A Lady of Secret Devotion

by Tracie Peterson

  “And all of that is good news. You simply must give your mind time to mend.”

  Mark sighed. “I suppose you are right. There is little else I can do.” He noted the clock on the wall. “Mrs. Shoemaker will wonder what is keeping us so long.”

  The doctor smiled. “Supper will see us both comforted. Of that, I have no doubt.”

  Late that night, Mark found sleep impossible. He got up and lit a lamp, hoping to drive away the dark thoughts that tormented him. He couldn’t make sense of anything in his life. Here he sat in Trenton, New Jersey, having no idea where he’d come from or where he was headed. He didn’t even know what significance Trenton or New Jersey might have held for him.

  He ran his hands through his hair and suppressed a desire to cry out in frustration. His isolation and loneliness were nearly more than he could bear. The doctor and his wife were kind and generous, but he didn’t know them. He didn’t know himself.

  Mark went to the window and stared out on the darkened neighborhood. The world seemed completely quiet and at ease. It was as if he were the only man in the universe suffering such a malady.

  Cassie.

  The name came back to haunt him. They had said he’d called for her over and over when they’d first found him. Was she his wife? Did he have a wife? Was Cassie the woman who appeared to him in his dreams?

  He closed his eyes and conjured that image. Golden brown hair pinned in gentle curls atop her head. Brown eyes that seemed to take in everything. Finely arched brows and a perky little nose that had been dotted with several freckles from days spent in the sun without her bonnet.

  “Riding a horse,” he whispered. He could see the image in his mind and felt certain that the woman had some connection to him through horses. He searched his memory to see if something else might come to him, but the image blurred just as the woman smiled at him.

  Mark lit a lamp and sat down on the bed. He lifted the Bible Dr. Shoemaker had lent him, opening to the forty-second chapter of Isaiah. The words seemed to jump off of the page and pin themselves to his heart. He read them aloud.

  “ ‘I the Lord have called thee in righteousness, and will hold thine hand, and will keep thee, and give thee for a covenant of the people, for a light of the Gentiles; To open the blind eyes, to bring out the prisoners from the prison, and them that sit in darkness out of the prison house. I am the Lord: that is my name: and my glory will I not give to another, neither my praise to graven images. Behold, the former things are come to pass, and new things do I declare: before they spring forth I tell you of them.’ ”

  Mark looked at the words again. He felt just like a prisoner, locked in a cage of his own inability to remember. Blind to whom he might be and where he might belong.

  “I need to remember, Lord. I read these words, and I feel that I must have relied on you in the past. The comfort here is evident. The words familiar,” Mark prayed, his eyes ever fixed on the Bible.

  Behold, the former things are come to pass, and new things do I declare.

  The words seemed to hold some sort of message for him.

  Could it be that God didn’t want him to remember the past?

  Was there something so terrible there that God had blotted it from his memory so that he couldn’t be hurt by it any longer?

  Mark closed the Bible and began to pace. Dr. Shoemaker had told him all of the details of the accident. The train rails had separated, causing the wheels to disconnect. The first six cars, including the engine, had gone off the track and crashed into the woods that ran alongside the railroad. Dozens of people had died. Dozens more had been injured.

  He wanted to remember the sights and sounds of that accident, but nothing came to him. Exhausted, he threw himself across the bed, not even bothering to turn down the lamp. Perhaps if he left it burning, he would feel less terrified of the darkness in his mind.

  Cassie rose feeling restless the next morning and felt only the desire for a bath. It had been unbearably hot throughout the night and her thin gown was drenched in perspiration. Fears of disease were now rampant in the city as news came that one neighborhood or another was experiencing sickness. Cassie worried about Mrs. Jameston but knew the woman would not want to leave Philadelphia. Cassie had even mentioned the idea to her, hoping that the older woman’s bouts of illness might leave her if she went to a cooler climate, but Mrs. Jameston thought it too much fuss at this late date.

  Three knocks sounded on her door, followed by a pause and three more knocks. It was Ada. Cassie went to let her in and smiled at the sight of the woman.

  “I have a tepid bath waiting for you,” Ada told her.

  “You have no idea how I long for just that. I’ve not even checked in on Mrs. Jameston yet.”

  “The night was quite warm, but Mrs. Dixon said there are signs of rain. That might cool things down a bit.”

  “We can only hope.” Cassie reached for the door, then cast an apprehensive look over her shoulder at Ada. “Where is Mr.

  Jameston?”

  “He’s already left. He said something about needing to conduct business. He had Wills saddle his horse and told him not to expect him back before nightfall.”

  Cassie breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door. “That is good news. Perhaps we will have a peaceful day.”

  “Cassie . . . uh . . . there is something,” Ada called, as if uncertain how to continue.

  “What is it?” Cassie turned to catch Ada’s fretful expression.

  “I don’t know if it’s important or not, but since you haven’t heard from Mr. Langford, I thought I might mention it.”

  “What?” Cassie asked, coming to where Ada stood. “If you know something, please tell me.”

  “That’s just it. I do not know if it is relevant or not.”

