Love Conquers All (Cutter's Creek Book 14)

by Annie Boone

  Chapter 20

  Max walked to the door his mentor’s room and stood looking in. It was empty and signs of the man’s illness and death had been removed. He walked into the room and sat on the bed. The aroma of his bay-scented aftershave surrounded him.

  Memories flooded his heart and his mind. He recalled a Christmas morning when he was just a boy and he had opened a box that contained a small typewriter. A typewriter so he could begin writing the stories, he often told his mentor. When he had seen the contraption, he had no idea what it was. When Paul explained what it was, he had jumped into his arms. The scent of his bay cologne surrounded him that morning, too. What a pleasant memory. One that he wished he could relive now.

  Max looked around the room again and noticed a stack of papers tied with twine on the bedside table. He leaned over and picked it up, turning it to see what it was. It was a manuscript. The manuscript Paul had written.

  What kind of story had his mentor written? A tale that, sadly, he had done nothing with. Max picked it up and laid it on his lap. The title made him inhale quickly.

  The Little Orphan Boy. A little orphan boy just like him. The title wasn’t typed but written by hand. The smooth strokes were the ones he knew so well.

  Max opened the bound manuscript and looked at the first page. The whole story was hand-written. Why would he have written it by hand, instead of using a typewriter? Perhaps the answer to that question was inside. Max leaned back against the headboard and began reading.

  To the boy I believe was his.

  Max swallowed hard, as tension filled him. He had a feeling he knew who the little boy might be, but still he feared knowing the truth. He didn’t want his mentor’s memory tarnished. Part of him wanted to set the manuscript to the side and forget its existence, as he knew the questions this manuscript produced would haunt him until he found their answer.

  Max jerked, his eyes flying open. The large canopy of the bed came into focus. He turned his gaze to the window with the dark curtains. Yellow and orange rays peeked through, striking across the Persian rug in the room. The maids must not have pulled the curtains yesterday. Or had they not been shut since Paul had died?

  He wasn’t sure about the curtains, but one thing was clear. It was morning. He must have fallen asleep sometime last night as he read this story. Max sat up and looked back at the manuscript that still lay on his lap. A manuscript he didn’t quite know how to handle. Or how to understand.

  Could the story his mentor told be true or was it just fiction? Max began sifting through the pages, thinking of the story.

  A tale of love and betrayal. Paul Hightower had written about a wealthy young man who had fallen in love with his family’s maid. He had longed to marry her, but he was betrothed to another woman in an arrangement between their two families.

  When the maid had realized she was with child, she had fled. The young man had searched for her and finally found out where she’d gone. When he got there, he learned she had left a young son, barely a year old, at an orphanage only days before she died. All he could find out was that the young son had dark brown hair and bright blue eyes.

  The rest of the story was about the man’s search for the orphan. It ended with him finally finding the boy when he was four years old. But Max had been six when Mr. Hightower had taken him in. He tried to remember the time in his life before he came to live here, but his memories were unclear. He couldn’t recall what exactly happened those early years.

  Max stood, balling his hands into fists. Anger coursed through him. He couldn’t be his mentor’s natural son. He would have told him. Wouldn’t he have? But as he thought about the situation, he knew it was better to be an orphan than an illegitimate child. Illegitimate children were scorned and discarded.

  Max paced the room for a few minutes, his mind empty. Unable to comprehend what he’d read completely.

  Then he sat back down on the bed, gripping the manuscript in his hands. He didn’t remember the orphanage he’d been in when Paul found him. In fact, he had thought he’d been found on the streets. The whole time was sketchy in his mind. He’d been so young and he might not remember correctly.

  Would it be possible that Father Michael from the orphanage down the street might be able to help? Max looked around the room, glancing at the ornate oak furniture and tapestries. Maybe somewhere in this room there were clues. He walked to the desk in the room, sorting through the piles of paper, letters, and various other correspondence, finding nothing. He turned to the armoire, opening the heavy oak doors. He pushed aside the old dusty coats and shoes, and his eyes caught on a small brown box. A box he had never seen.

