“In what way, Sarah? You help me so much already.”
“I would like to stop working for Joy, Miss Rose. I would like to take over some of your responsibilities here at the house and lighten your load. I could not do so while you depended so much upon my contributions. However, I hope, in the near future, it will be time for me to give Joy my notice.”
Rose stopped walking and stared at Sarah. “You would give up your income to help me?”
Sarah laughed. “I have been giving up most of it anyway.”
Rose reached for Sarah and embraced her. “You dear girl. You dear, dear girl! You are the answer to my prayers.”
They continued up the porch steps, and Rose chose her next words carefully. “I would ask you, though, dear Sarah: Is everything well with you in your heart?”
Rose’s question surprised Sarah. “Why do you ask, Miss Rose?”
“It is only that I have noticed that you are not quite yourself these past weeks.”
Sarah was immediately on her guard. “In what way?”
Rose canted her head to one side to study Sarah. “Your temper seems a bit frayed. You were short with Mr. O’Dell just now. A few weeks back, you were somewhat rude to Dr. Croft. Is there something bothering you?”
Sarah’s answer was clipped. “No.”
“Pardon me for pressing you, Sarah. Olive did mention that you were recently troubled by memories of your childhood, and I was concerned for you. If such memories are causing you grief, would you like me to pray with you over them?”
Sarah reddened. “Miss Rose, I spoke those things to Olive in confidence.”
Rose drew back. “Oh, Sarah. I had no idea; please forgive me for intruding.”
Sarah opened the front door to Palmer House and stood aside for Rose to enter before her. Her lips pressed together, Sarah added, “It is not you who broke a promise, Miss Rose.”
THEIR CONVERSATION was interrupted by the return of the remainder of the household. As Sarah had predicted, no young woman under the roof of Palmer House could speak of anything but the wedding gift Martha Palmer had bequeathed to each of them.
Blythe stole up alongside Sarah and hooked her arm through Sarah’s. “Oh, is it not wonderful, Sarah? Perhaps . . . perhaps, as Miss Rose intimated, I, too, can look forward to having a home and a family.” Blythe’s wan face was alight with hope.
“I see no reason you could not, do you?”
“It is only that . . . even though Jesus has given me a new heart and a new life, I wondered if I would ever find a husband who would be able to truly love me. I thought that a good man might not want me because . . . because . . . ” Blythe left her statement hanging.
“Because?”
“Well, you know. If he knew . . . about everything.”
Sarah clamped her jaws together. Hard.
When she did not speak, Blythe asked, “Do you think I shall ever find a good man? Someone who will forgive me and love me anyway?”
“Forgive you for what?”
“Well, for what happened.”
“For ‘what happened’? Why? Did you choose what happened to you?”
“Choose? Well, I-I . . .” Blythe shook her head slowly. “But, the thing is, Uncle Jack—that is who I lived with—he wanted his drink and, although it was nighttime, I-I had to go out and get it for him.”
“Your uncle sent you out after dark to fetch his drink? Alone?”
“Y-yes. He insisted I go, but if I had not gone out after dark, then maybe those men—”
“Those men? What men?”
“Th-the ones who saw me . . . by myself.”
Sarah knew, then, what had happened to Blythe.
Those men.
Those men!
Sarah exercised every bit of self-control she possessed to grind out a soft answer.
“You are not accountable for what those men did to you, Blythe, nor do you need a man’s forgiveness for it. A ‘good’ man would know that.”
Under her breath she muttered, “A good man? What is that?”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Sarah?”
“It was of no matter, dear.”
THAT EVENING, DUE TO such an emotionally fatiguing day, everyone at Palmer House partook of a light supper and retired earlier than usual—providing Sarah with an opportunity to confront Olive. She knocked on Olive’s door and, at her answer, went in and closed the door behind her.
Olive had already shed her dress for her nightgown and was brushing out her hair. “Goodness. Are you as tired as I am, Sarah? What a very long day.”
Sarah sat next to Olive on the edge of her bed and turned to face her. “Olive, I must ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Did you tell Miss Rose about my nightmares? About the memories of my stepfather?”
