O’Dell had answered that particular question at least ten times during their drive. “Yes, my son.” He carried Matthew to the other side of the motor car and opened the passenger door. “Now, give Mama a kiss, Matty.”
Joy O’Dell reached for the boy to draw him onto her lap, but O’Dell held him fast.
“Mind what Dr. Murphy said, my love. Matthew is too heavy for you in your condition, which is why he sits between us and not on your lap. Let him hug and kiss you while I bear his weight, if you please.”
Matthew deposited a sloppy kiss on Joy’s cheek. Then, his attention otherwise preoccupied, he slipped from her arms and strained to free himself from O’Dell’s grasp. O’Dell set the boy on the sidewalk but retained his hold on the boy’s hand.
“Have a lovely morning, Matthew!” Joy called.
With nary a backward glance, Matthew tugged his father toward the gate in the estate’s wall. “See Liam, Papa?”
O’Dell tossed a teasing grin in Joy’s direction. “Matty misses you terribly.”
Joy laughed. “Oh, yes. The evidence is compelling.”
When O’Dell and Matthew passed through the gate and O’Dell had latched it after them, he released Matthew’s hand. The little boy raced toward the house on stubby legs, shouting, “Liam! Liam! I here!” as he ran. O’Dell followed at a more sedate pace but caught up as Matthew reached the stone steps leading up to the house’s entrance.
“Liam, I here!” Matthew hollered as he labored up the porch’s six high steps.
O’Dell let Matthew navigate the steps under his own steam but positioned himself to catch the boy should he fall backward. Anyone who may have observed the man’s expression as he shepherded his son up the porch steps would have recognized the love written there.
As Matthew managed the last step, the entry door swung inward, revealing a woman whose titian hair hung down around her shoulders and shimmered with fiery hues. The O’Dells’ friend, Tabitha Carpenter, clasped the hand of another toddler. The boy bounced up and down, his excitement too much to contain. A wealth of strawberry blonde curls bounced with him.
“Maaah-eeee! Maaah-eeee!” The boy could not manage his “t”s yet, but no one doubted the meaning of what he screamed with such delighted abandon.
“Liam!” Matthew shrieked in return.
Tabitha released Liam, and the two boys, in their mutual enthusiasm, raced toward each other, collided—and rebounded. Down they went onto their padded backsides, astonished one second, roaring with hilarity the next. The boys struggled to their feet, hugged with the fervor only children know, joined hands, and—pushing past Tabitha’s skirts—raced into the house.
Elated screams echoed from the interior.
O’Dell arched one brow in Tabitha’s direction. “I regret Matthew’s reluctance to spend the day with Master Liam, Mrs. Carpenter.”
“And I apologize for Liam’s want of welcome, Mr. O’Dell.”
The faux formality fell away as Tabitha and O’Dell chuckled together in the easy friendship of years.
“We are still beyond happy to have you and Mason back in Denver, Tabitha, and to have you return with such a beautiful, ready-made family? Even a greater pleasure. Thank you for taking Matthew today. It will bless Joy not to have to chase him all day long.”
Tabitha and her husband, Mason, had both served in the Great War, Tabitha as a volunteer nurse for Britain in Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service, and Mason as a volunteer pilot, training younger men to fly reconnaissance for the British Army’s Royal Flying Corps at a base on the coast of England.
When a German squadron had attacked the inexperienced and unarmed trainees of their flying school, Mason had taken to the sky in an armed fighter plane and mounted a counterattack. After he had levied considerable damage on the attacking German Fokkers, he led them away toward the coast of Belgium. Other British pilots followed after the German planes and fought a great air battle over the water. During that furious battle, Mason’s plane was shot down and had crashed into the sea.
He was declared killed in action.
Unbeknownst to Tabitha or the British Army, Mason had been rescued by a German ship searching for its own survivors of that clash. He languished for more than a year in a German prisoner-of-war camp—until the signing of the Armistice in November 1918.
