The college also brought in business, and she kept well stocked with school supplies. She paid Blue Mont College the promised five percent of her profits and was respected in at least that circle.
Emilia had written several letters to Preston, who feigned ignorance at the hinted gifts, but more surprises continued to arrive with the shipments. After the perfume, she received a quilting hoop with an attachable stand. She hadn’t sewn since Asa’s death, and now with the townswomen’s condemnation, her heart wasn’t in it, even if she had the time. Even so, she kept it propped up behind the counter, brushing fingertips over the polished walnut frame as a child might a candy jar. It boasted unique blade marks that proved it handcrafted, and it spoke to her heart that Preston would send something so endearing.
Cyrus had picked up the first four store shipments, and he had signed the invoices in pen and ink. But the fifth he had signed with pencil. Why should that matter? Yet something about this gave her pause.
The next shipment likewise held a secreted gift. Nestled in the packing straw was a blue porcelain teacup and saucer, hand painted with translucent white roses, and a tin of orange spice tea. In payment for the delivery, she had made Cyrus the first cup of tea and then teased him for the way he cradled the diminutive cup and saucer in his large hands.
“It’s not a bluebird egg,” she ribbed, “and stop staring at it like it’s going to hatch. Just take a sip!”
He’d pinched the small handle in his fingers and drank the tea in one gulp.
“Dear, sir!” she had exclaimed. “It’s not a bottle of whiskey!”
“Some men can’t be reformed, Miss Davis,” he teased back.
“We’ll see what the reverend has to say about that,” she said and offered him a coy smile.
During these weeks, he proffered none but that tight smile. She knew he wanted to make inquiries about the scarlet letter, but leaving a piece of cloth on a door wasn’t a crime.
After a month and a half, Emilia’s temper got the best of her. As if taking up the gauntlet, she pulled the scarlet letter out of the cash register drawer and marched over to the church. Throwing open the door, she strutted up to the circle of women bent over a quilting frame. Startled, they looked up, needles suspended in the air. Emilia tossed the fabric square out over the taut fabric. The red threads caught the light as the scarlet letter came to rest in the center of the quilt.
Eyeing the women carefully, Emilia was shocked to see that only one woman appeared to recognize it: Mrs. Vandemark. For the others who were still clueless, Emilia tossed the book, The Scarlet Letter, out onto the fabric, where it bounced once before coming to rest beside its condemning counterpart. Now that the connection was made, several gasped, others covered their mouths.
“I have come,” Emilia announced, “to return these items to their rightful owner.”
The silence was nearly choking, most of the women mortified by the sight of the letter and book.
“The embroidery is lovely,” Emilia continued, cooling her tone, channeling her temper into quiet dignity. “It shows great skill with the needle.” Mrs. Vandemark wriggled uncomfortably. Could it be this bull of a woman had regrets? “Perhaps a scarlet letter is befitting me, befitting us all. Did not the Lord say, ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow’?” Emilia shot Mrs. Vandemark a look. “In this situation, I wonder if the Lord might’n say, ‘Let she who is without sin cast the first scarlet letter.’” Emilia planned to turn on her heel and leave then, but Mrs. Vandemark shot up to her feet.
“We left our homes in Rhode Island,” she spat, “to come out to this barbaric country and establish a Christian colony, a town of upright women.” The woman’s voice gained force even as her hands trembled. “May God forgive you,” she continued, “as you repent. But Manhattan is no place for—for—”
“An adulteress?” Emilia blurted, shocking all the women. “You didn’t even take the time to learn one iota about me. Am I a widow who lost her wedding ring? You don’t know. Was I abused by an enemy soldier and thus in need of help and understanding? You don’t know. Or did I claim a scared little boy who was bound for an orphan train? You don’t know, Mrs. Vandemark.”
“Irrelevant!” Mrs. Vandemark punched the air with a fist. “The boy deserves a father!”
“As I deserve a husband!” Emilia stepped into the words. “But some of us are destined to be alone. It would be nice if those of you who have fathers and husbands wouldn’t judge those of us who don’t. Doesn’t the Lord call upon us to lift up the hands that are weary? Not slap them down for their emptiness?”
