All The Blue of Heaven (Colors of Faith)

by Carmichael, Virginia

  When the last traces of the journey were gone and the water cool, Allie wrapped herself in a soft gown and went in search of Janey.

  “Is she already asleep?” she whispered, stepping quietly into the room. The bedroom had once been her brother’s and the wallpaper was a soothing pale green. The repeating pattern of ivy vines wrapped around the walls, and yards of sheer lace hung at the windows. Allie glanced toward the large bureau where Matthew once pinned her small sketches to the wood around the mirror. Nothing remained but holes where the pins had been.

  Mrs. Gibson sat on the edge of the bed, holding Janey’s small hand. The girl looked tinier than ever in the large four-poster bed, surrounded by feather pillows. An embroidered coverlet was tucked up to her chin. Her face was peaceful, her mouth slightly open as she breathed, deep and even.

  “Oh, she’s been asleep for quite a while,” Mrs. Gibson whispered, smiling. “She loved the bath but was too tired to try out all the oils, thank goodness. Brushed her hair and got her right into bed.” She paused, her eyes misted over with tears. “I just can’t stop looking at her.”

  Allie sat on the other side of the bed. “Isn’t she perfect?” She brushed Janey’s honey blond hair from her face. “The older she gets, the more she looks like Eleanor. When she was really small, she looked just like Matthew, with his widow’s peak and pointed chin. But now you can see Eleanor’s eyes and her smile.” Allie paused, remembering her brother and his wife, so full of adventure and life.

  “Does she remember them at all?”

  “A few things; a Christmas carol that Eleanor used to sing and Matthew’s whiskers,” Allie said, voice pitched low.

  Mrs. Gibson sighed deeply and patted Janey’s hand. “Poor dear. To have lost so much, at such a young age.”

  Allie nodded. But wasn’t it better to lose them now, when she would hardly remember, than to lose everything as a grown woman? Bitterness rose within her and she closed her eyes. Who knows what is in store for Janey? Maybe there is worse to come. The thought made her ill. She struggled to stay calm and reminded herself that she was safe here. She had brought Janey to the one of the few places where nothing ever happened and nothing changed.

  “You both get some rest.” Mrs. Gibson rose and came around the side of the bed. “I’m so glad you’re home, Miss Allie,” she said, and kissed the top of Allie’s head.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “This is a whole new start. I think there is a fine chance of picking up where you left off.”

  “Where― I left off?” Allie frowned.

  “With Thomas, my dear. He still loves you, I know it.”

  Allie opened her mouth, but didn’t know where to start. How impossibly naive to think they could just start fresh. After all that had happened and their reversals of fortune, they could not just start over. No childhood love, grown under a shady tree and nurtured with silly dreams, could withstand the cold reality of the present. Especially when the present included scars and poverty and bone-chilling doubt.

  “But first, you have to get your strength back. It just won’t do to be fainting around Jane like that.”

  Allie nodded, guilt settling like an icy stone in her stomach. For Janey, she must be strong. Her beloved housekeeper’s misconceptions about Thomas would have to wait.

  Mrs. Gibson tiptoed out of the room, leaving the door open behind her. A few more minutes of watching Janey sleep and Allie rose from the bed with a soft groan. As she collapsed into her own bed, she clung to consciousness for a second longer. She looked at the window, beyond the curtain, to where a branch of the large oak was visible. She shook away the memory. As she slipped gently down into sleep, it wrapped itself around her heart: a midnight rendezvous on that branch in the deep of a star-lit night, gentle but calloused hands and muffled boyish laughter.

  ****

  As soon as Allie trudged upstairs on the arm of Mrs. Gibson, her mother sunk into the corner of the velvet settee. “She is not well enough to care for Janey,” Mrs. Leeds stated. Her voice was weary, her gaze fixed on the far wall.

  Thomas nodded but did not speak. He had seen that she was not well even before her faint in the hallway. No matter how many times she protested that she was simply tired, he knew it was not true. He walked to the long, curtained window and stared out into the dim light of the late August evening, arms wrapped tight against his chest. How strange that evening approached as if this day had been like all the others. His lips twitched as he realized he stood in his favorite spot, gazing out the paned window toward the rose garden. Creatures of habit, he and the sun, pretending nothing is changed. But everything changed when Allie stepped off that train. The reality was as if the devastating California earthquake had reached Chicago.

