring there—in France. I like France in spring. We might even slip over to Germany or Austria for a few days. You’ve never seen Austria, have you? No, I thought not. You’d like it there, I think. The mountains are quite magnificent.”
Belinda wanted to jump to her feet and cry, When? When? but she sat silently, stilling her wildly thumping heart and listening to Mrs. Stafford-Smyth muse on with her travel plans.
“Yes,” she finally said, turning to Belinda. “Let’s do that. Ring for Windsah, deah.”
Never had Belinda seen Mrs. Stafford-Smyth more eager—more alive. The very thought of going abroad and seeing her grandsons had put color in her cheeks and a new spring to her step. Windsor, with years of experience in such matters, took care of every detail in booking passage and reserving hotel rooms.
LeSoud’s provided numerous new items for both travelers, and this time Belinda did not even attempt a protest. She knew so little about travel. How would she know what a young lady needed to be properly outfitted when going abroad? Having no desire to embarrass her employer, she decided to allow herself to be clothed according to Madam’s wishes.
The day of sailing finally arrived, and amid steamer trunks and hatboxes and carry-ons, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth and Belinda were transported to the dock where the SS Victor lay in the harbor. Belinda, excitement coursing through her veins, kept telling herself, I’m going abroad! She was actually going to see some of the places she had only read of, dreamed of. Imagine! She, Belinda Davis, small-town girl from the prairie, was going abroad! Why, maybe . . . maybe she’d even be like Pierre and Franz and never want to come back.
Twenty-Six
A Discovery
Belinda and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth shared a stateroom, but Belinda could hardly bear to spend any time in it when it was so much more entertaining to be on deck, walking about the ship or enjoying the fine meals in the dining room.
Belinda did not push herself into making new acquaintances. She realized she was considered “staff” and held herself in check, lest others should think she was being forward and presumptuous. But she did enjoy watching and listening to the varied and distinguished company among the passengers.
They had been at sea four days when a strong wind came up, driving many of the travelers to their cabins. Belinda clung to the railings, fascinated by her first storm at sea. She worried that the storm might make Mrs. Stafford-Smyth seasick, then reminded herself that she had come as a nurse and might be able to “earn her keep,” after all. But it was Belinda who eventually came reeling into their stateroom needing nursing, and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth who provided the care.
“Some people have a difficult time with the rolling and pitching,” the kind woman said in good humor. “It has nevah bothered me,” and so saying, she tucked Belinda into her bed and arranged for medication from the ship’s physician.
Belinda was awfully glad when the rolling finally subsided and she was able to eat again. Soon she was back on deck, enjoying the fresh sting of the salty air and walking the well-scrubbed planks to get her strength back.
&n
bsp; A small town on the coast of Spain was their first stop. Belinda was so anxious to see this new country that she had to consciously slow her step to accommodate Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. The sights, sounds, and smells of the small Spanish port were every bit as exciting as she had imagined. They settled into a small villa with whitewashed walls and a red-tile roof. Greenery crowded in close about it, giving it a protected air. Belinda loved it. The best part of all was that they were still within walking distance of the sea, and Belinda took long strolls daily, breathing deeply of the tangy air and watching the roll of the waves.
They managed frequent shopping trips through the quaint streets. Belinda loved to walk slowly through the aisles or stalls, fingering soft fabrics or admiring fine metal work. She made few purchases, but she thought many times, Wouldn’t Ma like that? or That color would suit Abbie, and on and on with each family member.
And then the two moved on by train to Barcelona, Madrid, Rome, Venice—from city to ancient city—where new sights, new people, and new experiences awaited them. Belinda could not immediately recall whether it was Friday or Saturday. There was so much to do and see that she rushed about from morning to evening trying to crowd it all in. Often Mrs. Stafford-Smyth stayed at the hotel, but she usually knew someone in the city who was willing to show Belinda the tourist sights. And Belinda was quite willing to let her traveling companion rest.
“I think I would like to be in France by mid-May,” announced Mrs. Stafford-Smyth one evening, and Belinda nodded, knowing that the woman’s heart was already in that country with her two grandsons. France in May would be fine. She intended to thoroughly enjoy each stop along the way, though.
But as the days added up to weeks, Belinda began to feel a different kind of restlessness. Each new city was no longer as captivating. There came days when she didn’t bother going out for long strolls to study architecture or visit museums. She sat quietly and listened to the distant church bells, or lay on her bed staring silently at the plastered ceiling.
She tried to sort through her thoughts to understand what was happening to her, but she could find no reason for her lethargy.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth must have noticed it, too. “Are you feeling ill, deah?” she asked anxiously one day at luncheon.
“No. No, I’m fine,” answered Belinda, pushing aside the food still remaining on her plate.
But Mrs. Stafford-Smyth did not seem convinced.
“Maybe we’ve taken things too fast,” she offered. “Tried to see too many cities in too short a time.”
Belinda thought about that. Certainly they had covered a lot of ground. But she wasn’t sure there were any cities she would have left out.
“I . . . I don’t think so,” she responded. “I liked each one . . . really I did.”
“A little lonesome maybe?” prompted Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. Belinda thought about it. Certainly she missed her family. Over and over she thought of them—wishing she could share her experiences with them. In fact, her journal entries were to help her to do that very thing the moment she got home. She wrote them lengthy letters, as well, posting them from various countries. But as much as she missed them all, Belinda didn’t feel that was the reason for her low spirits.
“I’m fine, really,” she protested, then added with a forced little laugh, “Maybe I’m like you. Just anxious to see France.”
