Breathing hard, Mary took a step toward her employer. She nudged him with the toe of her shoe, but he didn’t move. He made no sound. Then she saw the red stain spreading near his head across the elegant fibers of the carpet.
“Faith and begorra!” she whispered, her eyes widening. “Have I killed him, then?”
The answer lay before her, still and unmoving.
She would swing for this, see if she wouldn’t. And then what would become of her wee Keary? She would have to get her son and run away before the master’s body was found. She had little time to think about where she would go. She simply knew she must go quickly.
She felt light-headed and out of breath as she hurried across the room. It wasn’t until she reached for the key that she realized she still held the weapon she had used against Winston Kenrick. She looked at the ornate box. It was real silver, she’d wager, and valuable. It was better if she took it with her. The police might think the house had been burglarized. Maybe they wouldn’t notice the absence of one of the housemaids if they were looking for a thief instead.
Turning the key, Mary unlocked the study door, then turned the knob. She trembled as she looked out into the hallway. If one of the other servants were to see her…
The hall was empty. Now if she could get out of the house without being seen.
She remembered her bodice was torn down the front and knew she couldn’t go running through the streets of New York, down Madison Avenue itself, looking like this. People would know she was guilty of something. They would summon the police and have her arrested. All would be lost.
Panic threatened to overwhelm her.
Use your head, Mary, me darlin’ girl, her da’s voice whispered in her head. One hapless act may undo you, but one timely one will put all to right. Think, now.
Mary forced herself to be calm and work things through in her mind. She knew Mrs. Norris, the cook, kept a spare apron hanging near the rear kitchen door. If Mary put it on, it would hide her ripped bodice. And her hat…She needed her hat. She needed to look like any other servant girl, out running errands for her mistress.
She glanced over her shoulder at the body of Winston Kenrick, and a shiver ran through her. He’d been an evil man, he had, but she would always be sorry she’d killed him. Because of it, she was certain she’d never know a moment’s peace for the rest of her miserable life.
Blanche Loraine was going home to die. She’d seen all the fancy doctors her considerable wealth could afford—which meant, in her humble opinion, far too many of the educated idiots. She’d listened to their collective advice. And now she was going back to Idaho to spend what time she had left with the people she knew best. Not that she expected any of them to mourn her passing.
Her lap dog, Nugget, whimpered for attention.
“I know, boy,” Blanche said as she stroked his silky coat. “I’m not looking forward to the trip either. But won’t we be glad to get outta New York City.”
Nugget licked her gloved hand.
A sudden coughing jag gripped Blanche. She covered her mouth with her handkerchief and tried to subdue the wretched hacking that seemed ready to rip her lungs right out of her body. Even as she fought for control, she noticed the couple opposite her get up from the seat and move to another part of the passenger car. She thought of a few choice—and most unladylike—things the strangers could do. Of course, Blanche Loraine was no lady and had never pretended to be.
As she folded the handkerchief, she noticed the red stains on the white cloth.
“Miss Loraine,” one of the doctors had said to her yesterday, “you should not undertake such an arduous journey at this time.”
Idiot, she remembered thinking. He’d just finished telling her that her condition wasn’t likely to improve. So exactly when was it she was supposed to travel home?
“Excuse me, mum. Would you be allowing us to sit here?”
Drawn from her musings, Blanche looked up at the prettiest face she’d seen in all her born days. And in her line of work, Blanche had more than a passing knowledge of what made a woman beautiful. “Of course,” she said, waving toward the seat opposite her. “Sit yourself right down.”
The young woman—in her late twenties, Blanche guessed—set her small child on the indicated seat, then, standing on tiptoe, managed to shove her satchels onto the rack overhead. As she sat beside the toddler, she adjusted her straw hat, which had been knocked slightly askew during her efforts with the luggage. Her ink-black hair was thick and curly, and long wisps had escaped her hairpins to coil at her nape. She had a heartshaped face with a milky complexion that was absolutely flawless. Her eyes were dark brown, fringed in thick black lashes, and there was the look of a trapped animal in those eyes that intrigued Blanche.
