by Cathy Gohlke
Maureen sat close to her sister. “I know you don’t want to go out today, but you must understand that Mrs. Melkford has been wonderful to us. If not for her, we wouldn’t even be here. They might have refused us entry.”
But Katie Rose was clearly not as taken with Mrs. Melkford as was Maureen. “We don’t need her,” she hissed to her sister. “The Wakefields—they’re our sponsors.”
Mrs. Melkford’s color rose, but she sat back, straightening the napkin in her lap.
“Apologize to Mrs. Melkford!”
“Never mind.” Mrs. Melkford’s mouth formed a line as she picked up the breakfast cups. “Perhaps it’s best if you gather your strength.”
Katie Rose fled to the parlor. Maureen washed the dishes in silence. Mrs. Melkford dried and put them away.
“She’ll need to come to terms with it sometime.”
Maureen turned to her friend. “But the scars will fade in time, surely?”
Mrs. Melkford picked up another plate. “Some will. But Nurse Harrigan said it’s too soon to know if they’ll fade entirely. She’s older than most children who contract chicken pox, and a woman’s face is unforgiving.”
“Did they tell her that?”
“Nurse Harrigan said she didn’t take it well. She said I should tell you that the sooner Katie Rose accepts herself as she is and gets out into the world, the better.” Mrs. Melkford sighed. “She’s young, I know . . . but I rather doubt you were ever quite so young.”
Maureen didn’t know what to say. By the time she was Katie Rose’s age, she’d been sent into service while Katie Rose stayed home with their mother. Maureen had envied her sister’s opportunity to attend the village school, have friends, and drop by Aunt Verna’s kitchen on a whim. But she later felt guilty when Katie Rose had to nurse their mother—a bleak and heavy responsibility for one so young. She watched Mrs. Melkford silently drying the last plate, sorry that Katie Rose’s outburst had spoiled their cheerful morning.
“Well.” With another sigh, Mrs. Melkford untied her apron strings. “I believe I’ll get myself ready for church. I don’t want to miss Reverend Peterson’s sermon. You and Katie Rose do as you think best. We’ll leave the chicken roasting in a slow oven. It will be ready by the time I get back.” Her voice was kind, but Maureen knew her friend was disappointed.
“I’d like to go with you—but I don’t know that I should leave Katie Rose her first day here.”
Mrs. Melkford hung her apron on the peg by the kitchen door. “It’s only an hour or so. She’ll be quite safe here.”
Maureen hesitated. “Do you think we could sit in the back so if I get anxious about her, or if the service goes long, we might slip out?”
Mrs. Melkford brightened. “Certainly! I usually sit in the balcony. I can see everything from there.” Her brow wrinkled. “The Wakefields have a family pew near the front of the church. I’m afraid you won’t find it easy to speak with them.”
“That’s quite all right,” Maureen assured her. “They’re not expectin’ me.”
Mrs. Melkford looked as though she was about to say or ask something but stopped herself. She squeezed Maureen’s arm. “I’ll be with you here in ten minutes, and we’ll be on our way.”
It was the biggest church Maureen had ever stepped inside, and Protestant, besides. She’d only ever attended the old stone church on the edge of her village, and not that for years—except the day she walked into the church to make arrangements with the priest for her mother’s graveside service.
Maureen followed Mrs. Melkford up the winding steps of the balcony, where, good to her word, she claimed two seats nearest the back.
Maureen held a bird’s-eye view of the sanctuary. She scanned the parishioners for the two she’d confronted at the Wakefield house and the two who had stood aghast in the hallway. She couldn’t be certain, but there was a pew, very near the right front side of the church, seating four well-dressed adults near her own age: two men and two women. She was fairly certain, once she saw his profile, that the one nearest the middle was the harsh man, Mr. Drake Meitland. She could not be certain of the women, whose faces were shielded by their hats.
“Do you see the Wakefields?” Mrs. Melkford craned her short neck to see around the sea of hats before her.
“Yes, I think so,” Maureen admitted.