Tabitha was nursing returning prisoners on the blood-sodden fields of France following the German surrender when Mason stumbled into the tent hospital where she was serving. He was in poor health when he arrived and was sent to a British Army hospital in England to convalesce. Tabitha accompanied him.
Tabitha and Mason remained in England following the war’s end while Mason regained his health. During that time, having witnessed the scores of children orphaned by the fighting and the deadly Spanish Influenza, they initiated paperwork to adopt two such orphans. They had only returned to Denver in May, bringing with them a daughter, Sally, near six years old, and a son, Liam, fourteen months of age.
“We thank the Lord daily for bringing us safely home and for filling our arms and our hearts with Sally and Liam,” Tabitha whispered. “Speaking of Sally—”
A thin face filled with large blue eyes and surrounded by hair as red as Tabitha’s pushed aside her mother’s skirt.
“Yah, Mum?”
“Hello, Miss Sally.” O’Dell’s greeting was charged with playfulness.
She popped out from behind Tabitha. “Hullo, Unca E’mund. Ya brung Aunt Joy w’ ya?”
Sally retained the broad accents of the London streets where she had lived before being orphaned and sent to the Colchester orphanage where Tabitha had met her.
“I did, but I left her in the motor car.”
“Wot! Why ever did ya leaves her there?”
“Manners, please, Sally.” Tabitha was gentle in her reminder.
“Sorr’, Mum.” But Sally smirked at O’Dell, expecting an answer.
O’Dell grinned. “Matthew will have a new baby sister or brother soon, so I am taking particular care of your Aunt Joy until the baby comes.”
“Aye? A new babe? Bu’ how—”
Deducing where Sally’s inquisitive mind was headed, Tabitha stepped in. “I would be happy to explain it to you after your Uncle Edmund leaves, Sally.”
O’Dell nodded his agreement. “Er, yes. I must take Aunt Joy to her shop now. See you soon, Miss Sally.”
“’Bye, Unca E’mund.”
WHEN O’DELL ARRIVED at Joy’s shop, he ran around the vehicle to the passenger side and threw open the door. He doffed his trademark bowler hat and offered his hand to his wife.
“Do take care to find the walkway with your foot before you step down, Joy.”
“Take care to find the—” Joy gathered the fullness of her skirt into one hand and attempted to peer around her bulging waistline. Try as she might, she could spy neither her feet nor the sidewalk, curb, or gutter below.
Joy sighed her frustration. “Merciful heavens. I cannot find my foot, Edmund, let alone find the walkway with it. Of course, it must be down there . . . somewhere, but it may as well be—”
O’Dell stooped down, took hold of her boot, and guided it to the sidewalk. “There. Now, here is my hand. I shall, um, assist you to stand.” He had come perilously close to blurting, “I shall haul you to your feet,” but had stopped before uttering that inadvisable turn of a phrase.
His wife was well into her last month of pregnancy, already sensitive about her size and lately prone to tears. Despite her protests to the contrary, O’Dell knew she felt about as graceful as a tightrope-dancing pachyderm.
O’Dell held her arm while she steadied. When she was safely away from the curb, Joy sighed her satisfaction. “The up and down portion may prove ‘a wee bi’ tricky,’ as Breona might say, but once I am standing, all is well.”
With an expression that conveyed, “Dearest, I do not quite believe you,” O’Dell answered, “Nevertheless, I shall accompany you to the door.”
“I
am fine, Edmund, really.”
“Of course, darling—and I shall accompany you to the door.”
“Really, Edmund!”
“Yes, I really shall accompany you to the door.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks.” *Sigh* “Very well.”
“And you will telephone me the moment you have concluded your business. I shall drop what I am doing to fetch you home.”
“You are fussing over me, dear.”
“That I am. And this afternoon, you shall have a nice nap until I bring Matty home for dinner.”
“Oh, my. A nap does sound lovely.”
Sarah swung open the shop door. “Good morning, Joy.”
“Good morning, Sarah.” Joy spied Corrine behind Sarah and fixed her with a grin. “Ah, and good morning, Mrs. Johnston. What? Home from the honeymoon already?”
“I have been gone three weeks—as you well know.”
