Sarah Redeemed

by Vikki Kestell

  As her beloved mother weakened, Sarah’s fears multiplied. Her father—a shadowy figure more the shape of her mother’s sorrowful recollections than of Sarah’s actual memories of him—had died of pneumonia when Sarah was but two years old. He had left Sarah and her mother alone in the world. For all of her eight years, the only family Sarah had actually known consisted of her mother and a few distant cousins who had migrated to the Canadian plains two years past.

  Her mother had inherited her parents’ modest but adequate estate—a lovely three-story townhouse with bow front windows overlooking State Street—and enough income (if managed prudently) to sustain a comfortable, respectable lifestyle.

  But as Edwina’s illness had progressed, she had fretted and worried over her young daughter’s future. Sarah had often heard her mother’s whispered plea, “O God! If only you would grant me a few more years to see Sarah safe and happy to her husband’s house. If only . . . Please, God.”

  But Sarah was far too young to marry, and the harbinger knocking at Edwina’s door far too avaricious. Edwina had survived the latest of Albany’s long, wet, freezing winters, but she knew she would not endure through the next. She cast about with what little strength she had remaining for a safe harbor in which to moor her only, her beloved child and found nothing.

  Then, in the coveted warmth of spring, they had met Richard Langston.

  Edwina was no longer able to walk with Sarah through the nearby park, so each afternoon, after Sarah had completed her studies to the satisfaction of her governess, Miss Zahn, and practiced her piano lessons for an hour, their man servant, Nevis, would roll the wheeled rattan chair down the townhouse steps and out the gate to the sidewalk. He would then carry Edwina to the chair, and Sarah would tuck a soft blanket about her mother’s legs. Nevis would push Edwina’s chair across State Street to Washington Park and follow the park’s winding paths until they reached the small lake. There he would leave Sarah to navigate her mother’s chair along the lakefront paths for an hour before he returned to see them home.

  On that warm spring day, the park was awash with a profusion of tulips in full bloom, bending and waving on their tall stalks. Forevermore, Sarah would associate tulips with the day Richard Langston had inserted himself into their lives. Sarah had drawn her mother’s chair alongside the water’s edge, so they might feed the ducks. Edwina particularly enjoyed dropping bits of bread for the ducks to snap up, so Sarah never failed to bring along whatever crusts remained of the previous day’s baking.

  Richard Langston had been strolling through the park himself that afternoon, but it was not the first time Sarah had seen him. She had noticed him twice in the previous week—and something about him had bothered her. Today, while Edwina’s weak hands painstakingly tore the bits of breads into smaller pieces, Sarah monitored the man’s movements out of the corner of her eye.

  He seemed to be watching her, studying her. His attention would flick to Edwina as though assessing her, then back to Sarah . . . and the skin along Sarah’s arms prickled.

  “Mama, the afternoon is warm; let us go over to that tree and rest in its shade.” Once she had her mother’s chair underway, Sarah intended to push it far from the man surveilling them.

  “The warmth is what I need, child,” Edwina murmured. “It seemed all winter as if I would never get warm again. We shall stay here in the sun.”

  Stymied, Sarah stepped between her mother and the man’s regard and put her back to him. After a while, she began to relax—which had been a mistake.

  “Pardon me, madam,” a well-modulated voice spoke. “I cannot help but notice that the ducks and their little ducklings come near enough to feed from your fingers. Are you well acquainted with them?”

  Sarah stiffened and did not acknowledge the greeting. His question was the shabbiest of excuses for initiating a conversation—not at all a proper way to suggest an introduction. Her mother, however, smiled and lifted her head.

  “Sarah, do please step to one side,” she murmured.

  Sarah moved aside—what else could she do? But she did not turn; she kept her back toward the man.

  Edwina answered, “My daughter and I are here daily, so the ducks have come to know and trust us, Mr. . . .”

  No, Mama!

  “Langston, ma’am. Richard Langston, at your service.”

  “Mr. Langston, I am Edwina Ellinger. This is my daughter, Sarah. Sarah, please say ‘good day,’ to Mr. Langston.”

