Joanne Bischof

by The Lady

  Looking on, he spotted his destination. The vardo in the distance was ornate—a rich burgundy with gold paintings and scrollwork that even in the moonlight was prominent. The Dutch door stood closed despite the warm night, but light glinted through the two narrow windows. The steps were slung up for the night as if to say, you are not welcome.

  Reaching it, he pulled down the little ladder and slid it into place, because this was a meeting he would have.

  C H A P T E R 3 4

  __________

  He knocked. Soundly.

  Heard a shuffle, and then the top of the Dutch door parted and he moved lower two steps so it could open wide. Frowning, Madame Broussard looked down.

  “I’d like a word with you, if you please,” Charlie said.

  Her wrinkles deepened when she pursed her mouth, then he heard a click of the door lock. She walked away without opening it. Rubbing his fingers over the documents, Charlie blew an exhale before letting himself in. Inside, he was hit with the stench of opium—a sweet, tar-like smell that churned his stomach. He glanced around for Olaf and guessed by the snoring mound on the bed that the man had already had his share. From the narrow fireplace mantle over the inset stove, Madame pulled something from a glass dish and popped it into her mouth. She held the dish out to Charlie and he shook his head. Likely nothing more than some kind of sweet, but he wasn’t about to take a thing from her.

  Her eyebrows inched upward as if waiting for him to state his request.

  Charlie opened the paper in front of him. “This is for you to sign.”

  “Sign.”

  He nodded, determined not to lose his nerve. “To make sure that you are a woman of your word. Which of course you are.”

  “A contract.”

  He shook his head. “An agreement.” He wanted no more of contracts and this woman.

  Madame studied him from head to toe, and Charlie was more than a bit glad that Olaf was gone for it. She narrowed her eyes as if sensing as much. Did she not know the man and his habits were as easy to read as a clock? This would be Olaf’s worst night of all. Away from the fairgrounds with little responsibility, he was always a goner by sunset.

  “It’s a statement of faith,” Charlie began, “that states she is legally mine.” He was using the term legally a mite loosely, but she knew that as well as he did since this whole situation had grown under that light.

  “Why would I sign such a thing?”

  “To confirm that our contract is fulfilled on Holland’s first birthday.”

  “Antonia,” she countered. “And that would be Bassi and not Lionheart.”

  He made no response to that.

  She spoke on as if expecting as much. “That contract is sufficient.”

  Not for him. “I’d like my own copy. In my own terms.” Something that she couldn’t tear up or burn. He handed it out to her. “You’re welcome to read it.”

  From the mantle she pulled down a pair of spectacles and Charlie took a step closer to the door, desperate for a breath of fresh air. Already his head was starting to hurt. Studying the paper, she took several minutes to read it.

  Finally she spoke flatly. “I do not know that I want to sign this.”

  “Then I don’t know that I want to perform on Coney.”

  Her gaze flicked back to him. Coney Island was one of their greatest profits out of the year. Money was ripe for the taking. A city laced with sin that never slept. Where people craved their entertainment—many a diverse form of it.

  “You can’t tell me that and you know it.” She folded the paper closed.

  Forcing his expression to remain calm, Charlie kept his breathing steady. “You’ll sign that document. And I’ll be on my way. And then I’ll give them their show and you’ll get your profits.”

  She studied him with a gleam in her eye—calculating.

  “Nothing less. Nothing more,” he added.

  Her eyes tightened.

  He motioned toward the declaration in her hand, thinking also to the contract she’d drawn up with Lucca when the man had wanted to flee. Charlie had watched it be torn up with his own eyes, but he didn’t trust that the Madame hadn’t another copy of Lucca’s arrangement hidden somewhere. Charlie had no way of knowing.

  So he’d taken care. “This little girl…Antonia Bassi…who’s even going to believe that’s her real name? I can’t think of anyone around here who knows such a child.”

  Madame looked down at his document where the words Holland Lionheart were written clear as day right beside his own name. “Do you really think your tricks are going to get her anywhere?”

  “It’s not a trick.” He smiled.

  “Your sister was a fool. More so with that silly nickname—”

  “Which has been submitted to the state of Louisiana, along with her papers that are being processed.” Birth certificate, everything. When he got back this winter, he would need to pay the registrar a visit, but for now, the wheels were in motion. The solicitor had told him that formalizing adoptive kinship in a court was rare, but Charlie would do that too if necessary. He said as much.

  Madame’s eyes narrowed, and she glanced around her vardo from Olaf to the mess on the sofa, the mantle, then back to Charlie who she took in again so thoroughly, he had to force himself not to shift his feet.

  Always the Madame.

  She pulled off her spectacles. “You think you are so different…” She waved around her dwelling. “But one day you are going to rot away an old man.”

  He made no response.

  Her hand, still aloft, was shaking. Face more placid than he’d ever seen. For the first time in his life…the first time since this nightmare began…he pitied her.

  “I’ll ask you to sign that now.” Using his thumb, he tucked at his shirt against his hip. “And just so you know, I had no way of paying her hospital bill in Roanoke.”

  Her mouth twitched.