Joy laughed. “Yes, and I cannot say how glad I am to have you back, actually. I am finding it harder to move about. This babe seems twice as large as Matty was.”
Sarah looked around with raised brows. “Speaking of Matthew, did you not bring him?” She loved having the toddler at the shop—as chaotic as his visits turned out—and was disappointed not to see him.
“No; no, I did not. I confess, he can run faster than I can at this point. And he runs from daylight to dark. I am worn to a nub just watching his inexhaustible supply of energy.”
Holding his hat before him in a pleading gesture, O’Dell injected himself into their chatter. “If you ladies will excuse me?”
“Of course, dear,” Joy answered. “Have a lovely morning.”
As O’Dell departed, Sarah asked, “Did you leave Matty with Miss Rose?”
“No. Tabitha offered to have him for the day. He and Liam will keep company together.”
“I suppose that makes sense, but we do so love having him about.”
Corrine chuckled. “You enjoy having him, Sarah. You spend half your time singing to him, telling him stories, chasing him up and down the aisles, and cuddling him—when he will let you.”
“Well, I enjoy children,” Sarah retorted in good-natured fun, “and it is high time you and Albert provided me with a few babies to play with.”
Corrine blushed a deep red. “Us? Why, we have been married less than a month!”
Sarah ogled her with wicked meaning. “Ah, then! I shall expect to offer my congratulations shortly.”
“Pshaw! What nonsense. I have work to do.” Corrine, with her exceedingly pink nose in the air, stomped off to unpack a crate of newly arrived linen tablecloths.
Joy smiled with Sarah. “I see we must pray the Lord to send you a godly husband soon, Sarah, so that you and he can fill your home to the rafters with little ones of your own.”
Sarah blinked, and one corner of her mouth drooped. “No, please do not pray that for me, Joy. I am content to love the children of my friends.”
“What? You do not wish for your own family, dear Sarah?”
The smile that Sarah returned was tinged with regret. “I truly would wish to have a child of my own to love and raise but . . . I confess, the price to get one is more than I am willing to pay.”
Then it was Joy who blinked. “The price?”
“You know. Marriage. A husband.”
Sorrow beset Joy’s expression. “Do you not wish for love, Sarah?”
“Love?” Longing took hold of Sarah’s heart and squeezed. The pain, her old, familiar companion, ran deep, down into the marrow of her bones.
Oh, that I might know love, that I might find a special someone who would never hurt me or use me.
She shook her head. “Never mind me, Joy. I was only thinking aloud.”
SARAH STAYED LATE AT the shop that afternoon to catch up the books. Corrine had been gone for an hour when Sarah locked the shop door and walked to her trolley stop. As she stepped aboard, she noticed that the car had fewer passengers than her usual, earlier car. Just five individuals rode with her—two shop girls, a bored businessman, and a well-dressed young couple.
Before she had taken her seat, the couple caught her attention—for the man had been speaking in a loud voice and had broken off as she entered the car, only to recommence his harangue once Sarah had seated herself across the aisle and looked out the window.
“I told you I would not stand for it, Willa, and I meant it. Looking at every man who passes. Smiling and wagging your hips like a harlot!”
Sarah shifted in her seat and stared at the man, her mouth open in dismay. She realized that the two shop girls and the bored businessman were looking elsewhere—anywhere but at the public display of abuse to which they could not help but be witness.
Sarah, however, did not look away. She fixed her eyes on the man, then, quite deliberately, on his hand gripping the woman’s arm. The woman’s white face told Sarah that she was both terrified and in pain.
The man noticed Sarah’s attention. “What are you staring at?” he shouted at Sarah.
Sarah did not immediately reply; neither did she look away.
“I said, what are you staring at?”
Sarah glanced forward, toward the driver. She caught his eyes watching in the mirror above his seat before he turned them back to the street ahead.
Sarah turned her head toward the angry man. “I am looking at you, sir.”
“You mind your own business.” He wrenched the woman’s arm, and she cried out.
“Shut up, you worthless, no-good whore. Don’t know why I married you.”
