My Heart Remembers

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Twenty-seven years? Matt stared bug-eyed at that. Matt had never stayed anywhere for more than twenty-seven months.

  “Clancy can teach you anything you need to know, and he’ll do it willingly.” His eyes narrowed as he gave Matt a serious look. “Do you have any smarts?”

  Matt blinked a couple of times, taken aback by the abrupt question. He hadn’t had much schooling, but he’d sure learned a lot over the years. Giving a nod, he answered honestly. “Yes, sir, I reckon I do.”

  “Then you’ll be fine.” Mr. Harders slapped his thighs and rose, his knees cracking. “As my advertisement promised, you’ll have room and board on top of your salary. You’ll share a cabin with Clancy. It has two bedrooms, so you’ll have privacy, and you’ll take your meals here at the big house with me.”

  “A cabin?” Matt’s heart lifted with pleasure at this news. He slipped a hand beneath his jacket and stood. “I was expectin’ a bunkhouse.”

  Mr. Harders chuckled mildly. “With sheep, you don’t need as many hands. A bunkhouse would be a waste. Besides, a cabin feels more like a home, don’t you think?”

  Something filled Matt’s chest at that question. How many times had he prayed for a home? A place to stay, find acceptance, and give up the wandering ways that had driven him since he was a youngster? God sure did work in mysterious ways.

  Matt cleared his throat, gratitude at this man’s confidence in him giving him more pleasure than he could explain. “Mr. Harders, I appreciate you still keepin’ me on even though I told you I’m without experience in sheep ranchin’.” He paused, drawing a deep breath. “I’d be proud to give it a try.”

  Mr. Harders pumped Matt’s hand, smiling broadly. “Well, then, Mr. Tucker, let’s get you settled.”

  “You can just call me Matt.”

  “Will do. And you call me Gerald.”

  Matt shook his head. “Oh no, sir. You’re the boss, an’ I wouldn’t feel right about that. I’ll have to stick with Mr. Harders for you.”

  The man smiled. “You know, Matt, I think you and I are going to get along real well.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Molly

  Shay’s Ford, Missouri

  February, 1903

  Miss Hoity-Toity, you’re as worthless as they come.” I sabelle’s muscles stiffened at the familiar nasal voice of Patsy, the cook’s helper. Stifling the sigh that longed for release, she asked, “What, pray tell, am I doing wrong now?”

  Patsy shoved a pot under Isabelle’s nose. “See this? Still has gravy on the rim. If you wasn’t so worried about those lily white hands o’ yours, you’d be able to get dishes clean the first time.” Patsy plopped the pot into the large sink, splashing Isabelle’s apron with sudsy water.

  Wandering back to the food preparation counter, the woman muttered, “Can’t even wash a pot . . . Don’t know how she made it through life this far . . .”

  The cook’s soft words only added to Isabelle’s shame. In all her life, she’d never suffered such abuse as she had in the past six weeks at the Drumfeld residence. Although Glenn had intimated she’d be housed as a guest, Mr. Drumfeld had shown her to tiny servant quarters and informed her she’d be working to earn her keep.

  The household staff ’s censure left bruises on her heart nearly as deep as those Randolph had administered. Never having had to make beds, wash or iron clothes, clean up in a kitchen, or dust furniture, Isabelle was ill-equipped for the position of house maid. And no one seemed interested in teaching her the skills. They preferred to berate and humiliate her. So she learned what she could by observing the others. Unfortunately, most of the time, she failed dismally.

  Reaching to the bottom of the tin sink basin, she located the rag and scrubbed again at the pot she had been certain was clean the last time. The steamy water formed little sweat beads on her upper lip and forehead. Strands of hair slipped from her shabby braid and stuck to her moist skin, tickling her jaw. Her shoulders sagged in defeat. She couldn’t even form a braid that would hold longer than an hour or two.

  When she returned home, Isabelle would shower appreciation on Myrtle, the personal maid who had seen to so many of her needs over the years. Had she ever really thanked Myrtle for her service? Praised her for her diligence? Those who worked for a living deserved more than the meager salaries they usually received.