“It might be a good idea if you explain to them about Katie Rose’s condition before you take her there tonight. Perhaps you can speak with them after church.”
Maureen drew her breath in sharply, but it was lost in the organ’s mighty prelude. She turned to take in the magnificent pipes, and that led her eyes to stained-glass windows, depicting Bible scenes that rang faintly familiar but that she could not place.
Maureen had heard of the grandeur of the cathedrals in Lincoln and London, of churches large and small through Ireland, throughout America, but this did not match any of the pictures her mind had conjured. The ceiling rose high, even above the balcony. Wood everywhere was polished to a lemon-wax sheen. But there were no statues—no Blessed Mother, no suffering Lord Jesus, no bleeding heart of Christ, no saints or apostles in the throes of martyrdom—save for the scenes of men and women dressed in Bible garb captured in the glass windows. She wondered what the parishioners worshiped as the glory of God if they’d nothing to see and touch.
Not that the images or fonts or kneelers had done wonders for her. But she’d assumed that was because she’d given up going to confession the day Julius Orthbridge had violated her.
At first she’d prayed, begging God to make him stop. But when the demon’s strength increased, and her fear had burst its bounds, she grew convinced that it was all a judgment against who she was, what she’d become, and that there was no way out—not in this life and surely not in the next. Resigned, she’d stopped fighting—stopped fighting Julius Orthbridge and stopped begging heaven. Maureen knew she was smitten, despised of God, and that eternity could provide no hell worse than the one she’d lived day after day, night after night. She did not live in fear of the hereafter. She’d lived in the dread of Lord Orthbridge and the despair of the present.
Maureen swallowed a moan at the thought of what she’d done in Ireland, of the lies she’d already told in America, and the knowledge that she’d do it again because she didn’t know what else to do. For it all depends on me, doesn’t it? She glanced at Mrs. Melkford standing beside her as they sang from a shared hymnal. If I’d told her the truth about the Wakefields, would she have turned me out—sent me back to Ellis Island from her own obligation? Or would she have helped me, let me stay with her until . . . until what? What is “enough” in this country? Wouldn’t I have needed the signature of a man established to vouch for me?
Maureen didn’t know the answers, but in any case, the disappointment Mrs. Melkford had shown that morning in Katie Rose’s outbursts made Maureen fear wounding her further.
And what of Katie Rose? She thinks we’re leavin’ Mrs. Melkford’s for the Wakefields—for a grand life to be waited upon hand and foot! Wait till she sees where we’re livin’!
The cold truth of their slope toward desperation and poverty chilled her. It’s one thing to do without, to live in a hovel, but another thing to draw Katie Rose in with me!
Maureen drew a deep breath. This was supposed to be a fresh start. She’d never meant to spin and tangle such a ball of yarn.
The service was nearly over when Reverend Peterson coughed; that simple sound drew Maureen from her worries.
“It has come to my attention that there has been a revival of sorts among some of the ladies of our congregation regarding Mr. Charles Sheldon’s acclaimed novel, In His Steps.” Reverend Peterson paused, and Maureen noted a nervous shifting scattered among the parishioners, even in the Wakefield pew.
The reverend smiled, and Maureen thought it a wondrous thing to see a man of the cloth gaze so magnanimously upon his flock. She realized that she’d heard no condemning word through the entire sermon.
“I wish
to commend this fine book to all and to encourage its reading, both in our homes and among our circles.”
Mrs. Melkford clasped Maureen’s hand. “Splendid!” she whispered.
“I look forward to hearing where Mr. Sheldon’s challenge leads,” he finished. “And now, let us close with hymn number 175, ‘All the Way My Savior Leads Me.’”
Maureen did not know the book he mentioned, and she did not know the hymn, but she did her best to follow the tune as the great organ pealed its notes, resounding through her shoes.
All the way my Savior leads me;
What have I to ask beside?
Can I doubt His tender mercy,
Who through life has been my guide?
Maureen did not think that she’d been shown tender mercy by anyone other than Aunt Verna or Mrs. Melkford, or that anyone had been her guide. She’d survived by her wits, and that, barely.
