by Delia Parr
As always, according to His will.
When she succeeded, families were made whole and faith was rewarded. When she failed, she continued to minister to her friends and neighbors, comforting the grief-stricken and helping them to keep a strong hold on faith that was being tested.
This time would be different.
This time, if she used her gifts, she would help to separate a couple joined together as one.
Or save a life?
Given a choice, Martha would have turned to Aunt Hilda for advice and support, but her aunt deserved time to reunite with her husband without any distractions or interruptions to dampen her joy. Martha would just have to make a decision without her.
The path Martha had to take, however, suddenly appeared very clear, and she made up her mind about what to do. With no firsthand experience to guide her, she steepled her hands and prayed for strength, wisdom, and courage. As she prayed, she heard Fern’s words again, reinforcing her decision as the only one she could live with: “She has no one to help her.”
When she finished her prayer and looked up, Thomas was still watching her, waiting patiently for her to answer him.
“I’ll help,” she whispered. “I’ll have to help. I have no other choice.”
16
Upstairs in the sickroom, Victoria had fallen asleep in her chair next to Nancy’s bed. Martha checked her patient again, tucked a blanket over her daughter, and doused the lamp. Whatever dose of laudanum the sisters had given to Nancy would likely keep the young woman sleeping till morning. If she woke before then, Victoria would be there, so Martha headed to her own chamber to get some sleep.
The day had been trying. The morning would bring new troubles of its own, she feared. She slipped out of the room into the dark hall and stopped to cock her ear. All was quiet downstairs, where Thomas was keeping guard as he had promised, though he did so only to satisfy the sisters’ fears that Russell Clifford would appear. At the other end of the hall, Fern and Ivy were probably sleeping with their weapons within arm’s reach.
Martha shook her head and tiptoed back to her room. Heart-weary and nearly numb with exhaustion, she stepped inside. She turned to close the door, then decided to leave it halfway open so she could hear Victoria better if she called for her mother.
When Martha turned around, she spied a figure sitting in the chair in the corner near her bed and gasped. It was too dark to tell who it was, but the silhouette was impossible to miss.
“It’s only me. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Fern whispered. “Shut the door. We need to talk.”
With her heart pounding, Martha eased the door closed. “I thought you’d be sleeping by now,” she admonished as she made her way to her bed.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Martha sat down on her bed, faced Fern, and saw the shadow of the rolling pin sitting on her lap. “You should try to get some rest. Thomas is downstairs. He won’t let anything happen during the night.”
Fern caressed the rolling pin with her hands. “Perhaps.”
Unsure of what to say next, Martha held silent. It was rather awkward trying to have a conversation like this, and she could not see Fern’s face to tell what she might be thinking or feeling.
Finally, Fern took several long breaths, then sighed. “I’m sorry we misled you. We’ve had to mislead everyone here, but we had no other choice. Or so it seemed.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Martha insisted. “And you don’t have to explain anything. Not to me. Not to anyone else.”
Fern sighed again. “We do love it here. Of all the places where we’ve tried to settle since . . . since running away, we’ve liked it best here. We never stayed this long before,” she offered. “He always managed to find us.”
“Your . . . your former husband?” Martha asked.
“Unfortunately, I believe he’s still my husband. Bartholomew Randall Pennington III. Entrepreneur. Philanthropist. Civic leader. He was quite dashing and utterly charming. He swept me off my feet and carried me straight to the gates of hell.” Her voice broke, and she paused. “I won’t shock you with all the horrid details. Only this.”
Fern opened her robe and placed Martha’s hand at the base of her neck. Martha could not see the thick band of scars, but she traced it with her fingertips and shuddered.
“When I’m tempted to think I made a mistake by running away, tempted to believe he would have changed, that he truly loved me, the scars are always there to remind me that he would have loved me. To death.”
“I’m so sorry,” Martha crooned. Fern’s tears dampened Martha’s fingertips. She could feel her friend trembling and longed to take away her painful memories. When she cupped Fern’s cheek, her friend leaned into the caress.
“Ivy lived with us after Father died,” she explained. “We were originally from Delaware. She saw what was happening and tried to convince me to leave my husband, but I wouldn’t listen. I loved him so, and he was always so ashamed of himself. After. He’d promise never to hurt me again, and he’d buy me some outrageously expensive piece of jewelry as a peace offering. Not that I wanted or needed any. I already had a box full of his family’s heirlooms. All I ever wanted was his love and affection.”
