“You be’n one o’ da nicest British ladies I ever knowed. You ain’t got your nose stuck up in the air.”
Moira smiled. “Thank you, Harta. You’re very nice yourself, you know.”
“Well, I sure does try. I sure does.” The woman peered over Moira’s shoulder. “You want I should pin up yo’ hair?”
“Yes. Thank you. We’ll dine downstairs tonight.” After tomorrow she’d not have pampering and luxury such as the likes this fine hotel offered.
Dressed again, her hair expertly pinned, Moira left the bathtub room and made her way down the hallway. The door of the room she shared with Sam stood open. Stepping inside, she saw Sam pacing the carpeted plank floor. She closed the door behind herself.
“Something amiss?”
“No.” He looked up and smiled. “In fact, I’ve a grand surprise for you.”
Moira glimpsed the slip of paper he held in one hand. “Oh?”
He strode toward her. “My brother and mother are downstairs, waiting for us in the dining room.”
“Really?” Moira patted the back of her hair, glad she’d had Harta pin it up. She’d be sure to look her best tonight.
“They’ll journey back to Yemassee Village with us in the morning.”
“They traveled a long way for dinner.”
“There is a reason for it.”
Moira tipped her head. “What is it?”
“The missionaries are with them. They’re excited to…to meet you. They couldn’t wait.”
“Then that means they’re not terribly disappointed I’m not a man.”
“They’re not disappointed. In fact, if I didn’t believe in miracles before, I do now.” Sam cupped her face and placed a kiss on her lips. “Hurry and get dressed, my darling, and we’ll go down for dinner. Wear the dress from your engagement party. I’m partial to it.”
She blushed at his wink and set off to change clothes.
“Have you the token we discussed for my mother? Don’t forget to bring it.”
“I won’t.” Moira eyed the pink dress in her arms and recalled the gold bangle Aunt Aggie had allowed her to wear to that fateful engagement party. Aunt Aggie had thought it too plain for her tastes, but said it suited Moira perfectly. Plain. She willingly offered it up as the gift to present to Sam’s mother. According to tradition, she would either accept or reject it—and Moira—into the Stryker family.
“Mama will like your gift very much.”
“I hope so.” She donned her gown. “And now I need your help.” Moira turned her back to him. “Will you assist me?”
“Of course.” Sam made quick work of fastening the tiny pink buttons. The original task belonged to the ladies’ maids whom Aunt Aggie had hired.
“Finished.” Taking her by the shoulders, Sam spun her around. “You look even more stunning than you did months ago when you first wore that dress.”
“Oh, Sam…” Moira’s cheeks bloomed like Aunt Aggie’s rose garden. “The things you say.”
His eyes darkened.
“Thank you.” Moira was learning to accept his compliments without questioning whether she deserved them. Sam promised his words were not vain flattery. He meant them.
Sam shrugged into his dark-brown frockcoat. He’d dressed in a white shirt and cravat over which he wore a cream-colored waistcoat and breeches. On his feet were black boots that came almost to his knees.
“What a handsome couple we make.” Sam kissed the curve of Moira’s neck and her knees weakened.
“I am so much in love with you that it aches.” Taking him by the lapels of his coat, she pulled him close, speaking close to his mouth. “A shame we can’t beg off dinner and stay here together.”
“Do not tempt me, woman!”
His theatrics made her giggle.
Smiling, he placed a kiss on her lips then offered his arm. Moira threaded her gloved hand around his elbow.
They made their way to the hotel’s dining room on the first floor. Only a handful of patrons were scattered about the room at this early hour. A gentleman with dark hair, suntanned face, and dusty brown suit was the first to greet them.
He and Sam embraced and slapped each other on the back.
“Moira, this is my brother, Asher.”
She gave him a polite curtsy. “Mr. Stryker.”
He bowed. “But, please, you must call me Asher. You are my sister now.”
“Very well…Asher.”
He looked back at Sam. “You look no worse for wear, my brother.”
“You look well also.”