Heav’nly peace, divinest comfort . . .
Cheers each winding path I tread,
Gives me grace for every trial,
Feeds me with the living bread.
“Living bread,” Maureen whispered, wondering what that could mean.
Mrs. Melkford raised her eyebrows toward Maureen but continued to sing.
Though my weary steps may falter,
And my soul athirst may be,
Gushing from the Rock before me,
Lo! a spring of joy I see. . . .
Perfect rest to me is promised . . .
Maureen could sing no more. None of this is meant for the likes of me! She’d have slipped from the balcony and the church had Mrs. Melkford not been there.
Why she couldn’t stop the tears from slipping down her cheeks as the reverend prayed for grace and God’s healing mercy through the coming week, for the restoration of relationships and the daily direction of his flock, Maureen could not say. She swiped at her wet cheeks, humiliated, hoping the men and women nearby would not notice when they raised their heads from prayer.
Mrs. Melkford ushered her out just before the benediction, as if she sensed Maureen’s distress. “It was a touching service.”
That was all she said, and yet Maureen chewed the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting into tears as they hurried along the sidewalk. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I don’t normally carry on like this.”
Mrs. Melkford smiled and patted her arm. “Faith creeps in unawares, betimes.”
Faith? Not likely!
“Do you have a Bible, Maureen?”
Maureen shook her head. No one in the village, save the priest, had his own Bible.
Mrs. Melkford nodded. “We’ll see that you have one today.”
Olivia replaced her hymnal and gathered her Bible and purse.
“You’ll join us for Sunday dinner, Curtis?” Drake shook Curtis Morrow’s hand as parishioners filed from their pews. “Won’t take no for an answer!”
“If you’re certain I’m not imposing.”
“Nonsense!” Drake clapped Curtis’s back.
Dorothy smiled. “We’re delighted to have you. And now that you’re established in our fair city, we expect to see you often.”
“That will be my pleasure, entirely.” He tipped his head. “You’ll be there, Miss Wakefield?” Curtis Morrow’s dark-brown eyes found Olivia’s, surprising her.
“Yes—yes, I will.”
“Then I wouldn’t miss it.” Curtis offered his arm.
The foursome had driven only two blocks when Drake suddenly turned, staring after something or someone Olivia could not see.
“What is it, Drake?” Dorothy asked.
Drake didn’t answer, but as he sat back, the cords in his neck rose taut.
Curtis leaned forward. “You all right, Drake?”
“What?” Drake’s smile looked forced. “Yes. Sure, just thought I recognized someone. I was mistaken.”
Sunday dinner at Meitland House was traditionally an elaborate affair. Olivia expected nothing less from her sister. Dorothy’s pleasure in welcoming and entertaining guests with her finest linens, crystal, and silver, and in sharing the bountiful gifts of her fine cook, was a thing of beauty.
Curtis raised his glass to his hostess. “A lady in her home.” The others joined him, and Dorothy blushed prettily.
Drake raised his glass a second time, to Curtis, and winked. “May you be so lucky.”
“That is not likely.” Curtis’s forced smile stole the moment.
Olivia felt her spine straighten of its own accord and was as quickly annoyed with herself that she’d responded at all.
But Dorothy diverted the topic by drawing attention to Reverend Peterson’s morning sermon as the salad plates were removed in preparation for the next course.
“What was that about some book the ladies are touting?” Drake speared a slice of roast duck.
“In His Steps—I know the book,” Curtis offered.
“Do you, Mr. Morrow?” Olivia asked.
“Curtis.” He smiled. “Yes, I’ve read it.”
“And what did you think of it?” Dorothy kept the conversation going.
Curtis placed his fork beside his plate. “One of the most challenging books I’ve encountered. Not for its literary merit, but for its personal and spiritual challenge. The idea of asking before every endeavor, ‘What would Jesus do in this situation?’ sounds trite.” He hesitated. “It’s anything but. It challenges every ounce of my moral fiber.”
