Hopeful Hearts

by Diann Hunt

  “You two have met?” Father asked with a puzzled grin.

  Titus turned to him. “Yes, in fact, only this afternoon. In the mercantile.”

  Father glanced from Titus to Abigail. “Ah yes, the coffee.” He threw a wink at his daughter. She wanted to throw a towel at him.

  Oh, why did she have to stay and make conversation? She wanted to go to her room. This man made her uncomfortable, though she wasn’t sure why. After all, it wasn’t his fault his presence lifted her to a hazy vision of a crackling hearth on a winter’s day. Goodness, how could those thoughts pop in her mind when she had said good-bye to the love of her life only that morning?

  “Abigail?” Mother was saying.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Everyone looked at her.

  “Would you help me carry the serving dishes to the table, please?”

  “Oh yes.” Abigail quickly ran to help.

  Once the table was laden with an abundance of food, the group settled themselves quite comfortably in the dining chairs, and Father led them in prayer. Titus cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. Abigail wondered of his thoughts toward God. Was he bitter because of his pa’s death and the circumstances in which he now found himself? She’d have to remember to pray for him.

  Amid the clinking of silverware against dinner plates, Abigail felt the conversation moved along at a reasonable pace. Before long, she felt herself actually relax and steal a glance or two at the gentleman seated across from her. So different in appearance from Jonathan, and yet something about him …

  She snapped her cloth napkin back in place at her lap. No matter how nice or friendly he seemed, she would keep her distance. Although she did not want to be unchristian, she would not allow herself another heartache. The more she could avoid their new chauffeur, the better.

  She took a bite of potatoes and glanced up in time to see Titus looking at her. He smiled. She turned away and struggled to swallow.

  Yes, she would avoid him.

  “Titus, did you have a nice dinner?” his ma asked as he settled into the chair and pulled off his boots.

  “Yeah, it was fine, Ma.” He attempted to keep the agitation from his voice.

  He looked up in time to see a frown on Ma’s face. He let out a long breath. “Sorry, Ma. I’m just a little tired.”

  She gave a short nod. “Would you like some tea or coffee?” she asked in a whisper. His sister, Jenny, slept on a mat in the corner of the room.

  “No thanks. I’m going to bed, too.” He rose to his feet, clutching his boots with his right hand.

  “Titus.”

  He winced within. Nothing got past his ma. He looked to her.

  “They’re good people. Things happen beyond our control.”

  He shrugged as if he had no idea to what she was referring.

  Her eyes sparked with understanding. “Bitterness never helped anybody.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ma.”

  “Sit back down.”

  Reluctantly, he complied.

  “I see the blame in your eyes, Titus. Your heart has grown cold. I know your dreams have been put on hold for now—”

  “On hold? Is that what you think, Ma?” His hands slid down his stubbled jaw. “They’re not on hold. They’re gone,” he said with finality.

  “I don’t believe that,” she insisted. “The Lord gave you a love for people and the intelligence to help them. He’ll see that you use your gifts. Trust Him.”

  His jaw clenched. It wasn’t Ma’s fault things turned out this way. He wouldn’t take it out on her.

  “Don’t allow bitterness to separate you from your Lord and your gifts. You’ll have a much different future, son, if you give in to this temptation.”

  “Meaning no disrespect, but I’m going to bed, Ma.”

  She lifted her chin. “Mind you, my prayers will not let you go. I can be as stubborn as you are.” Her expression emphasized her words.

  He lifted a slight smile, walked over to Ma, and kissed her on the forehead. As he started to walk away, she grabbed his arm. “I will bombard heaven till you set things right in your heart, Titus Matthews.”

  “You’re right. You are stubborn.” He winked at her and walked away.

  Once ready to go to sleep, he settled onto his makeshift bed on the floor. The wooden boards that held their tiny home together creaked and groaned with the night winds, reminding him of the depths to which they had fallen. He pulled the thin blanket up around him to shut out the draft seeping through the boards. How could he not be bitter?