Emilia’s lip belied her tone when it began to quiver. “When I had nothing left, God gave me a new home and a son, if Josiah chooses so to be. It is not enough for God to give us gifts; we must likewise claim them. And I claim mine. But these items,” she stabbed a finger at the emblem and the book, “do not belong to me, nor any woman for that matter. And now that I have returned them, I bid you ladies adieu.”
With that Emilia walked with lighter steps back across the street. But when she returned to her mercantile, it felt as if she still possessed the scarlet letter—A for Alone. Her own words boomeranged back: “Some of us are destined to be alone.”
Chapter 11
In the aftermath of her confrontation with Mrs. Vandemark, many of the ladies had warmed up to her. Soon thereafter Emilia received a letter from Preston. It was a Friday, one she would never forget. She had expected an accounting sheet in yet another attempt to discourage her from this venture. Instead, she received what he proclaimed to be his last letter, insisting she return home—and marry him!
Months passed with cooler weather moving in, signaling an early and hard winter. Emilia had made several attempts to write Preston but couldn’t bring herself to accept his hand. Was she in love with him or just drawn to the lifestyle he offered? It was clear he admired her from afar, but that wasn’t love, was it?
With growing clarity, Emilia recalled the suitors at the New York dances. Many of the young men were handsome from a distance, but up close on the dance floor, all she could see were their crooked teeth or bitten nails or pockmarks or wiry sideburns, and she as quickly lost her feelings of attraction toward them. Preston was no different, but was she the one being judgmental now? Was it vanity to reject a suitor based on physical appearance?
Yet Cyrus Holden was different. Even up close he was handsome. In truth, she saw his flaws—the broken tooth and scarred lip, the crook in his nose, the early creases of hardship around the eyes—but the sight of him still turned her stomach to jelly.
As she thought about all these men, she began to realize that all were attractive, each in his own appearance and style. But Cyrus, he was her kind of handsome. And it wasn’t just the incredibly pleasant assemblage of his features. It was his countenance that drew her to him. She didn’t love how he looked so much as who he was. It was then that it struck her: even if it had come from the silent and unseen reaches of her mind, she had thought the word love.
In the end, it didn’t matter if she was in love with or just attracted to Cyrus; he hadn’t asked her to marry him and made no signs that he ever would. She had to be sensible. It was a Tuesday when she was working up the courage to accept Preston’s hand. It was apparent that he already knew about Josiah, so that was a nonissue, she was sure—and what a life Josiah would have; he’d want for nothing.
Josiah was occupied playing with a ball on the stairs when Emilia stood at the counter and forced herself to take up pen and paper. But no sooner had she written the salutation than the bell Cyrus had installed above the door jingled.
Looking up, Emilia saw a young family enter the store. The woman was maybe a few years older than herself. It was half past eleven, and she already looked worn to the bone. They had but one child, a boy Josiah’s age, who watched the ball with longing eyes, and Emilia could tell at once that he was worked hard.
The young woman took off her bonnet, and sunflower yellow hair fell
around her face. Her eyes were light blue, but her complexion was worn and blotched, her lips sun-burned. She had been robbed of her debutante face, but her expression was worn down from something more than the elements: bitterness seemed to set the wrinkles around her mouth.
With a jutted chin, she eyed a bolt of calico cloth on the shelf. She pointed to her worn dress and, in a matter-of-fact tone, said to her husband, “Ich brauche ein neues Kleid!”
The husband pointed to a knife in the case and shook his head. “Nein! Wir brauchen eine gute Jagd Messer. Ich werde für ein bevor ich diesen Preis bezahlen.”
Emilia couldn’t understand a word they said. Several Bulgarians had come through last week, and their accents sounded similar.
As the young couple conversed, Josiah’s eyes grew large, and he slowly rose to his feet, staring at them. Gooseflesh shot down Emilia’s arm. Did he sense danger?
The husband paid for a can of kerosene and a fish hook, shook his head again at the knife case, then bade the wife and son to follow, which they did, returning to their covered wagon outside. All the while Josiah gaped at them. Emilia could sense his small heart beating faster as they pulled away, but before she could come around the counter, he bolted out the door.
