by BJ Hoff
“If you didn’t,” Edward Fitch shot back, “you know who did. But you’ll confess to them, all the same—and retract the accusations. Then you’ll admit to your abuse of Mary Lambert and make arrangements to pay for the support of your illegitimate children—say, through a trust fund. I can assist you with that matter this very afternoon.”
Warburton looked as if he might keel over from a massive stroke at any moment. Edward Fitch, however, was not quite finished. He made a clucking sound with his teeth, then said, “You know, Warburton, you very likely could have saved yourself a great deal of trouble by simply agreeing to what Andrew Carmichael asked of you in the first place. If you had consented to pay for the support of your own children, more than likely no investigation would have ever taken place. I must say, that was quite foolish on your part.”
By now, Frank was growing impatient with all this gentlemen’s blather. “So what’s it goin’ to be, Warburton? A cell or a retraction?”
Warburton ignored him, directing his reply to Edward Fitch instead. Frank decided that he must like lawyers better than cops.
“If I do this, I’ll lose everything,” Warburton whined. “I’ll have to leave town, my ministry—”
“Your ministry?” Frank burst out. He couldn’t help himself. The man was either a fool or a lunatic.
Warburton leveled a look of pure hatred on him, but Fitch redirected the man’s attention. “Well, you’re right about losing everything, of course. And as you might have realized, that’s exactly what we want and expect.”
Warburton sat leaning on his elbows, his fingers laced in front of his face. “You’ll guarantee I can…leave…if I do what you ask? There will be no jail time?”
Fitch sat forward a little. “You can leave. About the jail time—well, that depends on what you get yourself into wherever you land next, now doesn’t it?”
The man’s shoulders finally sagged, as did his features. “All right. I’ll do it. Not because I’m guilty, you understand, but I can see you’re resolved to frame me.”
“Whatever you say,” Fitch said. “Now, I don’t believe either Sergeant Donovan or I are in any particular hurry. We’ll wait for you to write your statement. We’ll need two signed copies, by the way. But take your time.”
Warburton obviously knew he’d lost. Fishing some stationery from his desk drawer and a pen from its holder, he began to write. Frank sat watching, knowing Fitch had been right about the probability of Warburton’s getting off. A sharp lawyer in New York City could get a man acquitted of just about anything, including murder. But he didn’t like letting this slime get away with what he had done.
On the other hand, perhaps losing his reputation, his fortune, his fancy house—maybe even his rich wife—might be more punishment for a man like Warburton than a jail cell would ever be.
Frank fervently hoped so.
In his study, Andrew Carmichael prepared to write a letter of his own. He had known for some time now that he had to do this. The way the word truth kept insinuating itself into his life and his thoughts was no coincidence, he was certain.
He had seen the way lies had nearly destroyed Natalie Guthrie. And deceit—along with some abnormal appetites—had turned Robert Warburton into a veritable monster.
But that wasn’t all. On a daily basis now, every Scripture Andrew turned to, every book he read, seemed to emblazon the word truth on his conscience and in his heart. How much clearer did God have to make it?
The Lord was relentlessly pressing the need for this letter upon him, and he dared not delay any longer. For Bethany’s sake, he dreaded its almost inevitable consequences. To spare her the shame and humiliation, though she would certainly object, he would try to convince her to break their engagement.
That prospect hurt most of all. Andrew thought he could lose everything he had without half the pain that losing Bethany would bring him. But if he kept Bethany and continued to live in the shadows of a sordid past, wouldn’t their relationship eventually suffer from it? No, he had to tell the truth, no matter the cost.
He saw now that the damage to him and his reputation wasn’t entirely due to the rumors or the accusatory letters. It came from half-truths and his unwillingness either to deny the accusations—which of course he couldn’t do—or else bare his soul and admit there was indeed some truth in the letters and the rumors. He needed to tell the whole story and trust the Lord for what would happen next—though he was fairly certain he already knew.
With a heavy heart but a convicted conscience, Andrew Carmichael locked his study door, sat down at his desk, and began to write.
Bethany knocked lightly on the closed door to Andrew’s study, but there was no response. She waited another moment before trying again, thinking he might be in conference with a patient. When there was no answer to her second attempt, she spoke his name.
“I’m busy right now, Bethany. I’ll be out later.”
His voice sounded weak and tight, as if he were either ill or under a great deal of strain.
“Are you all right, Andrew?”
In the same peculiar tone, he replied, “Yes, of course. I just need some time alone, please.”
Disturbed and a little hurt, she hesitated, then finally walked to the waiting room door and ushered an elderly woman, one of their two waiting patients, into the examining room. By the time she’d completed the examination and that of the next patient, a young woman from Russia who spoke only a few words of English, Bethany expected to find the door to Andrew’s study open.
But it wasn’t. By now she was growing uneasy. Andrew had never shut himself off from her this way, not for so long a time and certainly not without an explanation. After everything that had happened over the past few days, she didn’t know what to think. Andrew had been so different lately. And despite her earlier resolve, she couldn’t keep the doubts from her mind.
