A Lady of Secret Devotion

by Tracie Peterson

  The next day brought a few more answers. Mark was reading the newspaper, trying hard to find anything that seemed familiar, when he scanned an article about a policeman who was shot in the leg trying to stop a thief. Mark’s head immediately filled with images. There was a large man with curly hair and another man with shoulder-length brown hair and icy blue eyes. The two images were mixed together for several minutes before separating to reveal the man with the cold, harsh blue eyes to have a leg wound like the police officer he’d just read about.

  Mark put the paper down and closed his eyes to focus in on the man and his injury. His memories remained muddled, but Mark felt certain that man was trouble. The other image, however, bore a little more clarity. Mark remembered the man was named Wesley or Wester or something along those lines. He knew the man was his landlord, but he had no understanding of where he knew him from otherwise.

  Dr. Shoemaker came home for a short time and found Mark pacing in the living room. “You’ll hardly do yourself any good this way.”

  “But I want so much to remember,” Mark said. “The peace I had earlier is gone now. I suppose it’s because as some memories come back to me, it goads me into wanting more and more.”

  “And in time it will all come back,” the doctor told him. “At least for the most part. There will most likely be things you don’t remember. Those associated with the accident for instance.”

  “I don’t care so much about remembering the accident.” Mark sat down and took the newspaper in hand. “I’ve read enough about it and heard you discuss the matter. I don’t feel at a loss in not being able to remember something so horrendous.”

  “You know, I did have a thought,” Dr. Shoemaker said, nodding toward the newspaper. “What if we were to put a notice in the papers for the towns along the railroad’s path? We could find out where the train originated and then post an announcement in the major cities.”

  “What kind of announcement?”

  Dr. Shoemaker rubbed his chin. “Well, we could describe your features and explain that you had been injured in the railroad accident and had no memory. We could ask for anyone who might be missing a loved one fitting your description to contact us here.”

  Mark felt a surge of excitement. “That might very well work.”

  “When I return home this evening, we can figure out what to say.” The doctor got to his feet. “Whatever else, do not lose hope. You’ve already come so far.”

  Mark knew the doctor was right, but he couldn’t help turning his attention back to the newspaper in hand. The article had triggered memories. Who was to say that other articles might not do the same?

  The hours ticked by in frustration. Mark tried to concentrate on the printed pages for so long that he gave himself a fierce headache and decided to lie down for a short rest. He had no sooner dozed off, however, than new pieces of the puzzle began to fill in. He dreamed of kissing Cassie and of her telling him at the train station that she was no longer pretending— that she really loved him. He struggled to see the name on the depot wall but couldn’t make out the letters.

  The scene faded, much to his frustration, and in its place came a petite older woman who smiled and handed him a dapple gray. “You must teach our Cassie to ride,” she said. A little girl danced around him and chanted, “Teach me, too, Mr.

  Langford. Teach me about horses because Mama and Cassie are afraid.”

  He woke with a start and called out the girl’s name. “Elida Stover!”

  Mark sat up and pressed his hand to his temple. The little girl was Cassie’s sister. Cassie Stover. Cassandra Stover.

  His eyes widened as a flood of memories returned. “I’m Marcus Langford. I live in Boston.” He shook his head. “No. I’ve been living in Philadelphia.”

  More memories inundated his mind. He fell back against the pillows laughing. “I’m Marcus Langford!” he cried out.

  Mrs. Shoemaker knocked on his door. “Are you all right, Mark?”

  “Come in! Come in!” He jumped to his feet. “I’m Marcus Langford. I live in Philadelphia!” He grabbed up the older woman and lifted her in a fierce embrace. Laughing, he set her back down and took hold of her shoulders. “I remember now. I remember.”

  Her eyes welled with tears. “Oh, the Lord is good. He has answered our prayers.”

  Mark suddenly stopped and remembered that part of his life as well. God had taken him from a place where his faith was based on the relationship he had with others. God had taken him to a place where Mark had to meet his heavenly Father face-to-face—all on his own. No parent to guide him. No wife to encourage him. No friend to bring him, kicking and protesting.