  Thomas squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and breathed a silent prayer. Lord, help me to help her. Focus my thoughts and my heart. Help me to do Your will, not mine.

  “I know she did not wish to come home,” Mrs. Leeds said. The flat statement hung uncontested in the air between them.

  “She was concerned that she would not be welcome. I do not believe she resisted it as much as you might think. It is still a place where she was happy.” Thomas spoke the words and hoped they were true.

  Thomas turned to her and was struck by the depth of the pain he saw in her eyes. The woman had lost two husbands, a son, and her daughter had returned only after surviving a terrible fire.

  “I will do my best by her and Janey, you know that,” she said, the muscles around her mouth tightening.

  “Yes, I know, but she―” he paused. Allie had always fought to make her own decisions. She would never allow Mrs. Leeds to dictate the course of her life. He did not let the words leave his lips. He thought he had known Allie before and had been wrong. This was their conversation to have, not his. “I must be getting to the Brewers’. You will send for me if there is anything I can do.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Mrs. Leeds reached out a hand and Thomas clasped it in both of his. They had become friends, over the years. Sunday dinner at Bellevue had evolved into a long-standing tradition and her quiet support helped his business thrive. Wordless understanding passed between them in the moment before he took his leave: an unspoken wish that Allie would find health and peace here.

  Thomas hoped it would be simple, but something told him that battles would be fought before true peace would reign in this house.

  ****

  “Oh, Mrs. Gibson, I can’t eat another bite,” Allie said as the housekeeper bustled around the table, moving to put two fried eggs on Allie’s plate.

  “You’re so thin. That may have been the style out West but here in Illinois we like a little roundness, don’t we, Mrs. Leeds?” Mrs. Gibson dropped another fried egg on the thin china plate.

  “Well, we don’t want her to get too round, either,” Mrs. Leeds said.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Mrs. Gibson said and retrieved one of the two eggs.

  Allie shook her head and fought back a laugh. She hated being force fed but she hated fried eggs even more. “That hospital food was just ghastly. And I think I may have to put on another layer of warmth to survive the winter here.”

  “No, no, we’ll get you a thick coat. Too many layers and there won’t be any gentleman callers.” Mrs. Gibson shook her finger, bright blue eyes twinkling amid the wrinkles.

  Janey giggled, her small face bearing the traces of the blackberry jam.

  “Now, Mrs. Gibson, let’s not look too far ahead,” Allie warned.

  “She’s perfectly right, Alberta. You need to be thinking of the callers who will be sure to visit. You were always very popular,” her mother said. Her rose colored silk dress was perfectly pressed. As she spread butter on the toasted bread, she carefully swept a few crumbs into her napkin.

  Allie poked the solitary fried egg with her fork.

  “When you get married, can I be in your wedding, Auntie?” Janey asked.

  “When I– oh, Janey,” Allie lau
ghed. “You would have me married off already.”

  “I think you should marry Mr. Bradford,” Janey said.

  Allie and tried to laugh lightly. Mrs. Gibson winked at her, a smile playing about her lips. “And why Mr. Bradford? Because he has a motorcar?”

  “No.” Janey took a sip of milk from her little cup and said, “Because Mr. Bradford is nice. And then we can all go live in the carriage house and take care of the horses.”

  Mrs. Leeds made a sharp noise in the back of her throat, her eyes narrowed.

  “All of that is a long ways away. Let’s think about today, shall we?” Allie asked brightly.

  “We will go in to town today and order new dresses,” Mrs. Gibson said, eyeing Allie’s plain gown.

  All was still tired from the journey. She certainly did not want to spend the morning wandering from store to store, but she didn’t argue. Allie knew that she couldn’t wear the same lace scarf forever without someone asking about it. “Wonderful idea,” she said. “We can find Janey some warm boots. We never had to worry about snow in California and she doesn’t have a single thing for winter.”

