Allie felt her stomach clench. She knew this was a generous offer and she should be thankful. But the thought little Janey under that stern gaze made her ill. She couldn’t think of anything she’d like less than have to have Miss Anthony ‘train’ Janey how to be civil.
Allie murmured her thanks, hoping the offer would never come to fruition. Mr. Bascomb stood suddenly and proclaimed that he must get Allie home. She felt relief spread through her but it was chase by irritation. He acted as if she was a small child out after dark, a weak invalid needing gentle care. Her mind stuttered on that last thought. She was weak. But she didn’t want him to know it. She had to be strong for Janey.
As they moved toward the large entryway, Allie felt her muscles easing in anticipation of the fresh afternoon air. The tea had lasted what seemed like hours. Mrs. Larson had insisted on knowing every detail of Allie’s travels, her studio, her suitors, and the earthquake. She was exhausted by the chatter, but more tired than she could have imagined from trying to keep her privacy intact. She knew very well that what was said in Mrs. Larson’s parlor might as well be proclaimed from the roof tops.
As they settled into the carriage, Allie breathed a deep sigh of relief. Soon they would be back at Bellevue and she could change out of this gown. She yearned to slip into a loose gown and a painter’s smock, to relax her mind and renew her spirit while she let the muse guide her hand. Allie bit her lip in frustration, forcing the comforting picture from her mind’s eye. That was not her life anymore.
“Mrs. Larson is in a particularly delicate position after the passing of her husband last year,” Mr. Bascomb said, his tone inviting Allie’s questions. He nodded sagely at her as the carriage rumbled down the wide road. Houses passed by in a blur and the sun shone hot.
Allie assumed Mr. Bascomb was discussing the woman’s fortune. She bit back a retort, and swallowed her anger. She did not want to inquire into Mrs. Larson’s teetering finances. Perhaps this was why the woman seemed fragile, unsure. She wished she had known before the tea. Of course, she could not have mentioned it, but the knowledge that all was not well in the Larson estate made Allie wish she had been a bit warmer toward her.
As Mr. Bascomb continued, Allie made noises indicating that she was listening intently. Which she was not. She closed her eyes briefly, feeling exhaustion from the long sleepless night creep over her. The street seemed rougher than the streets of San Francisco, more missing cobblestones and dips.
For a moment, Allie felt herself spun backwards in time. If she opened her eyes, she would see her beloved bay city as it was before the disaster. At this time of day the top of the sand dunes near Golden Gate Park was clear and bright, the fog having burned off in wisps and curls as the morning grew warmer. The shimmering sea hovered at the foot as steamers meandered to the waterfront. Countless Saturday afternoons, she and Janey had walked from the last streetcar line up through the dunes, bringing a small basket for the wild strawberries the carpeted the dunes. Sometimes deer wandered into the dunes to forage for berries. She and her little charge stayed quiet as the does picked delicately through the underbrush. The stags stood near, majestic heads held high.
How she missed setting up her smallest easel and opening the travel palette of paints. After Janey had eaten her fill of sweet strawberries, she rested on a little red blanket. Their time was their own, to spend as they pleased. The thought of the little girl brought Allie’s thoughts back from the past with a snap. It was so different here. Allie was directed on carriage rides and tea dates while Janey... How was she faring in her mother’s house? Allie fought a rising tide of anxiety and glanced out the carriage. They were not so far from home, she reassured herself.
A crack like a gunshot sounded from underneath the carriage and Allie gasped as it lurched to one side. Mr. Bascomb grabbed for the frame of the low carriage and barked out, “Can’t you be a bit more careful? Try to avoid the stones!”
The driver pulled to the side with a jerk and the carriage came to an unsteady stop.
“Now what is he doing?” Bascomb snarled, huffing out a breath as he strained to see out the window.