  Thoughts of Abigail played upon his mind, adding to his bitterness. Why couldn’t they have met under other circumstances, another time? He couldn’t deny his attraction to her, but he wouldn’t entertain that thought. She was an O’Connor. Plain and simple. And O’Connor was a name he planned to bring down. He didn’t know how or when, but he figured every family had a weak spot, a place of secrets that the outside world didn’t see. His job was to find their weakness and expose them to all of Chicago.

  A cold chill whipped through him. He buried himself deeper into his blanket. Yes, he would bring the proud O’Connor family down.

  Just as they had done to the Matthews family.

  Chapter 3

  Abigail walked onto the porch and glanced up at the moisture-laden clouds. She went back inside and grabbed an umbrella from a tall basket then stepped back outside. A carriage creaked and rattled as it rolled past her house. Neighbors Jack and Nan Forrest waved at Abigail. She returned the greeting. Just then her attention turned to the wheels of another carriage that bit into the hard ground and ultimately came to a halt in front of the porch.

  Titus jumped from his seat and walked over to her. He took off his hat. “Miss O’Connor.”

  “Good afternoon,” she said with a smile. “And please, call me Abigail.”

  His eyes twinkled with pleasure. “Abigail then.” He stood a moment, as if forgetting the task at hand. “Where would you like to go?”

  She smiled. “Have you heard of the work that goes on at Barnabas House, located in the Irish neighborhood?” She didn’t miss the surprise on his face.

  He nodded.

  “I want to go there.” She thought she noticed a look of disapproval flicker upon his face.

  He hesitated. “That’s no place for a lady, Abigail. Are you certain?”

  Why, by giving her such advice, he had quickly taken on an air of familiarity that she wasn’t at all sure she liked. In fact, she felt quite sure she didn’t like it. Her back bristled. Her parents approved of the work at Barnabas House, and she certainly did not need the approval of the family chauffeur. “It is a respected program put on by one of the churches in town. I am certain,” she said with finality.

  His right eyebrow rose, his gaze never leaving her eyes. He looked almost as if he dared challenge her request. Why, of all the nerve. What was his problem? She lifted her gloved hand, letting him know the discussion had ended and he could now help her onto the seat of the open carriage.

  Which he did.

  Once on the seat, she settled in for the ride, straightening her skirt, adjusting her hat, fingering her loose strands of hair back into place. Though it did little good. With the open carriage, her hat barely held her hair in place. She didn’t know what to think of Titus’s response. What was it to him where she went? He wasn’t her husband, after all. She wasn’t about to let the family chauffeur tell her what to do.

  Her shoulders heaved as she sighed. Her Irish temper would get the better of her if she wasn’t careful. It was the one temptation to which she succumbed almost daily. Abigail bit her lip. Why can’t I work past that, Lord? Sophia has the sweetest demeanor, calm, peaceful. I flit around my little world, barking at anything that stands in my way.

  She kept peering to the right of her, being careful not to look at Titus on her left. She gazed absently at the passing scenery. My temper is my thorn in the flesh, I suppose, she thought. With another sigh, she at
tempted to calm herself before arriving to work at Barnabas House.

  The carriage continued, jostling about as it traveled over potholes and ridges in the dirty streets. The scenery had turned from sprawling houses with plush green lawns, pruned bushes, and rambling honeysuckle vines to tattered yards splotched with mud holes, random sprouts of grass, tangled weeds, and overgrown bushes.

  Trash littered the streets, and dirty children played in front of the tenements. Rats searched through discarded debris in hidden alleyways. Hundreds of houses were unconnected with the street sewer. Abigail’s heart bled for her people. The Irish were her people, weren’t they? She shrugged off the doubt. With her red hair and temper, she figured she had to be related.

  God had been merciful to her, placing her at the O’Connors’ front door when she was a mere three days old. Countless times Mother had told her shortly after they found out they couldn’t have children, Abigail had shown up in a basket on their porch. Nothing short of a miracle. Abigail smiled at God’s kindness … to all of them.

  She would live her life in thankfulness to Him by helping the Irish immigrants. Even if they weren’t her blood relatives, the O’Connors were related, and well, she was an O’Connor.