  “So really, I’m doing you a favor. They were quite displeased. The whole place in a tizzy, actually. So should you pass through there again, say hello to the doctor for me.”

  Madame rolled her eyes and yanked the agreement from his hand. “I’ll be glad to be done with that fat little thing.”

  Charlie grinned which seemed to only annoy her further.

  Her slender hands groped along the mantle as if searching for a pen. She found it, and seeing the inkwell, Charlie handed it over. From the bed, Olaf let out a snore and Charlie felt a warmth in his chest that this was almost finished. Pen dipped and then she scratched the tip across the line. Charlie slipped the top paper free to reveal that there was a duplicate. Those small eyes of hers shot toward the ornate ceiling then back at him with a leveled look.

  “Almost done,” he said gently.

  She scribbled her name across the second line and he took that copy as well. He examined her signature then looked at the woman. She stared back. Small and empty.

  “I won’t take up any more of your time,” he said.

  He held the papers with care in one hand, then tugged at his waistcoat with the other. He opened the door and went down the steps. In the grass, he turned slightly to see her standing in the doorway. He breathed in the clear air, then tipped the papers in her direction. A thank you.

  The night carried him home, music high on the hillside where lanterns burned brightly. There were no words for the joy in his chest, but when he reached his camp, he climbed inside the wagon and ducked low over Holland’s bed. Kneeling there, he pressed a kiss to her little bared neck. The skin soft and warm and milky. Then her plump cheek, her ear.

  She sighed in her sleep.

  “I guess you’re stuck with me, Miss Holland,” he whispered, and leaning forward, kissed her tiny nose. “But that’s okay because I kind of like being stuck with you.”

  C H A P T E R 3 5

  __________

  Holding the jar in front of her, Ella ladled thick, hot jam into the clean glass. She scooped and spooned until the jar was nearly full, then reachin
g for another, did the same. At her side, her mother wiped the glass mouths and laid the canning lids in place before carrying them over to the pot of boiling water.

  Mama sang as she worked.

  Ella listened, hoping it would settle her nerves. Her fingers sticky, she wiped them on a damp rag. Early morning sun spilled through the front windows.

  “You don’t have to do this,” her mother said softly.

  Ella nodded. “I know. I want to.”

  Mama’s striped skirt swayed as she turned back to the boiling pot.

  Truly, she wanted to.

  All she had left of Charlie lived in a small envelope. Something she pulled out and read almost every day. Some way to know that he had been real, him and Holland…and everyone. And whenever she did, Ella read the words again. Over and over. Letting them sink into her heart—the truth of them.

  Come to me.

  And I will give you rest.

  She knew it was God speaking. But she hadn’t thought of God that way in a long time. A long time. And now it gave her hope. It gave her comfort. Even amidst the unknowns that wet her pillow more times than she liked to count. As much as she missed Charlie, as much as it tore her up inside, there was hope. There had to be. Those very words promised as much.

  Holding all that hope to herself felt selfish. Today had been a long time coming, and perhaps like Charlie…she was nearly free.

  She clung to that as she ladled jam into another jar and wiped it clean. Mama set the sealed jars on a folded towel to cool. When they had finished, Ella set about cleaning up the mess. Her father came in from the barn, hung up his hat, and took the cup of steaming tea Ella fixed him. Joy shining in his eyes, he sat at the piano, lifted the heavy lid, and coaxed out a song. His favorite way to pass a restful hour. Especially on a Sunday.

  Ella had asked if they could stay behind from church today as there was something she dearly needed to do.

  Mama set about making biscuits and Ella stepped toward the piano. She leaned against the side of the dark wood, savoring the melodic sound of his gentle playing. “You’ve been working hard this week,” she said.

  He peered up at her. He was a quiet one, her papa.

  “And where are the boys?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Swimming.” Then he looked over at his wife. “Make a few of those biscuits to go?”

  Mama said she would. With a question ever in heart, Ella voiced it.

  Papa lifted a look that was equal parts guarded and amused. He always did that whenever she spoke of Charlie. And she always asked what they had talked about that day.

  Each time, he differed to other avenues. Something about a promise made, a promise kept.

  He played softly on the keys. The song slow and soulful.

  “What promise did you make to Charlie, Papa?”

  He smiled, his thick fingers making a C major before easing into a C sharp.

  “You’re still not going to tell me what it is,” she whispered.

  His steady hand slid up the keys, tempo even and sure. A hint of spark in his eyes, he shook his head. “Why don’t you play a duet with your father.” He patted the bench beside him. “We don’t know how many more of these we’ll have.” His eyes found hers—whole and searching. And she wondered what he was telling her.

  Feeling every bitter sweetness of things both lost and gained, Ella kissed the top of his head and lingered. “Will you save me that spot this afternoon? There’s somewhere I need to be.”

  “I sure will.”

  She could see how happy it made him. Lost were their duets for so many years. But now…she’d begun to play with him again. The hymns he had always loved. She knew how much it meant to him and it meant the same to her.

  Thinking back to what the morning still held, Ella took a deep breath, whispered a prayer for strength, then kissed her father’s head again.