  Max picked up the box and opened it, swallowing hard at what he saw. He pulled out the image of a younger man. A portrait of someone who could have been his father. This man had the same black hair, straight nose, and lean figure. Max flipped the image over and something harsh slammed into him. Written were the words, “My Son.”

  Max lowered the small portrait and spotted a letter, with his name written on it. Max picked it up, unfolded it, and began reading. But as he did, he realized this wasn’t a letter for him, this was a letter written to Paul Hightower’s son. A letter apologizing for not understanding him. For not supporting him and his true love. Apologizing for not being there as he died.

  The sad and poignant letter ended with a promise. A promise to care for the young boy he’d found in an orphanage. A boy with the family birthmark, a dark spot on his ankle in the abstract shape of a maple leaf. Max lowered the letter. He had such a birthmark.

  The truth hit him with force. He wasn't Paul Hightower’s son; he was his grandson. Now many of the questions he’d wanted answers for were resolved. Max searched the box and found a drawing of a pretty woman that might have been his mother. She had long curly hair and a pert nose. A gentle sweet smile flowed across her chubby cheeks. Someone had taken great care to draw her image.

  Max lay the drawing back in the box and stood. How he wished he had known. It would have been nice to listen to stories about the son his grandfather never spoke of. But as he thought about it, he understood. He understood why the man had never told him of his father and the scandal of his birth. Why he had left his home in Boston, moving to New York. He understood it all too well. He didn’t want his grandson to carry the stigma of illegitimacy. He didn’t want Max to scorn him for how he hurt his father. Even so, Max wished he had been able to call Mr. Hightower “Grandfather” just once. But it hadn’t been meant to be.

  Max put the contents back into the box and picked up the manuscript. He would type it out and publish it. It was a wonderful story about love and sacrifice. Perhaps it could be the first of a line of stories featuring orphans. He had a few that he had finished, but had been too busy to pursue publication for them.

  Maybe he could find more. He thought of manuscripts that Lana often wrote. Would she be willing to write stories about orphans? Stories that might make the more well-off care about the plight of children who had been left behind? Of course, he had to find her first.

  Max set the manuscript down and left the room, heading to his own. He planned to make himself presentable and then head to the orphanage. Perhaps he would take more books and other much-needed items with him. He hadn’t visited since his grandfather had grown ill. Grandfather. He stilled in the hallway, looking at the wall sconces. It was amazing how quickly the truth of who Mr. Hightower was sunk in. He liked it that he was able to think of him as the man he really was.

  After a quick wash and change of clothes, Max made his way down the stairs. He entered the kitchen and stopped short. Miss Markson sat at the kitchen table, with a porcelain teacup in front of her.

  A slight smile pushed across her face as she stood, folding her hands in front of her waist. “I’m sorry to just stop by, but I...” She looked off to the side. “Well, I just wanted to see how you are doing.”

  Behind her, he noticed the cook look his way, shake her head full of gray curls barely hidden behin
d a cap and then leave. The time for the conversation he was dreading had come.

  Even if he never found Lana, he couldn’t continue with this relationship. He just didn’t love her. And after reading about the value of such love from the manuscript, he just couldn’t settle.

  He took a deep breath and placed his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry.” He looked away and then back at her. “I...”

  Expectation filled her eyes as she took a step closer to him.

  “I feel that I was not kind to you.”

  “It’s all right; you have just suffered a great loss.”

  “No, it’s not that. I feel that I haven’t been honest with you.”

  She flinched and scrunched her brows.

  “I feel that I led you to believe there could be something between us. The truth is I’m in love with another. Even after I realized no one could take her place, I didn’t tell you.”

  Miss Markson looked away quickly, as tears swelled in her eyes.

  He cleared his throat and continued. “I wanted to tell—”

  She held up a hand, stopping him. “Say no more. Please, no more.”