“Josiah!” Emilia raced after him. Outside, she found Josiah on the porch, rigid as the sticks he whittled. He stared after the rattling wagon. “Josiah?” But he wouldn’t acknowledge her. Looking down the street she saw that his gaze was fixed on the boy, who was now peering out through the split in the canvas at the back of the wagon.
Gripping the edge of the wagon, the boy suddenly called out to Josiah: “Komm! Bringe deinen ball und spielen in den wagen!”
Like a pup released from a cage, Josiah sprang into the street and raced after the wagon. This shocked Emilia, but nothing could have prepared her for what he did next. Josiah opened his mouth, and with a crackling voice, called out loud and long: “Warten! Warten! Nicht verlassen!”
Emilia froze in place as Josiah ran faster. She grabbed her ears, wondering if she had heard right. Was that the wagon boy’s voice she’d heard? Was this some trick of the prairie wind?
The boy slapped the side of the wagon, urging Josiah on, and called out again in his language. A second time Josiah shouted: “Komm zurück! Komm zurück! Ich will mit dir reden!”
He could speak? He could speak! Josiah could speak! Dazed, Emilia stared hard after Josiah, as if that would clarify the confusion and doubt colliding in her brain.
As if elated at the sound of his own voice, Josiah continued to shout out, and it was the most beautiful voice Emilia had ever heard: Josiah could talk! He wasn’t deaf! He wasn’t mute! All this time, he hadn’t spoken because he couldn’t understand anyone. Had the shock and trauma of losing his family here in a foreign country sent him into his silent world? And then he found a woman who cared, so he clung to her. Only he was no longer clinging to Emilia. He was running away! She felt the tether that had bound them stretch thinner and thinner the farther he ran, until it snapped when Josiah jumped into the wagon with the boy, disappearing inside the cover.
“Josiah!” Emilia’s lungs burst. She grabbed up her skirt and flew after him. “Josiah! Josiah!” With all the force in her lungs, she screamed, “Josiah!” The wagon stopped, the husband and wife jumped down to see what was wrong. “My boy, my boy Josiah is in your wagon!” Emilia shouted.
Cyrus, who had been watching from the telegraph office, ran to the back of the wagon to retrieve Josiah. But the husband, thinking Cyrus was grabbing his son, seized Cyrus by the belt and threw him back. Cyrus blocked the ensuing blows before pinning the man on the ground, yelling, “Stop! I don’t want your son!”
The German woman began tearing at Cyrus’s shirt in an effort to pull him off her husband. Cyrus sprang back and whipped a badge out of his pocket. The husband’s hands went up in the air, and the wife stepped back.
“Two boys,” Cyrus said, holding up two fingers and pointing to the wagon.
The husband threw back the canvas and saw his boy laughing with Josiah, both oblivious to the skirmish on the other side of the tarp as they wrestled for the ball. The husband pulled Josiah out.
“Josiah!” Emilia ran toward him, but the German woman acted as if she recognized Josiah, and blocked Emilia from him as she grabbed Josiah by the arms, crying out, “Diederich? Bist du das?”
Emilia lunged at the woman, grabbing her arms in an effort to pull her away from Josiah. “No! That’s Josiah! That’s my boy. Give him to me!”
The young wife responded with unintelligible words, sweeping the boy up into a powerful armlock, all the while stroking his hair.
“Stop!” Mrs. Vandemark appeared in the middle of the foray, ear horn in hand, and this time she held it like a weapon. “I’ll speak to them. My grandmother was German.”
“German?” Emilia gasped. Josiah was German? She began to realize how little she knew about him.
As Mrs. Vandemark communicated with them, the wife turned her back on Emilia and tightened her grip on Josiah, a clear sign of ownership. Emilia would have lunged at her had Cyrus not grabbed her from behind and said in her ear, “Emilia, we’re going to work this out. No one is taking Josiah.” Was it the sound of his voice or the reassurance of the town peace officer that calmed her?
