“I shall, Mrs. Thoresen.”
Rose hung the receiver on its cradle and sank into her chair, her figures and sums forgotten. In her mind’s eye, Rose pictured the old woman with the shock of white hair, bent nearly double over her cane, twisting her head at an impossible angle in order to look up into the faces of others.
O Lord, our God, how grateful I am for Martha’s sake. She is now in your presence—standing tall and upright, healed in both body and spirit, lifting her head and hands in worship to you! How happy she must be.
And Rose remembered the first time they met.
“MRS. THORESEN, MIGHT I have a word with you?” The question had come from near Rose’s elbow. She turned, looked down, and found the thin, elderly woman with a wizened face, stooping over a cane.
“How do you do?” Rose extended her hand. The elderly woman trembled and leaned her left side more heavily on her cane so that she could reach Rose’s outstretched grasp. Her skin was dry and fragile, but soft, like raw spun silk.
“Mrs. Chester Palmer. Please call me Martha. P’rhaps we could set in that corner for a moment?”
When they had gone aside and sat down together, Martha said, “I shall not take much of your time, Mrs. Thoresen, but I felt so impressed by the Spirit to speak to you . . . and I did not want to let the moment pass by.”
“Of course,” Rose had answered.
“The thing of it is,” Mrs. Palmer began slowly, “I b’lieve I have your house.”
Rose had been taken aback.
“I must warn you,” Mrs. Palmer continued, “the house is in poor shape. Once it was a beautiful place, but it has been empty and has not been maintained for nigh on ten years.”
She turned her head down and fidgeted with a hankie up her sleeve. “It is large, though. Very large. Has a sizable spot of prop’ty with servant quarters and a carriage house in the back.”
She turned her head and looked up at Rose again. “I want to give it to you.”
And she had. Martha had given her old home—neglected, disused, and filled with painful memories—to the ministry of rescuing women from prostitution and healing their wounded souls.
“MARTHA,” ROSE WHISPERED. “Thank you for your kindness to us and your obedience to the Holy Spirit. You left behind a great testimony of your faith in Jesus. Can any of us do more?”
Rose reached again for the telephone. “Operator? Keystone 4672, please.”
Joy answered. “The O’Dell residence.”
“Joy, this is Mama. I have some sad news to report.”
When Rose finished speaking with Joy, she repeated the same announcement to others who knew and loved Martha Palmer: Breona and Pastor Isaac Carmichael, Mei-Xing and Minister Yaochuan Min Liáng, Mason and Tabitha Carpenter, Emily Van der Pol, Grace Minton, Viola Lind, and the family at Palmer House.
AROUND THE DINING TABLE that evening, conversation was only about Mrs. Palmer and the many instances of her generosity.
“She always sent over the nicest Christmas packages,” Olive reminisced. “Beautiful electrical Christmas lights for our tree, boxes of chocolates, peppermint candy canes, bags of oranges all the way from Florida—”
“The most vunderful hams,” Marit interjected, “cured vit maple sugars.”
“Mmm,” Pansy enthused. “I do love ham.”
“Ham!” little Toby crowed.
Will had his own favorite memory. “Ice cream was best. She sent us chocolate ice cream on Independence Day.”
“And strawbr’y,” Charley shouted. “I likes strawbr’y bestest.”
Blythe had not yet spent a holiday at Palmer House and felt it altogether her misfortune—and somewhat inconsiderate of that sainted woman—that Mrs. Palmer should choose to die only months before Christmas. “What else, please? What else did she do at Christmas?”
“One year she gave every one of us girls hankies edged in French lace,” Olive said. “I cannot bring myself to use mine. It is too exquisite.”
Sarah’s smile was dreamy. “I think I loved the flowers best of all. At Easter Mrs. Palmer always sent a dozen pots of white lilies. Their perfume would fill the house for weeks. At Christmas it was poinsettias—dozens of them.”
Memories of Martha Palmer’s many kindnesses besieged Rose, too—until an unwelcome realization set in.
