© 1998 by Gilbert Morris
2006 Edition
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7046-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Cover illustrations by Dan Thornberg
Cover design by Josh Madison
To Leon and Joanne Case
When I think of the faithful servants of God I have known—
you two always come to my mind.
I remember so vividly how in the early days you oft refreshed Johnnie and me—
and helped us along the way.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART ONE
Reflections of Life
1. A Glass of Ale
2. The Hills of Home
3. Big City Encounters
4. “Don’t Be Afraid of Life. . . .”
5. A Time to Live
6. A Family Affair
PART TWO
Troubled Waters
7. “Love Don’t Always Add Up, Jolie . . . !”
8. Taking an Offering
9. Trouble in Paradise
10. “Have You Ever Wanted a Man?”
11. The Calling
12. Speed!
PART THREE
Crossroads
13. A Dark Tunnel
14. “You’d Strangle Me in a Week!”
15. “I’m Not Doing It for You”
16. A Call From God
17. Coming of Age
PART FOUR
Open Doors
18. A Mysterious Mission
19. A Matter of Faith
20. An Unguarded Moment
21. The Choice
22. Three Surprises
23. “I’ll Go Anywhere With You . . . !”
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
A Glass of Ale
Cara Lanier, her long, rich brown hair pulled back with a ribbon, the sleeves of her pale blue dressing gown rolled up to her elbows, leaned forward, intent on the canvas before her. Carefully she made one more stroke with her brush, then leaned back to examine her work.
Her small movement was enough to wake the tiny spaniel lying at her feet. He had been stretched out on his side, enjoying the morning sunshine pouring through the tall, mullioned window behind them, his creamy white-and-chestnut coat glistening warmly in the light. Now, however, he thought he saw an opportunity for some attention and leaped into Cara’s lap, pushing his way up to lick her face.
“Charley, stop that! You’re going to get paint on both of us!”
As Cara’s arm moved to protect her paint and the canvas before her, Charley hopped down, but the furry companion was not the least bit repentant. He bent down and gave a sharp bark, begging to play. Then he bounced forward, rump wagging as quickly as it could, dark eyes soulfully pleading.
Cara laughed. “Oh, poor Charley! You get as tired as I do being cooped up in this room, don’t you? I just wish I could take you for a walk.”
Cara gazed around the room that had become her prison. It was indeed beautiful. At the second-floor front of her family’s impressive nineteenth-century townhouse, it was large and high-ceilinged and decorated for lightness and femininity. Two large windows draped in lace-trimmed chintz flooded the room with sunshine on days like today. Cheerful landscapes were placed strategically about the cream-colored walls, and colorful area rugs decorated the highly polished oak floor. A thoughtful hominess was provided by the hand-crocheted spread her mother had made for her four-poster bed and the family pictures, framed in silver, arranged on her dressing table and the fireplace mantel.
This room had once been a place of joy and pleasant retreat. Now, however, after ten years as an invalid, she felt something close to despair as she thought about yet another day within these walls. Her large gray-green eyes filled momentarily with tears. “Oh yes, Charley, I do wish I could take you outdoors.” Brushing away a tear and giving a deep sigh, Cara scooped Charley back up to snuggle him against her and turned to the window.
The scene she gazed upon was a cheerful one. The spring of 1907 had come suddenly, bringing with it warm breezes. Outside her window she could see children playing in the street. She heard their cries and their laughter and watched for a while, wondering if they were children from the neighborhood. She had lived in New York all of her life in this same house, which had been built in a sparsely populated suburb years ago. Now, however, because of expansion, it was a part of the city itself.
Cara was glad the house had been set back from the road, which now was a busy thoroughfare. She took great pleasure in the small front yard beneath her window. Carefully planned and tended by Henry, the gardener, it offered a season-long treat for the eye—and living models for her paintings. On this bright day, drifts of white, lavender, and purple were accented with bright splashes of yellow and red as tulips, English daisies, and pansies turned their gentle faces to the spring sunshine. Cara glanced back at her painting to see if she had caught this springtime palette of color correctly. She delighted in painting the flowers, although she loved the flowers themselves better than her paintings of them.
Now she watched as a delivery van passed by, a neighbor lady set out in her carriage, and various neighbors strolled down the sidewalk, some walking their dogs. From time to time a passerby would look up and wave at her. She was a familiar fixture in the window, and as the iceman pulled his wagon up to the curb, he called out, “Good morning, Miss Cara! How are you today?”
Cara did not try to answer. She simply smiled and waved back. Her voice was far too weak to carry out to the street. She watched until he had gone around to the back of his wagon, used his heavy hook to hoist a block of ice to his shoulder, and walked back toward the side entrance, bent beneath the weight of the ice. She could hear their cook, Retta, greeting him at the kitchen door.
