“Yes,” Lucy murmured.
“Because of that,” Caitrin continued, beginning a slow walk toward the shore, “I should think one would want to drink it with a slice of lemon and a dollop of honey. But shall I tell you the truth? I love my Earl Grey with milk and sugar. Lots of sugar!”
Casting a pleading glance at Jack, Caitrin tried to think how to prolong the conversation. If only the people would go away and stop gawking like stupid cows. If only Caitrin’s toes would come back to life so she could tell where the bottom of the creek was. If only she could touch … but she was touching Lucy, holding her close, speaking as one friend to another.
“I’ll stoke up the fire in my oven,” she said. “We’ll be as warm as toast in a few minutes, and while we thaw, the tea water will have time to boil. You never did tell me your favorite color, Lucy. Mine is emerald green. I think I’m rather vain about green, but it really does go so well with my eyes.”
“Blue,” Lucy whispered as she and Caitrin straggled onto the shore. “I’m … I’m …”
“Teal blue?” Caitrin drew her closer, silently daring the gaping crowd to make a move as she led Lucy through them. “That’s the color of a duck’s back, you know. Sure, I like that shade. But I’m rather partial to a soft cornflower hue.”
“Baby blue.” Lucy’s chains clanked as she tried to keep up with Caitrin. “Baby.”
“Jack, do come and take these off!” Caitrin called in frustration. At this rate, it would be an hour before they arrived at the soddy. Already she felt certain her skirt had frozen to her legs and her toes were going to chip off inside her wet boots.
Breathing hard, Jack knelt, dripping, at his sister’s feet. As he inserted a key in the heavy padlock, his gray eyes searched Caitrin’s face. She understood the terrible fear that consumed him.
“Lucy and I are going to take tea at my house,” she told him, praying her words would reassure the man. “I’m sorry to say, but we can’t invite you, Jack. This is a ladies’ tea, and it’s only for the unmarried women of Hope. That’s Lucy and me, so there you have it. Now, please open the lock on her wrists.”
Jack stared into Caitrin’s eyes. “You take care of Lucy, hear?”
“I know you love your sister, Jack. Don’t you?” She nodded. “Don’t you love her?”
“I sure do. I …” His voice faltered as he bent to unlock the chain that bound his sister’s wrists. “I love you, Lucy.”
Jack knocked on the door of Caitrin’s soddy, and then he gave his mother a solemn nod. Mrs. Cornwall stood to one side, as bug-eyed as a frog. They had waited more than an hour at their camp, talking over the terrible mistake they’d made in allowing Lucy to walk about unguarded. She’d headed straight for the creek, and Felicity had noticed her barely in time. If Caitrin hadn’t come along …
“Well?” Felicity demanded. “Can’t the woman be bothered to answer her own door?”
Jack gave his mother a warning look. “Miss Murphy won’t like it that we’re here in the first place. She wanted to be alone with Lucy.”
“They’ve been alone long enough. That Irish maid doesn’t have a single notion how to manage my daughter. She’ll turn her back the first time, and Lucy will grab a pair of scissors—”
“Jack?” Caitrin opened the door to a narrow slit and peeped through. “What are you doing here? Mrs. Cornwall, I told you I would be taking tea with Lucy.”
“Where is my daughter?” Felicity demanded. “She’s sure to catch her death after all that swimming about in frigid water.”
“Lucy is asleep,” Caitrin said. “While she was warming up by the stove, she drifted off and hasn’t awakened since.”
“Typical!” Felicity said. “Lucy would sleep all day and all night, too, if we’d let her. She’s the laziest maid you ever clapped eyes on. We must wake her at once and get her back to the camp.”
“I should like your permission to keep her here tonight, Mrs. Cornwall.” Caitrin turned her focus to Jack. “Please let Lucy stay with me.”
“Never.” Felicity’s eyes hardened. “My daughter belongs in her own bed. And without the chains, one can’t be sure—”
“You can’t fix Lucy’s troubles, Caitrin,” Jack said over his mother’s harangue. “Look, can I come inside and talk to you for a minute?”
Green eyes bright, Caitrin glanced from Jack to his mother and then back again. “Only you, please, Mr. Cornwall. I shouldn’t want anyone to wake Lucy.”
