12
David let Evelyn’s dirty plate clatter onto the sink’s ledge but immediately cringed. Scott’s rest shouldn’t be disturbed because he was frustrated with the boy’s caretaker.
“What’s the matter?”
David startled. He hadn’t expected Mr. Hargrove to be sitting in the parlor off the kitchen. The older man had turned in before he’d gone in to talk to Evelyn to try to convince her one last time to let him sit up with Scott for the night. “What do you mean?”
“You’re shaking your head and mumbling.”
He let out a sad laugh. “Just trying to figure out what’s wrong with women.”
“Nothing much wrong with them, actually. They’re quite nice to have around.” Mr. Hargrove smiled wide. “Though maybe since I had a wife and five girls, women no longer feel quite as mysterious to me as they were when I was your age.”
“But did they ever tell you to stop being nice? That isn’t exactly explainable behavior.”
“Ah, Miss Wisely.” Mr. Hargrove looked toward the sickroom. “She does seem to have a habit of pushing men away the second one shows any interest. If you’re going to pursue her, you’re going to have to be sneaky about it, keep her from realizing you’re interested until you’ve won her over. Otherwise you’ll likely end up fighting a losing battle.”
“But I’m not pursuing her. I’m actually just trying to be nice.”
“You’re not pursuing her?” Mr. Hargrove looked genuinely confused.
Had he done something to give his host that impression? David scraped the food off her plate into the trash. “No.”
“Oh.” His wrinkled forehead furrowed. “Well, I’ve only noticed that behavior from her when a young man gets too eager. She’s generally a warm and kind creature to everyone else.”
David dumped Evelyn’s dish into the sink water, and when Mr. Hargrove shuffled out, he began scrubbing. What had he done to make a kind woman act as if being considerate was wrong?
Grief did do funny things though. Maybe Scott’s mother’s death was hitting Evelyn harder than he’d guessed. When Mrs. Rice had died five years ago, he hadn’t exactly been the easiest man to get along with for a few months. Even if she hadn’t been his mother, she was the closest woman to ever being so, and he’d grieved her deeply.
If only he didn’t have this innate desire to please people, he probably wouldn’t be taking Evelyn’s moodiness so personally. After finishing the dishes, he moved into the parlor as the clock chimed the half hour.
Mr. Hargrove, again in his chair, turned to look at him. “If you want to go back to sleep, I can wake you if I hear anything.”
“No, that’s all right.” Scott was bound to need him soon. “But I thought you’d gone back to bed.”
“Couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d come out here and pray for the boy. I can see the sunrise through this window.” He pointed to the large picture window in front of him.
The line of houses across the street blotted out the horizon, so it couldn’t be that spectacular of a view.
David glanced at the clock to make sure he wasn’t mistaken about the time. Just past eleven thirty, as he’d thought. “You intend to be up that long?”
The man shrugged. “I might fall asleep, but there’s plenty to pray about.”
David settled into the seat that was now “his,” took up the figures he’d been working on earlier, and put his feet on the hassock. Agonizing over the factory’s goings-on would surely keep him awake long enough to hear when Scott called for him.
He frowned at the calculations he’d left off with and drummed his fingers on the armrest. Did he really need to play with these numbers anymore? He should probably start composing the letter he needed to write his father instead.
Then again, maybe he could just sit and pray with Mr. Hargrove until the sun came up. He laid aside his pencil and paper and sighed.
“What’s on those papers that makes you frown so much?”
“Business projections.” He leaned his head back against the headrest.
“They got you stumped?”
“Not exactly. They’re lining up as I’d hoped, but I’m trying to decide if it’s wise to go against what my father wanted me to do in the first place. Though I’m probably just not stubborn enough to go against him for long.”
“And you don’t want to do as your father wishes?”
“I rarely do, unfortunately.” He’d probably live out his life plagued with ulcers if he couldn’t figure out how to reconcile himself with simply going along with whatever Father wanted. “Though after a bit of protest, I usually end up doing what he wants.”