  That was enough for her.

  Titus pulled the carriage to a stop, and Abigail waited for him to help her down. Once they walked a few feet, the stench from the stables wafted over her, taking her breath away. She wanted to grab a handkerchief but didn’t want to offend the people. She told herself she could do this.

  Helping her over some mud holes, Titus saw her to the edge of the property.

  “Thank you, Mr. Matthews.”

  “Please, it’s Titus.”

  “Titus,” she repeated. “I’ll most likely be here an hour or so. You might check back around five o’clock?”

  “I have nothing else to do. I’ll wait here.”

  She had a sneaking suspicion he was playing the guardian again, but distracted by the poverty, she left his comment alone. “As you wish.” She stepped past him and made her way through the door.

  Dark with shadows, the room smelled of sweat and dirt. The outside stench seeped sparingly through the open cracks. Despair met her through the eyes of the people. Abigail mentally rolled up her sleeves. First thing on her agenda was to make the place look happy. The former drawing room needed paint. Lots of it.

  “Abigail O’Connor?” a masculine voice called beside her. She turned to him.

  The man had raven black hair and a charming smile, and hidden only slightly behind wired spectacles were blue eyes that sparkled like Lake Michigan on a sunny day. She liked him instantly.

  “Hello. I’m Christopher Doyle, director of Barnabas House.”

  “Hello, Mr. Doyle.”

  “Please, call me Christopher.” Before she could comment, he continued. “Might I call you Abigail?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m afraid there’s not much need for formalities here.” His gaze swept around the room, causing Abigail to do the same. He turned back to her. “I understand you have a teaching certificate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Once the children return from school, we need someone to help them with their studies.”

  She nodded with understanding.

  “Let’s go over to the table where we can talk.” He led the way. “Would you like some coffee?” he called over his shoulder.

  “No thank you.”

  They arrived at a wooden table marred and nicked with use. Christopher pulled out a seat for her. “We have five bedrooms upstairs where the cook, the cleaning lady and her child, and a couple of other workers stay. I have a room in the basement since I’m the only man.” He smiled. “Neighbors come in for various supplies. Before handing out health items, we teach them about taking care of their bodies. With the distribution of free food, we discuss nutrition and proper eating. We cover the importance of being good neighbors and reaching out to those around us in need. They come to us to learn what job opportunities are available in the city, and we try to find the best jobs for them.”

  Abigail couldn’t imagine such poverty with people struggling to afford the dilapidated dwellings she had witnessed in the neighborhood.

  “I wish we could do more,” Christopher said, looking absently ahead. He blew out a frustrated sigh and turned a weak smile her way. “The main thing is to get them off the streets, working, and into homes.”

  Abigail nodded.

  “Well,” he said, smacking the table with his hands, “that’s where you come in.” His broad smile was back. He then led Abigail to a group of five children, thin, wide-eyed, fair-skinned, with assorted freckles sprinkled across their noses. Her heart melted at the sight of them. Christopher introduced Abigail. They eagerly pulled out their school slates. The more talkative ones began chattering about their school assignments. Christopher smiled then let her commence to work. She hardly noticed when he walked away. The children had already captured her attention. And her heart.

  Titus grabbed a cup of coffee from a nearby store while he waited for Abigail. He passed some time talking with the neighborhood men, who groused about no work and poor living conditions. Titus barely tolerated the strong coffee but managed to get it down just the same. He had to agree the Irish neighborhood conditions were worse than what he and his family had to endure.

  Of course, with people like Abigail O’Connor to help them …

  He ignored the dip of his heart with the thought of her. His thoughts turned smug. Abigail O’Connor and her charity work. Just like her father trying to salve his conscience by hiring me, most likely she, too, has something to hide.

  He would find out their weakness. It might take some time, but if he remained patient, they would crumble. He’d see to that.

  After a while, he went back to the carriage and waited in his seat. The front doors finally creaked open, and his head jerked up.

