Finding Grace: A Novel

by Sarah Pawley

  Sitting close, the preacher reached out to put his hand on hers. "No," he said. "She is not dead, thank the almighty. But she is confined to a sick bed for some time, and she has asked for you and your husband to come to her. Mr. Shaw is here to take you there."

  Mrs. Langdon's frame wilted in relief, and she let out a shaking breath. And then, the worry that had just been there was wiped away, and the calm returned. "Thank the maker for that," she said. "I’m just glad her brother was there. I’m sure he took care of her. He always thought of her like a pet of his. And God rest poor Charlie."

  Poor Charlie? Henry thought furiously. I've just told you your daughter nearly dies, and Charlie is who you talk about? He wanted to curse the woman. Grace should have been the one, the ONLY one, she was thinking of. He wanted to shout it to her, but somehow, he maintained his polite manner and tone of voice.

  "I have bought two tickets for the both of you, and I would like you to come with me first thing in the morning. The sooner you get to her, the better."

  There was a long silence, and Henry quickly realized that she was thinking about it. Thinking about it? His brain cried out, though it didn't extend to his voice. What in the hell is there to think about, woman? He almost shouted it at her, but kept the impulse down by the strongest force of his will. Still, he had an edge to his voice when he asked, "Will you come?"

  "I don't know," she said. "John is still so angry about Gracie leaving like she did. I don't think he'll go to see her, even if she's sick."

  Henry rose to his feet, furious almost beyond words.

  "Would he see her if she was dead?"

  He could not keep that question from his lips, enraged as he was with her response. He paced the room, choosing to ignore the wounded look on her face, and the reproachful glance of the preacher, who seemed to sense that some divine intervention was needed. He reached out his hand to her, and he spoke kindly but firmly.

  "Rachel, she is your daughter," he said. "It is only right and Christian that you forgive any wrong she has done. Remember, to err is human, to forgive divine."

  "I know the words well enough, Brother Clay," she said calmly. "But if John don’t change his mind, I can’t change it for him. He’s my husband, and I have to honor and obey him."

  Henry gritted his teeth, doing his best to restrain himself. He wanted to reach out and strangle her. She obviously couldn't think for herself. Maybe her autonomy had been drained out of her by her husband, the way a dog is broken by its master and forced to submit. He wondered how in the hell this woman and Grace could be of the same flesh and blood, as different in character as they were.

  The door to the kitchen opened, and looking over, Henry realized he was looking, for the first time, upon John Langdon. He was not a man of great height or stature. And yet, his presence filled the entire room. There was something in his movement, something in his deep set brown eyes that was dark and forbidding. There was nothing of friendly feeling about him, though when he spoke, his voice was calm and cool.

  "Brother Clay, how are you," he said. Then he looked at Henry, eyeing him up and down. "Who is this?"

  "John, this is Mr. Shaw," said Mrs. Langdon in her meek way. "He's Jack's neighbor in Chicago."

  John's face drew into a grim, dark scowl, and he turned and removed his hat and jacket. "Is that a fact? And what in tarnation is that to me?"

  "John, Gracie's been hurt," the preacher said. "Charlie shot her. And then he committed suicide."

  For a moment, John was silent, his face almost grave.

  "Is that a fact? Well, God rest his soul. And I'll say a prayer for Gracie."

  He started to walk away…but Rachel came to stand before him.

  "John," she said, and though her voice was small, there was at last a hint of determination. "Gracie wants to see us. I don't ask much of anybody. Will you at least think on it?"

  Henry watched as they looked at one another, and for a moment, he swore he saw a flash of real feeling in Mr. Langdon's face. But John said nothing. He just turned and walked away, past them into the hall, where he went into another room and closed the door. Rachel turned to Henry and Mr. Clay, looking nervously from one to another.

  "You'll stay for supper, won't you?" she asked.

  Henry glanced at the preacher, who looked back at him as if to say, It's your decision. Henry turned to look at Mrs. Langdon, and nodded his head. Then he looked again at Mr. Clay.