  “He has answered our prayers indeed, Mrs. Shoemaker.” He smiled and took hold of her again and hugged her tight. “In more ways than you could even begin to imagine.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Memories were still filling in the emptiness of the last few weeks the next morning as Mark made plans to head back to Philadelphia. First on the agenda, he wired his parents in Boston. They would be frantic with worry about his well-being. Cassie would be worried, as well, but with only three hours separating them, Mark preferred to go to her in person—especially now that he remembered her declaration of love.

  He smiled and hummed to himself as he thought of seeing her again. He would make his own declaration and ask Cassie to be his wife. The thought filled him with a feeling of completion such as he had not known since Ruth’s death.

  Still, he couldn’t say there weren’t some regrets in leaving Trenton. After borrowing some money from the doctor, Mark found himself at a loss as to how to say good-bye. The doctor and his wife had been his lifeline since the accident. Their care had seen Mark recovered, and their patience and tenderness had kept him calm as he waited for his mind to come right. He cared a great deal for the Shoemakers.

  “You are like family to me now,” Mark told the older man and his wife. “I cannot find the words to tell you how much it means to me that you would take a stranger into your home and care for him like a son.”

  “It was what the Lord would have us do,” the doctor replied. “We’ve always been in the business of lending aid whenever we could.”

  “I will not forget it,” Mark declared. “And I’m certain my mother and father will not. I know my mother will wish to correspond with you and offer her personal thanks.”

  “That is hardly necessary,” Mrs. Shoemaker said. “We were happy to help.” She came and embraced Mark as if he were her own. “God go with you, Mark.”

  Mark held her tightly for a moment, then released her and turned to the doctor. “Thank you.” He shook the man’s hand and met his gaze. “Thank you for the physical help, but also for the spiritual guidance. I feel whole for the first time in a long, long while.”

  “I’m glad,” the man answered with a hearty smile. “God knew what He was doing when He put us all together.”

  A knock sounded, drawing their attention. Mark let out a yell when Mrs. Shoemaker opened the door.

  “Westmoreland!” He shook the man’s hand vigorously. “I am so glad to see you again.”

  “As am I to finally find you. We have been quite worried. Your folks, Miss Stover . . .”

  Mark laughed. “I can well imagine. I’ve had no memory of anyone until yesterday. Well, there were bits and pieces for some time, but it all came clear for me just yesterday. I’ve wired my parents but thought to simply get on a train and head back to Cassie. I thought it might be easier to explain in person.”

  “I promised her that I would telegraph when I found you.”

  “Well, we could, but I happen to know that the train will leave for Philadelphia in twenty minutes. I cannot be late, even to send a telegram.”

  Westmoreland nodded. “Perhaps it would be best to simply arrive. After all, this will allow you to get there before nightfall.”

  Mark turned back to the doctor and his wife. “I feel terribly remiss. This is a good friend, Mr. Westmoreland. August, these a
re the Shoemakers. Dr. Shoemaker and his wife cared for me after the accident.”

  “How do you do?” the man said, tipping his hat.

  “Very well,” Mrs. Shoemaker declared. “Especially now that our Mark has been reunited with a friend. We will not feel so bad about sending him off with a companion.”

  “Mr. Westmoreland, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you,” the doctor added, “but I fear I am overdue to visit a patient. Mark, I will bid you farewell and God’s blessing.”

  “Thank you, sir. I feel that the latter has already been bestowed.”

  Cassie stirred the boiling oats and hummed to herself. It hadn’t been easy to get Silas to allow her to fix the concoction in his kitchen, but she had finally won out. She wanted to prepare a special treat to share with Mrs. Jameston for lunch.

  The woman had been feeling poorly again and thought oatmeal might settle her stomach. Cassie wasn’t at all sure it would, but she hoped that she might make an appealing surprise with cinnamon and sugar, knowing that the older woman had a sweet tooth. Meanwhile, Silas was in the pantry taking inventory and sulking.

