by Linda Ford
“I’d like to say I’ve changed my mind. I prefer your idea. Let’s run away to the mountains or the beach or wherever you Canadians run away to. But, as you say, that’s not about to happen so”—she turned to face forward—“lead on. To whatever lies ahead.”
She stiffened her backbone—after all, she wasn’t British for nothing. A stiff upper lip and calm courtesy had seen many a Brit through a difficult time. But before she had time to fill her lungs adequately, Kingston pulled up before the house.
“Here we go,” he murmured as he lifted her down.
“Death or victory,” she vowed, repeating one of the cries of the British during the war.
“I hope it won’t be that bad.” Kingston laughed. “Let’s go inside.”
She nodded. In truth, if an escape had offered itself at that point, she knew she would have taken it.
He led her through a small, cluttered entryway into a large, overly warm kitchen. Strange faces and the smells of cooking food—turnips, potatoes, and fried meat—surrounded her. Despite her nervousness, her mouth watered.
Kingston pulled her to his side. “Maryelle, this is my family.”
She blinked. There seemed to be so many of them.
“Mother, this is my wife.”
Maryelle focused on this woman who had given Kingston life. Heavyset; hazel eyes, much darker than Kingston’s; and an unsmiling expression. “I’m so pleased to meet you,” Maryelle said and held out her hand.
Kingston’s mother wiped her hands on her apron as if to indicate they were far too dirty to be shaking hands with this stranger. Instead she gave a quick nod.
“Pleased to meet you.” Her expression remained unchanged.
Maryelle ran her hand over her hair. Was it all tossed about? She traced her finger over her cheeks. Was her face dirty? “What would you like me to call you?”
“Mrs. Brown will do just fine.”
Kingston’s hand dropped to the back of her neck, his warm touch fortifying her.
“This is my father.” She faced the older man, not as tall as Kingston, but heavier built. His eyes were deep blue.
“You can call me Dad.” He took her hands in both of his. “So you’re the young miss who stole my son’s heart?”
“I’d say it was the other way around.” Her heart rebelled at calling another man Dad, the loss of her own parents still too fresh. She’d call them Father and Mother Brown.
Kingston drew her farther into the room. “I’ll start at the top and work down. This is my sister, Lena, two years younger than me.”
“That would make you twenty,” Maryelle murmured.
Lena’s gaze was fierce. “That’s right.” She turned away without saying hello.
“Next sister in line is Katherine, who is, what, sixteen?”
“I’m seventeen now,” she informed Kingston. Then to Maryelle she said, “Hello.”
For a moment Maryelle thought she caught an uncertainty in Katherine’s expression. Who could blame her? Despite her marriage to their brother, Maryelle was a total stranger.
“And this strapping young lad of almost fifteen is my brother, Angus.”
Angus kept his face down, hiding behind a mop of brown hair.
“Angus,” his father said. “Speak to the young lady.”
The boy jerked his head up, mumbled hello, and ducked away again.
Kingston’s touch on her neck grew firmer.
“And these are the little ones. My youngest sisters. Come on, girls—say hello to Maryelle.”
Two little girls stepped forward, holding hands.
“Jeanie is six years old.”
The child said hello. Maryelle decided this child was most like her mother—brown hair, hazel eyes, a round face, and a steady, unblinking look.
“And this is Lily, who is five.”
“Well, Lily, I’m pleased to meet you.” This child had the reddish hair and blue-green eyes of her eldest brother as well as his warm gaze.
The child regarded her with curiosity. “We thought you was never going to get here. What took you so long? Kingston’s been home lots of time already.”
Lena squeezed Lily’s shoulder. “Don’t ask so many questions.”
Maryelle laughed. “I don’t mind.”
Lena scowled.
Maryelle dropped her gaze to the child. “I thought it was a long time too.”
“So did I,” Kingston added. “Way, way too long.”
“Dinner’s ready and waiting,” Mother Brown announced.
Kingston drew Maryelle to a chair at his side, taking her hand and holding it in his lap as they sat down. She clung to his strength. Everything was so strange. Even the meals had different names. Dinner in the middle of the day!
She took a slow breath. Everything was strange—everything but Kingston. With him at her side, she could face anything. She would learn to know his family, and they, her.
Father Brown said a blessing, and the food was passed.
Maryelle stared at the abundance, mounds of boiled potatoes, a full bowl of cooked carrots, thick slices of fried pork. It had been months since she’d had more than a sliver of meat. “These potatoes are so nice and white. The ones we get this time of year are full of black mold.” She took a mouthful of carrots. “And what lovely carrots. So sweet and fresh.”
“We grow them ourselves. These are out of the root cellar.” It was Kingston who answered her. He turned to the rest of the family. “I told you how Maryelle owned a green grocer’s shop in London. She is very astute about vegetables.”
“What’s a green grocer shop?” Lily demanded.
“A shop—” Maryelle began.
“Store,” Kingston explained.
Maryelle smiled at him. “Yes, a store where one sells vegetables and produce.”
“Oh.” The child tilted her head. “How come you talk so funny?”
The other girls tittered.
“Girls,” Father Brown warned. “Mind your manners, hear?”
