When everyone was dressed and hair combed, they would head off to church as a group and return afterwards to eat a lunch of leftovers from the day before. Everyone was then encouraged to have a time of rest. The little ones always protested, declaring they weren’t tired and didn’t need to sleep. They were always, amusingly enough, the first to fall asleep. Alice thought it comical to watch the way they fought napping. It reminded her of how she often fought against the rest that God offered her. So many times she had declared her ability to bear up under the load, to keep pressing forward, when all God wanted for her was rest.
“Have you seen Rusty?” Marty asked, coming into the kitchen.
Alice was just taking the last batch of sugar cookies from the oven. They were to be a surprise for the children when they awoke.
“I thought he was taking a nap.”
Marty shook her head. “I thought so, too, but he’s not there.”
“Perhaps he needed to relieve himself.”
“Maybe, but he usually comes and gets me to go with him to the outhouse.” Marty frowned. “This isn’t like him. He’s generally too afraid of his own shadow to wander off very far.”
“Maybe since the day was so nice, he snuck out to play,” Alice suggested. “After all, this is the warmest day we’ve had in some time. To a four-year-old it probably seemed like summer.”
“I suppose I should go speak with Mr. Brentwood.”
“Speak with me about what? Umm, cookies.” He winked and looked beyond Marty. “Perhaps I might sample them for you?”
Alice laughed. “There’s a plate of them on the counter that have already cooled.”
Mr. Brentwood crossed the room and helped himself. “Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?” He took a bite and smiled in satisfaction.
“I can’t find Rusty,” Marty declared. “I thought all the boys were in bed, but when I went to check, Rusty’s bed was empty.”
“That is strange. I remember him enjoying his lunch. Cabbage soup is a favorite of his.”
“Yes, and he had two bowls,” Marty replied. “Then we noticed he had muddy boots, and you told him to go clean them and leave them by the back door.”
Mr. Brentwood nodded. Alice tried to recall if she’d seen the boy after he’d cleaned his boots, but nothing came to mind.
“I’ll start looking for him. You’re sure he didn’t climb into bed with one of the other boys? He sometimes does that when he has a bad dream.”
“No. He’s not there. I made sure of it before I started searching for him.” Marty looked quite worried.
Alice pulled off her apron. “I’ll check out back. Could be he woke up and slipped out without anyone noticing.”
“I’ll check in my office and the classroom,” Mr. Brentwood said, taking another cookie with him. “Although once he gets a whiff of these cookies, I doubt he’ll be in hiding much longer.”
Alice took up her shawl and headed outside. Most of the snow had melted due to the warm Chinook winds. The January day was deceptively enticing, but Alice knew from experience not to trust the moment. By nightfall it would no doubt be freezing cold, and by tomorrow they could once again find themselves buried in snow.
“Rusty! Rusty, are you out here?” she called. She looked around the play area, bending to inspect the old crates Mr. Brentwood had arranged for the children to use for play. There was no sign of the boy.
She went to search in and behind the outhouse but again found nothing. Looking back at the orphanage, she tried to imagine where she might hide if she were a four-year-old boy. Just then, however, she heard a giggle coming from behind her. She turned and saw the bushes move.
“Rusty, is that you? Come here this minute.”
The boy peeked out from behind the seemingly dead brush. “We’re playin’ hide-and-seek.”
“It’s naptime and you were supposed to be in the house asleep,” Alice chided.
“I waked up,” Rusty said, holding up his hands in surrender.
“You need to go find Mr. Brentwood and Mrs. Wythe and let them know that you’re all right.” Alice took hold of the boy’s shoulders and turned him toward the back door.
“Can Mr. Smith come, too?” the boy asked.
Alice froze. “Mr. Smith?”
A low chuckle chilled her to the bone. She turned to find her enemy watching her with a leering stare. He tipped his hat. “One and the same. Me and the boy, well, we had us a nice time together, didn’t we, Rusty?”
