by Judith Pella
“James, you must think this through, and you must find the truth of what is happening with your father. You wouldn’t want him to be disgraced before his peers, and if Carolina’s suspicions are true, it is only a matter of time before she makes such things public. She will protect her own father first, and rightfully so.”
“I know. I know. Just as I should have protected mine.”
Annabelle sat back and looked very thoughtful for a moment. “You should have told her how you felt.”
“For what purpose?” he asked in disbelief. “Further humiliation?”
“No,” she replied softly. “I simply believe that the truth of things should have started there. You could have made clear the mistakes of the past, and you could have explained your feelings for her without making a fool of yourself or of her. From what you’ve told me, I don’t believe for one minute that she is without feelings for you.”
“It doesn’t matter now. My pride kept me away too long, and now she is lost to me forever.”
“It would seem so . . . lost at least as a wife . . . but her friendship meant something to you also, did it not?”
“The last thing I want is the friendship of another woman,” he replied bitterly. Then, relenting, he added softly, “Yes . . . it did.”
“Then you should tell her everything. Go back to her and explain the past. Set the record straight and then promise her that you will seek out the truth on the railroad issue.”
“She’ll think me a complete fool.”
“Does it matter? You will know the truth, and the truth within you is far more relevant than the misconceptions of those around you. With the truth firmly established within your own heart and soul, God will set the rest of the world at peace for you. The Bible itself states that when a man is trying to please God, He makes even his worst enemies to be at peace with him.” She paused to smile in a rather sad, sweet way. “And, James, in your case, you are your worst enemy.”
He calmed and smiled at this. “You are right, but I wonder how it is that you know me so well.”
“Because I see myself in you. You must make peace with yourself and with God, otherwise you will never know the truth of any matter.”
James studied her for a moment. She had remained a good friend through his years of suffering. She had known the real reason behind his turmoil, and yet she’d not rejected his company for it. In spite of all his misgivings, his ramblings and runnings, Annabelle Bryce had been a rather soothing constant in his life.
“I have to think about all of this,” he said, reaching for his coat. “May I come back tomorrow?”
“I am afraid not,” she said, getting to her feet. “I leave in the morning.”
“Leave?”
“I am an actress, remember? I’m headed for Chicago.”
“Chicago? Why in the world would you trek across the wilds to Chicago?”
She laughed. “Because the money is good and the acting easy. It’s been so long since they’ve seen much in the way of entertainment that they’ll believe me to be a gift from God.”
James reached out to take hold of her hands. “You are a gift from God,” he said quite seriously. “I honestly do not know what I would have done without you. I sometimes wish—”
She hushed him with a finger to his lips. “No, don’t speak it. Wishing has its merits, but in this case it would be quite moot.”
He nodded, kissed her finger, then stepped back and bowed. “I shall miss you. Will you return soon?”
“I have no way of knowing.” She walked with him to the door. “I will better know my way once I’ve seen what is before me.”
“As will I.”
With that, James stepped into the fading light of the August day. The yearning within him was as strong as when he’d first come to Annabelle. His heart still ached and felt as though it would never again beat without a reminder of what might have been. He started for home, but just then a steam whistle blasted from somewhere in the early evening, and James felt a strong need to go to the rail yard.
Perhaps that is the only place I truly belong, he thought, and stuffing his hands in his pockets, he quickened his step.
46
Salvation
“Do you think the new baby will like my present?” Victoria asked, clutching the brown-paper-wrapped parcel to her body.
Carolina smiled. “Of course he will.” Word had come that Virginia had been delivered of a son on the twenty-first day of September, and nothing would do by Victoria but that they should go shopping for the new child. “Master Nathaniel Cabot will be completely won over by such a perfect rattle.”
Victoria beamed proudly. “And you will tell Mrs. Cabot that I picked it out myself?”
Carolina knew it would never matter to Virginia that the child had painstakingly sought the gift, but she assured her little daughter that the information would be relayed.
When they arrived home, Carolina allowed the footman to help her down, then directed him to carry in the purchases. “Cook will be expecting that basket of seafood,” she told him. “See that it gets to her right away.” The man nodded and immediately went to the task. “Come along, Victoria. We will see about something to eat.”
She had barely reached the door when Mrs. Graves pulled it open and offered up the words, “You have a visitor.”
Carolina felt her heart lurch. Could it be James again? She’d never been the same since his visit. Each night she had restlessly tossed and turned in her huge empty bed, realizing she had made a very serious trade in marrying Blake St. John in order to keep Victoria in her life.
“Who is it?” she asked cautiously.
“Mr. Swann.”
She breathed an audible sigh of relief, but Isadora thought it to be irritation. “I can send him away if you like.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. However, if you would see about something for Victoria to eat.”
“Look at this, Mrs. Graves.” The child was already tearing away the brown paper of her purchase. “I found a rattle for Mrs. Cabot’s new baby.”