Jack let out a breath as he stepped into the soddy. That comment would set his mother off all over again—abandoned outside on a chilly February evening, as though she didn’t have the sense to know what was best for her own daughter. Of course, Felicity probably would try to stir Lucy, and then Caitrin might fly off the handle. What a mess.
Standing just inside the door, Jack discerned his sister asleep on the rough-hewn wooden bed near the stove. Damp hair spread across the pillow in a dark tangle, she was covered with layers of thick quilts. Her long, angular frame lay perfectly still. His heart contracted at a sudden thought. How many nights had his sister been forced to sleep with her ankles and wrists bound by the chains he had forged? She looked so comfortable there on Caitrin’s bed. So much at peace.
“Please speak to your mother about that constant carping, Jack,”
Caitrin whispered. “She must learn she will never shout poor Lucy into wholeness.”
“And you’ll never coddle her into it, either.” Jack took her arms in his hands. “Caitrin, everyone in my family has done their level best for Lucy. We’re all exhausted from constantly watching over her, trying to protect her, trying not to upset her. We’ve concocted every scheme imaginable to bring her out of these doldrums, but the doctors have told us Lucy’s condition is incurable. Sometimes she’ll seem a little better, but she goes right back into it. I don’t want you to be fooled because you were able to bring her out of the creek today. Lucy does make forward strides. But in a few days or even a few hours, she always slides back into her black pit. Please listen to me, Caitrin—you can’t change this.”
“All I’ve asked is that Lucy be permitted to stay the night with me.” She slipped her hands over his. “Jack, I’m not a fool. I know I haven’t the training to manage Lucy. I certainly don’t understand what caused this madness in her. But I do care about her. I want her to have one night of undisturbed rest. Please, Jack, allow her to stay.”
His heart thudded as he looked into this woman’s earnest face. Caitrin was so good. So perfect. And yet, one mistake with Lucy, and she’d be changed forever. If Lucy figured out a way to harm herself while she was in Caitrin’s care …
“I’ll stay here, too,” Jack said.
“You can’t do that!” Caitrin laughed in disbelief. “Sure, I won’t have a lone man in my home. What would people think?”
Jack fought the grin that tugged at his mouth. Caitrin Murphy didn’t give a hoot what anyone thought about her relationship with Lucy or Mrs. Cornwall. But heaven forbid they should get any ideas about her and Jack Cornwall.
“I’ll sleep just outside the door,” he said. “That way you can holler if you need me.”
“I won’t need you, and I won’t have you putting up a camp in my front yard.” She set her hands on her hips. “Go along with you now. Your mother, too. You said yourself that everyone’s exhausted from the constant care of Lucy. Relax then, and leave her to me this one night.”
“Caitrin, if something happened—” “Jack?” Lucy sat up in the bed, her eyes blinking in confusion.
“Jack, I’m … I’m …”
“You’re here at my house, Lucy,” Caitrin said, going to her. “We were just about to have tea when you dropped off to sleep. Earl Grey, remember? Here’s a dressing gown you can wear. Let me help you.”
Jack shifted from one foot to the other, feeling awkward and useless in Caitrin’s house. Though he was a little surprised at how sparsely furnished the place was, he could tell it was her private domain. She was completely capabl
e of managing her life here, and she didn’t need any interference.
“Good-bye, Jack,” she called. “You can come over tomorrow morning and have breakfast with us if you like. Bring your mother with you. We’ll have hot biscuits and gravy. It’s an American dish, rather heavy if you ask me, but everyone seems to like it.”
Jack watched as Caitrin helped his sister into a bright pink dressing gown, tied a big silky bow at her waist, and then began combing that tangle of brown hair. Combing! Caitrin was combing Lucy’s hair! Jack stared at the two women in amazement.
Is it possible, Lord? he prayed. Have you sent Caitrin to help Lucy? Oh, God, let Lucy get better. Please make her well again.
“Ta ta, Jack,” Caitrin called, giving him a wave of dismissal. “See you in the morning.”