  Unable to find the cinnamon, Cassie wondered if she dared to ask Silas. He was a sweet old man, but he was highly possessive of his role in the Jameston kitchen.

  “Silas?” she called as she made her way to the back pantry.

  He pretended not to hear her, or so Cassie surmised, as he studied a list in his hands. He made an unintelligible grunt as he wrote something down.

  “Silas?”

  He turned and raised a bushy white eyebrow. “Yes.”

  Cassie smiled. “I wondered if you might show me where the cinnamon is. I want to add it to the oats while they’re boiling.”

  He gave her a disapproving look. “Very well. I’ll show you.”

  He walked from the pantry into the kitchen with Cassie close on his heels. She was so close in fact that when Silas stopped short, she nearly ran into his back.

  “See, this is exactly what I feared would happen. You let one person come into your kitchen and then everyone thinks they have to join in.”

  Cassie peered around to find Sebastian Jameston stirring the oats. “Now, now, Silas, you know you don’t mind my being in here. Besides, the oats were boiling over,” he said with a shrug. “I didn’t want you to have a mess on your hands.”

  His demeanor suggested something else, however. He gave Cassie a leering smile before dropping his hold on the spoon. “I suppose you are making this for my mother? I heard her say something about oatmeal for lunch. Seems like a rather strange request.”

  “Not when you’re sick,” Cassie countered.

  Silas brought her some ground cinnamon. “If you want more than this, you’ll have to grind your own.”

  “Thank you, Silas. I know it will mean so much to Mrs. Jameston.”

  He muttered something and stomped off to the pantry, but Cassie could see in his expression that he wasn’t really all that mad anymore.

  She went to the pot of oats and started to sprinkle the cinnamon into the mixture. Spying something at the edge of the pan that looked like a white powder, she nearly said something but held back. For some time now, she’d worried that Sebastian was doing something to cause his mother’s illness.

  A shiver went over her. Had Sebastian poisoned the oats? She had to remain calm. She forced her hand to steady and prayed that God would give her the strength to pretend just a little longer. Cassie couldn’t allow Jameston to suspect that she thought him planning his mother’s murder.

  Stirring the cereal, Cassie wondered what he’d put into the mixture. She put the cinnamon aside and dropped the spoon back on its holder. Sebastian watched her with great intensity.

  She could feel his gaze on her even before she turned to find him watching her.

  “What do you want, Sebastian?”

  “I want what I’ve always wanted: you. I’m trying to figure out how much longer you intend to play this game with me.”

  Cassie felt the wind go out from her. Did he know what she was up to? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m speaking of us. Of living day in and day out, under the same roof. I’m speaking of Langford being gone now for a month. I believe he has deserted you. At least I hope that’s the case, for, Cassie, I still desire to see us together.”

  “I used to desire to be a princess,” Cassie said rather flatly. “But alas, there are few royal family members living in Philadelphia.”

  He laughed. “I will treat you like a queen.”

  “And how will you do that? You have to beg your mother for money,” Cassie said, a plan forming in her mind. Jameston was always talking about how he would be lord of the manor once his mother was dead. No doubt he was seeking to hurry that matter along.

  As if reading her mind, he sneered. “I won’t have to beg anyone for anything after she dies.”

  “And how do you figure that, Mr. Jameston?”

  “I don’t understand.” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

  Cassie rolled her eyes and moved to retrieve the sugar. “I fail to understand how you will benefit from her death, now that she has changed her will.”

  She didn’t dare look at Jameston for fear he would recognize her trepidation. Mrs. Jameston had decided to make changes in her will, but she hadn’t told Cassie what those changes amounted to. Cassie personally hoped that the older woman had disinherited her horrible son, but she had no proof of that. Still, if Jameston thought he’d been stripped of his future fortune, perhaps he’d stop trying to kill his mother long enough for Cassie to ensure her safety.