Mrs. Graves smiled and acknowledged the piece while Carolina pulled off her gloves and hat. “You go along now with Mrs. Graves while I speak with Mr. Swann.”
She waited until they were well down the hall before sliding open the sitting room doors. “Mr. Swann, I had no idea you might pay us a visit today.”
The man instantly jumped to his feet and bowed. “I apologize for this intrusion, but it could not be helped.”
Carolina noted his grim expression and waved him back to the seat. “By all means then, pray continue.” She sat opposite him and waited for his news.
“This will come as some shock, but there is no other way to say it but to come right out with it.”
“I see,” she said, even though her mind was racing with the possibilities of what “it” might be.
“No, I’m afraid you don’t.” Swann shifted uncomfortably. “I was posted a letter this morning sent two days ago by Mr. Ramsey, your husband’s man.”
“Yes?”
“It seems that Mr. St. John has . . . well, he’s been . . . ah . . .”
He paused as if trying to think of the word, then suddenly he spilled it out without warning—“Killed.”
“What!” Carolina exclaimed, her hand quickly going to her heart. “What in the world are you saying?”
“It seems there was a carriage accident in New York City. Another man was injured, as was Ramsey, but Mr. St. John sustained enough injury to bring about his instantaneous death.”
Carolina was stunned. Suddenly, after only two months of marriage, she was a widow. Her thoughts went to Victoria, who was now truly orphaned.
No, Carolina thought. She has me and she will always know that I love her. She is no orphan. She is my daughter.
“I know this is hard for you to take in, but I needed to make arrangements for the body, and it seemed only appropriate that you be the one to decide those things,” Swann continued.
Carolina looked at him, feeling nothing but concern for her child. “Mr. Swann, you are one of the few people to know the truth behind my marriage to Blake St. John. I have little doubt that you, more so than me, should make such arrangements. I barely knew the man for all the years I spent in his house.”
Mr. Swann smiled sympathetically. “I do understand. I suppose the best thing would be to arrange a plot beside his wife.”
“Yes, I do believe that would be best. He disdained the church, but surely in death he would expect a Christian burial.”
“Whether or not he would, the living survivors who cared for him probably would.”
“Yes, I agree. Oh, how is Mr. Ramsey? Were his injuries bad?”
“A broken leg and some cuts and such. He cannot travel to accompany the body and has in fact informed me that he will stay on in New York. He felt there was little reason for him to return to Baltimore.”
“I suppose I can understand that. Pay his expenses and give him a tidy sum to set him on his way,” Carolina told Swann.
“I will see to it yet today, and I will forward enough in the way of funding to allow him to ship Mr. St. John home.”
“Yes, that would be quite appropriate.”
Carolina felt rather strange in speaking of such matters with Mr. Swann. Only last week they had pored over investment information and plotted strategies for increasing the St. John fortune. Now Blake was dead, and his dream of going west would never be realized.
“What business did Mr. St. John have in New York City?” she asked, suddenly realizing she had no idea why he delayed in pushing west.
“Railroad business. He had a good friend in New York who had encouraged him to get in on a new railroad venture. Mr. St. John thought perhaps to set himself up with another line and see it through from coast to coast. He was very excited about the prospects of a transcontinental railroad.”
“Mr. St. John said that?” She was amazed, for Blake had rarely told her anything of his personal interests.
“He did indeed.” Swann smiled. “I think you had much to do with that. Railroads were only a minor concern of his until you showed up.”
“Did you disapprove of his new fascination?”
“Not at all. I have always seen the merit of rapid transportation. Locomotives will write the pages of our future.”
“I quite agree.” She considered Blake’s business once again. “What railroad had he concerned himself with in New York?”
“The Erie. I believe they are calling it the New York and Erie Railroad. The intention is to have a railroad that runs from the New York City harbor to Lake Erie. This would allow the southern portion of the state to enjoy the same freedoms and benefits that the northern portion enjoys with the Erie Canal.”
“How very interesting. And Mr. St. John was on business with this matter?”
“Yes. He had tickets, however, to take the canal west, and from there was scheduled to meet up with several gentlemen who were going to the Oregon Territory with one of the fur trading companies.”
“It’s so sad he will never realize his dream,” Carolina said softly. She looked down at her hands, which she’d been twisting rather nervously. Blake was dead. It was no easy matter to imagine how she would explain his passing to Victoria.
“I will trust you to make whatever appropriate arrangements you deem necessary,” she said, gazing up at Mr. Swann. “I will speak to the minister and have him prepare a eulogy that avoids the religious rhetoric Mr. St. John so hated.”
Swann got to his feet. “I will do as you bid and hope you know that should any need arise, I am at your service.”
Carolina nodded and rose. “I thank you, Mr. Swann.”
After he had gone, Carolina went to the dining room and found that Victoria had already finished her lunch and was up in the nursery preparing for their reading lesson.
“Isadora, if you would, we need to discuss something,” Carolina said, coming down the hall toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Graves, who was just coming from having removed Victoria’s dishes, seemed to note the concern in Carolina’s voice. She followed Carolina into the kitchen without a word of questioning.