“I am.” He smiled so broadly, Moira could practically count all his even, white teeth. “I will soon become a father. My wife, Nizhoni, is great with child.”
“Congratulations!” Sam chuckled and put an arm around Asher. “I take it your wife stayed at the village.”
“Yes. It is too close to her time.”
Moira caught sight of the woman standing in the shadows. Sam’s mother? She, too, had dark hair like Asher.
As Moira watched the other woman, she thought her demeanor bespoke of her discomfort at the waiting. Moira tugged on Sam’s arm and indicated toward her likely mother-in-law.
“Mama!” Sam led Moira toward her, and the woman stepped from the shadows. “I’d like to introduce my wife, Moira.”
The woman gave a nod.
Moira curtsyed. “I have a gift for you. I hope you will like it.” She whispered up a prayer that it would be so.
The native woman examined the gold bracelet with a stoic expression and for several long moments Moira feared she’d think it the same plain thing that Aunt Aggie did. But then a smile split her face and she pushed the bracelet over her wrist.
“I accept your gift, my daughter.” She kissed Moira on one cheek then the other. “You shall call me Meda. You have brought my son back to me, just as I predicted.” She turned to Sam. “You chose your wife wisely.”
Moira wanted to laugh. The circumstances which brought them together had nothing to do with “wise choices.”
“Nay, Mama, ’twas God who brought Moira to me, and God who brought me home.”
The older woman’s dark eyes fixed on Moira. “Again, I thank you, my daughter.”
Her words were salve on Moira’s wounded heart. “It is I who thank you. I love Sam very much.”
“I can see that what you say is true.” The woman glanced over her shoulder. “But now it is time to meet the missionaries who came to us in the winter months. They, too, believed their daughter was lost, but learned she is alive.”
“How wonderful for them.” A slight twist of envy pinched Moira.
She followed Meda across the dining room to where a gray-haired man sat opposite a woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat. The man stood and Moira’s legs turned to gelatin. If it weren’t for Sam’s arm around her waist that suddenly seemed to hold her up, she’d surely be a heap on the darkly-stained floor.
“Papa?” It couldn’t be. He and Mum were dead.
Weren’t they?
Moira swung her gaze to Sam, who wore a broad smile. “Your grand surprise.”
She could barely breathe.
Papa rushed forward and pulled Moira into a snug embrace. His familiar woodsy scent enveloped her, and she heard him weep. “You are a sight to behold.” He gently pushed her back and peered into her face. “And how lovely you’ve grown over these many months.”
Moira blinked. Her mouth went dry. Lovely? Papa thought she was…lovely?
The slender woman wearing the hat turned, and Moira glimpsed her partially disfigured face. The fire.
“Mum?” She ran to her. “Mum…oh, Mum!” A sob escaped as they embraced.
Mum wept softly against Moira’s shoulder.
“I thought you and Papa both perished.”
“We assumed the same thing about you,” Mum said.
“But why didn’t you come for me?” She stepped back and turned to Papa.
“I did return, but it was two days later. Your mother stay
ed behind at the hospital as she needed medical care.” Sorrow filled his gaze. “I asked everyone, but no one had seen you or knew of your whereabouts. Before long, I needed to evacuate for fear of another uprising. Your mother spent many months in the hospital, and once she was well enough to travel, the Missions Board sent us to America.”
“And what of you, Moira?” Mum asked. “Where have you been?”
“In England. The doctors said I was in shock. And I don’t remember anything other than bits and pieces until finally came to my senses at Uncle Tyrus’s home.” She pulled back and extracted her hankie from her reticule.
“Tyrus?” A deep frown settled on Papa’s brow. “But we contacted him. He didn’t tell us you were there.”
“He didn’t tell me you were alive either.” Moira pushed back her shoulders. “And he was about to marry me to a monster! Furthermore, Uncle Tyrus spent much of my inheritance with riotous living.”
Papa’s face reddened.
“But then Sam rescued me.” Moira stretched out her hand and Sam stepped forward. “Papa, I want you to meet my husband.”