Lord? The needs of Palmer House have stretched us to our limits for a decade. You have sustained us all these years partly through Martha Palmer’s liberal financial gifts. I know your mighty hand is not dependent upon her generosity, but still . . .
Rose’s appetite departed. Long after dinner ended, her heart lay heavy in her breast.
FOR SARAH, THE NEWS of Martha’s passing had been hard to bear, but the remembrance and sharing of her many thoughtful gifts had been, somehow, even harder. They signaled not only the cessation of those loving gestures, but also the conclusion of an era. Sarah could tell that Miss Rose was disturbed, too. She was subdued when they left the table and for the remainder of the evening.
Later, as everyone settled in for the night and the house quieted, Sarah knelt on her bedroom floor and leaned upon her mattress, her hands folded in supplication.
“Father, with the loss of every individual Miss Rose has leaned upon—first Flinty, then Mei-Xing, Tabitha, Breona, Joy, and now Mrs. Palmer—with each loss, Miss Rose carries more of the weight of Palmer House upon her own shoulders. Even Marit and Billy, with three children to raise, cannot help Miss Rose as much as they did when they had only little Will. And dear Mr. Wheatley is so frail these days.”
The notion that they might lose Mr. Wheatley in the not-so-distant future—that sole man to whom Sarah had ever bared her soul—struck her with particular force.
“Oh, my Lord! I love and respect Miss Rose so very much, but the burden of this ministry is too much for her alone. Please, Lord. Will you not send her help? And could it be me? Will you allow me to assist her more? I do not know how—I give most of my salary from the shop toward the house’s upkeep as it is—but I am willing to do more, Lord. Please show me?”
Sarah let her petitions linger upon her lips as she slid between her bedcovers, but she slept poorly that night. Perhaps the collective emotions of the past weeks—the difficult conversation with Corrine, the news of Martha Palmer’s death, and Sarah’s concerns for Rose and Palmer House—would not allow her mind to settle. For whatever reasons, her sleep was uneasy, disturbed by dreams that were partly night visions and partly memories—ugly memories, recollections that reopened the most painful chapter of her life.
AS EDWINA’S HEALTH deteriorated, Richard’s overtures toward Sarah intensified. He never failed, when circumstances gave opportunity, to touch her: a gentle pat on her arm here, a caress of her cheek there. And whenever he touched her, Sarah would shiver or tremble, and her breath would catch in her throat. If he managed to secure her hand—generally when they walked through the park—he would hold it fast and stroke her skin with his thumb.
He was particularly partial to lifting a strand of Sarah’s dark hair and curling it about his fingers, rubbing its silky softness. “You have such lovely hair, Sarah. From the moment I first laid eyes upon you, I wondered what it felt like.”
Whenever Richard took her hair in his hands, Sarah felt as though a chain had trussed her to him. In desperation, she fell upon a solution: While he was holding her hair, she would grasp the tress near her scalp and, in one swift movement, yank it from Richard’s grasp. Usually, she would feign a yelp of pain so that her mother heard her
When she had secured her mother’s attention, she would reproach her stepfather, saying, “Richard, you hurt me! Please do not pull my hair. Mama, do tell Richard not to pull my hair.”
Richard soon caught on to Sarah’s ploy. Thereafter, he kept to his other devices—never neglecting an occasion to catch Sarah alone in a room so he might touch her. As Edwina began to spend more time abed, Sarah grew more vigilant. She learned to keep obstacles such as furniture and doors between herse
lf and Richard. She made it a habit to step out of his reach whenever he came near, and she kept company with her mother hours on end each day in order to avoid him.
But all these tactics were but delay. Sarah knew her mother was dying—and when she was gone, no one would be able to protect her any longer.
Sarah understood full well that Richard was a predator.
And that she was his prey.
“MRS. THORESEN? STEPHEN Sedgewick here.”
“Yes, Mr. Sedgewick?”
“I am calling to provide you with the details of my great-aunt’s funeral service. The service will be held on Saturday, September 28, 10 o’clock in the morning, at her church, Trinity United Methodist.”