The child grinned. “Mr. Smith said he can come back and play with us anytime he wants.”
“Rusty, go inside and let them know you’re all right.” Alice’s knees wanted to give way, but she forced herself to remain strong for the child’s sake. She stared hard at Smith, hoping—praying—he might feel some sort of intimidation.
“I don’t have anything for you,” she said. Anger stirred inside and she clenched her jaw tight.
“I know that envelope has to be somewhere,” he said. “Something that valuable ain’t gonna just disappear.”
“Well, it has. You have no choice but to stop this madness. I can’t give you what I do not have.” She put her hands on her hips. “You have followed me all over this city, and I’m sick of it.”
He laughed again. “Then find my envelope. I have a feeling you know exactly where it is. I think you’re keeping it for yourself.”
Alice narrowed her eyes. “I know why you want it. I know about the counterfeit gold certificates. Mr. Wythe explained what he could find out about it. I wouldn’t give them to you even if I could find them.”
Smith crossed the distance between them and grabbed hold of Alice so quickly she didn’t have time to react. His iron-like fingers dug into her tender arms. “You’ll find them and you’ll give them over or . . .” He let his words trail and nodded toward the door where Rusty had just gone. “Or next time it might not be hide-and-seek I play with that boy.”
“You’re a monster. I’ll warn all of the children to be on the lookout for you. Not only that, I’ll go to the police!”
His grip tightened. “You do and there will be blood on your hands.”
Alice could imagine him stealing one of the children and hurting them. “I don’t know what you expect me to do. I’ve told you before, everything my father owned, everything that you didn’t take that night, has been sold. The house was sold before I even got out of the hospital. It was handled by friends and colleagues of my father in order to pay for his funeral and my hospital expenses. Whatever was in the house, with exception to a few of my personal items, was sold, as well. There’s nothing left. Threaten all you like, but there’s nothing!” She was nearly hysterical and knew she had to get a hold of herself. Forcing air into her lungs, Alice lifted her chin in a defiant pose.
It seemed that perhaps Smith finally believed her. He loosened his hold but didn’t let go. “What about the house? Maybe your pa had a secret compartment where he hid such things.”
Alice shook her head. “If he did, I didn’t know anything about it.”
“Well, maybe you need to find out.” His expression once again became fierce. “You go there. Go to the house and find out if your pa hid anything away.”
“The house sold. Other people are living there. I can hardly just show up at their doorstep and demand entry.”
“You’d better do just that,” Smith replied, finally letting go of her arms. “In fact, you’d better go and do that today if you know what’s good for you. I’ll come see you at the diner in the morning.”
He left so quickly that Alice was still trying to think of what to say to him when she realized he was gone. For several minutes she stood frozen in place. The man was clearly insane. Perhaps the desperate times had done this to him; then again, maybe he had always been this way.
Gathering her skirts in her hand, Alice wondered how in the world she could heed his demand. The house she had shared with her father was on the other side of town. She couldn’t hope to walk there, visit
the people, and walk back before nightfall. Yet if she did nothing, Smith would come back and hurt one of the children.
Perhaps Mr. Brentwood would loan her his carriage and horse. She bit her lower lip and entered the back of the orphanage, wishing she had a better plan. How could she explain the situation to Mr. Brentwood? It would be hard enough to tell Marty what had just happened. Marty would want to go after Smith with her shotgun, which would be quite impossible since the shotgun had been sold off with most everything else.
“Where is he?” Marty asked when Alice stepped into the kitchen.
Alice noted Marty had a cast-iron skillet in her hand and had been headed toward the door. “Rusty told you about Mr. Smith?”
“Yes, and I intend to put this skillet up against his head. How dare he involve a child in his schemes.”
“I know. And that’s not the half of it.”
Marty frowned. “What else is there?”
“He plans to be back—to cause harm if I don’t do what he’s commanded.”
“Which is what?
Alice squared her shoulders. “He wants me to go back to the house I shared with my father and look for hiding places where Father might have put the envelope and gold certificates.”