“Yes, Sir,” Lena answered, her tone indicating she wasn’t one whit sorry.
“Have some bread.” Kingston held a plate toward her heaped with light, golden slices.
Maryelle turned a piece over and over. “How fortunate that the baker can still get such lovely flour.” She felt every eye upon her.
Lena snorted. “We make it ourselves.”
Maryelle tried again. “How lovely. Could you teach me how?”
“I’m sure someone will be glad to teach you.” Kingston draped his arm across the back of her chair. “Right, Mom?”
His mother regarded him across the table. “It’s not something one learns overnight.”
“I’m a quick learner,” Maryelle said.
“She surely is,” Kingston said.
She ducked her head and ate in silence, feeling as if she’d been spit out and washed up on foreign shores.
“We’ll be fixing the loft floor this afternoon,” Father Brown announced, a few minutes later. “That is, if Kingston thinks he can tear himself away from his wife.”
Kingston straightened and faced his dad. “I’ll be out as soon as I take Maryelle’s luggage to our room.”
Father Brown’s announcement signaled the end of mealtime. The girls sprang to their feet, and each gathered an armload of dishes.
Following their example, Maryelle piled plates. Lena took the dishes from Maryelle’s hands. “No need for you to get your hands dirty.”
“I want to help.”
Father Brown had already ducked out the door, Angus hard on his heels. Kingston called over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in a few minutes and show you our room.”
Maryelle stood alone, facing one fierce young woman.
2
Maryelle realized at once that Lena had determined to make her unwelcome. A glance at Katherine convinced her the younger sister took her lead from the elder. She could expect no kindness from either of them.
She glanced at Mother Brown, her back turned as she wa
shed dishes. Whether she was aware of the situation and chose to ignore it, Maryelle could not tell.
“I’m used to work,” Maryelle explained. “I worked in the shop since I was a child and have run it on my own since Dad was killed in the war. I cared for my mother until she died.” She swallowed back tears. The pain of losing them both was still unbearable at times. “I think I’ve managed quite well.”
“That was there. This is here.”
Maryelle drew back at the venom in Lena’s voice.
“We got no need of a fancy English girl here.”
“I’m no such thing. I’m a working girl.” She struggled to remain calm, certain she had faced and dealt with more hardships than Lena. “I’d like to help.”
Katherine watched, waiting, Maryelle was certain, to see who would be the victor in this struggle of the wills; but now Maryelle was also aware of two little girls peering at them. She had no wish to upset the young ones. “I’m sure there’s some way I can help.” She stepped back, dropping her hands to her side, but her retreat was only temporary. She had not gone through four years of war, hearing over and over the cry, “death or victory,” for nothing. But one worrisome thought wouldn’t be ignored. Would the love Kingston and she shared survive a battle on the home front?
Kingston returned to the kitchen, one of Maryelle’s trunks hoisted to his shoulder. “Come on. I’ll take you upstairs.”
She scurried after him, grateful for the diversion and equally eager to see their quarters.
Kingston clumped up the stairs, grunting under the load. She had a glimpse of several rooms as she followed him to the far end of the hall. Her heart turned to stone. Kingston had told her they’d be living with the family; yet somehow she’d envisioned a little flat of their own.
He pushed open the door, heaved the trunk to the floor, and stepped back, wiping his brow. “What did you bring, bricks?”
“No bricks. Sold them all before I came.”
The room was tiny with a bed shoved under a sloping roof. There’d barely be room for her to unpack her things. She crossed to the window and looked down on the hills and the road.
Kingston swung her around. “My sweet brown eyes, I know this is hard. You’ve left everything to come here, and this is all I have to offer you.”
“As long as we’re together, everything will be all right.” Hadn’t she promised herself she would face fire, flood, dangers from man or beast, anything, to be with her beloved? Their two-year separation had taught her that.
But I didn’t expect to encounter resistance from his family.
“I want to see if everything has arrived safely.” She knelt before the trunk and unlocked the latches. Throwing the lid back, she unfolded the heavy coat on top to reveal a row of pictures, all intact. She lifted one, running her fingers around the silver frame. “It’s Dad.” She held it for Kingston to see.
He sprawled on the floor, head close to her side, legs almost under the bed.
“In his uniform just before he shipped out.” She stroked the glass covering his likeness. “It was the last time I saw him.” She pressed the picture to her chest.
Kingston kissed her. “I wish I could kiss away the hurt of losing him, but I’ve seen enough death to know I can’t.”
She leaned against him. “Nothing will ever take away the pain, though already I find it doesn’t strike me as often and as hard as it did at first.”
“That’s as it should be.” He settled back, waiting.
She put aside the picture. Later she would find a place to display it. The next picture was her mother. “I put the rest in an album, but this one is so beautiful I had it framed. I’ll put Mom’s and Dad’s pictures next to each other.”
Kingston leaned over and studied the picture. “She’s beautiful.”
“It was taken very long ago. I think it was about the time she and Dad married.” Maryelle shrugged. “Before she began to age, before she gave up on life.”
“I can sympathize with how she felt. If anything happened to you, I think I would want to curl up and die.”