“I remember that struggle myself. But I clearly remember the day I decided to stop and become my own man.” Hargrove took a sip of whatever he had in the mug beside him. “I was fresh out of high school, with grades that made my father and mother insist I was made for something grand. Law school was their choice. They didn’t take into account I wasn’t the kind of person who liked public speaking or dealing with crowds.”
“So you didn’t go to law school?”
“No, took over a cobbling business.”
“I assume your parents weren’t happy.”
He shook his head. “Never did make much money, since I wasn’t the only shoe repair in town. I had a grand time anyway, married my grade-school sweetheart and got to listen to men spill out their woes while I fixed their soles. My little girls would help me in the shop when they missed me.”
He readjusted himself in his chair, his leg obviously bothering him. “I still have clients come tell me about their lives, and my girls adore me. Just wish most of them hadn’t moved away. Though I don’t blame them, since I encouraged them to support their husbands wherever their dreams took them.”
“And if your son-in-law’s dream was to cook?”
Hargrove took the time to sip his drink before answering. “That’s your dream, is it?”
He shrugged. “It was one of them.”
“That smothered steak was quite good.”
“Thanks.” He tried not to smile like a kid at the praise. He’d cooked for his father plenty of times, and all he’d gotten were a few happy grunts. Definitely no compliments that might encourage him to pursue his silly hobby.
He leaned his head back against his chair again, taking in Hargrove’s humble furnishings. Amateur paintings adorned the walls, likely his daughters’ attempts at art. A few chairs that looked as old as the man who sat in them and a scratched-up table covered with books and newspaper clippings were about all the parlor contained. This man had little yet seemed more content than David or his father. “What did your parents do when you went against their wishes?”
“They got used to it.”
“I’m not sure my father would. Being his only son, if I turn my back on his business, the rift between us would likely grow insurmountable.”
Muffled sounds down the hallway caused him to look at the clock. Nearly twelve fifteen. He pushed out of the chair and took a look at Mr. Hargrove’s mug. “Would you like me to freshen up your coffee when I return?”
“No thanks, I shouldn’t even be drinking this late at night.” He reached out and took a hold of David’s arm. “I’ll pray for you too.”
His father had often said he was praying for him, but it was likely only so his son would see things his way. But Mr. Hargrove’s eyes said the man truly did care about his happiness, despite only knowing him for two days.
“Thank you,” he said, surprised by the lump in his throat that garbled his reply.
Scott’s distant muttering grew insistent, so he left Mr. Hargrove for the back room. If Evelyn was having a hard time keeping him calm, the boy was likely in pain or burning up again. David took a quick side trip into the kitchen to grab a bucket of cold water and more pain powders.
Inside the sickroom, David blinked his eyes as they adjusted to the darkness, but he saw no movement. “Miss Wisely?”
“Mr. Kings—” Scott�
�s voice cracked and broke off.
David made his way to the end of the bed and felt for the boy’s ankle. “Do I need to take you outside?”
“Just . . . need water.”
Where was Evelyn? He felt for the glass on the dresser top and poured Scott a drink as the edges of things came into focus. When he turned to give the boy the glass, he found her. Her upper body lay draped across the bed, one arm hooked across Scott’s middle, her breathing soft with the rhythm of sleep. He touched her back and jiggled her a bit, but she didn’t so much as twitch.
Moving to the other side of the bed, he helped the boy drink. After Scott lay back, exhausted from the effort, David collected the rags that had rolled off the boy. They were quite warm. Evelyn must have fallen asleep almost as soon as he’d left.
The boy’s breathing settled into an even rhythm, but his breaths were nowhere near as deep and steady as Evelyn’s. She couldn’t be comfortable draped as she was, but if he woke her and suggested she go lie down, she’d likely force herself to go back to her constant rag dipping.