  "I think I'll go out and stretch my legs a bit, and get some fresh air."

  "I think that is a fine idea," said the preacher. "I'll stay here and see what I can manage."

  With a slight nod, Henry turned and walked away, passing the brothers as he went. And one by one they filed out after him. Raymond was the only one to say anything.

  "You ain't gonna get lost out there on your own, are you mister?"

  Henry smiled. “I think I'll manage to find my way, thank you.” Looking at the four young men, he noticed that they still clutched their rifles. Being a former military man, he couldn't help but comment on their weapons.

  "Those are fine looking guns you have there. Maybe when I get back, if there's time, we can all show each other what kind of marksmen we are."

  They all just looked at him blankly, but he said nothing more, setting out on his walk. It was his thought that he might be related to these men someday, and if a few hours were all he would have to know them, he might as well relate to them on some level. Socially, mentally, and in so many other ways, they were worlds apart. But if they could relate, even over something as small as knowledge of weapons, then so be it.

  The long walk took him across open green fields, by pastures of cows and horses. And as he went, he thought of course, of Grace.

  It was so hard to believe that someone such as her could be born of two people like John and Rachel Langdon. In only two small respects could he see a similarity, and that was in the stubbornness of John Langdon, and the temper. But though she was stubborn, Grace did not fly into fits of temper for no good reason. He had often sensed that she did not like confrontations, but when backed into a corner with no choice, she came out swinging. As for Mrs. Langdon, the only similarity between the two women was just that…they were both women. It gored him to think that, if Grace had remained in this place and given in to marrying Charlie, she might have eventually become just as beaten down in spirit as her mother. He sent a little prayer of thanks, then, for Jack and Alice who had fostered her strong spirit, and he prayed that as she was lying there in her bed back home, she was doing well and thinking of him.

  Soon, my love, I will come back to you, he thought. With or without your family, I will come back to you.

  Chapter 23

  “Promises”

  Upon returning from his walk, Henry found the four brothers in a field near the house, target shooting. He came up to them and watched for a while. Then Thomas looked at him.

  "Are you any kind of shot, mister?"

  "I'm been known to fire a round or two," he replied.

  Thomas handed him the rifle. And he proceeded to show them just what had made him a crack shot in the infantry.

  They were impressed with his abilities. So much so that they started competing with each other, trying to see who could outshine who. And while they shot, they talked to him, telling him about Charlie and all the things they would have done to him if he hadn't taken his own life.

  Charlie was a bullied kid, they said. He'd lost his mother and been abandoned by his father. But that didn't excuse anything he'd done. On that, they were all in agreement. And while Henry had certainly wanted revenge for Grace, he had nothing on her brothers. Some of their ideas for justice were so violent and gory, he had to shake his head in amazement. They were a protective bunch, he had to give them that.

  They got on so well, they were reluctant to go into the house when their mother called them in for supper. But they did as they were told, chatting with him all the way back to the house.

  John Langdon was
noticeably absent from the table, and Henry was privately glad of the fact. He knew it would give him a bit of time to work his charms on the rest of the family, and as it seemed Grace's brothers had already accepted him, he now turned his attention to their mother. As the plates and bowls of food were being passed around the table, he eyed it all with interest, and looked to Mrs. Langdon.

  "Are you of Irish decent?”

  Of course, he already knew the answer. He smiled as he remembered a certain person swearing at him in Gaelic. But he wanted to make an impression, and certain that she would take interest in having a fellow Irish native at her table, he used it as his angle. He watched her as she took her seat slowly, looking at him with curiosity.

  "Most folks around here are of Scotch-Irish blood. Most are from poor folk who came over from the old country. How'd you guess it?"

  He smiled a little, thinking quickly. "The food. I remember my grandmother used to cook heavy foods this way. Cabbage, for one. And potatoes. Always potatoes, usually boiled like you have them here. I suppose working men needed hearty meals in the old country, much like they do know. My grandfather spent many a day behind a plow-horse.”