  “Tell me anyway,” Cassie pleaded. “As it is, I have nothing to even consider.”

  “Well, it’s just that I was visiting my friend across town.

  Her husband works for the railroad and . . . well . . . she said there was a bad accident.”

  “An accident?” Cassie felt a sense of dread wash over her.

  “Yes. A train derailed somewhere in New Jersey. It was mentioned in the paper, but since Mrs. Jameston doesn’t take one, I suppose we didn’t realize it.”

  “Could Mark have been on that train?” Cassie asked, horrific images passing through her mind.

  “Well, I can’t say, but it did happen on the day he left to go to New York, and the train was . . . well . . . it was known to have come through Philadelphia.”

  Cassie felt the wind go out from her. Her vision seemed to blur and her head began to spin. “I don’t feel very well,” she said as her knees gave out. The thought of Mark being dead—of lying in a grave all this time—was more than she could bear.

  O God, please don’t let it be so!

  CHAPTER 20

  Days continued to trickle by, and still there was no word from Mark. In two days it would be August. Cassie’s desperate need for information caused her to write a letter to the management of the boardinghouse where Mark had stayed. She hoped they might offer her some kind of insight. When Mr. Westmoreland, the boardinghouse proprietor, showed up in person, Cassie feared the worst.

  “Is he dead?” she asked without thinking.

  “I don’t know, actually,” the stocky man told her.

  Cassie had directed him to the sitting room, grateful that Mrs. Jameston was relaxing in her garden. She didn’t want the woman to hear the bad news firsthand—if there was any information to be heard.

  “I do know that Mr. Langford was on the train that derailed. I’ve been able to get that far. However, while there were many deaths from that accident, Mark’s name was not listed among them.”

  Cassie slid into a chair, feeling her strength give way in relief. “If he’s not among them, then where is he?”

  Westmoreland took a seat in the red fan-backed chair and shook his head. He twisted his hat in his hands. “I don’t know.


  Neither does his family, for I’ve had a telegram from them and sent one in return. They are trying to investigate from their end. They didn’t know that Mr. Langford was traveling to meet up with them in New York, and therefore didn’t realize that anything was amiss until I contacted them.”

  “People don’t just disappear, even when involved in accidents of this magnitude,” Cassie said, shaking her head.

  “Besides, surely he would have had some sort of identification with him.”

  “It’s hard to tell. The wounded were taken to various places, so it’s hard to know exactly where Mark might have gone. I’ve been told several of the injured were mentioned in the newspaper, but their names were given and family notified.”

  “I don’t understand any of this. What are we to do?”

  Westmoreland gave her a weak smile. “We feel—that is, Mark’s family and I—that it’s imperative I journey to Trenton.

  Apparently, that was the nearest town to the accident. They took most of the survivors there to be treated. Some of the injuries were quite serious and required hospitalization. I’m thinking perhaps I can learn more in person than by simply posting inquiries. I cannot help but believe that it’s just a misunderstanding.”

  “Or it could be very bad. If he’s unconscious and unable to tell them who he is, there would be no way of finding his family.”

  “I believe the hospital would have put that much information in the paper as well. I will go there, nevertheless, and investigate the matter thoroughly.”

  “I wish I could accompany you,” Cassie said, knowing even as she spoke that such a thing would be impossible. “I cannot bear to think of him injured and alone.”

  “Miss Stover,” Westmoreland began, then paused to look around. He lowered his voice. “I know about the game you and Mr. Langford were playing.”

  Cassie started at this and stiffened. “Excuse me?”

  He looked around again and rubbed his chin. “I know about the investigation.”

  A sense of relief eased over Cassie. It was good to at least have someone else who understood the nature of their situation. “Then you must know I fear that Mr. Jameston might have done something to Mark.”

  “I understand your concern, but I seriously doubt it to be the case. The train accident was from pure neglect. The rails were warped, as I understand it. Jameston couldn’t have done anything to cause that. Besides, he would have had no way of knowing that Mr. Langford was on that train. The trip was decided at the last minute.”

  “But what if Mr. Jameston took advantage of the accident?” Cassie questioned.

  “How would he do that, Miss Stover?”

  Cassie realized the senselessness of her suggestion. “You’re right, of course. I’m grasping at straws and hoping to find answers.”

  “That’s why I will go to Trenton. I know that if Mr. Lang-ford is there and injured, he would want someone to notify his family. Especially if he is seriously injured and unable to give information over for himself.”

  Cassie nodded, but the thought of Mark in such a condition nearly drove her to tears. “Will you let me know as soon as possible?”

  “I will. I’ll send a telegram to you here, but don’t worry if you don’t hear from me right away. It may take days or even longer to track him down. I’ll start with the railroad management and then the hospital. Trenton is a good-sized city, however, so it may not be a simple task.”

  Cassie reached into her apron pocket and brought out a handful of coins. “Take this for your trouble. It’s not much, but perhaps it will help.”

  “No. Keep your money, miss. I told Mr. Langford’s folks the same. I have no need of it.” He got to his feet. “I’ve grown to care about Mark. I will be as quick about this as I can. In fact, I will leave immediately. Try not to worry in my absence.”