Then hearing a tap at her bedroom door, she turned quickly, nudging Charley off her lap. “Come in,” she said and was not surprised to see Dr. Geoffrey McKenzie enter. She knew the doctor had stopped in the downstairs parlor first for his usual visit with her father—and to enjoy a cup of coffee and one of Retta’s fresh-baked cinnamon rolls before beginning his morning rounds.
“Good morning, Doctor,” Cara said and advanced to shake hands with him.
“Weel now, you’re looking a little tired today,” McKenzie said without preamble. He was a short, thin man with the burr of old Scotland in his speech. Not more than thirty-five, he had a full thatch of rich chestnut hair, and the color was repeated in his short beard and mustache. He looked like a terrier with his busy eyebrows beetling out over his bright gray eyes. Still holding her hand, he took her wrist with his other and grew still while he listened to the pulse. “Not so bad,” he murmured, “but you look tired, Cara. How long have you been up?”
“Not too long,” Cara said defensively.
�
��Come now. Tell me how long.”
“Well, I did wake up early this morning. I wanted to finish this painting while the morning light was still bright.” She reclaimed her hand, then waved it at the canvas. “Do you like it?” she asked eagerly.
McKenzie moved over to the canvas and stood in front of it. He clawed his beard thoughtfully and turned his head to one side for a moment, then nodded. “I don’t see how you do it,” he said. “It’s vurry gud indeed! I think a gift like that has to be born in a person.” He sighed and shook his head woefully. “I tried to paint once. It was the awfullest mess you ever saw! But every man to his trade. Now then, let’s see how you’re doing.”
His examination was quickly performed, for Dr. McKenzie had been Cara Lanier’s personal physician for the last ten years. He had come from the old country as a young man, and she had grown fond of him, though she was tediously sick of all the medicines and treatments she had endured under his care. Finally when he stepped back and stroked his beard again, giving her a thoughtful stare, she asked, “Well, am I going to live, Doctor Mac?”
“Don’t be so frivolous,” McKenzie frowned. “No man knows the day nor hour of his death—nor no woman, either.”
“Well, if you’re right,” Cara said, a gleam of humor in her eyes, “it’s already settled, so it doesn’t matter much. I’ll die whether I take your medicines or not.” She enjoyed teasing the physician about his strict Calvinist theology. She knew there was not a more thoughtful physician in New York City, and since she saw so few people, apart from her own family, it was always a treat when he stopped in to see her.
“Weel, someday I’ll get your theology all straightened out, but for now I’m going to get your body in gud shape.”
A cloud passed over Cara’s face, and she dropped her head for a moment. “I don’t think you’ll ever do that, Doctor. Sometimes I think I’ll never get out of this room again.”
“Now, now, don’t talk like that!” McKenzie said quickly. He was very fond of Cara and spent a few moments trying to encourage her. Finally he asked, “Have you been drinking the German ale your father suggested?”
“No, I hate the taste of the stuff!” she said, grimacing.
“I think you should take it. It’s going to do you gud.”
“How can anything that tastes so awful be good? And whatever you put in it makes it even worse, I think.”
McKenzie was taken aback, surprised that Cara had so quickly figured out he was adding medicine to the ale her father had imported from Germany especially for her. She’s a bright woman. Too sharp for any man, I think, he thought, then defended himself by saying, “We’ll try it for another month. Weel you do that, Cara?”
“No, I won’t drink another drop of it! It’s foul stuff, and it’s not going to help me anyway!”
Her voice was flat and determined, and her attitude surprised McKenzie, who was accustomed to a more docile Cara.
“Why, I’m ashamed to hear you talk like that!”
“Did you ever taste that awful ale, Doctor Mac?” She saw his face as he struggled to find an answer. She knew he would not lie, and she also surmised that he had tasted it and found it as horrible as she did. “There, you see! You couldn’t drink it yourself!”
“I wud if I wanted to get well!” McKenzie replied sharply. Then a wave of sympathy came over him for this woman. From the first time he had seen her, he was baffled by her case. She had been a vibrant, beautiful young woman. Then, when she was twenty, she had suffered a serious illness. He had been called onto the case by an older physician who was a close friend of the family. Both of them had feared Cara would die. To their amazement she had survived, but then it also became apparent to everyone that she had lost the bloom of youth and her strength. For the past ten years she had been confined, for the most part, to this room, venturing out only on rare occasions. It angered McKenzie that with all his fine training he could not help her more. From time to time, he suspected that her illness lay in her heart or in her mind, not in her body. He examined her carefully with his clear gray eyes. He wanted to say something comforting but didn’t know what he could say. He knew how much she hated being penned up in this house, as fine as it was, with every modern convenience. He had heard her talk often of how she used to go for walks in the parks and the fields in the spring. Even in the fall and winter, she loved the out-of-doors. As he looked at her, he could sense her desperate longing to be well and escape the drudgery of her lengthy confinement.
“I wish you’d at least try it. Your father’s set on it.”
“I know he is, and I hate to disappoint him, but I will not take it anymore!”