  Surprise was written all over her face. "Your grandfather was a farmer?"

  He nodded. “Until he was nineteen. Then he left with his new bride to come to America. His father and mother had survived the potato famine, and he swore he wouldn't let his children live a life of poverty. So he and my grandmother packed up what little they had and migrated to New York. After a few years they left there and went west to Chicago. The railroad was a source of steady work, especially with the huge meat industry there.”

  "So you work for the railroad, then?"

  "No ma'am," he replied. "My father was a very ambitious man. The railroad didn’t satisfy him, so when he and my mother met, he found a job working for her father as a bookkeeper. He eventually took over their theater business. After he passed on several years ago, the business went to me." Lifting his drink to take a sip, he looked at her over the rim of the glass and she was watching him, hanging on his every word. Just as he'd intended. He smiled slightly. “I’m now a man of great means. But no matter where the journey of life leads, there are certain things are always important. Things we shouldn’t forget. Like where we came from. And more importantly, our family. Don’t you agree?”

  She nodded, looking rather perplexed. And he wondered if his subtle hint about “Family” had the intended effect. But maybe it was better to just let her sleep on it. Let the thought sink in during the night.

  When the meal was done, he walked towards the door with the preacher, who was preparing to leave for the night. He turned to Henry.

  "Will I be taking you to the boarding house for the night?"

  Henry was about to speak when Mrs. Langdon came in from the kitchen, in a bit of a rush it seemed.

  "No, no," she said to them. "Mr. Shaw don’t need to go way back to town. He come all the way from Chicago. It wouldn't be fittin' if we didn't give him a place to sleep for the night. Don't you think so, preacher?"

  Henry and Mr. Clay just looked at each other. Then a moment later, reading the answer in Henry's eyes, Mr. Clay nodded. "I'll get your things."

  "I'll walk with you and see you off," said Henry.

  The preacher bid goodnight to everyone. Henry followed him out to the buggy, thanking him for taking care of everything so quickly. He watched as he drove away. Then he turned back to the house, looking forward to the promise of a good night's sleep. The past few days had been so long.

  As he stepped up on the porch, a voice came from somewhere nearby…a deep voice, and he recognized it as Mr. Langdon, who had come around from the back of the house.

  "Who do you think you are, boy?" He came up on the porch, leaned against a post, and folded his arms, staring intently. "You think can come in my house and try and rule my roost? Well you've got another thing coming, son. There's only one rooster in this hen house."

  God-awful old man, Henry thought. But he kept his tone calm and cool.

  "Mr. Langdon, I'm not trying anything of the kind. In fact, coming here was the last thing I intended to do. I thought it was a ridiculous idea, but your daughter seems to think otherwise. She asked me to come, so here I am."

  "Yes, there you are. Thinking you're going to trick me into leaving my place to go up north. Why should I waste my time going to see a couple of ingrates?"

  Hells bells, Henry thought. I would love to sock you right in the mouth. Instead he shrugged. "Mr. Langdon, you can do just as you please. But my end of the deal is done. In the morning, I'm going home either way. So if you don't mind, sir, I would like to say good night and turn in. It's been a long few days for me."

  With nothing further to say, he went back inside. Mrs. Langdon was sitting on the sofa, with her youngest son lying beside her, asleep. When she saw Henry, she gently removed herself from her son's arms and came to stand beside him.

  "I'll talk to him tonight," she said. "I don't know if it'll do much of anything, but I'll try."

  Again, he shrugged. "That's the most any of us can do, isn't it?"

  She did not reply. She just looked down, even as she moved past him towards a little side door, which she held open.

  "You can sleep in here for tonight, in Gracie's old room. And in the morning, if we have to, we'll figure out a way for you to get back to town."