Fern sniffled. “I don’t recall much of that last night. All I truly remember is the belt around my neck. He wrapped it round and round, pulling it harder and harder as he dragged me across the floor, forcing the necklace I was wearing into my flesh. He was screaming at me for . . . for something I’d done. The room started spinning. I thought I was going to die. I don’t remember much after that. I must have swooned. When I roused, there was blood everywhere. Ivy was standing over him with a bloodied poker in her hand. Fortunately, she hadn’t killed him, but she had managed to knock him unconscious. She told me later she had first given him a good bash to his head. When he turned around and tried to attack her, she belted him in the face. Broke his nose and split his lip open. She forced me out of that house right then and there. We’ve been hiding from him ever since. It’s been nearly fifteen years now. Fifteen years. Sometimes it seems like a lifetime ago. Other times, like now, it’s as if it happened yesterday.”
Martha let her own tears run freely. Her heart trembled with compassion for Fern, leaving no room for anger at the brute who had mistreated her. Only room enough for relief, that Fern had escaped and that Ivy had had the courage to act, that they had each survived. “Surely he’s given up by now,” Martha suggested. “You’re safe here in Trinity.”
Fern took Martha’s hand from her neck and squeezed gently. “We thought we were finally safe four years ago when we were living in Mountain View. It’s a fairly large town in New Hampshire. We’d been there a little over a year. We had a little house on the edge of town, but we were thinking about opening a confectionery like we have here. We’d gone to look at a storefront and decided to treat ourselves to supper at the tavern. One of the guests had a city newspaper. The paper was a few months old, but that’s where we found it. Again.”
“Found what?”
“The advertisement: ‘Runaway wife. Prone to madness.’ He had those two lines set in big print right at the top. The rest was my description along with Ivy’s.” She chuckled. “I don’t know what made my sister angrier. That he claimed I was mad or that he described her as half-witted. But in either case, we knew it was only a matter of time before someone recognized us from the advertisement, contacted him, and told him where we were.”
Martha huffed. “They were your neighbors! Why would they do that?”
“For the five-hundred-dollar reward. It had happened before, you see, but each time we had the good Lord watching over us. We got wind of what was happening and managed to leave one town or another before he arrived. We left that very night.”
“So then you came here. To Trinity.”
“Exactly. Living in a city with its own newspaper was out of the question, so we had already given up thinking we could live in a large town. We wanted someplace sma
ll and remote, someplace that didn’t look like it would grow too fast or attract too many newcomers, and someplace without a confectionery,” she added.
Martha recalled the very day Fern and Ivy had arrived in Trinity and smiled. “Folks here haven’t been the same ever since.” She patted her lap. “I know I haven’t.”
Fern chuckled. “That’s mostly Ivy’s doing, you know. We weren’t raised to lift a hand to work. Father was quite wealthy. We had a lovely home in Delaware, overlooking a river, and so many servants! Once Ivy was old enough to stand on a stool by herself, you couldn’t get her out of the kitchen. Not when Mrs. Pugh was baking. Mercy! I haven’t thought of her in ages. It’s a good life we have now, but we still wait and watch, wondering when we’ll have to move at a moment’s notice. . . .”
“But that’s so unfair!” Martha protested.
Fern snorted. “Fair or not, that’s the way it is.”
“But it’s been four years now. What makes you think he’ll find you here?”
“Because I know he’ll never give up looking. Not till the day he’s called Home to account for himself,” Fern spat.
“Maybe he has been called Home,” Martha suggested, mystified as to why any man would spend years of his life searching for a woman he had brutalized. “Besides, you haven’t had any contact with him for fifteen years—”
“Don’t forget about the newspaper advertisements,” Fern cautioned.
Martha waved her hand. “Even so, what if he has passed on? If he hasn’t, he’s surely given up searching for you by now. It’s hard to believe he searched for you as long as he did. What would ever possess him to do that?”
Fern sat up straighter. “Pride. Family honor. And . . . and something else.”
Martha cocked her head. “Something else?”
“The night we left, Ivy and I only took the clothes on our backs and . . . and my box of jewelry. I barely had the strength to walk. I was so frightened he would wake up and try to stop us that I . . . I never bothered to sort through the jewelry and separate mine from his family’s. I just grabbed that box and ran. So . . . so you see, it’s not me he wants. It’s the family jewelry I stole.”
“You took his mother’s jewelry?”
“And his grandmother’s,” Fern whispered. “I’ve managed to hold on to a few of my own pieces. For an emergency,” she explained. “I still have every single one of his family’s pieces. I’ve always intended to return them. I just never figured out how to do that.”
“Just send them,” Martha cried.
“And take a chance they’d all be stolen? The post isn’t secure.”
“Then take them back yourself and . . . and leave them on his doorstep.”
“And risk being caught? I’d rather not spend the rest of my life in prison, thank you.”
“He wouldn’t have you arrested!”