“Everyone at Palmer House would like to attend, Mr. Sedgewick. Would that would that be all right?”
Rose knew the beautiful stone church would be filled with Denver’s moneyed social elite, some of whom had come alongside Rose and Joy to establish and furnish Palmer House, but also those who had criticized Martha Palmer and others for their association with fallen women.
“Actually, I have given instructions to the funeral home to mark off the entirety of the first three pews on the Gospel side of the sanctuary for you and your girls and any girls who have previously lived at Palmer House.”
“Why, you are most kind, Mr. Sedgewick. Thank you.”
“You are welcome, Mrs. Thoresen; however, you should know that it was Aunt Martha’s particular request in the written directions she left with her attorney for her service, that her Palmer House friends be accorded this particular honor.”
Rose’s throat threatened to close upon her next words. “How like Martha.”
“Indeed, indeed. Her will also stipulated that all present and former residents of Palmer House be invited to attend her graveside service and the family luncheon after.” He snorted a dry but humor-filled laugh. “I and my wife and children are Martha’s only remaining blood relations but, I think we can admit that, in her heart of hearts, Aunt Martha considered you and your girls her true family.”
“You are very understanding, Mr. Sedgewick.”
He laughed softly again. “We feel no slight at all. Great-aunt Martha had more than enough love to go around. But that does bring me to my aunt’s last instruction: Her attorney requests that you remain after the luncheon for the reading of her will.”
Rose’s breath caught in her throat. “I . . . I understand. Thank you.”
. . . EDWINA ELLINGER passed away on a bitter wintry night.
Richard had not permitted Sarah to remain by her mother’s side until she drew her last breath, but Sarah had stayed awake in her bed, knowing Death was coming and, by the servants’ scurrying footsteps and muted voices, the hour in which it arrived.
Sarah had lain under her covers, shaking with grief and with fear until the early hours of morning—because her dear mama was gone and no one could protect her any longer. Then she experienced a wild, exhilarating idea: I shall run away.
Sarah got up and, in the waning darkness, tugged a little valise from the shelf of her wardrobe. She filled it with clothes and necessities, then dressed herself in warm outerwear. She picked up her little purse and perused its contents: three dollars and twenty cents. Practically a fortune.
When she was ready, she stood at her window on the second floor and looked out into the last of the night. Snow lay upon the ground. Icicles hung from the eaves. The streets were deep with ice and dirty slush.
A harsh reality struck her. Where could I go? How would I live? Sarah knew only the immediate surrounds of her home, in particular, the park.
But I cannot live in the park. I would freeze to death.
She slowly unpacked her bag, undressed, pulled on her nightgown, and crawled back into bed. She lay there shivering until it was light enough to be morning.
When she crept to her mother’s room at dawn, before the house stirred, Edwina’s body had been washed and dressed and her hair brushed and braided. She was laid out in an attitude of repose, her hands crossed below her breasts, one upon the other, but what Sarah saw was an empty, inanimate husk, not her mother.
She reached for Edwina’s hand—it was cold. Hard.
Mama is not here. She is gone. I am alone.
Sniffling but resigned, Sarah went back to her room to wait until she was called.
AT BREAKFAST, THE DAY following Edwina’s funeral, Richard made an announcement. “Your mother’s illness has taken a toll on our finances,” he stated.
Sarah stared at her plate. For months she had taken her meals in her mother’s room. She had not wanted to come down to breakfast this morning, had not wanted to eat or be alone with him, but she was also afraid to stay in her room, fearful of what would happen if he came upstairs to fetch her. She kept her eyes downcast, terrified to meet Richard’s gaze.
“Sarah, please look at me when I am speaking.”
Sarah’s eyes blinked rapidly, and her breath came in shallow pants. She managed to lift her chin and fix her gaze on a mole on Richard’s cheek.
“Did you hear what I said about our finances?”
“Y-yes.”
“I would like it if you answered, ‘Yes, Daddy.’”
The spit in her mouth vanished; Sarah thought she would choke and throw up.