McKenzie was too wise to argue with her at the moment. He was convinced she would eventually take the ale. He himself was not certain of its medicinal value, but Oliver Lanier was a man accustomed to having his own way. Somehow her father had heard that the ale was good for patients recovering from long illnesses and had it imported in kegs all the way from Germany. No one could drink it except Cara, but Henry, the gardener, sampled it from time to time. McKenzie refused to press the point and patted her shoulder. “Weel now, we’ll talk about it later.” He looked at the painting again and said with encouragement in his voice, “You do so well with your painting. Have you sold any more?”
“Oh yes,” Cara nodded, but the success of selling some of her work seemed not to interest her. “My agent sold four of my paintings at a show in Philadelphia last week.”
“Well, I know you must be very proud, Cara. Not many people can call themselves professional painters.”
“I wish I could go out into the garden with the real flowers instead of only my paintings of them,” Cara said.
McKenzie heard the almost desperate note in the woman’s voice, and a sadness rose in him. “I wish I could take you out,” he said. “Maybe next week. The weather’s turning so nice lately. We’ll see.”
“Thank you, Doctor Mac. That would be lovely.” Cara’s voice was flat and without much hope, but she forced a slight smile. “Maybe I’ll paint a picture of you.” She reached down suddenly and picked up Charley and thrust him at the physician. “Here, let’s see how you two look together.”
McKenzie did not like dogs, and Charley could easily sense the doctor’s displeasure. The two of them looked very uncomfortable. Charley was squirming and growling in his chest, and McKenzie was attempting to keep as far as possible from the animal.
“No, I don’t think that would be exactly right,” Cara laughed, and her eyes brightened. Reaching out, she took the dog and said, “I’m afraid you and Charley will never be the best of friends.”
“I prefer felines myself. I have a cat named Socrates.”
“Well, bring him over and let him play with Charley.”
“Play with that animal? I should think not! Socrates has too much dignity! He doesn’t play!”
The words caught at Cara, and she grew very still. A thought crossed her mind, and then she spoke it aloud. “I don’t play either, Doctor. I . . . I wish I could.” Then she shook off the thought and smiled faintly. “Come to see me again. Maybe I will paint your portrait.”
As soon as the doctor had left, Cara sat down on the edge of the bed. Charley hopped up and plumped himself down in her lap. He lay still, content simply to be there, and Cara stroked his silken coat for a long time. Her face grew somber, and from time to time she glanced at the painting, but she had no inclination to return to her work. Finally she lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling for half an hour. A loud knock on the door startled Cara, and she sat up at once, saying, “Come in,” as Charley cleared the bed and ran to the door barking ecstatically.
The door opened and immediately Cara’s younger brothers and sisters piled into the room. Six-year-old Bobby ran to Cara and hugged her affectionately, crying out, “Cara, I’m going to the circus!” The boy had fine blond hair and large blue eyes that reflected an underlying rebelliousness. Now he began talking about elephants and lions and tigers, but he w
as quickly shoved aside by Elizabeth, his twelve-year-old sister, whom everyone called Bess.
“Get away, Bobby!” she said. “I want to tell Cara about my new dress!” With flaming red hair and dark blue eyes, Bess was blossoming into a young woman with promise of great beauty. But she hated her red hair and everything about her appearance, and her emotions were always just beneath the surface, ready to bubble over and explode either in ecstasy or despair. When Bobby tried to shove her away, she immediately began to wrestle with him, the two siblings yelling at each other loudly.
Benjamin Lanier, age eighteen, stepped forward and picked up both children, one in each arm. He laughed over their heads as they protested, saying, “Cara, do you want me to throw these two out the window?”
“No, Benji, let them stand here by me.” She smiled up at Benjamin, admiring his auburn hair, blue eyes, and trim figure. He was not all that handsome but had pleasant features and cordial manners. “How can you ever hope to become a minister if you throw children out the window?” she scolded him.
Benjamin gave her an odd look. His mouth drew into a tight line and his good humor fled instantly. “I’m not going to be a minister! I’m going to be a stockbroker!”
Cara smiled wistfully at her brother, who had grown so quickly into the tall young man standing before her. She knew he was only parroting their father’s wishes that he become a businessman. Benjamin had been converted at the early age of six and had never wanted to do anything but become a preacher. He especially admired missionaries, and nothing would have pleased him more than the thought of sailing off to China or Africa to preach the gospel. His dream had been a source of continual stress between him and his father, for Oliver Lanier had already ordained that Benjamin would follow in his footsteps and go into business. Now that he was in his first year of study at the New York City College of Business, Benjamin’s features, pleasant as they were, revealed a restlessness.
Cara shifted her gaze to her sister Mary Ann, who had come to stand beside her. Mary Ann was a beautiful young woman of twenty-five, with the same blond hair and blue eyes as their youngest brother, Robert, and there was a playfulness in her that came out as she sat down on the bed and hugged Cara tightly. “I’m going to a party! Millie Langley is getting engaged, and it’s going to be a bash!”
The Shadow Portrait Page 1