Allie felt a lurch as the drive leapt down from his perch and circled the carriage. There was a short pause while the driver checked the underside for damage. The sun beat through the window on Allie’s side and she felt a trickle of sweat make its way down her back. The new dress shone in the sun, tiny crystal beads shimmered at the wrists and hem, but Allie wished she was wearing her comfortable calico frock and old boots.
The driver appeared at Bascomb’s window. “Sir, I am afraid the carriage is damaged.” His face was tense under the black silk hat and Allie saw his gaze flicker towards her and away.
“You careless man!” The harsh tone in Mr. Bascomb’s voice made Allie flinch.
“I am very sorry, sir, but it is impossible for us to go on. Shall I hail a cab for yourself and the lady?” His voice was placating but Allie could see worry in the driver’s face. Of course it was not his fault. There were potholes and stones throughout the city.
“Immediately! And then you will find a way to bring the horses back to their stable, and take the carriage for repairs.” Mr. Bascomb said the last as loudly as he could.
The poor man bowed his head and backed away. “Yes, sir.” He turned and trotted down the street. Allie knew Lionel Avenue had several places where carriages for hire gathered.
“Simpleton. I should never have hired him. He sounds like a Pole if I ever saw one. Those men could not drive their way out of a sack and here I have given him the reigns to my carriage.”
Bascomb went on for several more minutes as Allie grew more and more sick at heart. San Francisco had not been perfect, but there was more acceptance for immigrants. The Chinese worked hard to make their own way, and most of the city residents respected the influx of the workers if they stayed in their own quarters. The artist colonies were notorious for judging a person on their talent rather than their accent. She’d never known anyone who spewed such hatred as freely as Mr. Bascomb.
“I am going to stand outside for a moment,” she said. Her hand reached for the door handle as his eyes went wide.
“You’re going to stand on the street? In the sun?”
“I have my parasol. I need a bit of air. Excuse me.” With that, Allie wrenched open the door. Even as her feet landed on the cobblestone street, she knew she could not endure another minute with Mr. Bascomb. She walked to the rear of the carriage and stepped onto the sidewalk, out of the way of the traffic passing by. Several groups of fine ladies strolled past the gleaming shop windows.
Allie glanced back at the carriage. A pair of young women approached her on the sidewalk, arm in arm, laughing. In a moment, Allie’s mind was made up. She was not far from home. There was no reason that she should endure another moment of his sour personality.
As soon as the ladies swept past, Allie put up her parasol and followed. She smiled and held her head high, as if she was part of their outing. By the time they turned onto the next street, the carriage was out of sight. It was only a few miles home, at most. She drew in a deep lungful of air. The first time all day that she could breathe freely. A wide smile spread over her face as she felt her muscles relax. There would be a price to pay for her independence, she was sure, but for this moment Allie felt like she had before the earthquake: strong, optimistic and free.
***
Thomas pushed his hat back on his head and whistled a bright hymn from last Sunday’s service . There really wasn’t any reason to be visiting Bellevue. He had seen Allie a few hours before when she had stepped into his barn like a vision in blue. He’d sped through his appointments, thankful every horse was healthy and then rushed home to bathe. A grin stretched over his face as he steered the automobile down the long driveway, knowing she was mere minutes away.
The day had turned warmer than he expected and he loosened his jacket with one hand. The other hand tapped the wheel as the sun streamed through the window. The woods on
either side were thick with overgrown bushes. Thomas wondered if Mrs. Leeds would ever bow to pressure and sell some of the acreage. Bellevue remained a green jewel in the old neighborhood as the city encroached steadily on every side. He noticed dramatic changes every year, especially when he had returned from college in Iowa. The first summer the Italians outnumbered the Irish. The second summer there was a whole new wave of immigrants, the Poles. It seemed everyone was coming to Chicago. Except for Allie who was leaving for San Francisco. But he hadn’t known until late in the summer, when she announced her plans.
The grin faded from his face. How arrogant to leave for veterinarian school and assume she would wait for him. It’s true she did not accept any of the proposals he heard about through the gossipy letters his mother sent him. But Allie had dreams, too. He had been blind to not consider it. He had loved her with a young man’s selfishness, like she was property to set aside or retrieve as he wished.