“The man is crazy,” Marty said, lowering the pan. “How can he imagine there would be anything there after all this time? If someone found those certificates, they would endeavor to use them for their own survival.”
“I don’t know of any place where Father could have hidden them, but I am determined to go and put this thing to rest once and for all. I’m going to go to the house right now if Mr. Brentwood will lend me his horse and carriage.” She lowered her voice and stepped closer to Marty. “I just don’t know what excuse to use or if he’d allow for it.”
Marty nodded. “Leave that to me. We’ll go together. Mr. Brentwood will let me have use of the carriage. He’s offered it to me many times.”
“I don’t want to drag you into this, Marty.” Alice felt her eyes dampen. “You’ve already gone through too much, and now you have the baby to consider.”
“Shh. Say nothing. There’s no reason to worry. We will go to the house and speak to the new owners. I’ll simply tell Mr. Brentwood that it’s come to my attention that a friend of mine is in need. That much is true.” She put the skillet on the stove. “I’ll tell him we have need of the carriage and that we will be absent from the orphanage for a time. There are plenty of leftovers for their evening meal.”
Within a matter of minutes Alice was in the carriage house with Marty. She felt helpless to assist Marty with the harnessing of the horse and feared for the mother-to-be.
“I wish I could handle that for you. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to the baby.”
“I’ll be fine,” Marty assured her. “Women in my condition have been harnessing and unhitching wagons, handling horses, and doing much more for centuries. I’m sure it will be all right. Besides, this old nag barely has enough energy to pull the buggy. She’s not going to be any trouble to me.”
They made their way across town with Alice directing Marty to the old neighborhood. The houses there were far less opulent than those on Capitol Hill, but clearly nicer than those in some of the poorer parts of town. When Alice saw her childhood home, she felt something akin to sorrow rush through her. She hadn’t been back there since the night of the attack.
“That’s it—right there. The one with the pine tree on the side.” She swallowed hard and silently prayed for strength.
“It looks like a lovely place to grow up,” Marty said, pulling back on the reins. “Whoa.” The mare complied without protest. Marty got down and tied off the reins. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“Yes. Please. I’m . . . I don’t know what to say or to do.”
“We’ll just have to wait and see,” Marty said, pulling Alice up the walkway. “Do you know the people who bought the house?”
“No.” Alice had never asked, nor had anyone bothered to tell her. Having been desperately ill for so many weeks after the attack, she had hardly cared what happened to the house or her things.
They knocked on the door and waited. Alice imagined her mother opening the door to them with a warm smile and a loving embrace. Many had been the time Alice had returned from school to find her mother awaiting her arrival in just such a manner.
“Hello?” A woman looking to be in her midforties greeted them.
“I . . . ah . . . well,” Alice stammered and looked to Marty.
“This is probably going to sound strange to you, but I’m Mrs. Martha Wythe and this is Alice Chesterfield. Alice used to live here.”
“Oh,” the woman said, seeming to notice Alice’s scar at the same time. “Your father was killed, wasn’t he? You were injured, but we never knew what became of you.” The woman’s expression became quite sympathetic. “I remember being told all about it from the owner.”
“The owner?” Marty asked. “Don’t you own this house?”
“No,” the woman said. “I rent it. My mother and I live here. Won’t you come in?”
Marty and Alice stepped into the house. For a moment Alice gazed around the room and let the memories wash over her. The front room looked much the same, although there was now a piano by the front window.
“So what can I do for you, Miss Chesterfield, Mrs. Wythe? Oh goodness, where are my manners. I’m Sylvia Ingram. My mother, Matilda, is napping just now or I would introduce you.”
“That’s really all right, Mrs. Ingram,” Marty said, much to Alice’s relief. “Our visit here will seem rather . . . strange, but I beg your indulgence.”
The woman’s expression changed to one of concern. “I hope I can help.”