“You going far?” she asked.
The young mother shook her head, shrugged, then quickly looked out the window, as if wanting to avoid the question.
“My name is Blanche Loraine.”
After a long moment, she met Blanche’s gaze again. “Mary Emeline Malone.” Her eyes grew round, and she pressed her lips together tightly.
She’s in trouble and didn’t mean to tell me her name. But what kind of trouble? Aloud, she said, “Well, Mary, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Who is this little man you’ve got with you?”
Again she was silent a spell before answering. “Me son, Keary Malone.”
The boy bore more than a slight resemblance to his mother. He had the same wavy black hair and the same large brown eyes. But he knew how to smile, something Blanche suspected his mother hadn’t done freely in quite some time.
Keary leaned forward, staring at Nugget, his arms outstretched.
“Oh, I see you like dogs.” Blanche lifted her pet off her lap. “This is Nugget.”
The child laughed and bounced his pudgy hands against the dog’s back.
“Be careful, Keary,” his mother said softly. Then she looked over her son’s head, staring out the window with an anxious gaze. “I’m thinking we should be under way by now. Could there be trouble?”
“Trains hardly ever leave on time.”
Mary worried her lower lip with her teeth. Fear was stamped on her pretty features as clearly as anything Blanche had ever seen. Oddly enough, it bothered her.
Blanche Loraine was not a charitable woman by nature. She knew the value of a dollar, and she didn’t squander her money on anything she didn’t believe might bring her a profit. Still, there was something about Mary Emeline Malone that tugged at her life-hardened heart.
“Tickets,” a man called from the rear of the car. “Tickets, please.”
Mary started as if she’d been pinched. Fear was replaced by an expression of near-panic as the conductor drew closer.
Blanche reached forward and squeezed Mary’s knee, drawing her gaze. “Sit still and say nothing,” she warned. “Do you hear me?”
Mary nodded.
“Give me your passenger ticket.” She held out her hand. After Mary obeyed, Blanche continued, “Now, take that boy in your arms and turn toward the window. Rock him as if you’re trying to get him to sleep. That way your face won’t be seen, and no one will remember you were here.”
By the time the conductor reached their seats, Blanche was ready for him. With one hand, she stroked Nugget. In her other hand, she held their tickets. “My good man,” she said in her most authoritative voice, “someone has sold my niece the wrong ticket. As you can plainly see from mine, we are on our way to Whistle Creek, but she has been given one to Omaha.”
The conductor frowned as he took the tickets from her. “She shoulda said something ’fore now.”
“Well, don’t you think she would have if she’d noticed? She thought she was dealing with competent people. Goodness, it isn’t easy, traveling with a child and an irascible aunt. Now see that her ticket is exchanged for one to match my own. There’ll be a handsome reward in it for you if you can do it quickly.”
“I’ll see to it, ma’am. Don’t you worry.
”
As soon as the conductor was gone, Mary Malone turned from the window. “I’m wondering altogether why you did that, Mrs. Loraine.”
“There’s no missus in front of my name. Folks back in Whistle Creek call me Miss Blanche. You can, too.” She cocked one eyebrow. “And to tell you the truth, I’m not sure why I did it. I suppose because there’s a look about you.”
“A look, mum? What do you mean?”
“Nothing really.” Blanche lowered her voice so as not to be overheard. “Where in Ireland are you from?”
Mary’s reply came softly, “I was born in County Armagh.”
“How long have you been in America?”
“More than a year, just.” She held her son more closely. “But you’ve not answered me question. Why did you do what you did? I can’t be paying you back.” She tilted her head, thrusting her chin slightly forward, the gesture filled with pride and a bit of bravado.