Olive clapped a hand over her mouth in dismay. When she pulled her hand away, she whispered, “Oh, Sarah, I did. I did not mean to—it-it was unintentional. Miss Rose asked me if you were all right and . . . it just came out.”
“You promised me, Olive. I trusted you.”
Olive dropped to her knees in front of Sarah and grasped her hands. “I did promise—and I broke my promise to you. Oh, Sarah, my behavior is inexcusable, but I declare I am terribly sorry. Please. Please forgive me! I do not know what I would do if I lost your friendship and trust.”
Olive’s contrition was written on her face in tearful anguish that wrung Sarah’s heart.
Sarah thought for long moments about her argument with Corrine, the harsh things she had said—deeply wounding Corrine in the process. She thought, too, about Corrine loving her enough to speak truth into her life while still forgiving her completely.
“I do not want to lose your friendship, either, Olive. I-I was hurt, but not mortally so. I forgive you.”
Olive bowed her head to their joined hands. “Thank you, Sarah. Again, I am so very sorry.”
“I know you are, sweet Olive. Let us now forget this and put it behind us.”
Sarah rubbed her forehead where the twinge of a headache was making her eyes hurt. “You know, I am beginning to understand that misunderstandings and mistakes—even sins—between friends cannot help but come, can they? As all of us are imperfect, shall we not, at some point, fail or disillusion others? And if we harbor unrealistic expectations of perfection from our sisters and brothers, will not our enemy, Satan—who desires to destroy the love and unity we have in Jesus—use those unrealistic expectations to divide and separate us?
“I further believe that when we fail a brother or sister, Satan wants us to fear rejection so much that we hide from each other rather than confess our faults to one another. But if there is no honesty between us, how can we overcome him? And if we do not face each other after such a blunder, if we do not admit to our faults, then those we have sinned against have no opportunity to forgive us, and nothing is ever resolved. Rather, we pull further away from the fellowship that is so essential to our growth in Christ.”
Olive studied Sarah. “I know what you mean about fearing rejection. I am glad you came to confront me, Sarah. I do not want any offense or hard feelings to ever come between us—only loving truth.”
Sarah hugged Olive. “Thank you, Olive. I feel the same.”
SARAH WAS WEARY WHEN she left Olive’s room, and her headache was worse. She donned her nightgown and slipped under her covers.
But sleep did not come easily. The enigma of Martha’s bequest to the girls of Palmer House bothered and saddened Sarah. Was marriage the only acceptable future Martha saw for us? Are there no other prospects for us?
Sarah rubbed her temples, willing the headache away so that she could sleep. Instead, she returned to her recollections of late. She had not thought back to her childhood for many years. It was as though those memories were shrouded in thick, cloying mist. In some respects, she had forgotten the horrors that followed her mother’s death and had only recently remembered.
The freshly found memories haunted her. As oft
en and as desperately as she tried to shunt the unwelcome intrusions aside, they returned to play out behind her closed eyelids, like one of those silent cinema films that were becoming so popular.
Except that Sarah’s recollections were neither silent nor black and white.
No, these long-suppressed memories had come to life in vivid color.
RICHARD HAD NOT COME to Sarah’s room in the night for more than three weeks. Initially, Sarah had been relieved, but as the trend continued, she began to worry.
His alteration toward her had begun around her thirteenth birthday. For her tenth, eleventh, and twelfth birthdays, Richard had taken pains to shower Sarah with gifts and parties, each event more elaborate than the previous—and costing more, Sarah was convinced, than the remnants of her mother’s small income could absorb. He delighted in arranging the parties for Sarah and would invite every child of Sarah’s acquaintance in the neighborhood.
No, that was not quite right. Richard never invited little boys to Sarah’s parties. He invited only little girls, even those with whom Sarah had less than a passing conversance and often girls younger than Sarah. He lavished compliments upon Sarah’s party guests and showered them with cake, ice creams, and candies. He pampered them and, in doing so, found opportunities to pat or touch them—always in the most innocuous manner.