“As you probably know, Alice was severely wounded in the attack that killed her father.”
The woman nodded and glanced at her cheek. “Such a pity.”
Marty quickly continued. “The house was sold while she was still in the hospital, and Alice never knew what happened to their things or this place.”
“Poor girl. I’m so sorry you had to endure such a terrible tragedy.”
“We were wondering,” Marty said, glancing at Alice, “if there was anything left behind. Something perhaps that had been hidden away and not sold.”
“Particularly papers,” Alice said, finally finding her voice. Mrs. Ingram seemed so calm and kind that she lost some of her fear. “It’s most important I find my father’s papers—his personal effects.”
“Oh, my dear child, there was a box of personal items. They were upstairs in the attic, tucked back in an alcove.”
Alice looked to Marty with hope of what they might find. “And do you have them still?”
The woman frowned. “I’m sorry. No. I sent them on to a relative whose address was amidst the papers. I didn’t realize you were still in town.”
“A relative?” Alice questioned, feeling her heart sink. “I don’t know of any relatives—not still living.”
The woman shook her head. “I can’t remember the name. It was unusual, but I’m certain the last name was the same as yours.” She thought for a moment and then raised her finger toward the ceiling. “Aha. I have a letter. After I sent the box, the recipient responded to thank me. Oh, wait. I remember now. It was from your mother. I have it still.”
Mrs. Ingram hurried from the room without further ado, leaving Alice to stare openmouthed after her. She felt as if someone had hit her hard in the stomach. Her mother was dead.
“What in the world is going on?” Alice whispered and looked to Marty for encouragement. “My mother is dead. This can’t be.”
“We should know soon enough, Alice. Don’t worry. At least we know now that there were some papers and personal effects that have been sent on to someone. We will find out to whom they were delivered and see about retrieving them.”
Mrs. Ingram was gone for nearly ten minutes before reappearing, waving the letter in hand. “Here it is. I knew I’d kept
it. It’s from Ravinia Chesterfield—your mother, I believe.”
Alice nodded slowly and took the letter Mrs. Ingram offered.
“Goodness, but it seems like forever since that letter arrived. You can read it for yourself. Of course, you may have it. I don’t even know why I hung on to it. She wrote me to thank me for the box of things and for telling her about your father’s death. She asks about you and your whereabouts in the letter. Seems your father wouldn’t let her have anything to do with returning home.”
Alice removed the letter from the envelope and began to read.
Dear Mrs. Ingram,
Thank you for informing me about my husband’s demise and sending me his personal papers. We have been estranged now for many years, and much to my heartache, Mr. Chesterfield would not send me word of himself or our daughter, Alice, and neither would he allow for my return. If you know of her whereabouts, I would be much obliged if you would share the information. She is very dear to me, and I hope to be reunited with her.
Sincerely,
Ravinia Chesterfield
Alice handed the paper to Marty. “My mother . . . my mother is alive!”
Marty glanced at the paper and then back to Mrs. Ingram. “When did you receive this letter?”
“Oh my, it’s probably been a year now—maybe not quite. I wrote her back to say that I didn’t know anything about her daughter. I told her that I knew her husband had been murdered and that her daughter had been injured, and I thought . . . well . . . I was almost certain you had died.” The woman gave her an apologetic look. “I do hope I didn’t cause your poor mother undue heartache. Perhaps you can write her yourself and let her know that you’re alive and well.”
Alice felt the room begin to spin. She couldn’t breathe and the world was going black. The last words she heard were Mrs. Ingram’s.
“I’m certain your mother will be delighted to know you are safe.”
Chapter 9
“Don’t you think you should write to her?” Marty questioned Alice later that night after everyone had gone to bed.
In the darkness she couldn’t see her friend’s face, but she knew it was no doubt still twisted in an expression of confusion and pain. Poor Alice. The girl had taken quite a shock at the news that her mother was still alive.
Moment in Time, A (Lone Star Brides Book #2) Page 8