  He nodded as he crossed the threshold, into a small and plain room…one that reminded him of the Spartan dwellings of the Army barracks he’d once slept in. There was a bed with a trunk at the foot, a small dresser against the wall, and a washstand. Otherwise, the room was bare. It felt to him like a prison cell or a dormitory room, but he knew it would be rude to speak such a thing, and so he was silent.

  "I'll fetch you a light," said Mrs. Langdon, and she left for a moment.

  He stood in the little room, feeling a deep and profound sadness as he looked around. This was the miserable little place Grace had spent so many a night of her life. How many times had she rested here, dreaming of something better? It made him want to be with her…made him love her…more than ever, if that were possible. If he had anything to say about it, she would never be without a comfort ever again. He was bound and determined to make sure of it, after seeing all he'd seen this day.

  Mrs. Langdon returned with a small kerosene lamp, which he took from her with a small word of thanks. She bid him goodnight, and left him alone.

  It was quite warm in the room, even with the window open. He longed for the humming sound and light wind of a ceiling fan. He had trouble sleeping without it. But with no electricity, of course, there was no such comfort. And all he could do was lay there and try to relax. His mind was full of thoughts, but mostly he was thinking of Grace.

  Secretly, he was hoping that Mr. Langdon would refuse to go back with him. Then he could remove the element of danger that the man brought. Grace's mother, in her meek and quiet way, would not be much trouble as far as he was concerned. But her father seemed so vindictive and cold, and one had to wonder if would go along just for spite. Or just to keep control of the situation, most notably his wife. He certainly had her pressed well under his thumb.

  He grumbled and groaned, turning on his side and pressing his cheek against the pillow, trying not to think of anything but Grace and how all of this trouble he was bringing on himself was, in the end, for her. After hours of tossing and turning, the wear of two days travel took their toll, and he fell into a deep and heavy sleep.

  * * * * *

  The smell of food and coffee brought him awake, and he rose and dressed quickly. He washed and shaved in the cool water of the deep basin, and went out in search of a meal.

  From the kitchen doorway, he watched Mrs. Langdon as she rushed about in her preparations. He imagined that at one time, Grace would have been in this kitchen, helping her mother…lifting some of the burden from this weary woman’s shoulders. For a moment, he actually felt sorry for her and the burdens s
he carried. Then he reminded himself that part of her suffering was her own doing. And he thought…

  If you'd just been good to your daughter, maybe you wouldn’t be playing the slave. But then again, maybe I should thank you for your blunder. Your loss of your daughter will be my gain of a mate.

  As if sensing his presence, she turned to look at him. Wiping her hands on her apron, she bid him good morning as she moved from one project to another.

  “Would you like some coffee Mr. Shaw?”

  “Please,” he replied. “But don’t trouble yourself. I’ll get it.” He saw the cups hanging on a hook by the sink and took one, and as he went to the stove to pour his own coffee from the pot, he noticed the strange way she looked at him. He looked back at her, as if to ask why she examined him in that way.

  “Is it a crime for a man to pour his own cup?” He took his coffee and seated himself at the table.

  “I suppose not,” she replied. “I just never saw it done before.”

  He smiled. “I’m a bachelor, Mrs. Langdon. I do have a housekeeper, but at times I’m forced to manage for myself. Although, I do let her take care of the cooking and cleaning. Those are two feminine duties that remain beyond my ability.”

  She smiled, and for the first time, managed a little laugh. He watched her as she went about, bringing biscuits out of the oven to cool, setting glasses on the table and pouring milk, frying sausage and eggs in a heavy cast-iron skillet. The smell was heavenly. But even the prospect of food did not keep him from thinking of Grace. As he sat there, watching her mother, he wondered if she was thinking of her daughter. If so, she was most certainly thinking of her son as well. The son she had lost long before her daughter had gone.

  “Mr. Shaw,” she said, her voice low and small. She turned the fire down on her skillet, turning slowly toward him, and she came to sit in a chair beside him. She looked at him with sad, shining eyes. “Will you tell me about my children?”