Innocuous to all but Sarah. She understood what he was about—even if the doting mamas, who sipped punch and gossiped in the parlor while their innocent daughters played and enjoyed themselves under Richard’s supervision, did not.
Sarah frowned as she pondered her stepfather’s change in behavior. In contrast to previous birthdays, he had scarcely acknowledged her thirteenth.
She could feel the intensity of his displeasure, too.
What have I done? What has changed? She had followed his gaze to where it lingered on her budding figure, on the soft mounding that stretched the bodice of her childish party dress.
The revelation struck her forcibly: I am becoming a woman—and Richard likes little girls.
She was acquainted with Richard’s periodic dark, brooding moods. Such a humor passed within a few days. This, however, was different. It was no sulking state, no transitory ill disposition. Now when she caught him watching her, what she read in his eyes was similar to the loathing she had seen him express for her mother’s dying flesh—the disgust and hostility that he believed he had hidden from her.
Sarah quaked in sudden understanding: He hates me.
What will become of me now?
TWO WEEKS LATER, RICHARD called Sarah into the drawing room.
“Sarah, this is Maisie. She has come to live with us.”
Sarah stared at the little blonde girl Richard held by the hand. The child was disheveled, dirty, and bewildered. Sarah guessed her age to be five or six.
Sarah’s voice cracked when she asked, “Wh-where does she come from?”
“Ah. That is not important. What is important is that Maisie needs a home, and we shall give her one.” He bent toward the child and said, “This is your home now, Maisie, and you will be my little girl.”
“But this is my home.” The objection popped out before Sarah had a chance to think on how Richard might respond. She was shocked when his reaction came.
Dropping Maisie’s hand, Richard gripped Sarah by the forearm and dragged her into the hallway, closing the drawing room door behind them. With a wrench that forced her wrist behind her back, he pulled her close to his face.
“Let me be clear with you, Sarah: This house does not belong to you. It is mine. I allow you to live here—and I shall allow Maisie to live here as I choose, as long as I choose. Do you understand me?”
When Sarah did not answer, he twisted her wrist harder.
“Ow!” Sarah sobbed. “You are hurting me!”
“I am waiting. Do you understand me?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good. Now, do not forget what I have told you, and do not ever disrespect or disagree with me again.”
He released Sarah’s arm. “I shall be upstairs. Maisie requires a bath.”
Sarah recalled how many “baths” Richard had given her after her mother died. She was under no illusions as to why Richard had brought the girl home.
Her heart broke for the child.
I must do something to save Maisie from him.
Chapter 7
The shop had been busy all day with Saturday customers, and Sarah and Corrine were looking forward to closing time and to the end of their work week.
“Sunday!” Sarah smiled. “A day to worship. To rest. To just breathe.”
“Oh my, yes,” Corrine responded. “I think I love Sunday dinner at Palmer House best of all, when we talk about Pastor Carmichael or Minister Liáng’s message and share what the Lord has spoken to us through it. Who is coming to dinner tomorrow in addition to Palmer House residents?”
“Hmm. Let me count. Marit said Joy, Mr. O’Dell—and Matty and Jacob, of course. Oh! And Gracie. She is spending the weekend with us. Including you and Albert—pardon me—Mr. and Mrs. Johnston, that makes six plus our sixteen.
Corrine giggled. “I am not accustomed yet to being called Mrs. Johnston. And goodness! Twenty-two for dinner tomorrow? But what of Mei-Xing and Minister Liáng? Breona and Pastor Carmichael?”
“We see them at our table less frequently than we wish, I am afraid. They are often invited elsewhere for Sunday dinner.”
“Our congregation has grown. I suppose they must visit other families in the church—oh, dear. Is that rain?”
Sarah glanced toward the shop windows and the heavy droplets that pelted them. She huffed. “As grateful as I am to have my umbrella, I do lament how dirty Denver streets are when it rains. I shall spend half an hour when I get home sponging my hem and cleaning my shoes.”