  She turned and walked out the door, slamming it behind her. Max scrunched his eyes closed. He should have found a better way to tell her. But he hadn’t.

  He would give it a week and send her a letter. Perhaps that would heal her heart. He took a deep breath and turned for the kitchen door, all thoughts of nourishment fleeing from him. He would grab the books and then head to the orphanage. Maybe then he could accomplish something good.

  Chapter 21

  Lana patted the dress pocket containing her last few coins as she walked into the orphanage. In the small foyer next to a table stood the priest talking to a doctor. Next to him was a young nurse, with light brown hair, wearing a black dress and apron. There was something familiar about the young woman, but Lana couldn’t quite place it.

  Then it came to her. The woman looked a bit like the woman Max had been holding in his front yard when she’d arrived. But she couldn’t be. Max’s wife wouldn’t be a nurse. Very few women worked after marriage, let alone one who was married to a wealthy man. She shook her head to try to dislodge the memory of Max with another woman from her mind.

  The doctor gave his farewell and he and the nurse walked out the door only, giving a brief acknowledgment to Lana. She worried that the doctor’s presence meant that Jess was worse.

  Lana swallowed hard and looked at the priest. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand as weariness filled his eyes and stooped his shoulders.

  He turned to her and bent his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. Why such a look? He almost looked as though he was studying her. The elder man shook his head and came towards her.

  “My dear, Jess is asleep but I know she’ll want to see you.”

  “How is she?”

  He looked away towards a small crucifix on the wall. “She has a fever now.”

  Tension filled Lana. A fever. That couldn’t be good. “Is there anything we can do?”

  “We have some feverfew but our supply is getting low and… Well, it may not be enough to give her the help she needs.”

  Lana reached into her dress pocket and yanked out her coin bag. “Here, take this and buy her some medicine.”

  A smile that clashed with the sadness in the priest's eyes slipped across his face. He took her hand, patting it. “My dear, we can’t take your few coins.”

  “You must or I will go and buy her the medicine myself.” She placed the coins definitively in his hand and stepped back.

  The priest smiled, resigned that she would have it no other way. “May the Lord bless you. Now if you would, please go be with Jess. You give her such hope.”

  Lana nodded and took a few steps toward the stairs. Then she was running up them, taking two at a time to get to the sick room where Jess was trying to recover.

  She opened the brown oak door and stepped inside the room spotting little Jess curled on the bed. The wool blankets had been kicked off and only a thin shift covered the child’s body. Lana picked the blanket up off the floor and walked to the little girl, laying it on her, tucking it around her shoulders. She was less pale, but now red blotches covered the dear child’s hot cheeks.

  Tears gathered in Lana’s eyes as she knelt and pushed a small tendril of hair from Jess’s face. It felt as if death had already marked its claim on her. A warm tear slid down Lana’s face, plopping to the floor. A shiver slipped over the little girl, and she rolled over, a moan escaping as she moved. Lana spotted a cloth and a small bowl of water on the nightstand. She picked it up and placed the cloth in the bowl before wringing it. She patted Jess’s head, and the little girl's eyes fluttered open.

  “Mama,” she said in a faint voice.

  Several tears broke from Lana’s face. She bent and kissed the little girl’s cheek. “Mama’s here, so rest now.”

  The little one nodded and rolled over again, closing her eyes. She would be this child’s mama for as long as she had left. There was no need to try to explain now. She didn’t want the girl’s last memory to be one of heartbreak.

  Lana reached to Jess’s hand, holding it firmly. She was such a precious little girl. Spending this short time with the girl had awakened something in her. A deep yearning to be this child’s mother. Perhaps, she could talk Josh into staying in New York until the sweet child recovered. Then she could take her with her back to Cutter’s Creek.

  She thought of Matthew Thompson and his kind spirit. Though she didn’t know if she could ever love him, perhaps she could be a good wife to him. Would he be willing to be Jess’s father?