  “Ain’t you done with that yet? I need it to soak peas!” Patsy shoved in front of Isabelle and snatched the pot from her hands.

  Isabelle bit down on her tongue to hold back words of protest. She’d learned the first few days here that any protests only earned more verbal abuse. Staying silent was the best course of action. Yet as Patsy marched off, drying the pot with her stained apron, Isabelle reflected on her previous thoughts. Myrtle had deserved words of commendation, but not all servants did. Patsy deserved a tongue-lashing the likes of which Isabelle was fully capable of delivering. But for now she must restrain herself. She had nowhere else to go.

  She drained the sink and washed it, her heart aching with desire for Randolph to come to his senses and call her home. Despite the documents he had located, she held to hope that there had been a horrible mistake. She didn’t fit here. No matter what the Bible’s register said, she could not possibly be Molly Gallagher. When would she be allowed to go home?

  “Got that sink clean?” The cook’s gravelly voice carried from the opposite side of the kitchen.

  Isabelle wrung out the rag and draped it over the edge of the basin. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Take your break, then. Come back when the three-o’clock chimes sound. I’ll need you to scrub potatoes for tonight’s supper.”

  Isabelle plodded up the servants’ stairs tucked into the front corner of the kitchen to the tiny attic bedroom of her new home. She shivered as she entered the room. No radiator warmed the third floor. After the steamy heat of the kitchen, the room felt especially frosty. Flopping onto the lumpy mattress, she left her feet dangling over the edge and covered her eyes with her arm. Tears stung, but she kept them at bay. If she went down to the kitchen with red-rimmed eyes again, she’d never hear the end of it. “Crybaby” was the mildest of the terms the other servants had thrown at her.

  Fearful she’d fall asleep and neglect to go back downstairs, she forced herself to sit up. On a slatted crate beside the bed, the Bible Randolph had thrust into her hands less than two months ago waited, inviting her attention. She had picked it up on countless occasions, tempted to pitch it into the waste bin, but each time she’d returned it to the crate. What was the strange pull that book had over her? To distance herself from it, she rose and crossed to the tiny, grime-encrusted square window that faced out over the side yard.

  When she’d arrived at the Drumfeld home, she had cheered herself by peering out this window. The sparkle of sunshine on unblemished snow had reminded her of making snow angels in her own backyard with Papa when she was a little girl. But today’s brown, brittle grass below brought no tender memories to her heart. Loneliness made her heart ache, and she returned to the bed, wrapping the worn patchwork quilt that served as a bed covering around her shoulders. Once more her gaze drifted to the Bible.

  Her fingers stretched out and picked up the book. She placed it on the mattress next to her hip and flopped it open. At the top of the page it said Psalms. Although they hadn’t attended regularly, her parents had taken her to church. The minister sometimes read from the book of Psalms. Psalms were like poems, she recalled. Mama had often read poetry aloud when tucking Isabelle in at night.

  Eager to find a poem that might lift her spirits, she glanced across the columns of small type. She read, “Thou has beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me.” The psalmist was writing of God, Isabelle surmised, but she had little understanding of what it meant to have God surround her or lay His hand on her.

  Closing the Bible, she shut her eyes and imagined what it would be like to feel God’s presence on all sides of her. The longing to experience such a thing took her by surpri
se. She’d never been interested in religion. But, she acknowledged, she’d never had cause to pursue it. Up until Mama and Papa died, she had been happy and fulfilled.

  At least, she’d always thought she was.

  Her eyes popped open. From where had that thought come? Before she could ponder the source of the unbidden notion, the bell from the chapel a few blocks away tolled. Three o’clock. She tossed off the quilt and scurried to the door. As she touched the brass doorknob, she glanced at the Bible. The book seemed to hold secrets—secrets she suddenly longed to unravel.

  She headed down the stairs, the melodic ring of the chapel’s bell vibrating in her chest, beckoning her to come to Sunday service.