“Well, let’s be on with it, then,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “There’s no reason we have to wait until May. Let’s go directly.”
And so they did, arriving in Paris the last day of April. Belinda felt her excitement mount again. Maybe this was just what she needed.
Settled in the hotel room, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth stood at the window, holding back the drapery with one hand and looking out over the city that stretched before her.
“It seems so strange,” she murmured. “It is the same . . . and yet so different. It’s like having someone you deeply love return after being gone for years and years. You know them . . . and yet you don’t.”
Belinda stirred uncomfortably. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth’s words had a strange effect on her. That’s the way I feel about myself, she thought restlessly. Like I don’t know myself anymore. Have I lost myself somewhere along this journey? Then Belinda pushed the thought aside and went to join her employer at the window with the twinkling lights of Paris stretching to the horizon.
From somewhere below them, music floated out on the evening air. Belinda could hear laughter and chattering voices in a language she could not understand. Then a dog barked, and angry shouts answered, and the dog yipped in pain or anger and faded away into the distance.
From somewhere far away bells began to toll. A church, thought Belinda. A church somewhere nearby. Can we go to church come Sunday morning? And Belinda found herself wondering how many Sundays it had been since she had been in church.
They often traveled on Sunday—or were tired, just having arrived from somewhere, or didn’t know where the nearest church was. There was also the language problem. “Why go just to sit?” asked Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “We can’t understand one word of what they are saying,” and though Belinda knew it was true, she still missed church. Perhaps now that they were here in Paris, Pierre would take them to a church. Belinda smiled in anticipation.
“I wonder if Frank is married.” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth interrupted her thoughts. Then she went on as though to herself rather than to Belinda. “He was always the ladies’ man. He had a new friend every time I heard from him. But Petah said that this time it seemed to be different. Well, perhaps my boy is growing up aftah all. Maybe by now he is settled down to married life.”
But a surprise awaited them. When they, as arranged, met the two grandsons the next afternoon, it was Pierre who introduced his new wife.
“I sent word to you in Boston,” he explained to his grandmother. “Windsor informed me that you had left to travel abroad, but I had no idea where to find you.”
Belinda extended her sincere congratulations. Quickly putting their previous friendship in proper perspective, she could be happy for Pierre. The young woman was pretty, quiet, and very devoted to her new husband. Belinda did not proceed with her plan to ask Pierre for an escort to church in case Anne-Marie could misunderstand the request.
Franz, not at all like his brother, was dashing, bold, reckless in his behavior and dress, and dreamy in his approach to life. He was not married, but he was planning soon to be, he said, and his eyes seemed to see only his young Yvette.
Belinda felt that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth expressed the thoughts of both of them when she said, “Well, it seems that if we are to enjoy the sights of Paris, we must do so on our own. I believe that my two grandsons are living in their own private worlds.”
Belinda made every effort to enjoy Paris. It was nice to visit museums and historical sites and shops with Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, who knew the city well, but soon Paris, too, was just another city. The streets were filled with people, not friends, and the noise was simply chatter, not words, and the bells that rang in the distance belonged only to stone buildings, not houses of God.
“Back home, spring will have come,” Belinda said listlessly, as they sat in an open-air café one day.
“Ah yes,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, lifting her head from her delicate French pastry.
Belinda couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped her.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth went on. “I do hope that Thomas continues to work the gardens. I don’t know what I shall evah do when he leaves me.”
“It was so beautiful last year,” Belinda thought out loud.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth sat in silence fidgeting with her lorgnette.
“Should we return, Belinda?” she asked suddenly. “Perhaps we have ‘gadded about’—as Windsah puts it—for quite long enough.”
“I’d like that,” said Belinda softly.
And so they made the arrangements, packed their trunks and boxes, and were delivered to a departing ship.
All the days at sea Belinda paced res
tlessly. Now she did not find even the other passengers of particular interest and barely noticed them. But someone noticed her, an older man in clergy attire who pulled up a deck chair and seated himself after asking her leave.
“Ah,” he said softly when she had nodded for him to join her, “do ye kin the sound of the waves like the soft flutter of angel wings?”
Belinda’s head turned toward him and she smiled at his poetic musing. He took her acknowledgment as permission to continue.
“Are ye goin’ home or away?” he asked her.
Belinda sat up a bit straighter in her chair. “Home,” she said simply and wondered why the words didn’t stir her more.
“It’s away ’tis for me,” the man continued with a heavy Irish brogue. “Me friends ’ave been sayin’ for years, ‘Come to America, Mattie,’ an’ I’ve been stallin’ an’ stallin’, but then I said, ‘Mattie, ye’ll niver know lest ye go.’”
Belinda smiled.
“But first I went on to see me sister in Paris,” he continued as though Belinda would be interested in all the details of his story. “‘Ye niver know if ye might niver be back,’ I told myself.”
Belinda nodded and tried to smile.
“’Tis scary, goin’ to a new country,” the man continued soberly. “An’ at me age, too. I worried some, ye can be sure. But then I said, ‘Mattie, why all the fussin’? Ye needn’t leave God on here behind ye now. Ye ken take ’im with ye.’”
Something in what the kindly man said stirred a response within Belinda. Was that what she had done? Left God back in her homeland? Was that why her trip abroad had become so dismal, so unsatisfying? She knew she had missed attending church, but had she misplaced God, too? After all, God was not limited to buildings. His true dwelling was in hearts. Had Belinda shut the door of her heart when she stepped on the deck of the sailing vessel? If God had no place in her thoughts or plans from that time on, no wonder she had been miserable.