She hated herself for doing so, but she went to check the pharmacy cabinet in his examining room. Before she could unlock it to see if anything was amiss, however, she pressed her face between her hands and ordered herself to stop.
She deliberated only a few more seconds before again going to the closed door of his study and knocking firmly. “Andrew? Please, may I come in?”
After a long hesitation, he replied in a voice so quiet she had to strain to hear. “Not just yet. I’ve something I need to finish.”
Now she was frightened. In spite of the disgust she felt for what she was about to do, Bethany went back to the examining room and unlocked the cabinet that held their supply of narcotics and other drugs. There didn’t seem to be anything missing. But something was obviously going on in Andrew’s office—something he didn’t want her to know about.
She stood in the hall, staring at the closed door. Then, her decision made, she tossed off her apron and left the building.
Frank Donovan had returned to the station house with one of Warburton’s signed confessions in hand. The knowledge that the lying trickster would be out of town before the week ended was little comfort, but he knew he had to let it go. At least this guaranteed that no silver-tongued attorney would get the serpent off scot-free.
And maybe, just maybe, once she realized Warburton was out of her life for good, Mary Lambert would be able to heal and begin a new life. He was considering asking Miss Fanny Crosby to call on her. The woman made him uneasy with her constant urgings to “accept the Lord,” but Frank somehow knew Miss Fanny would do everything she could to help Mary. It was known all about the city that the little blind woman was more than a famous writer of hymns. She was also a good one to call if you needed help.
Come to think of it, maybe he’d best pay a little more attention himself to what Miss Fanny had to say. It couldn’t hurt. He’d been so mired of late in the disgusting goings-on of the likes of Robert Warburton and some of the other filthy rabble he encountered on his job that he was beginning to feel a bit soiled himself. And it wouldn’t be making any sort of commitment just to listen, after all.<
br />
He was leaning back against the counter, reading through the confession for the third time, when Bethany Cole walked in.
“Well, now,” he said, straightening and doffing his hat. “I’d ask what a lovely lady like yourself is doin’ in a place like this, if I didn’t know that you often venture into worse places, Lady Doc. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He took a closer look at her and saw that she was in no mood for his teasing.
When Bethany saw Frank Donovan leaning against the counter in the crowded police station, his usual smirk in place, she had to remind herself of everything the big Irish policeman was doing to help Andrew. Even so, at the moment she had no patience for his sarcasm.
“I think I might need your help,” she said.
Donovan stood watching her, twirling his hat on the tip of one finger. “You’ll understand if I seem a bit surprised to hear that, Dr. Cole. By the way, the Warburton business has been taken care of. Doc’s going to be all right. But what is it that brings you here?”
“It’s Andrew,” Bethany said, so tense she was sure her nails must be drawing blood from her clenched hands.
He stilled, his expression instantly changing to one of concern. “Something’s happened to Doc?”
“I don’t know,” Bethany said, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice. “I need you to come with me. I’m afraid there’s something wrong. Will you come? I’ll explain on the way.”
Donovan’s dark eyes probed hers as he pushed away from the counter. “Is Doc all right?”
Bethany looked at him, fighting to hold off the fear closing in on her. “No. I mean, I don’t know.”
Donovan caught her arm and shouldered their way through a group of officers gathered by the door. “Over here,” he said, propelling her toward a police wagon directly across the street.
Andrew stared in confusion as Bethany and Frank Donovan came bursting through the door of the waiting room and stood looking at him.
“Bethany?” She had the most peculiar look.
“Frank?” His friend, too, appeared somewhat bewildered.
“Andrew, are you all right?” said Bethany.
“Of course, I’m all right,” he answered her. “Why?”
“You sure, Doc?” Frank put in before Bethany could reply.
“What’s going on with you two? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Do I look that bad?”
He watched as Frank took a deep breath. “You look a bit peaked, to tell you the truth, Doc.”
“Well, I might be a little tired, that’s all,” said Andrew. “What are you doing here, Frank? Aren’t you on duty?”
“Oh, aye. I am. But—” Frank stopped, darting a glance at Bethany, who was still studying Andrew.
“Are you quite sure nothing’s wrong, Andrew?” she said.
He frowned, then decided to go ahead and tell them about the letter he’d just posted.
Frank looked as if he might be sick, and Bethany turned pale.
“Doc,” Frank said, “there was no need to do that. We’ve got a full retraction from Warburton. The papers will print it, I’ll make sure of that. You needn’t have written a word!”
Bethany said nothing, but simply stood watching.
“I had to, Frank,” said Andrew. “I couldn’t defend myself as things were. Part of those letters to the editor were true. You know that. I was an addict.”
“Even so, Doc, nobody ever had to know, not with Warburton owning up to what he did. And he’ll be gone—out of your life—in a day or two.” Frank actually looked woeful when he repeated, “Nobody would have had to know, Doc.”
“I knew,” Andrew said. “And I’m asking both of you to try to understand. I couldn’t live with myself any longer. I’ve concealed this part of my past for years. I’ve let it eat at me too long as it is. I think it would eventually have poisoned me.”
He turned to Bethany. “I’m so sorry, Bethany. I know this is going to make things harder for you, but I simply had to do it.”