Jack stepped outside the soddy and pulled the door shut behind him. His mother stared at him in dismay, her face pinched. “You left Lucy in there?” she demanded. “You’re going to let her stay the night with Miss Murphy?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, Jack, you are besotted with that young Irishwoman!” she cried, frustration raising her voice to a falsetto. “How could you risk your sister’s life? She’ll be dead by morning.”
“She’d be dead right now if Caitrin hadn’t saved her,” Jack said, brushing past her and starting for the camp. “Lucy’s sitting in there wearing a pink gown and a bow. And Caitrin is brushing her hair.”
“What?” his mother exclaimed behind him.
“Caitrin is brushing Lucy’s hair.”
“Really, Jack? Really?”
Jack paused and wrapped an arm around his mother’s shoulders. “Really, Mama.”
Caitrin woke in the night and felt the warmth of her new friend beside her in the bed. Odd how comfortable it was to share her little home with Lucy Cornwall. The place didn’t seem quite so empty, so cold, so forlorn.
They’d had a good evening, sipping tea and munching sandwiches. If she hadn’t seen Lucy drifting in the river hours before, Caitrin would hardly have believed anything was wrong with the young woman. They were almost the same age, and they kept up a comfortable conversation until the fire died down … planning the welcome party, discussing favorite foods and hairstyles. Lucy’s speech was halting but lucid.
In fact, Caitrin realized as she lay in the darkness staring up at the ceiling, Lucy actually might have talked more freely if her hostess hadn’t interrupted her every ten seconds. Chagrined, Caitrin mulled over the number of times Lucy had started to talk and then had fallen into her pattern of saying, “I’m … I can’t … I don’t know …” And Caitrin—with all good intent—had covered the awkwardness with cheerful chatter, changing the subject from one topic to another.
Rolling onto her side, Caitrin frowned into the blackness. Why hadn’t she just listened to Lucy? Maybe her friend would have been able to share her deepest thoughts. Maybe she could have opened her heart to Caitrin if she hadn’t been so rudely interrupted time and again.
Jesus, do you heal people like Lucy? Caitrin wondered. The man you met in the cemetery had been as destructive to himself as Lucy—cutting his flesh with stones and screaming out in his anguish. But your touch brought him back to his right mind. Does Lucy have a demon inside her? Has she sinned in some terrible way to be tormented like this? Is it a dreadful sickness that one day will kill her? Oh, Father, I don’t understand what’s wrong with Lucy, but please touch my friend! Please make her well.
“Caitrin?” Lucy had risen on one elbow and was gazing at the other woman. “You’re tossing.”
“Forgive me, Lucy. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“No, I thought … I thought I might have …”
“You didn’t disturb me at all. I’ve been thinking about …”
Caitrin suddenly couldn’t be honest. “I’ve been thinking about wallpaper lately. I want to paper the soddy, but I don’t believe—”
Be still, a voice inside her spoke. Be still.
“I don’t believe wallpaper will work,” she finished.
“I’m not sure,” Lucy said. “I can’t … I can’t think… .”
“It’s so late, and here I am chattering away—” Caitrin squeezed her fists. Be still. She let out a breath and finished, “Chattering about wallpaper.”
Lucy was silent. Caitrin could hear her breathing softly. Her thin fingers picked at the tufts of yarn on the quilt that covered the two women.
“I don’t think wallpaper will stick,” Lucy said finally. “Your walls are dirt.”
“I know.”
“But I can’t … I can’t …”
“You—” Caitrin bit her lip to keep herself from blurting out some vapid nonsense.
“I can’t think very clearly about wallpaper,” Lucy said. “I don’t … don’t know …”
She lapsed into silence again. Caitrin thought perhaps she had fallen asleep, but then she sighed. “It’s hard to think, you know,”
Lucy said softly. “My thoughts go around and around. I don’t … I can’t stop thinking about things that bother me.”
“Like—” Caitrin cut off her own sentence.
“Like Mary. When she got sick. I adored Mary.” Lucy’s voice was high and fragile. “My big sister was golden haired and so beautiful. She loved to dance and flirt with all the men. But then … then … I can’t …”
Caitrin managed to hold her tongue.
“Can’t remember what happened to Mary,” Lucy went on. “Oh yes, it was Seth Hunter. She fell in love with him, and Papa got out his … his shotgun … and how sad Mary was. She told me she had married Seth in secret. And then the baby …”
“Chipper?”