Sarah did not decide to stand; she simply found herself on her feet—just before she found herself matching the man’s volume and shouting, “No, you shut up, you cowardly lout!”
He rounded on her with raised fist.
Instead of flinching, Sarah leaned toward him. “What? Do you think to strike a woman? And in a public conveyance? Why, you are nothing more than a spineless bully.”
She whirled forward and found that all eyes within the trolley were now upon her. “You, sir! You, the driver! Do something!”
The driver, put on the spot, brought the trolley to a juddering stop. He stood and roared at the man, “Get off! Get off m’ car!”
This was not the solution Sarah had in mind, but it was the conclusion of the confrontation. The abusive man yanked his wife toward the rear door where she stumbled down the step after him.
As the trolley shuddered and resumed its journey, Sarah’s last view of the young woman was of her crying and pulling, trying to free herself from the man’s grip—and the man backhanding her.
Sarah jumped to her feet, thinking to push the door open and leap out, to do something—anything—to help the poor creature.
But what could she do? Futility struck her, and she collapsed.
I can do nothing. Nothing.
Sarah slumped down in her seat and wept tears of anger and frustration. She did not care that every ear in the car could hear her. She was still sniffling when one of the shop girls stood to disembark. She paused in the aisle near Sarah.
“You are very brave,” the girl whispered. “I wish I were brave like you.”
Then she was gone.
Sarah ground her fists into her eyes. What good is it to be brave? Did I stop that man? No! And if his wife were brave, could she escape from him? No—he will likely kill her before long, and all the courage in the world will not have saved her.
Sarah pulled her hankie from her reticule and wiped her face, determination drying her tears.
That is why I shall never submit to such bondage.
No, not I.
Not ever.
Chapter 2
September
Sarah dreamed she was in the shop, folding rich, ivory brocade napkins and tablecloths, one after another, stacking them in their proper places. However, no matter how many she folded, customers appeared at her side to pick through them and take them away. As quickly as she placed the linens on the shelves, greedy hands claimed them, whil
e customers behind her clamored for more.
Held fast in a deep sleep, Sarah heard the shop telephone ring. On and on it rang, unabated, from a far distance. She fretted over its unanswered persistence, but she could not leave off folding the cloths and napkins: Too many hands and voices insisted that she fold faster to add to the depleted supply of table linens.
As the telephone continued to ring, Sarah shouted for Corrine to answer it, but her voice was no more than a whisper; it did not carry over the urgent demands and grasping hands of her customers. Eventually the ringing ceased, and Sarah gave the whole of her attention to folding the never-ending supply of tablecloths and napkins to meet the needs of her anxious customers.
Then, the scene in the shop faded, and she woke to a soft tapping on her bedroom door. Muzzy-headed, Sarah threw back the covers. Her room was hot and sultry, her nightgown damp. When the tapping came again, she fumbled for her alarm clock.
Half past one o’clock in the night.
Yet another tap sounded on her door. She padded across the room and found Rose standing in the hallway. She was clad only in her nightgown; her hair hanging over her shoulder in a single braid.
“I am sorry to bother you, Sarah, but Mr. O’Dell has telephoned. Joy’s labor has begun. The doctor says she is early in her pains, so Mr. O’Dell is taking this opportunity to come and fetch me.”
“What do you need me to do, Miss Rose?”
“Thank you, Sarah. I did rouse you to ask a favor. When Mr. O’Dell comes to get me, he would like to bring Matthew with him and place him in your care.”
“But of course. I would be happy to watch him.”
“Bless you, dear. There is no need for you to get up. I shall dress and pack a light bag; when Mr. O’Dell arrives, I shall bring Matty up to you. We can hope that he will sleep through until morning, allowing you to do the same.”
Sarah crawled back into her bed and drowsed until another soft rap at the door stirred her. When she opened her door, Rose offered the bundled boy to Sarah with a smile. “Mr. O’Dell carried him up the stairs for me. He says Matty did not even stir when he put him in the motor car.”
Sarah Redeemed Page 2