  Gritting her teeth, Sarah muttered, “Good day, Mr. Langston.”

  “Good day to you, Miss Sarah.”

  He offered her a tulip he must have plucked from the park gardens. He presented it along with an ingratiating smile.

  “No, thank you,” Sarah murmured.

  “Well, if I cannot give a flower to the pretty little girl, then I shall give it to her lovely mother, so obviously the font of her daughter’s beauty.” He sketched a gallant bow and extended the buttery yellow flower to Edwina.

  Edwina blushed and took the tulip. “How very kind of you.”

  As easily as that, Richard Langston made an acquaintance with Sarah and her mother. Every day thereafter, he “happened upon” them on their daily walks. Initially, they exchanged only cordial smiles, nods, and “hellos,” but Sarah sensed it would not be the extent of their contact. So, when Nevis left them in the park each afternoon, she would wheel her mother along unfamiliar paths, telling her she wished to explore other views of the lake, often against her mother’s protests.

  It made no difference. Wherever they meandered, even if it took nearly the entire hour they were in the park, Richard Langston would find them. Sarah stood aloof from Langston. She rebuffed his every attempt to engage her in conversation. She knew that he knew she was leery of him, so he was careful to give his attentions primarily to Edwina, regaling her with bits of New York history or tales from his travels. However, whenever Sarah cut her gaze in his direction, she found his eyes upon her, studying her, appraising her.

  Worse, Sarah saw how her mother lit up when Langston made his presence known. Edwina began to accept that they would meet Langston on their walks, and she looked forward to his conversation. He took over pushing Edwina’s chair and engaged in attentive—and somewhat flirtatious—banter with her . . . all while watching Sarah.

  Eventually, Langston began to meet them where Nevis left them, thwarting Sarah’s efforts to avoid him. Edwina took more care with her hair and dress; she referred to him often throughout the day, quoting his anecdotes or little jokes, referring to him as “dear Mr. Langston.”

  Sarah realized she had lost the battle when her mother invited Langston to dinner. Within another fortnight, Edwina announced, “Sarah, Richard has made me an offer of marriage. He may not have much in the way of possessions or wealth, but he is a gentleman and . . . and he declares that he loves me . . . and you.”

  Now, on this ill-fated day, despite Sarah’s many objections and pleas, Edwina would stand before a judge and be married to this man. So much worse, she would, at the same time, appoint Richard Langston Sarah’s legal guardian in the event of her death.

  “My heart is comforted, Sarah, knowing that after today, should something . . . happen to me, you will not be alone in this world.”

  Tears ran from Sarah’s eyes, down her cheeks, and onto the lace collar of her dress. The inevitability of facing life without her dear mother terrified Sarah—but not nearly as much as the prospect of being alone in the world . . . under Richard Langston’s guardianship.

  . . . WHEN SARAH CAME back to herself, shadows had lengthened within the empty shop, and she was shivering. She wondered how long she had sat there . . . remembering what she had somehow forgotten.

  Chapter 4

  Olive pulled Sarah aside before breakfast and slid her arm about Sarah’s waist. “Sarah, did you not sleep well last night?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, my dear. You have such dark smudges under your eyes.”

  “Do I?”


  “My, yes. Is everything all right? You do not seem quite yourself.”

  Sarah shrugged uneasily. Olive had touched upon a nerve, for Sarah had not slept well. Instead, she had tossed and turned, fretting over her argument with Corrine and the strange memories that had followed. When she finally did nod off, the disturbing scenes she recalled the previous afternoon had stymied her attempts to sleep. Even now, she was distracted, her thinking troubled and agitated.

  Unwilling to reveal the harsh words she had said to Corrine, Sarah instead answered, “I-I had some bad dreams last night.”

  “Dreams?”

  “Worse than dreams. Memories from my childhood. Awful things. Things I had forgotten.”

  “Remembrances from your childhood?”

  “Yes. From when my mother became sick and . . . when she married my stepfather and left me in his care after she died. I do not know how it is that I forgot those terrible happenings or why, yesterday, I suddenly remembered them, but they were so—” Sarah could not finish.