Thomas straightened his shoulders and pressed down on the gas pedal. The automobile responded with a heavy rumble and a burst of speed. Allie was not just the beautiful girl he yearned to possess for his own, to install in a grand house as the mother of his future children. Just as God called him to his work with horses, so Allie was called to paint. He respected that now.
At least Matthew understood and sent for her as soon as he was able. When Allie’s brother left to work in city planning in San Francisco, Thomas congratulated him on the prestigious post. It never occurred to him that Allie would follow. There was a brief time when he thought she might return after a few months, but as the weeks ticked by, and then Matthew married Eleanor, Thomas knew Allie was not coming back. The memory of that time had faded a bit in his mind, but Thomas still felt his stomach go cold. Years stretched out before him, years without Allie’s quick wit and bright smile. Her joy is what he had missed the most. The smallest flower caught her fancy, and the first snow was cause for dancing. She lived to the fullest, every day packed to the brim. But she could be still, also, observing the world around her with that sharp artist’s eye.
He hadn’t wanted to think on it too deeply, but now he let his mind wander to the giant oak outside her window. She had a peculiar habit of climbing out into the tree at night. She was a shadowy form in the darkness, the muted light from her bedroom illuminating her clothes. From his room in the carriage house, he had watched her a hundred times, maybe more, sitting quietly under the night sky.
The summer he was seventeen and she was fifteen, the crow’s feather was the beginning of it all. He had run the silky feather through his fingers and watched the colors shimmer like oil on water. Before sunrise, he scaled the vine-covered trellis and scrambled up to her branch. He tied the crow feather to a small branch with a ribbon. That night he watched her from the carriage house as she climbed out. He could see her pick up the feather and run it through her fingers, just as he had.
After that day, he left small treasures tied to the tree, in the leaves overhead where no one else would see them. A stone spotted with mica, delicate leaves, a handful of blackberries, fragile webs of moss, all tributes from the woods she loved. She had to know it was him, but they never spoke of it. It was a game, a secret delight. A few months later, he left a tiny robin’s egg, and found a folded sheet of paper. How his heart had thudded as he made his way to the ground. It seemed like hours before he could light the small gas lamp in his small bedroom. His fingers trembled as the paper unfolded, revealing his own dark eyes. Earlier that day Allie had sat with her paper and a pencil, as she sometimes did, while he brushed down the horses. They often worked in silence, comfortable only as long time-friends could be and he never wondered what she was sketching.
That night he saw his eyes, warm with laughter, recreated perfectly in soft lead. The next night there was another sketch, this time his profile. And so it went. Sometimes the sketch would be the item he’d left the night before, rendered in exquisite detail, and sometimes it would be his eyes, or his dark head bent near the horse’s side, or his hands. Once it was his lips, so lifelike he half expected to feel breath against his fingers as he touched the paper. How he had wished he had all of those sketches, but of her eyes, her hands, her lips.
Allie never spoke of their exchanges but he kept nothing from her. She was the one he confided in, the one who listened to his dreams and complaints, the one who encouraged him to look further than Chicago, the one who reminded him that his mother would be more comfortable in her later years if her son was a successful veterinarian.
The long driveway curbed to the left and Thomas had only seconds to slam his foot down on the brake, swerving wildly to avoid a woman walking in the middle of the dusty lane. The car stuttered to a stop and Thomas closed his eyes for a moment, his body shaking. Who was fool enough to walk in the middle of the road?
He craned his neck around, barely glimpsing the person just feet behind the car. He whipped the door open and stalked toward her before he had formed words.
Allie stood frozen, clutching her parasol handle to her chest, eyes wide. “Mercy, Thomas, you drive like a madman!” Her voice trembled.