After several excruciating minutes, Mrs. Vandemark turned and said, “She claims they came over last year with a large group from Germany. There was something about Josiah’s family coming late or being held back at the island. I assume she meant Ellis Island. I construe that they wintered over in New York City, getting jobs to pay for the journey to Kansas. In the spring, they agreed to assemble at some place I didn’t understand. She said Josiah’s family did not show up. They heard that they had all died of a fever. Now this woman claims to be overjoyed to find the boy alive. Says he is German and belongs with his own people. They will take him out to the German settlement in central Kansas and give him a good home.”
“No,” Emilia’s voice cracked. “He’s my boy!” Cyrus held her even tighter, which meant her case for the boy was getting weaker. “How do I know you’re not lying?” she said to Mrs. Vandemark.
“I’m sorry,” the elderly woman said. Were her eyes misting? Was she having pity on Emilia? “I keep that scarlet letter beside my bed as a reminder. God as my witness, I am sorry.” She looked from the wagon to Emilia, and said in a softer tone, “I am sorry.”
“We don’t know these people are even telling the truth!” Emilia cried as she twisted against Cyrus’s grip. He turned her around, facing him.
“Would you force him to stay?” he whispered, his voice breaking, too.
“You’re the lawman. Stop this!”
“Emilia, there’s no basis in law here. He’s not a relation, and you have no adoption papers.”
She grabbed his shirt, her breath on his chin as she looked up into his eyes. “You know he’s my boy.”
“We will give him a choice,” he whispered back, arching a knowing eyebrow. “Law or no law, if he chooses to stay, I will defend that with whatever means necessary. Understood?”
The underlying meaning was clear: Josiah did love her, and he loved this place. There was no way he would choose to be carted off by strangers. “All right,” she said. Her throat constricting when she turned around and saw that the woman had already put Josiah back into the wagon.
“Wait,” Cyrus said, his deep voice booming. It stopped the man and woman in their tracks. “Josiah,” he pointed in the wagon, “Diederich.” Cyrus pointed to the store. “He choose.”
Everyone was stiff, but no one more so than Emilia, every fiber of her being locking up. The German woman eyed Emilia, challenge flaring in her eyes, yet she submitted with a nod. As if acquiescing, she walked to the front of the wagon and climbed up on the seat board. “Hunfrid!” she called, and the husband put up his palms to pacify Cyrus and took his place at the reins.
Emilia’s chest began to cave as the wagon pulled away. “Cyrus!�
�� Only then did she realize he was standing behind her, now squeezing her arms with reassurance. He had no doubt of the outcome, why should she?
“Go,” he said in her ear, “call to him.”
Emilia walked out into the center of the street, now lined on either side with a crowd of people. A storm wind was rising, shaking her skirt. Not since the day she had arrived with Josiah had this street been so quiet. Dread constricted her chest, and it took a moment for her to draw in sufficient air and call out: “Josiah!” The wagon rolled on, the oxen plodding as if to give her and the boy ample time. As the distance increased between them, she took several steps and cried out again, “Josiah! Josiah!” No response. Now Emilia panicked, and she began to run after the wagon, calling over and over for the boy, but he never answered. He didn’t even peer out. “Josiah!” she cried with all the force in her body, shaking her fists as if to give the sound more thrust. “Deiderich!” she tried in the vain hope he would respond to that name.
She never stopped calling for him, stumbling to the end of the town, even after the wagon disappeared in the trees. “No, no, no!” she rasped from a failing voice.
The town collective had pressed into the street, as if they would call with her. She felt them before she turned back around, but her eyes sought one man, and when she saw him, she ran to him and began beating him on the chest, shouting, “It’s your fault! It’s your fault!” Breaking into a sob, she said, “I trusted you. I trusted you!”
Cyrus didn’t raise a hand to stop her. Instead, he stared off down the road as if too stunned to believe it himself. He reached up at last to touch her arms, but she flailed, stepping back, glaring up at him.
“He didn’t come back, Cyrus.” Turning to look into the copse of trees, all she could think was how Josiah had run to the boy, how he had shouted out in his native tongue—how happy, how excited he was to at last understand and be understood. He had never tried to communicate with Emilia. How isolated he must have felt!
The Secret Admirer Romance Collection Page 30