  “Your stepfather? Was he . . . did he?”

  “I cannot bear to speak of it, Olive.”

  “Perhaps you could talk to Miss—”

  “No. No, please do not tell Miss Rose. I do not wish to dredge up what is in the past. Let it stay there! Promise me you will not say anything to her, Olive? Please?”

  Looking a little uncertain, Olive nodded her acquiescence. “All right. But I shall pray for you, Sarah. I do not like seeing you so peaked.”

  They went into the dining room for breakfast then, but Sarah dreaded going to work that morning and facing her friend. She wondered if their disagreement of the previous day would come up or if they would both treat it as water under the bridge.

  WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE? It was not to be.

  When Corrine arrived at the shop, Sarah was forced to admit to herself how deeply she had wounded her friend: Corrine was not her normally cheerful self. She was reserved. Careful. And withdrawn.

  A cloud hung between the two women.

  It is my fault, Sarah conceded. I was unkind and outspoken. Cruel. And I do not understand why I would be cruel to Corrine, because I love her as a sister. She is my dearest friend.

  “I-I wish to say that I am sorry, Corrine,” Sarah finally whispered after an hour of uncomfortable strain between them. “I am sorry for what I said yesterday. I . . . I allowed my emotions to get the better of me. I should be more careful of what I say.”

  Corrine, usually so quick to forgive and cover over the little failures of others, considered Sarah, and Sarah was discomfited with what she saw reflected back.

  When Corrine answered, she said, “I know you are sorry, dear friend. I know you do not mean to be harsh.”

  “And yet?”

  Corrine nodded. “Yes, I wish to say something.”

  Sarah licked her lips. “All right.”

  “I prayed for you last evening, Sarah. I said nothing to Albert, of course, but after supper, I spent the evening alone in our room, praying for you, trying to understand what happened yesterday, asking our Lord for his help and wisdom. I think, that is, I believe he may have whispered a word to me . . . for you.”

  “Oh?”

  Corrine took Sarah by her hands. “I love you, Sarah. Nothing I say is intended to wound you.”

  Sarah’s nerves jangled a warning. In the many years she and Corrine had been friends, Corrine had never been as serious as she was at this moment.

  Corrine began, “Scripture tells us that our mouths speak what our hearts are filled with. I do not believe the problem to be so much what you said yesterday or even what took place between you and the two gentlemen, but rather what those events revealed, dear Sarah.”

  Sarah did not answer, but her chin began to tremble. She did not relish Corrine poking about in her private, inmost parts.

  Corrine pressed her point. “The passage I speak of is found in Luke 6:45. It tells us, A good man out of the good treasure of his heart bringeth forth that which is good; and an evil man out of the evil treasure of his heart bringeth forth that which is evil: for of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaketh.

  “Sarah, it is what is in our hearts that comes out of our mouths. The hurtful things you said? They came from your heart.”

  “I-I do not understand.”

  Corrine put her head to one side. “Do you mean you do not understand the verse or are you saying that you do not understand what is in your heart?”

  “That. M-my heart.” Sarah’s insides were churning; she felt as if her lungs were being squeezed and would soon burst. “Are you . . . are you saying my heart is evil?”

  “I know that Jesus has saved you, Sarah, just as he has saved me. We came to Jesus together, and he has made us new creatures in him. It is possible, nonetheless, as Christians, to hold back pieces of our heart from Jesus, aspects of our lives we refuse to surrender to him.

  “This verse says we store up treasure in our hearts—either good treasure or evil treasure. Well, what do people do with their treasures? Do we not guard them? Keep them hidden? Protected? Safely locked away? But, no matter how hard we try to keep our treasures locked away, those things fill our hearts to overflowing until they come out of our mouths. If our treasures are good, then good words come out of our mouths; if our treasures are evil, then evil comes out in our words . . . words that injure others.