  Within the hour, she found herself walking the path with her mother. Ella had worn her best dress and fixed her hair as nice as she could—pinning that stubborn bit out of the way. The part that always fell across her eyes. What did she need to hide for?

  She was done with hiding. And running.

  Even so, her hand, looped through her mother’s elbow, was shaking. As if sensing as much, Mama reached over and squeezed it gently.

  Just like in the kitchen, her mother sang as they walked.

  Ella let the words soothe her. Thankful for this woman who she had spent years missing. All while thinking some distance would help her heal. Good and well, and while she would never trade those years in Roanoke, she had a feeling that a little more healing was meant to be had. With the basket on her arm, she set sights on the trail as they slowly climbed.

  Ella’s heart quickened, perhaps from the rise in the path, but she knew it had more to do with the cabin nearing in the distance. Set away from others, it was high. Remote.

  Lonely.

  This hadn’t always been his home. Of that she was certain. The reverend had had a fine house near the church. This, set back amidst the pines, was a shack. Ella glanced around, her heart suddenly in her throat.

  She realized she was trembling again because Mama gripped tighter. For months—no, years—Ella hadn’t been able to shake the dark memories of that wretched night. The way the preacher’s son had kept chatting with her at choir practice, then later, calling her awful pretty as they had walked the night path. Had kept touching her wrist and her lower back as he strode beside her. The sickening feeling in her gut of being so very alone. Of having no one around to help her.

  Ella drew in a quivering breath. She didn’t want that feeling anymore. That sinking burden that she was all alone. She knew she would carry the scars always, and never would she forget the little boy who she’d clung to the two hours of his life, but she sought hope that with each step taken, the burden would grow lighter.

  For My yoke is easy…

  It had never felt that way. Not for the last five years. Not with the God she’d pushed away. She now knew what Charlie had meant. Don’t let him take more.

  The reverend’s son had stolen enough already, and she’d been letting the rest of her heart die away piece by piece. She’d always thought she had nothing left to give. But now she knew that she’d chosen to see herself that way.

  As long as her heart was beating she had something to give.

  Ella stepped farther into the clearing and stopped. She looked around at the humble dwelling, then the door opened and a gray-haired man appeared. Her heart twisted at the sight of him. The reverend had always been a good man. She could recall a time that she had truly liked him. He’d been one of the things she’d enjoyed about church. His jovial ways. Jolly smile.

  And now he was in a shack high up in the hills. All alone…on a Sunday morning. Nary a friend in sight.

  For all that his son had done.

  Ella felt unsteady as she studied the reverend. The man looked back at her. His son had vanished without being seen again. The congregation had denounced the reverend and she’d been happy about it. As had her family. He was banned from the church and in some ways, so much more. Perhaps it was the right thing for people to do, but she really didn’t know.

  About a year later, he’d written her a letter, but Ella had tossed it into the fire without so much as opening it. She’d left for Roanoke soon after, needing to be free of this place. Thinking she would be free of this place. But the hurts only followed because they didn’t live in these hills or this mountain. They’d lived within her. No matter where she went. They bound her the longer she let them.

  She looked into the reverend’s face now. No longer a reverend to this town, but she didn’t know how else to think of him. She scarcely recognized the man at the pulpit from her memories. Gone was his dark coat. In its stead was a flannel shirt, worn and wrinkled. A tattered floppy hat. A lock of silver hair across his brow, a Bible in hand, and a question in those wide eyes.

  Turning the jar, Ella barely heard her mother gently say that s
he would wait there just as they’d planned. Ella told herself to step closer. Just another step. And then another. She repeated that until she was at the foot of his porch, and suddenly her stomach was complaining. Her hands wobbled against the lid of the jar. Ella swallowed hard and realized she was staring down at his boots now. Worn and dusty. She took a little breath, then gently lifted up the jar. Knowing that was no way to give a gift, she forced herself to look to his face.

  She’d told herself that perhaps he wouldn’t recognize her. That perhaps it would make this easier. But then she saw that his chin—speckled in silver bristle—was trembling.

  He looked to the wrapped jar, then to her face. He blinked quickly and tucked the Bible under his arm.

  “For you,” she said softly, moving up one step just long enough for him to reach down.

  The jar, still warm, passed hands.

  His eyes turned wet and his mouth worked. Lips pursing over and over as if needing time to draw words from the bottom of a well. “Thank you, miss.”

  She gave him what felt like a weak smile. “It’s blackberry.” Her voice sounded so small. “We just made it.” A silly thing to say, but all she had.

  He turned the jar in his hand. Ran his thumb over the brown paper she’d wrapped it in.

  She gave him another little smile and hoped it was better than the last.

  That’s all she had to do. All she told herself she would do. The only reason why she’d braved this moment. But with him looking at her so—like he was seeing the first sunrise after a storm—she couldn’t turn away. She wanted to say something more, but words ran into hiding.

  “I…” The paper crinkled under his fingers as he turned the gift. “I’m real sorry.” His chin was trembling again. “For your hurts.” His gray eyes searched the ground at her feet then slid up to her face. “The wrongs.”

  Her own tears welling, Ella could only nod.