  “Will I get a fur coat?” Janey asked, hopefully.

  Mrs. Gibson chuckled, her round figure shaking with laughter, and patted the little girl on her soft curls. “No, dearie, no furs for you. But perhaps, a soft wool coat and some pretty gloves. We will see what Morton’s Fine Clothing has to recommend.”

  Allie felt a pang of remorse for the expense of outfitting them both. Her mother was wealthy, the money was not an issue, but Allie wished she could contribute something, anything. If only she had stored her money in banks, instead of paintings. If only she had purchased bonds, instead of showering her friends with trips and jewels and light-filled apartments.

  “And more pencils. All of mine are buried in Aunt Allie’s studio,” Janey said, looking hopefully at Allie.

  “Yes, more pencils,” agreed Mrs. Leeds. “And in a few days we’ll have Mrs. Monahan over to meet you, Jane. She tutored the Young’s little girl in etiquette.” She looked Janey’s little hand clutching her fork. “What lessons has she had?”

  “Some practice with letters and numbers,” Allie said guardedly, then glanced at the clock. “I think I will go upstairs to find another pair of gloves before we go.” In her room, Allie sank onto the bed and buried her face in her hands. Pencils. Janey meant charcoal pencils, the kind that Allie had used to sketch and had taught Janey to use during their art lessons. Mama will never stand for her to spend time sketching. Art had brought nothing but pain to her family.

  Allie lifted her face and straightened her shoulders. She would just have to explain to her niece that artistic pursuits were only for California. Their Bohemian community in San Francisco had spoiled them with the culture of artistic freedom. In Illinois it was about gentleman callers and etiquette lessons. The days of all night painting sessions were over. She had lived an amazing adventure for eight long years and had been very happy. Wasn’t that more than anyone could hope for? But the morning her studio was buried under tons of stone Allie began to question everything she thought she knew. She had thought it was God’s will that she go to San Francisco, but He made it clear that all her work was worth less than nothing when He let it burn to ashes.

  Allie carefully pinned her dark blue silk hat over her short curls and examined herself in the mirror. Her face was pale, with dark circles under her large hazel eyes. She squinted, almost able to picture herself that way she had been, long blond hair pinned back in a fashionably large bun, tendrils brushing her pink cheeks. She turned her face to the side. The fire had changed everything, adding scars where there had been none and sucking the color from her cheeks. The doctors had warned her to stay out of the sun, and she looked like she’d spent a year hiding in a deep hole. Sighing, she wondered what Thomas had thought when he’d seen her. It certainly wasn’t the triumphant return of her daydreams: the famous painter returning to her hometown to have an exhibition of her greatest work, dignitaries and luminaries praising her talent. She’d envisioned graciously forgiving her mother for ever trying to stop her.

  Allie grabbed a pair of gloves from the table and marched out the door. Pride had brought her to this point and she had no one to blame but herself. A new chapter was beginning in her life and she was resolute. She would do everything right this time.

  Chapter Four

  Thomas greeted August Mansfield’s carriage man and took the reins of a beautiful chestnut mare. “Will you be waiting?”

  Joe Totten shrugged and pulled out a blackened pipe. “It won’t be long. And I don’t see why he gives you good money to check her over for ten minutes when I know that horse better than my own hand.”

  Thomas let the comment slide but felt the tendons in his neck tighten. He was a Christian man, but he still wanted to tell Joe Totten that if he paid as much attention to the horses as he did to his whiskey bottle, Mansfield wouldn’t have to pay Thomas to keep them healthy. Today was not the day to get into a senseless argument. He had a long morning’s work ahead of him. Then, Lord willing, he would stop at Allie’s to make sure she had recovered from her fainting.

  He led the mare toward the back of the bustling, open air barn. The late summer heat didn’t reach inside and the horse nickered in appreciation of the cool. Thomas gave her a pat with his free hand and glanced around. Just ten blocks from the best shops in Chicago, he had set up an outfit that would have made his father burst with pride. Bradford’s Equine Services was a booming veterinary business for the well-to-do horse owner. He charged a flat fee that covered two well check visits and one emergency call per month. After five years, the business had achieved a sterling reputation for recognizing illnesses at the very first sign, and for keeping horses healthy.