  “When I was praying for you last night, I felt the Lord whisper that you have locked something away in your heart that is part of your old life, your ‘old man.’ I do not know what it is. Perhaps you do not know what it is either, but Sarah? It is an evil thing.

  “I have known you a long time, my sister, and this is what I have witnessed: Given the ‘right’ conditions, you are easily affronted, easily angered. And when you are angered, this evil thing lurking in your heart rushes out of your mouth, wounding whomever is near, even your dearest friends, but wounding yourself, too. I would say, in fact, that you suffer the most harm—for although you tamp down the anger after each incident, it does not leave, it does not go away. Rather, it continues to grow . . . and strengthen. As your friend, I must speak the truth in love: I have observed this behavior worsen lately.”

  Sarah’s breath came in great gasps, and her eyes streamed tears.

  Corrine drew Sarah to herself, wrapped her arms about her, and held her tight. O Lord, Corrine prayed. Please speak through me.

  She whispered, “I am afraid for you, Sarah. Whatever you are holding onto in your heart, it is poisoning you—and I do not think it will be satisfied until it has destroyed you. Please. Please seek the Lord. Ask him to reveal this ugly, destructive thing to you so that you can surrender it to him, so he can free you from its hold.”

  Sarah clung to Corrine; she seemed to crumple in on herself. Lord? Is Corrine right? Am I harboring something evil in my heart? Lord? What is it? What am I to do about it?

  CORRINE’S GENTLE BUT devastating exhortation affected Sarah deeply. She was troubled in her thoughts far into the evening. Leaving her window up to allow a breeze in, she had, at last, fallen asleep when a strange rattling intruded.

  Heart pounding, Sarah sat up. “What is that noise?”

  She again heard sharp taps and tings—the sound of small objects striking and glancing off glass, other objects missing glass but thudding nearby. Inside her bedroom. “What? Is someone throwing pebbles at my window? Through my window?”

  Sarah threw back her covers and crept to the sill. She leaned forward and looked below.

  A dark figure called to her. “Sarah?”

  “Mr. O’Dell?”

  “Yes. Please come down, Sarah.”

  Sarah pulled on her robe and ran, barefooted, down the staircase. She unlocked and opened the front door. “What is it? What is wrong?”

  “Joy is sick. A high fever. The doctor is with her, but he cannot stay all night, so I left Joy with him and came to fetch Miss Rose—and you, if you will come. I did telephone, but it rang and rang and no
one answered.”

  “Mr. Wheatley is the only one on the ground floor, and he is quite deaf while asleep, I am afraid. Miss Rose is typically the house’s lightest sleeper; however, I fear she is overtired at present.”

  O’Dell looked at his feet. “I know she is; she worked tirelessly after Jacob’s birth, letting her responsibilities here pile up. It troubles me to burden her further, but Joy is calling for her mother. When I telephoned, and no one answered, I decided to drive here and awaken the entire house, if need be.”

  His smile was apologetic. “I saw your open window, so I tossed gravel at it to rouse you rather than pound on the front door and disturb everyone. I hope I did not distress you too much?”

  Sarah uttered a soft snort. “You surely did startle me, but I am recovered now. Do you wish me to awaken Miss Rose? And did you say you came to fetch me, too?”

  “Yes. Mother Rose will not have the strength to attend to Joy and care for Matthew and Baby Jacob at the same time. I can and will help, of course, but I must be in the office early tomorrow morning for an important meeting. I had hoped you would come to watch the children? Matty is quite attached to you.”

  “I cannot leave Corrine at the shop on her own all day. That would not be prudent.”

  “We shall close the shop tomorrow, if necessary.”

  “Very well—but for one day only. Let me go up and awaken Miss Rose.”

  She knocked softly on Rose’s door three times before Rose answered. As Sarah suspected, Rose was slow and bleary-eyed.

  “What is it, Sarah?”

  “I am sorry to disrupt your sleep, Miss Rose, but Mr. O’Dell is here. Joy is running a fever and is asking for you; the doctor is with her, but he must be in and out as he attends to other patients. Mr. O’Dell asks that you come help nurse Joy, and that I come to care for the children.”