He lit a few more candles, traded out Scott’s warm rags with wet, cool ones, and then returned to the parlor. Mr. Hargrove was either asleep or deep in prayer, so he quietly collected his papers and pencil before returning to the sickroom. He settled himself in the room’s other chair and watched the two of them for a few minutes, but neither stirred.
When she woke, she’d likely be mad at herself for falling asleep, but if David stayed awake until she arose, Scott wouldn’t be the worse for it.
In the breathy quiet, he let himself look at Evelyn for a good long while. Her face looked peaceful in the candlelight.
This woman did what she wanted with such conviction, even if she was obnoxious about it. Would doing what he wanted bring him peace, or was he simply going to have to find peace no matter what circumstances he found himself in?
With his legs propped between the footboard’s steel rails, he turned to an empty page to start his letter to Father.
Maybe if he told him what he planned to do with no hint of being willing to compromise, Father might get “used to” his choices like Mr. Hargrove’s and Evelyn’s parents had.
He doubted it. But he had to start somewhere.
13
Evelyn yawned, rubbed her eye, and then jerked her head off the quilt. She winced at the morning light hitting her straight in the face, but she forced her eyes to remain open so she could check on Scott.
The boy was looking down at her, his mouth attempting a smile. “Morning,” he croaked.
How late was it? At least he hadn’t said good afternoon. “How’d you sleep?”
His answer was a noncommittal shrug.
Rubbing at a crick in her neck, she looked about the room. Thankfully neither David nor Mr. Hargrove was there. Had she snored or done anything to call attention to how she’d failed to care for Scott all night long?
She reached up and tilted the timepiece on the dresser toward her. Seven fifteen. Not too late. Hopefully the men hadn’t passed by the open door yet. She reached for the rags that had fallen off Scott’s face. They felt wetter and cooler than she’d expected. She put a hand against his forehead. He wasn’t burning up anymore, though he still had a fever.
Scott rolled his head toward her. “Water?” There was something in his clear gaze that simply melted her worry away.
“Of course.” She got up to grab the pitcher, which didn’t lift as easily as she’d expected. Hadn’t she needed to refill it? Or maybe David had and she didn’t remember. She poured Scott a glass but left it on the dresser when she saw him struggling to sit up. “Let me help you.”
He looked ready to go back to sleep any second, yet he held himself up when she arranged the pillows behind him. When she brought the glass to his lips, he took it and tipped it back himself.
Despite the sores all over his face, she had to force herself not to kiss him on the forehead. He was going to make it!
The boy shakily held out the glass for her to take, smiling back at what must have been a large goofy grin on her face.
She caught a whiff of . . . bacon and a sugary smell. “Can I get you something to eat?” Mr. Hargrove had certainly tried to keep her well fed, but it had felt wrong to eat such sumptuous meals in front of Scott. Her stomach took the time to growl in protest. “More broth or something else?”
“Not now.” He started scratching his cheek.
She grabbed his hand and wrapped it under the covers. “You need to leave your sores alone. They’re already going to scar—don’t make it worse.”
He looked at the exposed part of his arm and frowned. “Are those everywhere?”
She nodded, not knowing how to respond to the utter devastation on his mangled face.
“Can I look in the mirror?”
“That’s not a good idea.” She pushed back the sweaty hair from his forehead, remembering the handsome face the smallpox hid. “I had smallpox when I was three. I don’t remember much about it, but I do remember panicking after catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’ll be honest, you don’t look good, but in a few days the sores will scab and fall off. The doctor says your case is fairly mild. Mine was too. And my scars aren’t too bad, right?”