Blanche waved her hand. “I’m not asking you to pay me back, girl.” Her own retort surprised her, and she wondered if she spoke the truth. She frowned as she sought a believable explanation. “I’m not a well woman, Mary. I came to New York to seek the advice of medical experts.” She laughed sharply. Experts. Ha! “Now I’m headed home, and I need a companion to make the journey more enjoyable and to help me should my health worsen.”
“But you know nothing about me.”
“I know you’re in some sort of trouble.”
Mary paled.
Perhaps that was why she was helping her. Because Blanche remembered a time, many years ago, when she’d been in trouble and afraid, and there had been no one in the world who would help her. She’d fought for everything she’d ever had in this life. No one had cared about her, about whether she lived or died. Maybe she didn’t want to leave this world without helping some other poor girl avoid what she’d been through.
“Where’s your husband?”
A pause, then, “Me son’s father is dead and buried these many months.”
Ah, so he never married you, the blackguard.
Blanche’s gaze dropped to the toddler in Mary’s lap. The boy had fallen asleep. He looked cherubic. He was plump and well cared for. Loved, the way a child ought to be loved.
She looked at his mother again. “Let me help you, Mary Malone. If you decide you want to get off the train at any time, you’re free to do so. You’ll owe me nothing. But if you want to come all the way to Idaho with me, then you’ll be welcome.”
“Idaho?”
“Yes, that’s where I live. Whistle Creek, Idaho.”
Mary was silent for a long time, her dark gaze searching Blanche’s face. Finally, she gave the smallest of nods. “I’ll come and be glad of your help. May God bless you, mum.”
Later that night, Mary lay on the top bunk in the sleeper car, staring at the ceiling that was hardly a foot from the tip of her nose. Beside her, Keary slept on his stomach, his tiny bottom stuck up in the air.
She wondered where they were now. It was well past midnight. How many miles from New York City had they traveled? Was it far enough?
Every time the train came to a stop that day, she’d feared the authorities would swarm into the passenger car and drag her away. Every time the train pulled away from a station, she’d breathed a fresh sigh of relief.
She closed her eyes and commanded her breathing to slow. Worrying would not help. She had locked the master’s study from the outside, then slipped from the house without seeing another person. She’d worn the cook’s spare apron to cover her ripped blouse. She’d forced herself to walk with unhurried steps along the sidewalks of Madison Avenue. No one could have guessed by looking at her that she’d killed a man. Besides, the wealthy rarely noticed servants on the street. It would be beneath them.
No, she was worrying needlessly. Even if the police wanted to question the missing housemaid, they wouldn’t know where to look for her. In the few months she’d worked for the Kenricks, she’d never told anyone where she lived. She’d kept to herself, doing her work and then going back to the Dougals’ apartment and her adorable baby son. She supposed most of the servants thought her unfriendly. Now she was thankful for it.
A wave of something akin to seasickness swept over her. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
May God have mercy. I’ve killed a man.
She hadn’t meant to kill him. She’d hated Winston Kenrick for what he’d tried to do. She’d wanted to stop him, but she hadn’t meant to kill him.
Truth be told, she hadn’t meant for many things in her past to happen. She hadn’t meant to lie with a man who wasn’t her husband, a man who was destined to betray her, fool that she was. She hadn’t meant to bear a child out of wedlock, although she loved her Keary more than anything. She hadn’t meant to find herself a penniless immigrant, dependent upon the charity of strangers.
But all of that had happened to her, and there’d be no changing any of it.
In the berth beneath her, Blanche Loraine suffered another coughing spell. Mary had seen the flecks of blood on the woman’s handkerchief, listened to her labored gasps for breath. She knew the signs of a dying woman when she saw them. She was sorry for her, to be sure, but she was thankful they’d met.
Idaho. Sure and it was nothing short of a miracle. Aye, a miracle, for her brother Quaid could be somewhere in that state. She’d not heard from him in many a year. She’d still been in service near Belfast, before leaving for England, when the last letter from Quaid had come. He was working in a mine in a place called Idaho, he’d written. True, he might not still be there. He might even be dead for all she knew.