“I agree.” Olivia sat straighter, astonished that anything of substance came from a colleague of her brother-in-law. “It makes me stop and ask if my preconceived notions and opinions are truth or prejudice.”
“And then what do you do about that?” Curtis asked. “How do you proceed if you find that your thinking is ‘weighed in the balances and found wanting’?” His eyes met Olivia’s, but when he turned, she was certain they probed Drake’s.
“Sounds deep for Sunday entertainment,” Drake responded, visibly shifting in his seat.
“It’s not intended as entertainment,” Olivia pursued. “We’re serious. I’m serious.”
“Ah!” Drake laughed, raising his knife to point toward Olivia. “I should have known it was you who put the good reverend up to challenging the congregation!”
“I’ve taken the challenge too,” Dorothy said quietly.
Drake stopped laughing. He set down his knife, and though his mouth registered good humor, his eyes spoke sternly. “And what, exactly, does this mean?”
Dorothy’s chin rose, but when her eyes connected with her husband’s, they seemed to falter. Olivia was about to come to her sister’s rescue when Curtis stepped in.
“I think that has to be different for each individual, doesn’t it? In the book, Sheldon makes clear that no person can interpret the direction Jesus would take in the life of another—they can do that only for themselves, as the Spirit leads them.” Curtis picked up his glass. “The wonder is how those purposes seem to overlap, to create greater impetus for a common cause.”
“But is it a wonder?” Olivia warmed to the subject for the second time that week. “Shouldn’t it be just that way—if the Spirit is truly leading? Shouldn’t it happen that the Spirit would direct multiple lives to accomplish a common goal? Like the work of the revival meetings and the settlement house activities in the book?”
“Providence,” Dorothy spoke, and a light shone in her eyes.
“You’re talking about a novel!” Drake interrupted, laughing.
“But a novel that reveals truth in a way that is easily understood!” Olivia felt her heart awaken, shaking off a long winter.
“That’s the scribbler in her, Curtis. She fancies herself a writer,” Drake mocked.
“That’s right.” A light of memory sprang to Curtis’s eyes. “Dorothy mentioned that before.”
Olivia was caught off guard. “My love of writing has nothing to do with this.”
“Why not?” Curtis asked. “Why would God gift you with a love of something—and an abilit
y, I have no doubt—unless He intended for you to use it?”
Olivia felt heat rise to her face. “I don’t know that I have ability. And I don’t know what to write, what would be of use.”
Curtis smiled. “Isn’t that the point?”
“The point?”
“The point of the challenge,” Dorothy injected. “What would Jesus do with this gift of writing, this God-given love of writing? What would He write?”
Curtis nodded. “In this place, in this time—just as Sheldon did in his.”
Olivia felt such a rising in her chest, she thought she might be lifted from her seat.
“I’d be glad to take a look at your writing, if you’d permit me,” Curtis offered.
Olivia sat back, certain she did not wish to share her private thoughts on paper with Curtis or with anyone else—not yet.
“Curtis is in publishing,” Dorothy reminded her sister, leaning toward her to add, “Right here in New York now. His advice could be most valuable.”
“When you’re ready, the offer stands.” Curtis smiled.
Olivia nodded, uncertain what to say.
“So if you’re not penning the great American novel,” Drake took up, “what’s the mysterious project you and your ladies have decided to tackle this year?”
“We don’t know just yet,” Dorothy answered. “We’re all reading Mr. Sheldon’s book and praying about the challenge. We’ll discuss our mission at our next meeting.”
“You’re looking at this as a group decision?” Curtis asked, his brow furrowed.
Olivia swallowed. “We’ll certainly ask what Jesus would have us do as a group, but first, we ask that question individually.”
“So you are thinking about writing the great American novel after all,” Drake teased.
“No,” Olivia answered evenly. “I’m thinking of looking for the O’Reilly woman who came to my home on Thanksgiving.”
Drake stopped chewing. “I took care of the matter.”
“I wish you hadn’t.”
Drake turned his head. “I have every intention of protecting both you and my wife.”