  Lyndon Hill Chapel, Shay’s Ford

  March, 1903

  Isabelle scurried up the front walk of the simple chapel, her head low and arms crossed tightly over her ribs. The shawl she’d thrown over her mourning dress did little to hold the damp air at bay, and she slipped inside the double doors with eagerness to escape the drizzling mist and chill breeze.

  Lanterns glowed cheerily from opposite walls of the rectangular foyer. Wide open doors led to a sanctuary lined with wooden pews, but no lights shone in the larger room. Was no one here at all?

  A shuffle sounded, followed by a sharp clank, the noises seeming to come from beneath her. She frowned, glancing around, and spotted a door in the far left hand corner of the foyer. She walked to the door, her sodden skirts dragging on the wide planked flooring. Catching the iron doorknob, she eased the door open, revealing steep wooden stairs leading to what must be the cellar. A fusty smell filled her nostrils, and she sneezed.

  “Hello? Is someone there?”

  The deep voice from the depths of the cellar caught her by surprise. She jerked backward, her shawl slipping from her shoulders. Feet pounded, and a man burst through the doorway. He was tall, his broad shoulders encased in a faded tan jacket, and he had thick, dark hair and eyes the same color as the Mississippi River when viewed from a distance—a vibrant blue-green. Energy emanated from him, and even though they were the only two people in the foyer, the room suddenly felt crowded.

  She took another step backward, and her wet skirts tangled around her ankles, causing her to stumble. He leapt forward and captured her elbow.

  “Easy there. Don’t want you to slip.”

  Isabelle’s face burned at his familiarity. She yanked her elbow free. “I’ll thank you to unhand me!”

  He gawked at her, his thick lashes shielding his eyes. “I wasn’t meanin’ to be rude. I was just—”

  “I am capable of standing on my own.” She drew herself to her full height and fixed him with her sternest glare.

  A brief scowl marred his brow, and she heard him mutter, “ ‘Whatsoever ye do in word or deed . . .’ ”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothin’. Just remindin’ myself of something.”

  Isabelle yanked her shawl back where it belonged. “Do you work here?”

  The man’s chest seemed to expand, and he rocked back on the worn heels of his scuffed boots. “Yes, indeed. I’m just a common laborer, but I find great satisfaction in my tasks here. Might not be the chapel’s minister, but I figure I minister through keepin’ the chapel clean and comfortable for its parishioners.”

  Isabelle crinkled her nose. Clean and comfortable? The musty cellar smell clung to him, and a chill filled the air. She hunched into her shawl and shivered.

  His brows puckered in concern. With rapid movements, he yanked free of his jacket and held it out to her. “I just got the furnace to blastin’, but it’ll take a while for it to warm up in here. Why don’t you slip this on an’—”

  “I am perfectly fine, thank you.” Isabelle shrank away from the worn jacket. No matter how cold the room, she could never wear a frock still bearing the warmth of another’s body—especially the body of a stranger.

  The man lowered his arms.

  “When does the service begin? The bell tolled nine times over a quarter hour ago. I assumed it was a call to service.”

  The man swallowed, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet foyer. “I rang the bell at nine o’clock, like I do every day at nine, noon, three, and six. The service will begin promptly at ten.”

  He took two sideways steps away from her, shrugging back into his jacket. “I have quite a bit to do to be ready for it, so if you’ll excuse me . . .” He turned toward the sanctuary doors.

  Isabelle slumped in frustration, releasing a sigh.

  He glanced over his shoulder, and it seemed his eyes located the Bible she hugged to her ribs. For a moment he stood still, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. Then he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Miss, even though the service won’t be startin’ for a while, you can go on in and have a seat in the sanctuary next to one of the registers. It’ll be warmer.”

  “I . . . I don’t wish to inconvenience you.” Isabelle tried to maintain a haughty tone, but her voice quavered with uncertainty.

  He offered a lopsided smile. “I got to clean up the puddles you left anyway, an’ I can’t do that if you’re standin’ over ’em.”

  She glanced at the floor and then covered her mouth with her fingers. Guilt assailed her as she realized what a mess she’d left behind. “Oh! Gracious, I had no idea. Perhaps I should mop this floor.”