  She shook her head. “That would take a miracle.”

  He smiled. “Then a miracle is exactly what we need.”

  The past few days had yielded some hopeful clues for Mark. He had begun to remember little things. The faces of his parents, although he couldn’t recall their names or location, had come more frequently to him. He could remember a friend named Richard and knew that the man was dead. But he couldn’t remember how or why. The thought gave him great sorrow, as if he were losing the man for the very first time.

  He also remembered his first name. It had come unexpectedly as he spent time reading the Bible. He was turning through the pages when his eyes fell upon the book of Mark.

  “Mark.”

  The name had such a familiar ring to it. He coursed through the pages, devouring the entire book. By the time he finished, Mark knew without a doubt that this name was significant. This name . . . was his own.

  He had shared that information with the Shoemakers, and they had rejoiced with him. The doctor had told him it was just a matter of time before he completely recovered, as the memories were pouring in with regularity.

  Mark trusted that the man was right in his assessment, but it did little to comfort him. Now sitting alone, facing another night of questions, Mark knew the only hope he had was in God.

  “I don’t know what kind of man I was before,” Mark prayed. “I long to know—I need to know. I need to regain my life, Father.”

  He glanced down at the Bible he held. It was open to the eighth chapter of Mark. He read, “For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?”

  Mark considered the words. For days now, he had turned more and more to prayer and God. He felt a peace he’d never known, despite not knowing who he was or where he needed to be. Mark felt God’s presence, and that, in and of itself, was more beneficial than all the panic and worry he’d allowed himself prior to that moment.

  What if I never regain my memory? What if this is all I have?

  A first name and no last name? No family, but this new group of people who seem to care greatly for me? Would it be enough? He shook his head.

  “Lord, you are all I have at this point. All that I can count on. I believe the words I read here in the Bible. What would it profit me if I remember everything and regain my world, but lose my soul? I do not know what condition my soul might have been in prior to this, but I pray that you would save me. Save me from myself and from this awful torment.”

  “You look well rested,” Mrs. Shoemaker stated as Mark took his place at the breakfast table.

  He took up a red-checked napkin and smiled. Mrs. Shoemaker had a passion for ginghams and had even told Mark how the fabric was from the East Indies and used to be striped rather than checked. The material graced her kitchen curtains as well as the tablecloth of blue and white upon which their meal sat. He was sure that, given time, Mrs. Shoemaker would cover her entire house with the fabric.

  “I feel rested,” Mark admitted. “I spent a great deal of time in prayer last night.”

  The older woman brought him a cup of hot coffee and beamed him a smile. “Prayer is always a haven of peace for me.

  I’m sure it put things to right.”

  “I feel it has,” he replied. “I cannot say exactly how or why, but I feel confident that in time God will show me what He wants me to know.”

  “And if your memory doesn’t return?” she asked gently.

  “Then I will have to believe that God has something better in store for me.” And for the first time Mark had a peace about that thought. He could give it over to God and trust that things would be kept in His hand. He felt completely renewed. Perhaps this was what it was all about. Leaning on God when life made no sense, as well as when the answers seemed clear.

  “There’s ham on the stove should you want something more,” Mrs. Shoemaker said as she placed a plate in front of him and pulled off her apron.

  Mark looked at the generous portion already stacked on his plate. “No, I believe this is fine.”

  “I’ll be outside in the garden. I promised the neighbor across the street some of my flowers for her dinner
table. She’s having a party tonight, and since I have an abundance of roses, I told her I would cut her a nice bouquet.”

  “Mrs. Jameston had some of the loveliest roses I’ve ever seen,” Mark said after taking a sip of coffee. “But I believe yours would rival hers.”

  Mrs. Shoemaker stopped at the door and looked at Mark with a smile. “Who is Mrs. Jameston?”

  Mark didn’t even stop to think about it. “She’s the woman who employs Cassie.” He startled and looked up. There was no true memory or picture of the woman in his mind, but he knew the words to be true. “I don’t remember anything else.”

  The woman chuckled. “You didn’t remember that much yesterday. I’d say we’re making progress.”

  Mark nodded slowly and returned his gaze to his plate.

  “Yes. I believe you’re right.”

  For the remainder of the day, Mark felt a mixture of peace and anxiety. He knew peace in his soul—feeling for the first time since the accident that everything would be set right in time. He knew anxiety because having his mind back in order couldn’t happen quickly enough. Not only that, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. There was something he was supposed to be doing. Something important.

  Throughout the day, flashes of memory came back to Mark.

  He began to see images and numbers, towns and names in his mind. He remembered Ruth and knew that they’d been married. She was dead, of that much he was certain. He couldn’t remember how long ago this had happened, but the pain was not as intense as it had been in remembering Richard. This gave Mark reason to believe that Ruth must have died quite some time ago.

  And always there was Cassie. She seemed to remain with him through the best and worst of it. He had taught her to ride a horse, but she was afraid. He couldn’t remember why, but he knew that she had trusted him to help her. More than this, however, Mark felt certain that he loved Cassie—that she loved him. Were they married? Were they engaged?