He was only inches away now and fighting through the fear wrapped like a vise around his mind. Without thinking he reached out and gathered her to him, crushing her against his chest. He could smell lavender oil on her skin, dust and heat on her clothes. The brim of her large silk hat bent backwards against his cheek, the large ostrich feather fluttered at his temple. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for giving me time to see her.
“Thomas,” Allie said, her muffled voice emanated from against his chest. Her voice held a note of something he couldn’t define. “Mr. Bradford, please,” she said, this time louder and pushed gently with both hands.
Thomas released her slowly, words forming on his tongue, but they were words that had to wait. “Allie,” he said instead, clearing his throat. “I beg your pardon. You gave me such a fright.” Now that he was sure she was safe and unharmed, fear gave way to anger. “Did you not hear the engine? What were you doing in the middle of the lane?”
Allie straightened her hat. “I was just crossing,” she pointed to across the dusty road “because there was no shade.”
For the first time Thomas noticed Allie’s flushed cheeks, the damp tendrils that stuck to her neck and temple. He leaned back and looked more carefully at her dusty dress, the light blue silk dulled by the swirling dirt. Why was she not riding home in Bascomb’s carriage on a warm day such as this?
He gripped her arm and said through gritted teeth, “That man, did he hurt you?” The thought of Bascomb touching Allie made his heart pound in fury.
“Let me go,” Allie said, her face calm. Her eyes were clear and steady. “The only man who has touched me without my permission today, has been you.”
Her words rocked Thomas back on his heels. He dropped his hand immediately, heat rushing to his face. “Please forgive me.” The words seemed choked out of him. What a brute he was showing himself to be. He should return home before he ruined any chance of winning her heart.
To his surprise, her lips quirked up in a grin. “I can take care of myself, Thomas. And poor Mr. Bascomb had a carriage mishap and is waiting for repairs.”
His heart reacted to the sound of his given name, but he worked to keep his expression neutral. “He allowed you walk home alone?” The man had the manners of a dockworker.
“You could say that.” Again that smile, full of sharp-edged mirth.
“Ah. So, poor Mr. Bascomb was abandoned at the first sign of trouble.” Thomas couldn’t help the grin that was spreading over his face.
Allie shrugged lightly and said nothing. Thomas noted the dark circles like bruises under her eyes, the way she shifted from foot to foot.
“Come on up, let’s get you home. I would wager that Mrs. Gibson has been baking a treat or two during your absence.” He inclined his head toward the automobile but was taken aback when Allie shook her head.
“I will take a few more minutes and v
isit the pond. I haven’t been out to the woods since I returned from San Francisco.”
Thomas felt the smile die on his lips. The pond, where they had shared their first kiss years ago. He remembered clearly how his palms were slick with sweat as he asked her for permission. She had said yes, her voice barely more than breath. He would never forget the warmth of her lips on his. When he pulled back to look in her eyes, something in the softness of her gaze answered his unspoken question and he had cupped the back of her head in his hand, bringing his lips to hers again.
That second kiss was like the sun rising on a cold morning. He felt warmth spread through his entire body, down to his fingertips. He had never felt as alive as in that moment. Had never felt that alive since.
Allie turned and stepped onto the grass at the side of the lane. She glanced back and smiled.
“Tell my mother I’ll be there soon,” she called.
Thomas struggled to organize the thoughts that rioted within him. She did not need an escort, this was her own property. His automobile was parked in the middle of the lane, door ajar. Allie clearly did not mind wandering the woods alone and had not invited him. What should I do, Lord? His heart responded with a nudge and Thomas knew he was incapable of getting in his car and driving to Bellevue, while Allie sat at the pond, maybe in the exact same spot he had fallen in love with her. He had to take a chance.
Chapter Eleven
Thomas slammed the car door and trotted to catch up as Allie slipped through the trees, stepping gingerly on the overgrown path.
“Do you mind if I accompany you? I haven’t been to the pond in years.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and fixed a bright smile to his face.
All The Blue of Heaven (Colors of Faith) Page 14