  He shook his head firmly. “That’s my job, an’ I pleasure in it. Go ahead an’ sit.” Pointing to the pews, he said, “You can do a little readin’ or prayin’ while you wait for the service to start.”

  Isabelle stared at him in amazement. He found pleasure in mopping? What an odd sort of man. . . . Then, realizing her jaw hung slack, she clamped her lips together and moved forward, lifting her skirt slightly to avoid dragging her hem through the wet spots. She seated herself at the end of a pew near the back, across the side aisle from a black iron vent.

  Allowing the Bible to flop open in her lap, she leaned over the book, hoping she gave the illusion of reading so he wouldn’t suspect she was listening to his cheerful whistle as he cleaned up her mess.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After much fumbling in the Gallagher Bible, Isabelle managed to locate the section the minister was reading. It was about Jesus calling Lazarus from the grave days after his death, and it made her wish the same could happen for her parents.

  Sadness washed over her, and she glanced around the simple sanctuary in an attempt to dwell on something else. The man who had offered her his jacket that morning sat in the pew directly behind hers, at the opposite end. The rapt interest on his face captured her attention.

  She’d seen him slip into that spot just as the minister stepped behind the lectern. Another few seconds, and he would have disrupted the start of the sermon. A niggle of remorse had struck at his last-minute arrival; she hoped his time conversing with her hadn’t put him behind in his duties. At the Drumfelds’, any delay in finishing assigned tasks resulted in a temper tantrum by Mr. or Mrs. Drumfeld, the butler, or the cook. The man in the pew, however, did not appear stressed or unhappy.

  His interested, intelligent look contrasted with his otherwise common appearance. Despite the morning hour, he already possessed a light shadow on his cheeks and chin, as if shaving had taken place many hours ago. Plain brown trousers, a white shirt with no tie, vest, or suit coat to cover it, and brown work boots made up his Sunday attire. Isabelle considered the threepiece pinstriped and tweed suits worn by the cologne-scented men in Kansas City who attended Sunday service. Hadn’t Papa always said the clothes made the man? Perhaps no one had ever mentioned that to this man.

  Still, she supposed if his duties were to keep things clean in the chapel, his clothing was appropriate for the task. It did seem, however, that a suit coat would not be amiss. The other men in the congregation at least wore two-piece suits with a tie, and a few had vests. She wondered if this man’s garb reflected a casual attitude toward convention or if he simply did not have the funds to purchase a suit.

  With a start,
Isabelle realized she now had limited funds for clothing, as well. When the year of mourning was over, she would need to rebuild her wardrobe. On the meager salary she received as a servant, she would no doubt be forced to dress simply, too.

  Suddenly his gaze shifted, meeting hers. Her face flooded with heat when he offered a gentle upturning of his full lips. Turning forward, she did her best to stay focused on the minister for the remainder of the service. After the final prayer, she fell into the line of parishioners passing by the minister. When she reached him, the minister greeted her warmly.

  “Good morning. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Reverend Leonard Shankle.”

  “Isabelle Standler.” The other name—Molly Gallagher— haunted her thoughts, but she knew even if she came to believe Randolph’s claim about the origins of her birth, she would never be able to think of herself as anything other than Isabelle. Molly Gallagher seemed a stranger, a stranger Isabelle had no desire to know.

  Reverend Shankle smiled warmly. “It’s so nice to have you with us at Lyndon Hill Chapel, Miss Standler. I trust you enjoyed the service?”

  Isabelle offered a demure nod. “Yes, sir.” Several questions pressed her mind, most notably how a man who had been dead for several days could emerge from a grave, but she set the questions aside. She could read more from the Bible when she returned to the Drumfelds’. She had little else to do for entertainment.

  “Do you live nearby?”

  Shame—and anger—washed over her as she considered her humble attic space, so different from the lovely bedroom back home. Instead of answering, she posed a question of her own.

  “Do you know of a small apartment or cottage available for rent? My current dwelling is . . . unsuitable, yet I’m unfamiliar with the area.”