  For several minutes the kitchen held a deadly silence. Cassie knew she would have to face Jameston. She drew a deep breath and turned to find him standing not a foot away.

  “What did you say?” he questioned through clenched teeth.

  Cassie clutched the sugar bowl even more tightly to keep Jameston from seeing that her hands were shaking. She could see the rage in his blue eyes. What was normally a handsome face had now contorted into something that looked rather demonic.

  “I said,” Cassie began, trying hard to breathe evenly, “that you won’t benefit from your mother’s death, as she has changed her will.”

  Sebastian remained calm. He backed away with closed fists at his sides and paced the length of the kitchen. “Are you certain of this? She’s said nothing to me. Surely if she were that angry with me, she would have threatened me or told me.”

  “And why should she? You’ve done nothing but threaten her and treat her abominably since you arrived here with your leg injury. You even implied that you would burn the house down around us. Why should any mother tolerate such things, much less reward them?”

  Jameston stopped and looked at her hard. “This is your doing. You caused this.”

  “I had nothing to do with it. I did accompany her to the lawyer’s office, but I didn’t even meet Mr. Daniels.” She hoped the name reference would add credence to her story.

  Apparently it did the trick, because Sebastian paled and began to pace again. Cassie decided enough time had been spent in explanation. She went to the stove with the sugar and poured a small amount into the mixture. There was no possibility that this would be served to anyone, save perhaps rats in the cellar, but she had to make it appear that all was well.

  “What are you doing?” Sebastian asked, coming to the stove.

  “I’m finishing the preparations for the oatmeal I promised your mother.” She put aside the sugar bowl and went to the cupboard for a bowl. “Now I plan to dish it up and take some to her.”

  Sebastian seemed to panic. Cassie paid no attention. She hoped that he was notably upset and concerned about what would happen next. He’d already caused so much trouble, and if Cassie was right and he’d been poisoning his mother all along, she couldn’t imagine what lengths he might go to in order to finish the job. However, if she’d convinced him about the will, he couldn’t possibly want to carry on. At least not until he assured hi
mself that Cassie was wrong or that the will was changed back to his favor.

  “I’ll carry it to the table for you,” he announced, eyeing the pot on the stove.

  Cassie wondered what he planned to do, but it was only another moment before she knew, as he pretended to trip and sent the pot and all of the oatmeal flying across the floor.

  “Oh, look what you’ve done. Now I shall have to make another batch,” Cassie said, pretending to be upset.

  “I suppose you will,” he said, straightening. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment in town.”

  “But what of the mess you’ve made?” Cassie questioned, not at all sorry to see him go.

  “Get one of the servants to see to it.” He hurried from the kitchen and disappeared.

  Cassie met Silas’s disapproving glare as he came to see what had caused the commotion. She shrugged.

  “Silas, it seems I’ve made a bit of a mess.”

  As soon as the oatmeal was cleaned up, Cassie knew that she would have to tell Mrs. Jameston the truth about everything. It would break the woman’s heart to know her own child had been responsible for her months of illness. Of course, Cassie couldn’t know for sure that all of her sickness had come at the hands of Sebastian, but it seemed awfully coincidental that she hadn’t really taken a turn for the worse until after he’d appeared in the house.

  She couldn’t imagine what went through the mind of someone like Sebastian Jameston. How could he want to end the life of the woman who’d given life to him? Mrs. Jameston had done nothing but indulge her son, and he hated her for it. How ironic.

  The thought of Jameston returning to somehow force a confrontation between him and his mother caused Cassie to feel a sense of panic. What if he returned with a gun and forced his mother to accompany him to the lawyer’s office?

  Oh, Mark, where are you? Why are you not here? Cassie fought back the urge to cry as she made her way up the grand staircase. They were in such danger now. Cassie could feel it. Once Sebastian found out the truth, one way or another, she and Mrs. Jameston would be in for more trouble.