  “Thank you, again, Abigail, for your fine help today. I can see the children have immediately taken to you,” the man beside her was saying. Abigail smiled at him and waved good-bye. The sight of the man standing beside her brought an uncomfortable twist to Titus’s gut. He jumped from his carriage seat and went over to escort her.

  “Have you been waiting all this time?” Abigail asked.

  “I went down the road and had some coffee, talked with a few of the neighbors.”

  Abigail looked at him for a moment. A pleasant smile came to her lips.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she said as he helped her into the carriage. “We do have one more stop. I need to check on my gramma. She has been ill lately.”

  “All right. How do I get there?”

  Abigail gave him directions, and soon they were on their way. Titus could see his days were going to be filled with carting Abigail around town. The horses clip-clopped their way through the dusty streets, and his mind wandered to the man at Barnabas House. He seemed a mite too friendly, to Titus’s way of thinking. But then what was that to him? It’s not like he cared one way or another how friendly the man was to Abigail. Two reformers. They deserved each other.

  Maeve O’Connor lifted hooded eyes to her granddaughter. “Good day to ye, Abigail darling,” she said with a voice frail and thin as she settled into her deep chair.

  Abigail slipped off her hat and crossed the floor to her gramma. Thin arms wound about Abigail’s neck, and kisses pressed into the top of her burnished curls. The smell of medicines and sickness surrounded Abigail in the embrace. Once they parted, Abigail scooted a chair closer to the old woman.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Ah,” Gramma said with a wave of her hand, “’tis better I’m getting. The doctor says this pneumonia won’t kill me.” She shrugged. “’Tis me old, worn-out body takes a long time to mend, it does.” A smile lit her lips and reflected in her eyes.

  “I miss you, Gramma.”

  “And I be missing ye, too, Abigail darling.” Then, as if to dism
iss sentimentality, Gramma picked up a lighthearted voice. “So, tell me now about ye chauffeur. I saw him when the carriage pulled up.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  “Gramma, you’ve been spying!” Abigail said with a giggle.

  Gramma shrugged with mischief. “’Tis true,” she admitted shamelessly. “And what else is it that an old woman is to do when she be bored?”

  Abigail laughed again. “He is Titus Matthews.”

  “Quite the laddie,” Gramma encouraged, all the while studying Abigail’s face.

  “Not a possibility,” Abigail said, shaking her head. “I’m through with men.” She used a carefree tone so as not to worry Gramma. She figured there was no need for anyone to know the depth of truth to her statement.

  Gramma studied her a moment. “God has a plan, Abigail darling. Ye must trust Him.” She pointed a bony finger toward her. A fit of coughing followed, causing Abigail to run for a glass of water. Once the coughing stopped, Abigail pushed the water to Gramma.

  Abigail stayed close to her, dabbing at her face with a cool cloth. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Gramma raised a smile. “Ah, I be fine.”

  Abigail spent a pleasurable hour talking with Gramma and telling her about the work at Barnabas House.

  As evening fell upon the city, Abigail kissed her gramma good-bye and walked toward the door.

  “Abigail?” Gramma called.

  She turned. “Yes?”

  “I’ll be asking ye the same question ye asked me, wee one. Are ye sure ye be all right?”

  “I’m fine, Gramma. I’m fine.” With that, Abigail turned and walked through the door. Her eyes locked with Titus’s, and she prayed it was so.

  Chapter 4

  By the time the carriage rolled to a stop, Abigail felt thankful to be home. She yawned just before climbing down, the lantern on the carriage lighting the way. A soft yellow light spilled from the house onto the outside lawn, giving Abigail some ability to see where she stepped. A small wail sounded behind the bushes.

  “What’s that?” Abigail stopped in her tracks, her finger pressed against her lips. Titus listened. Another cry. Together they edged forward, careful not to get too close to the bush. “I think something is back there and it’s hurt,” she whispered. With caution, she pulled apart a cluster of the bush and peered in. There sat a mutt covered in long, white hair with patches of brown thrown in seemingly as an afterthought. A blob of disheveled fur lopped over one eye, while his tongue drooped rather disgracefully from his mouth. Abigail glanced at his front paw. The bone poked in an odd angle.