  Some carriage men welcomed his expertise, and asked questions. Others, like Totten, voiced their skepticism, loud and clear. But they weren’t the ones who were paying him, so he gave them no mind. They stood around the double sliding doors and spit tobacco, arguing about boxers and poker games.

  On his way to the first stall along the right hand wall, Thomas noted the energetic activity of his working men. He caught sight of his right-hand man, Mateo, trying to convince a surly stallion to open his mouth. Mateo’s young nephew was standing by, his mouth a perfect O of concentration. Thomas secured the mare’s reigns to the ring of the stall and wandered over to where Mateo struggled, sweat streaming down his temples, even in the relative cool of the horse barn.

  “You’re making this a lot harder than it has to be,” Thomas said, laughing. He grabbed the prod from Mateo’s hand and waved him away. The stocky Italian shot him a look of pure exasperation but stepped aside.

  “Marco, take a few steps back, please.” Thomas glanced behind him at the young boy, who stood motionless. Mateo spoke to him in rapid-fire Italian and he scooted off to the side, boots kicking up dust in small puffs.

  Laying one hand on the stallion’s glossy neck, Thomas spoke in a soothing tone as he moved closer to his head. The stallion’s ears twitched and his eyes rolled, but aside from shifting his feet, he stayed put. Thomas kept his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to spring out of the way as he leaned closer, sliding his hand toward the stallion’s muzzle. The horse huffed out a breath that smelled strongly of dried alfalfa. One more moment of positioning and Thomas was ready. He continued a steady stream of quiet words, as he slipped the metal prod’s flat end in between the horse’s lips. The animal’s natural overbite caught the end and with a quick flick of the wrist, Thomas popped open the beast’s mouth. He held out his other hand for an identical prod with a hooked end, which Mateo placed in his palm. With the second instrument pulling the horse’s jaw downward, Mateo held the lantern high as Thomas crouched down and peered inside. One second, then two, and the stallion had had enough. He snorted and jerked his head to the side. But that was all the time Thomas needed.

  “Easy as pie.”

  “That is why you are the doctor and I swe
ep the horse droppings.” Although Mateo spoke quickly, his accent was thick and deep. Thomas couldn’t help but laugh at the annoyance in his tone.

  “It takes time. And I’ve never seen anyone learn faster than you have.”

  Another shake of his curly black hair but Mateo seemed to appreciate Thomas’s words. His shoulders straightened. “The hooves are clean, his legs are straight and he walks well. His eyes are clear, too.” Mateo handed the last set of instruments for Thomas to listen to his heart and lungs.

  Marco took a step nearer, face alight. He spoke softly, hesitantly. “He is beautiful.”

  Thomas straightened up, regarding the skittish stallion. “That he is. But I don’t know why the mayor keeps such a horse. He’s not fit for carriage work and no man can ride him.”

  “Wasn’t he a gift from the governor?” asked Mateo.

  Thomas nodded. “So I hear. But an expensive horse who can’t bear the saddle or the reigns, and can’t be lent for stud work, is no gift.” He shrugged. “A beautiful animal, nonetheless. And Marco, you be sure to stay away from this one. Do you hear?”

  The boy nodded, dark hair falling over his forehead. Mateo laid a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “This boy, he listens. And if he does not, then his Zio Mateo will help him hear better.”

  Thomas chuckled at the two of them. They were so similar, not just the black hair and deep brown eyes, but the playful spirit and constant enthusiasm. “The Mansfield mare is next, I believe. There are six more before noon, so we had better hurry.”

  Thomas spent less than five minutes listening and timing the horse’s heart and breathing. How he loved the graceful rhythm of their movements, inside and out. It was a miracle of engineering, a feat of God-sized creativity. Thomas gave the stallion the all-clear then motioned for an older worker to lead the stallion back to his owner. No sense taking chances, even if Marco had been around horses for years. Strong personalities and large hooves made for a deadly combination.