But she’d not believe Quaid was dead. Not when a miracle was taking her to Idaho to find him. Though why God would help the likes of her—a fallen woman and a murderess besides—was beyond her. Still, she wasn’t one to spit into the wind.
It was to be Idaho, then. Mary had no idea where exactly that was, but she was given to understand it was far from New York City.
That made it a good place altogether.
Book One of the Coming to America Series!
Dear Lady
Robin Lee Hatcher
Lady Elizabeth Wellington travels from England to Montana to take a job as a rural schoolteacher, fleeing an engagement to a brutal man—and finds herself falling in love with a rancher who doesn’t seem to be able to escape the memory of his first wife.
In the big-sky country of Montana, the past doesn’t always stay buried. Circumstances have a way of forcing secrets into the open, sometimes bringing hearts together in unlikely ways, and sometimes tearing them apart.
Softcover: 0-310-23083-7
Pick up a copy at your favorite bookstore!
Book Three of the Coming to America Series!
In His Arms
Robin Lee Hatcher
Mary Malone comes to America to join the father of the child she’s carrying. Instead she has to flee New York when she thinks she has killed a man. So she escapes to Idaho where men go to find their fortunes and lose their pasts in the silver mines. But as Mary Malone discovers, sometimes the past is not so easily shaken. It will take a good man’s strong, persistent love to penetrate the young immigrant’s defenses and disarm the secret that makes a hostage of her heart. Mary eventually finds love, family, and faith.
Softcover: 0-310-23120-5
Pick up a copy at your favorite bookstore!
Book Four in the Coming to America Series!
Promised
to Me
Robin Lee Hatcher
Dear Mother and Father,
After all those years, I was certain Jakob Hirsch had forgotten me. Then came his proposal of marriage. With more impulse than wisdom, I crossed the ocean to begin a new life with him in Shadow Creek, Idaho. Little did I dream of the changes eleven years had brought to the man I once loved—which included three small children waiting with him at the station.
I will not marry a stranger who no longer loves me, but I have agreed to look after
Jakob’s children until the harvest is in. A cabin on his property provides me with respectable living quarters. If only it were as easy to separate my heart from this family! It will be difficult to leave when the time comes, for I am falling in love with these little ones—and, truth be told, with Jakob.
Your loving daughter, Karola Breit
In Idaho, the land is good but life is hard for a German émigré whose dreams have turned to dust. Love found and lost can shatter a man’s faith, but it will strengthen the faith of the woman to whom he turns. In the drought of summer, a withered promise springs to life.
Softcover: 0-310-23555-3
Pick up a copy at your favorite bookstore!
We want to hear from you. Please send your comments about this book to us in care of [email protected]. Thank you.
Acknowledgments
My thanks to Ingrid Kristensson and Margit Berglund, my cyberspace friends in Sweden. Thanks also to Marylee Woods and Diana Anderson, my cyberspace friends in Iowa, and to fellow author Cheryl St. John, who introduced me to Marylee and Diana. You were all so gracious and generous with your time and answered so many questions from a virtual stranger. I will be forever grateful.
For those familiar with Swedish names, please note that I have used the more common Americanized spellings in this book, including that of my heroine and her family (i.e. Linberg instead of Lindberg).
Any mistakes found herein are solely my own and not the fault of those who endeavored to keep me from making them.
About the Publisher
Founded in 1931, Grand Rapids, Michigan-based Zondervan, a division of HarperCollinsPublishers, is the leading international Christian communications company, producing best-selling Bibles, books, new media products, a growing line of gift products and award-winning children's products. The world's largest Bible publisher, Zondervan (www.zondervan.com) holds exclusive publishing rights to the New International Version of the Bible and has distributed more than 150 million copies worldwide. It is also one of the top Christian publishers in the world, selling its award-winning books through Christian retailers, general market bookstores, mass merchandisers, specialty retailers, and the Internet. Zondervan has received a total of 68 Gold Medallion awards for its books, more than any other publisher.
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