“I suppose we can ease into that,” Richard added as an afterthought. “However, our straitened circumstances require that we economize. I regret the changes to the household I am forced to make today.”
Sarah blinked again. Changes? Had her mother’s death not been change enough?
“I must let some of the staff go, Sarah, beginning with Nevis.”
Nevis? No! He is our household’s only male servant, the only one who would stand up to Richard if . . .
Sarah could not put the accusation into words, because she had no vocabulary to explain the fear that Richard’s presence engendered. She only knew that Richard represented an evil that pressed down on her, that she was certain was coming.
“I have already informed him that today is his last day. After all, his primary service was to lift your mother from bed to chair and back, then turn her when she was no longer able to move under her own power.”
Richard’s aversion to her mother’s illness—his loathing of her body as it was racked with coughs, as she spit up blood and phlegm, when her incontinence kept the nurse and maids busy cleaning her and changing linens—had been evident. The sickroom smells had repulsed him, so Sarah had clung to her mother’s side, knowing she was safe with her, that Richard would not seek her out there.
All that was over. The nurse was gone, the room cleansed and aired, and now Nevis—
“Your education will continue to be overseen by Miss Zahn, but she will no longer live here. She will come in each morning for three hours to conduct your lessons.”
Another pillar of safety and strength crumbled beneath Sarah’s feet.
Before the week was out, the household’s five servants and one governess had been reduced to a single maid, their longtime cook, Mrs. Whitten, and a part-time governess—none who would “live in” any longer.
It was after dinner, when the house was devoid of servants, that Langston made his move.
“I have bought you a new dress, Sarah.”
Richard was excited, nearly giddy. He gestured to her bed where he had placed a dress box. He waited with expectant elation.
Sarah’s confusion overrode her normal caution. “I-I thought you said we needed to economize.”
The skin on Richard’s face took on a mottled quality. “Are you being ungracious, Sarah? Thankless? Unappreciative? You never struck me as an ingrate.”
Sarah backpedaled. “No, I-I, no, of course I am not.”
In a sudden move that made her jump. Langston flipped the box off the bed onto the floor.
“Oh, yes, we need to economize—all the more reason I should expect some measure of gratitude for the sacrifice this gift represents!”
When s
he did not immediately answer, his rage quickened. He kicked the dress box; it skidded across the polished floor and hit the wall. “I did not think your mother remiss in teaching you common courtesy. Is your conduct so lacking, so deficient as to disgrace her memory?”
Sarah quailed before his anger. “I am sorry. Please. I-I, um, thank you.”
“Thank you, Daddy. You will call me Daddy.”
Sarah stuffed down the terror making her feel faint. “Th-thank you . . . Daddy.”
As if a summer squall had passed and the sun had reappeared from behind a scudding cloud, Richard’s countenance cleared. “Say it again, Sarah. It would make me happy to hear you say it again. Say, ‘Thank you, Daddy.’”
“Thank you . . . Daddy.”
He sniffed. “Pick up the box and place it on the bed.”
Sarah did as she was told.
“Look at me and say, ‘I am sorry, Daddy.’”
Sarah stared at the wall behind Richard’s head and parroted his words. “I am sorry, Daddy.”
“Now, you may open the box and take out your new dress.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
The dress was a gorgeous concoction of pale pink and ivory petticoats, frills, and bows—a party dress with a wide band of ribbon for a sash.
A child’s dress.
A little child’s dress.
Sarah was now nine, going on ten—not five or six.
“I would like to see you in it, Sarah. Would you like me to help you try it on?”
The implications of his offer turned Sarah’s blood to ice. “No, thank you, Daddy. I can manage.”
He pursed his lips and studied her. “Very well. I shall expect you downstairs in no more than ten minutes.” At the door, he turned. “Do not disappoint me.”
When Sarah crept down the stairway exactly ten minutes later, her heart stuttered in her chest. The dress fit her in every way except the length. The skirt, already too short, stood out even farther, undergirded by ruffled petticoats—but her legs were bare from her short pantalets to her anklets.
Sarah Redeemed Page 7