Maryelle nodded. “Seemed the life just seeped out of her after Dad’s death.”
He rubbed her shoulder. “It’s hard for me to think of you going through the death of both your parents before I met you. I wish I could have been there to comfort you.” His eyes were as green as a shadowed lake.
She leaned down and kissed him. “Mr. Canada, your eyes are changing color again.”
“That’s ’cause I’m feeling so bad for you.” He lingered over the kiss.
She broke away. “Don’t you want to see what other pictures I’ve brought?”
“This is much more fun.”
She kissed his nose, then reached for another photo. “You and I on our wedding day.” He had never seen it before and practically snatched it out of her hand.
“Well, aren’t we the handsome couple though?”
“And truly modest too.”
“I expect no one else will tell us how great we are so we might as well tell ourselves because, Mrs. Brown”—he leered into her face—“we are definitely great. Just look at us.”
Their foreheads touched as they bent over the photo.
“You were so handsome in your uniform.”
He jerked back. “You mean I’m not in my farm clothes?”
She giggled. “You’d be handsome in a sack.”
“I never thought of it. I’ll run right out and find me a sack and see if you’re right.”
“I’m sure I’d be very impressed.”
“You would be.” He waggled his eyebrows.
She turned back to the picture. “Doesn’t it seem like a very long time ago?”
“Being apart seemed like a very long time.” He took her face in his hands. “I’ll never be apart from you like that again, God willing.”
She kissed his forehead. “Have I told you how much I missed you?”
He put the picture on the floor beside the others so he could pull her into his arms. “My sweet wife, why is it I get the feeling that you really missed me?”
“Funny how you pick up on things so quickly.” It felt so good to be in his arms, to feel the rise and fall of his chest, to hear the steady beat of his heart against her cheek. He rested his chin against her head, his fingers twined into her hair. Finally, with a deep sigh, she pushed away. “I have one more picture I want to show you.” She reached around him and pulled it from the trunk. Without looking at it, she handed it to him.
He hooted with laughter. “Sheba. I can’t believe you found a picture of her and framed it.”
“Well, I miss her. She was my friend almost all my life.”
“Maryelle, I don’t know if you noticed, but Sheba was a cat.”
She straightened and looked at him in pretend shock. “You don’t say.”
He chortled. “A big, furry, lazy, good-for-nothing cat.”
“You only knew her when she was old. She wasn’t always so lazy. In fact, she used to play some wild games of cat and mouse with me.” She grinned. “Or perhaps I should say cat and girl.”
“Still just a cat,” he teased.
She snatched the picture from him. “Not just a cat. Not to me.” Tears welled up. She sniffed. “I still miss her.” Her voice quivered.
Kingston grabbed her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “Are you crying?” There was no hiding the moisture in her eyes. He crushed her to him. “You know I was only teasing.”
She let herself go limp against him.
He placed the picture beside the others. “Sheba shall have her place of honor with the rest of the family.”
A giggle tickled the back of her throat. “She’d expect it.”
Feeling better, she sat up. “Don’t I have another trunk?”
He made a face and scrambled to his feet. “I’ll go get it, your highness.”
As he left, Maryelle sat back on her heels, cradling the pictures in her lap as if somehow she could hold the past as a shield
against the present. She’d dreamed of the day she’d be with Kingston again, but never had she imagined she wouldn’t be welcomed in his home.
The aloneness she felt now was worse than what she felt that day Kingston stepped into the shop in London seeking shelter from the cold rain. He’d walked into her life when she felt abandoned by her parents and by God. Kingston brought new meaning to her life. He’d filled the empty spots with his love.
She heard his steps thumping up the stairs and dashed away her tears. There was no need to feel alone. She had Kingston.
He lowered the second trunk to the floor. “More bricks?” he teased.
“China. I packed Mother’s bone china. I hope it survived the trip.” She threw back the lid, folded back the blankets, and unwrapped the top plate. “It’s intact.” She unwrapped several more pieces. “Oh, good. I think it’s all fine.”
Kingston dropped down at her side, lounging on one arm so he could examine her face. “The question I have is, are you okay?”
She rubbed her arms and patted her legs. “I seem to be.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then you had better tell me what it is you do mean.”
His expression serious, he said, “I mean about living with my family.”
“You told me what to expect, so why would I be surprised?” Only she was. She thought they’d have more rooms; that she would be made to feel welcome.
He grimaced. “How could I tell you what to expect when I didn’t know myself? I saw the way you were treated.” He grabbed her arm. “Don’t you think I was hurt?”
Her heart went to him. He deserved better—so much better. “I suppose it will take time,” she soothed. “I was rather looking forward to sharing your family. I’ve been so lonely since Mother passed away.” She trailed her finger down his long nose. “Back home you taught me how to love and trust again. It seems so long ago, so far away. I guess you’ll have to teach me all over again.”
“Of course I’ll help.” He clasped her hand. “One thing I learned in the trenches—when everything seems dark and futile, there is still one place to turn: to God. If only we learned to turn there first, we’d save ourselves many heartaches.”
His words sifted through her troubled emotions. “Together, with God’s help, we’ll make this work.”