The boy looked over at her, and she pulled the hair back from the right side of her face. “I have quite a few in my hairline here.” She moved her hands across her face as she pointed out the imperfections she’d cried over when she was younger. “They’re along my eyebrow, and there’s one large one that sits in the crease of my eyelid here, and over on this cheek there’s a line of them. They’ve faded over time.” And her young skin had likely recovered better than most. She wasn’t certain if his getting smallpox at twelve would keep his scars from fading as much as hers, but they’d surely fade some. “And if you look at Mr. Hargrove, he’s got plenty too—that’s why he wears a beard.” She smiled at him. “You’re lucky that one day you’ll have a beard to cover them up. I certainly don’t have that option.”
“I’ve never noticed your scars before.”
She squeezed his arm through the sheet. “They become a part of you, and you’ll stop thinking about them so much after a while.” As long as the scarring wasn’t horrific, anyway. Hopefully Scott’s scarring would be as minimal as hers. But she’d seen older people with significant scarring and even blindness from back when smallpox outbreaks had been more devastating. “And it seems no one focuses on flaws as much as the person who has them, so though you know they’re there, no one else much cares.”
Though of course, no one with any sense of decency pointed out someone’s scars when they saw them, so she pretended most people were like Scott and didn’t notice her scars at all.
“All right, I won’t look.” Scott swallowed hard and dropped his gaze. “What’s going to happen to me now?”
She refluffed his pillows. He hadn’t spoken this much since she’d found him. “You’re going to get better.”
“I mean after that?” His jaw wobbled, and he looked away from her with a sniff.
She stopped messing with his bedding and sat beside him, wishing she could take his hand but not wanting to irritate his sores. “Do you have any other family?”
He shook his head, though he winced with the effort. “I don’t want to be with them.”
“We should probably at least inform them—”
“They never cared about me before. Can’t I go to the orphanage with you?”
“Of course you can.” Since he was such an independent twelve-year-old, she had worried he might not want to. Several boys his age ran around the streets without any oversight, getting into trouble, following the paths of their fathers.
“Could I stay with you forever?”
She smoothed his hair until she could muster up an answer. She couldn’t promise no one would want to adopt him. That was the whole point of the orphanage, to get the children into loving, permanent homes. Granted, not many of the couples who’d come to adopt
an orphan had met Nicholas’s criteria, but a few children had joined a family.
Though every bit of her wanted to promise Scott she’d always be a part of his life, how could she? Nicholas never bothered interviewing anyone willing to adopt except married couples, so the only way Scott could stay with her forever was if no one wanted him, and how could she wish for that? She licked her lips and rustled up a smile. “You’ll be with me as long as I’m able to be with you.”
“Even if that’s forever?”
“You’ll not need me your whole life. Eventually you’ll grow up to be a good, strong man and have a job, and maybe a family of your own.”
“But I can still visit you.”
“Of course, or you could write letters if you move far away.”
“I won’t leave you, Miss Wisely.” Scott grasped her hand and tried to squeeze, though he lacked the strength. “Not ever.”
A tap sounded on the door behind her. Mr. Hargrove leaned heavily on his cane and stood with a book in his free hand. “May I take over? There’s breakfast waiting for you.”
She turned back to Scott. “Do you need to . . .” Well, she supposed he’d have asked for David if he needed help, but after such a long night’s sleep . . .
“I’m fine.” Scott’s eyes were at half-mast, and a contented smile graced his lips.
As much as she wanted to try to get food into him before he drifted back to sleep, he wouldn’t shrivel away in an hour or two.
“I’ve got The Call of the Wild.” Mr. Hargrove limped farther into the room. “Have you read it, son?”
“I haven’t read any books, sir.”
“Well, I thought I’d read it today. Figured you might want to listen.”
Scott nodded his head ever so slightly, and Evelyn took her leave.
“Good morning.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin.
Mr. Kingsman stood in the hallway, looking at her far too intently. His thick blond hair looked damp and freshly combed, and he smelled like the soap Mr. Hargrove used.
When Scott had asked for a mirror, she should’ve thought to at least glance at herself before leaving the room. She probably looked a fright. “Good morning to you.”
A Love So True Page 10