“It’s an honor, sir.” He gave a polite bow.
“Likewise, sir.”
The men shook hands.
Papa puffed out his chest a bit. “Moira’s mother and I are well-acquainted with your family. We have prayed diligently for her ‘prodigal son.’” Papa chuckled. “I never dreamed he was my son-in-law.”
Sam grinned. “God does work in mysterious ways, does He not?”
Mum laughed softly despite the obvious tears of joy in her eyes.
Papa turned to Moira. “I will deal with my brother Tyrus.”
“Don’t bother, Papa. Sam helped me collect most of my inheritance before we left England. I’m sure Uncle Tyrus wasn’t left with much if any money at all. Let that be his just desserts.”
“Nay, daughter. The law ought to be involved.”
“I would ask you to leave the matter alone, sir. At least for now.” Sam placed his hand on the small of Moira’s back and glanced around the room. “I, too, had a mission, and it would be best if we did not alert British authorities.”
The storm in Papa’s gaze dissipated. “Ah, yes, well…then we shall let it be for the time being.”
Asher politely seated his mother at the table behind Mum and Papa.
“Shall we sit also?” Sam indicated the empty chairs around the same table.
He seated Mum first and then held a chair for Moira. When Sam sat down, Moira glanced at the faces around the table. She’d gone from feeling alone in the world to having a loving husband and now an entire family, complete with her own parents and a niece or nephew on the way.
God certainly had done exceeding, abundantly, and above all she’d asked or ever thought possible.
“To God be the glory!” Papa said exuberantly.
“Hear, hear!” Sam chuckled. Reaching beneath the table, he took hold of Moira’s hand. She gave him a smile.
“Yes, indeed,” she murmured. “To God be the glory!”
The End
Keep reading for a sneak peak at
By
Andrea Boeshaar
Chapter One
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
August, 1899
“I’ve brought the remainder of the ledgers as you’ve requested madam, but I fail to see why a lady of your standing should have need of them.”
“I’m sure you do.” Lydia Easton fought off a scowl at Lester Walden as he deposited several books on her deceased husband’s desk. She clenched her fists so tightly the tips of her fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her palm. “And you maintain that all of my husband’s debts have been paid in full?” She sent what she hoped was a stern glance toward the balding accountant.
The rotund man puffed out his chest. “Why, yes. They are always paid on a timely manner.”
“Good.” She folded her arms and narrowed her gaze. “Then perhaps you’d like to tell me why this attorney—a Mr. Jesse Garnet—is suing me for such an exorbitant amount of money? Did my husband owe him the sum?”
“I’m not the one to ask for details, madam.” Walden’s voice dripped with condescension. “That would be Mr. Crubbs’ department. He’s your attorney.”
“I’m well aware of his position and I’ve already sent for Mr. Crubbs.” Lydia began to pace in front of her deceased husband’s mammoth, mahogany desk. “Do you not understand that I cannot return to England until this matter is satisfied?”
“Yes, ma’am, but there’s nothing I can do about it. As I said”—he spoke as if Lydia were a dull-witted child—“you must consult Mr. Crubbs.”
“I will. You can be sure of it.” Another swindler. “Very simply I needed to hear from your lips that my husband’s debts have been paid and all accounting is up to date.”
“They have and it is, Mrs. Easton.”
She tried not to wince at the surname. She rued the day she married Orwell Easton. But Father believed it was a good match and all of Lydia’s friends were happily married and raising families of their own. Spinsterhood lurked, so she accepted the marriage proposal.
Little did she know then the horrors that awaited her in the United States of America.
As if he’d commanded it from the grave, Lydia’s gaze slid upward to Orwell’s portrait. The oil on canvas hung above the mantle like a tribute to a great man. In fact, there were portraits of Orwell throughout the house. Some depicted the man with his favored hounds. Another with his prize race horse, the very animal Orwell shot and killed after the stallion failed to win the Milwaukee Derby.
Lydia often wondered why Orwell hadn’t put a gun to her head.