To his amazement, a slow smile broke over her face.
“What?” he said.
She shook her head. “I’m just so—proud of you.”
Andrew stared at her. So did Frank Donovan.
“Proud of me?” Andrew said.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, still smiling. “Very proud. It took real courage to write that letter.”
Frank looked from one to the other. “It wasn’t necessary,” he insisted sourly.
Bethany turned to him. “I think it was, Frank. For Andrew, it was crucial.”
“So you do understand,” said Andrew.
She nodded and stretched to kiss him on the cheek. “I understand. And I think you’re the bravest, most honest man I’ve ever known.”
“Too honest for his own good, I’m thinkin’,” groused Frank Donovan.
“Oh, stop it, Frank!” said Andrew. “You big phony. You don’t fool me anymore. You’re not half as tough as you want everyone to think. At heart, you’re just like me.”
Frank Donovan couldn’t have looked more surprised if Andrew had struck him. The look of total incredulity on his face actually made Bethany—and then Andrew—laugh.
“Well,” Bethany said, “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
Frank’s ruddy face had turned a deeper shade than usual. He put on his hat, then took it off again. “If you think you had to do it, Doc,” he finally said, “I suppose that’s good enough for me.” He hesitated, then said, “When are you two getting married anyway?”
They both spoke at once.
“Soon,” said Andrew.
“Next week,” said Bethany.
“Time to go,” said Frank Donovan as he hurried out the door, banging his shoulder against the wall in his rush.
Andrew turned to Bethany. “Next week?”
She nodded. “Absolutely.”
Andrew took her by the shoulders and allowed himself to be drawn into her gaze. “Next week,” he said. “Absolutely.”
30
WHEN GOD HAPPENS
Through many dangers, toils, and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.
JOHN NEWTON
No, Mum! I can’t stay home today. I already explained all this to you. I promised Mrs. Dempsey and Miss Susanna I’d for certain work today, tomorrow, and Saturday. There’s extra to be done for the family because of Easter.”
Vangie MacGovern threw up her hands in resignation—and no small measure of frustration—at her daughter’s reply. “What about your family? Or don’t we matter at all, now that you’ve got yourself such a fine job up at the Big House?”
She was irked by the way Nell Grace stood looking at her, hands on her hips, her mouth pursed in impatience.
“Am I not giving you enough of my wages, Mum? You know very well I’m not doing this for myself!”
Not waiting for Vangie to answer, she grabbed her sewing bag off the kitchen table and left the house, letting the door swing shut behind her with a thud.
Vangie tried to ignore the sense of shame that stole over her in the wake of their argument. In all fairness, Nell Grace had been more than generous with the money she earned. The girl hadn’t a selfish bone in her body, and that was the truth. She helped fix breakfast for the children before she left for the hill in the morning, and after working a full day, she would come home to start supper for the rest of them, help the twins with their homework, bathe Emma, and do whatever was needed until bedtime.
But the girl was no help at all with the baby. And that was the source of Vangie’s resentment, although she wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone but herself. It seemed that everyone in the family was usually too busy to help with the babe, leaving almost the entire responsibility to her.
Something at the edge of her thoughts whispered that she was the baby’s mother, after all. What did she expect? And what was wrong with her anyway, that af
ter all this time she still hadn’t the energy—or the desire—to care for her own child?
She told herself it was the fatigue, the continual exhaustion that had gripped her like a vise ever since she’d given birth.
And ever since she’d learned of Aidan’s death.
Some mornings she actually got out of bed with the full intention of doing better, telling herself that today she would get back to being the kind of wife and mother she had once been. She vowed she would clean the house and cook Conn a nice noonday meal and spend more time with the babe and little Emma. Perhaps she would even fix herself up a bit, put on a pretty dress that Conn favored.
And in truth, she should have been able to do just that. She was stronger now. She could feel her health coming back. But by midmorning, after nursing the baby and putting him back to bed, her good intentions would disappear. The weariness and feelings of infirmity would send her back to her chair by the window, where she would sit and watch Emma play for the next few hours until Conn came in. Then she would get up and fix him and Emma a bite to eat, tend to the babe again and, after Conn was gone, put both little ones down for a nap. And then she would sleep—that is, when the baby allowed her to sleep.
The trouble was, the wee mite was restless and slept only fitfully. Lately he’d been colicky, and Vangie sometimes caught herself pressing her hands over her ears, unable to bear his feeble but piercing cries another moment. She would even shriek at him to be quiet, but the sound of her raised voice only made him scream that much louder. Yesterday he’d scarcely slept at all, and every time he cried, Vangie had also dissolved into a fit of weeping that left her limp as a scrub rag, her nerves completely raw, by suppertime.
Even then, Nell Grace made no attempt to take over the wee one’s care. She busied herself in the kitchen after their meal, leaving the babe to Vangie.
As for Renny, she was worthless entirely where the babe was concerned. How a girl almost grown could be afraid of a tiny babe was beyond understanding, but that was definitely the case with Renny Magee. She simply wouldn’t hold him at all unless she was forced into it, much less change a didy or give him a bath.