“Cook, we need to talk.”
Mrs. Dover turned, a bulk of dough between her pudgy fingers. “Of course.”
“Please, both of you sit down.” Carolina motioned to the small kitchen table. The two older women eyed each other as if to question the knowledge of the other, but nevertheless did as they were requested.
“Mr. Swann brings us bad tidings. Or maybe I should better say, sad tidings. Mr. St. John has been killed in a carriage accident.”
“No!” exclaimed Mrs. Graves.
“Lord preserve us,” said Cook.
“I’ve instructed Mr. Swann to arrange for the body to be brought home for the funeral. I will speak to the minister and see to it that the funeral might be done in a way fitting Mr. St. John’s tastes and desires.”
“When did it happen?” Mrs. Graves asked.
“I’m not sure. I believe sometime last week. Mr. Ramsey was injured badly enough to lay him up for a while. It is his desire to remain in New York City, and thus I have instructed Mr. Swann to see to his keep while he recovers.”
“Mr. St. John dead,” Cook muttered. “It just don’t seem possible.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t seem possible to me, either,” Carolina replied. “I suppose it won’t seem real until I see the body for myself. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, getting to her feet, “I must go to Victoria and tell her.”
“Poor little tyke. ’Tis a good Lord that saw fit to put you and Mr. St. John together before taking away her papa,” Cook declared.
“Yes, I thought of that, too,” mused Carolina. “Victoria will surely be more dependent on us than ever before, for even though she scarcely knew her father, she at least counted on his existence.”
Carolina made her way upstairs and entered the nursery, completely uncertain of what she should say. Would Victoria be able to understand that her father’s death was a permanent thing? So often Blake had come and gone in the life of his child that Carolina seriously wondered if Victoria would simply see this as yet another of his absences.
“Mama, I can read this whole page without any help,” Victoria said upon seeing Carolina.
“That is wonderful news,” Carolina replied. “But right now I have some sad news, and I want you to come sit with me a moment.”
Victoria dropped the book and hurried to Carolina’s side. “Is the baby sick?”
Carolina looked at her in confusion for a moment. “What baby?”
“Mrs. Cabot’s baby.”
Carolina sighed. “No, sweet. The baby is just fine.” She led Victoria to a settee where they often cuddled for stories. Sitting down, she pulled Victoria onto her lap and hugged her close. “I’m afraid your papa is the one who is . . . well . . .” She stammered for words. “Your father has died, Victoria.”
The child’s dark eyes seemed to narrow as though she were taking in the information and forming it into an understandable manner. “Did he go very far away?”
Carolina nodded. “Yes, and he can never come back to us. Except,” she paused, realizing that the funeral might well confuse the child, “his body will come back, and we will put it in a beautiful box and bury him in the ground.”
“But the ground is dark and smelly,” Victoria replied.
“Yes, but your papa’s body will not know this. You see, people have souls inside their bodies, and it is this soul that makes them who they are. That soul leaves the body when a person dies, so the body we put in the ground is much like our clothes. We take off our clothes and put them away, but it doesn’t change who we are simply because we’ve removed them, now does it?”
“No.” Victoria hugged Carolina and remained silent.
“I want you to understand that I will always be your mama, even though your papa has died. You mustn’t be afraid that I will leave, too, because
I will always be here for you.” Carolina felt bad that she couldn’t assure the child of such a thing truthfully. It was always possible that she, too, could die tomorrow. “People can die at any time, Victoria,” Carolina said, raising the child’s face to meet her loving gaze. “But God looks out for us, and if we love Him and accept His Son Jesus as our Savior, our souls will never die.”
Victoria seemed to understand, but Carolina couldn’t be sure. She wanted for the child to say something, and when Victoria spoke, she was surprised at her request.
“Can we go into Mother’s room now?” Victoria had never called Suzanna St. John anything but Mother.
Carolina nodded. “If you would like.”
“I want to see what’s in there,” Victoria said, scooting down from Carolina’s lap. “I want to see why Papa locked it up.”
Carolina had to admit that her own curiosity about the place had been piqued at times. “Let’s get the keys from my dressing table.”
Victoria remained silent as they retrieved the keys and unlocked the door to Suzanna’s room. She walked in quietly, almost reverently, Carolina thought, and peered at the room as though trying to find some link to the past.
Over the fireplace, a large oil painting by Samuel Morse portrayed a blond-headed woman and small boy. The woman looked quite cheerful, and the boy on her lap was darkly handsome like Victoria and Blake St. John.
“Is that my mother and brother?” Victoria asked.
“Yes,” Carolina whispered. “I’d imagine so.”
“She doesn’t look like me,” Victoria stated, not seeming overly concerned.
“No, but you and your brother share your father’s dark features.”
“Are they in heaven?” Victoria suddenly asked.
“I believe so. Your mother loved God very much. Mrs. Graves told me that much.”