“Did I say there was a baby?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not permitted to talk about that. We must keep our secrets well hidden. Others will stare at us if they hear the truth. No one has to know a thing.”
“Who has told you to keep secrets, Lucy?”
“Mama.” She lay quietly for a long time. “Some things can be mentioned. Mary died. The Yankee soldiers came. Oh, dear … I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about that either. Jack was fighting in the war. And then Seth stole Chipper. Papa took sick. They put me in chains. I’m insane, you know.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yes.” Lucy nodded on her pillow. Her hand slipped across the quilt and covered Caitrin’s. “Please don’t be afraid of me. It’s because of the thoughts going around and around. I can’t make them stop. I try, but I can’t… . I can’t …”
“You’ve had a great many sorrows,” Caitrin whispered.
“Mary. The soldiers. The war. We lost the farm. Papa took sick.” She trembled. “People die. There’s such loss … and I can’t …”
“I don’t believe you’re insane.”
“No?”
“Anyone with as many griefs as you’ve known would find it difficult.”
“Difficult to go on living.”
“Aye, ’tis hard sometimes.” Caitrin’s thoughts wandered to Sean O’Casey and the terrible agony she had felt at his loss. But now—oddly—she no longer sensed that emptiness. There was something else … someone else …
“I have many sorrows,” Lucy said. “And many, many secrets.”
CHAPTER 11
IT WAS Rolf Rustemeyer’s turn to lead the Sunday services. Jack heard that the big German farmer had been practicing his sermon on Rosie Hunter, but rumor had it there’d be slim pickings on the spiritual smorgasbord today. All the same, families from the homesteads around Hope began to gather in the mercantile around nine o’clock. By the time Jack walked in, the room was filled with the aroma of hot cinnamon buns, fresh coffee, and apple strudel.
In the short time he’d lived in Hope, Jack had tried to learn the names of the people who passed his smithy on their way to the mercantile for supplies. Few ever spoke to him, and when they did, it was only to ask how soon he’d be able to repair a plow or mend a wagon wheel. But Caitrin Murphy alwa
ys followed her customers out the mercantile door to wave good-bye. “Come again, Mr. LeBlanc,” she would call. “See you next week, Mrs. Rippeto!” And Jack would memorize the names.
They had all come together to worship on this bright, late-winter Sunday, and Jack had made up his mind to walk among them as one of the community. He’d been given a month to prove his peaceful intentions, and this gathering would be the perfect opportunity to do just that.
“Mornin’, Mr. Laski,” he said, extending a hand to the Polish fellow who owned a stagecoach station several miles down the road to Topeka. “I’m Jack Cornwall. Good to see you today.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Oh yes,” he said. He gave a quick nod and turned away.
Jack shrugged. He wouldn’t get angry. Couldn’t afford to. Things were just now beginning to look up for the Cornwall family. Caitrin had convinced Felicity to let Lucy stay at the soddy a few days. His sister had lived with the young Irishwoman for almost a week now. And though no one had seen much of either one, Jack sensed that the community was beginning to relax about the notion of having a “madwoman” residing there. His mother—the only person from the creek episode to catch a cold—had stayed busy at the camp, either working or lamenting her drippy nose. Freed from his responsibility to help keep an eye on Lucy, Jack spent every free hour working to build the smithy. He would have the forge up and burning by Monday night.
“Mr. Rippeto,” Jack said, giving the Italian homesteader his warmest smile. “Good to see you and Mrs. Rippeto here today.”
“Keep your eyes off my wife,” the man muttered, pointing a beefy forefinger. “Stay away from my family.”
“Listen here, you—” Jack bit off his words. Swallowing his fury, he found a bench near the side of the mercantile, sat down, and opened his Bible. He’d be lucky to get through this morning without punching somebody in the nose.
“Hi, Jack,” a voice whispered beside him.
He turned to find his sister slipping onto the bench. A cloud of Lily of the Valley perfume drifted around the startling array of braids and curls in Lucy’s upswept brown hair. Clad in a silky dress of pale blue, she arranged her skirts to allow the tips of her kidskin shoes to peep out. Flushing a vivid pink, she patted the sagging bodice.
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