“And I,” Corrine sighed.
“Mm-hmm. Well, let us tidy up. It is near enough to five o’clock.”
Sarah was ready to empty the cash register when the shop bell jingled and a trio of young women, laughing in merriment, stepped inside, their hats and hems streaming rain.
“Good afternoon, ladies. I apologize, but we are just closing,” Sarah called out.
The tallest of the three, a woman with short brown hair curling out from beneath a jaunty straw hat, answered for them. “It is we who should apologize. We got caught in the downpour and ducked inside to escape it. Please do say we may stay a minute? We promise not to stray from your mat here.”
She and her companions laughed again, sharing the humor of their situation.
Sarah, drawn to their happy abandon, left the cash register and crossed the shop to them; Corrine followed her. “Of course, you may stay. We shall likely wait out the worst of the storm ourselves before leaving.”
“Well, we are in your debt,” the spokeswoman said. “I am Lorraine Pritchard—although my friends call me Lola.” She offered her hand to Sarah. “My companions are Meg and Dannie—short for Danielle, of course.”
“Of course,” Dannie echoed. She and Meg chuckled together.
“I am Sarah Ellinger, the assistant manager of Michaels’ Fine Furnishings. This is Corrine Johnston, my friend and co-worker.”
While they shook hands around, Sarah took stock of their temporary refugees. Their attire indicated that they were not working-class girls from the factories, but neither were their clothes stylish enough to be shopgirl-worthy—not precisely. Their mode of dress was somewhere—or something—other than stylish, a touch unconventional, even avant-garde. Then she noticed two of them carried brown leather cases of differing size and shape.
Sarah realized she was staring—and that Lola’s mouth was pursed in a small, amused smile.
“We are musicians,” she explained. “Professional musicians. Meg plays trumpet; I play clarinet—among other instruments.”
“And I play double bass—meaning you are not likely to see me toting my instrument about town,” Dannie quipped.
Her companions laugh
ed. When Sarah remembered how big a double bass was, she laughed with them.
“I do love symphony music,” Corrine offered.
Lola replied, “Why, yes. We do, too.”
She and her friends laughed again, but under their breath, as though Lola had told a joke only they were privy to.
Sarah felt at once a bit gauche in the eyes of these three worldly women. And Lola continued to study her, as if taking her measure, although for what, Sarah did not know.
Goodness, Sarah thought. Professional musicians? I am quite out of my element.
Corrine was of no help. She blinked and said nothing further,
Lola was still assessing Sarah when Meg tugged on her arm. “The rain has blown by,” she whispered and giggled afterward. “We shall be late for rehearsal if we dawdle much longer.”
“A shame,” Lola smiled.
She shook herself a little and addressed Sarah. “Perhaps you will come hear us play sometime? I could drop by with an invitation.”
“Er, yes. That would be lovely, I am sure.”
Meg and Dannie laughed again—the trio seemed to always be laughing at something—and pulled on Lola’s arm.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Sarah and Corrine.” Meg said. She and Dannie were halfway out the door.
With a last glance behind her, Lola nodded, turned, and followed her friends.
Sarah locked the door behind them and turned the sign from “Welcome” to “Closed.” Staring after them, she found she was sorry to see them go.
AS THEY HAD DONE FOR nearly a decade, the family at Palmer House walked to church on Sunday. Rose and Sarah led the way; the girls followed behind, two by two, and Mr. Wheatley, Billy, Marit, and Olive brought up the rear. Billy shepherded young Will and Charley along; Olive took turns with Marit carrying little Toby.
Calvary Temple had changed some since its earliest years. The congregation—a broad spectrum of social standing and nationalities, including a thriving flock of Chinese Americans—still met in the old warehouse in which they had begun. However, the members had plastered and painted the warehouse’s interior, framed in classrooms for Sunday school and Bible studies, and made curtains for the warehouse windows. The initial mishmash of seating (they had employed whatever came to hand in those fledgling days: castoff benches, mismatched dining chairs, and discarded sofas) was being progressively replaced by pews as the church could afford them.
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