  Guilt washed over her. When she saw him again, she would have to apologize for how she treated him. And then give him a chance. A jerk shook her hand. Her gaze snapped to little Jess as a shiver swelled all over the child. Her body shook uncontrollably. Lana jumped to her feet. She was having an attack, probably because of the fever. Wracked with fear, she rushed to the door to get help. They needed to send for the doctor.

  “Help! Please hurry!”

  She called out several times, hoping someone would hear her. She couldn’t leave Jess like this. But she may have to. She was terrified of what was going to happen next to Jess.

  Max pushed open the door of the orphanage and stilled. Father Michael stood looking at the steps that led to the upstairs dormitory. Something seemed off in his posture. In his hand, he rolled a small coin purse. Max took a couple steps towards him and studied the coin purse. It looked familiar. Didn’t Lana have a purple coin purse with yellow embroidered flowers? He needed to get a closer look at it.

  The coin purse Lana owned had her initials sewed into it. But why would the priest have it? A young boy of about fifteen came running down the stairs. He stopped in front of the priest who handed the purse to him, with strict instruction to buy fever medicine. The young boy nodded, and turned racing towards the kitchen before Max could intercept him.

  The priest turned, and a solemn smile crossed his face. He walked to him, taking his hand. “How are you, Max?”

  Max looked up the stairs. Sickness must have come upon this place. “I’m fine. Is everything all right?”

  “I’m afraid one of our charges has fallen ill. The doctor isn’t quite sure what to make of it.” The priest bent his head to the side. “My mind is becoming quite forgetful in my old age. There was something I wanted to tell you but now I can’t remember. I’m sure it will come back to me.” He waved his hand and raised an eyebrow, waiting for Max to tell why he was there.

  Max wanted to ask him about Lana but perhaps now wasn’t the time. The priest had too many troubles on his mind. “I just came to see if I might volunteer today. I think my gran.... um, Mr. Hightower would want me to.”

  Rapidly moving feet rushed down the stairs. A wide-eyed girl stopped, gripping the banister. “Jess is shaking.”

  Despite his age, the priest bolted up the stairs, leaving Max to stand there alone watching. A child was
having a fever attack. Those could be fatal. What could he do? How could he help? Perhaps get the doctor. But he probably needed to ask first. What if they had already sent for the doctor? Max raced up the steps and followed the priest as he ducked into a room off to the side. He would just ask quickly, and then do whatever was asked of him.

  Max followed the loud rattling sound and whimpering. He skidded to a halt at the door, and then stumbled back. Energy mixed with fear filled him. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. But it had to be. Lana.

  She knelt on the floor as she tried to hold a shaking child. So, this is where she’s been.

  “Lana,” he shouted.

  She flinched and turned to him, her eyes widening.

  Lana looked back at the child, brushing her hair out of her face. Tears streaked down her face as she tried to comfort the little girl.

  He wanted to reach out to grab Lana and pull her tight into his arms. As she whispered encouraging words to the child, he realized the little girl needed her more right now. Hopefully, his time would come later.

  “I’ll go get the doctor,” he said, looking at the priest. The priest nodded and Max ran out of the room.

  Chapter 22

  Lana sat on the edge of the bed and watched sweet Jess’s chest rise and fall, her mind a swirl of emotions. She took the little girl’s hand, caressing the clammy skin. She still couldn't believe how violently the child had been shuddering. And when she had stepped out of the room to call for help, the child had fallen on the floor, the loud thump calling her back. Thankfully, she hadn’t hurt herself beyond a few bruises, but still the fever raged on.

  Lana feared another attack would happen soon. She took the cloth, dipped it in the water, patting Jess’s face. A faint moan was the only response the girl gave. Dear Lord, she was slipping away. Please, Lord, don’t take her. Lana took a deep breath, trying to hold in the tears that wanted to fall, but she couldn’t hold them all in. There was too much happening for her to completely hold her feelings inside.