She set her jaw and refocused on the portrait. She’d ordered all of Orwell’s portraits burned, but obviously had forgotten this one.
She tasted bile. In this particular painting, Orwell sat in an upholstered armchair, his bookshelves in the background. His stormy countenance seemed to mask his contempt of her; Lydia knew the expression well. She closed her eyes, fighting back the memories which threatened to undo her resolve. Nearly seven months had passed since Orwell died which meant she was no longer a victim of his cruel reign.
No. Now Lydia was free. Free from the man’s rants, beatings, and barbarous possessions of her body. It had taken her a good three months to get a grip on her emotions and stop fearing Orwell would somehow return from the dead. Of course, Mother would tell her to read God’s Word, but Lydia could not. The words meant nothing. Where had her mother’s God been when Orwell terrorized her? There was not protection like Daniel the prophet experienced in the lion’s den. Unfortunately, Lydia was mauled by the animal who had been her husband.
She shuddered and turned away so the accountant wouldn’t see her emotion. She had to keep herself together long enough to dismiss this despicable man.
Like the way she’d let go of the rest of Orwell’s dishonest, rude, and insensitive household staff before hiring her own people.
It was long past the time for this accountant to go and Orwell’s attorney was next on her list. Had she possessed the presence of mind before now, she would have discovered their theft sooner. Thousands of dollars had been skimmed from Orwell’s accounts—accounts that now belonged to her. Moreover, certain valuables in the house had mysteriously disappeared.
For the latter, Lydia suspected the previous staff helped themselves to what was legally hers. How dare they steal from her! She deserved every cent of her inheritance after suffering two grueling years of marriage.
“Yes, Mr. Easton would have approved of my systematic accounting,” Walden said. He stared up at Orwell’s portrait. “He always did, you know.”
Lydia cast a glance at Mr. Walden. She had been a fool to trust him and Mr. Crubbs, except she’d been so vulnerable after Orwell’s death and Walden and Crubbs had seemed so…fatherly.
But they’d deceived her.
She pushed back her shoulders. “Your services are no longer required, sir. You are, as of th
is moment, no longer in my employ.”
“What? You cannot dismiss me like you did Mr. Easton’s household staff! Why, I’ve been his accountant for more than twenty years!” Walden sputtered like a dying locomotive. “Your husband retained me for life.”
“Unfortunately for you”—and quite fortunately for her—“Orwell is dead. Furthermore, according to Wisconsin State Law, I have every right to employ or dismiss whomever I please.”
More undiscernable bluster.
“Besides, it was my dowry that put my husband’s figures in the black, was it not?”
“So what if it was?” Walden ground out. “Once he married you, the money belonged to him.”
Lydia placed her hands on her hips. “You’ve been Orwell Easton’s accountant for…for life, as you stated yourself.”
“Yes, but—”
“Orwell was a liar and a cheat. A miscreant to the nth degree.” The words came out with more venom than intended. Yet, they were true. “You, Mr. Walden, are equally as unjust and I want nothing more to do with you.”
“Now, see here, Mrs. East—”
“If not for your sloppy, scheming bookkeeping, I doubt my estate would have a lawsuit threatening it, and I would be on my way back home to England.” Lydia marched toward the accountant. Remarkably, the man cowered. “Get out of my house, you scoundrel. Now!”
The man fled the study, but paused in the black and white tiled entryway. He shook his pudgy forefinger at her. “You will regret this.”
“I doubt it.” Lydia caught sight of Fanny, her nosy but well-intentioned maid and gave her a nod. Fanny straightened to her full height of nearly six feet, smoothed the skirt of her black dress and straightened the white apron pinned to her bodice and tied around her slender waist.
“Allow me to show you the door, Mr. Walden.”
“I know my way,” the man groused.
“Very good, sir.”
Lydia leaned against Orwell’s sturdy desk and hugged herself. One down. One to go.
Fanny entered the darkly paneled study moments later. “You were magnificent, ma’am. You didn’t let that man take advantage of your good graces.”
Give Me Thine Heart: A Novella Page 12