“Oh yes, he would. And I can’t send anyone with the jewelry, either. If they didn’t run off with the jewelry, they’d wind up telling him where to find me, and I don’t want to take the risk he’d show up here and cause trouble. You see? Believe me, I’ve thought this through. There’s nothing to be done about this now, but . . . but when I’ve passed on, and Ivy, too, would you see that it’s returned? You’re like my own sister. I trust you, Martha. Please. Will you do that for me?”
Martha patted her friend’s knee. “You know I will, but . . . but what will you do if he does find you? I don’t think he will, but what if he does? What will you do?”
Fern collapsed against the back of her chair. “I’m too tired to run anymore. If the good Lord sees fit to let that man find me, I’ll just have to deal with it then. He can have the jewelry back, but only if he agrees to leave Ivy and me in peace. If not, I’ll make sure he never sees a single piece. Not even Ivy knows where it’s hidden.”
Thoroughly overwhelmed, Martha could scarcely unscramble all the thoughts swirling in her head. The day had been too long and the events too difficult, and Fern’s confession had shocked Martha beyond any chance of sustained, rational thought. “We’ll think of something,” she promised and silently vowed to make sure Fern and Ivy would not spend the rest of their days living in fear.
“We have to think about Nancy. She’s more important right now,” Fern insisted. “We can’t let her go home with her husband. Next time, he could kill her.”
“I’m afraid you might be right.”
“Then you agree with me? You understand why this is so important?”
Martha helped her friend from her chair and embraced her, ignoring the pinch of the rolling pin caught between them. “I’ll help. We’ll both be able to help her. Tomorrow. Now get yourself some rest.”
Arm in arm, they walked to the door. Fern started toward her own chamber, then returned. “I’m ashamed to have to ask you this, but what I shared with you tonight—”
“Remains here,” Martha whispered and pressed Fern’s hand to her heart.
Fern sighed and turned about. The rolling pin swung at her side. Her steps were heavy. Her shoulders were sagging. Until she reached Nancy’s door. Martha could not see more than just the shadow of her silhouette, but she clearly saw the woman’s shoulders straighten a bit before she continued to her room.
Martha found little sleep waiting for her in her bed. She tossed and turned, slipped from a dream into a nightmare, and woke up drenched with sweat and her heart slamming against the wall of her chest. She curled into a ball and found release waiting for her.
In prayer.
17
Answers to prayer often took time. They required patience and faith, along with a willingness to accept God’s wisdom when the answer finally came in an unexpected form.
That afternoon, Martha took one step into the confectionery shop and knew the instant she saw the two men coming through the door that they were not the answer she had expected or could easily accept.
She tightened her hold on the tray of bread she was carrying, plastered a smile on her face, and wondered how on earth she would get these two out of the shop before Fern or Ivy returned.
At the moment, Fern was upstairs helping Victoria bathe Nancy. Ivy had gone to the general store on an errand. As far as Martha could see, the sisters’ absence from the shop was perhaps the only answer to prayer Martha had received.
“Reverend Welsh. Mr. Clifford. Good afternoon to you,” she said.
Young Russell halted a good two steps behind the minister, removed his hat, and twirled it in his hands while he kept his gaze glued to the floor.
Reverend Welsh, hatless in all kinds of weather by custom, smiled warmly. “It’s always a blessed day when I see you, Martha. I heard Victoria finally came home. As soon as I did, I started writing a special sermon for the occasion. I expect I’ll see you both at meeting?”
“You will.” She set the tray down and started lining up the loaves on the table, which stretched along the outer wall. Reverend Welsh was a man of uncommon faith and a gentle shepherd for his flock. His talent for preaching, however, fell far short of gifted, but he had the wisdom to keep his sermons brief.
“The bread is still hot from the oven. Last batch of the day. Would you like a loaf to take home?”
“Actually, I was wondering if we could talk for a spell. The three of us,” he suggested.
Talking to Russell Clifford was the last thing Martha wanted to do, especially since she had yet to speak to Nancy about the incident that had landed her in Martha’s care. The laudanum had worn off by midmorning, and Martha had done no more than change the woman’s dressings, offer reassurances that she would recover well, and listen to Nancy’s slurred, pitiful excuses for her injuries.
With time, Martha would be able to question her patient closely about the incident, but certainly not before the girl got past the painful job of healing. And most certainly not at her husband’s insistence, even if he did have the minister’s support.
Fern’s warning that the minister would intervene and try to reconcile the young
couple rang loud and clear. Curious to know precisely what role Reverend Welsh intended to play and cautious about prejudging either man, Martha could hardly refuse to listen to what both had to say.
She could not invite them into the kitchen for fear either Fern or Ivy would interrupt, and offering to take them upstairs to the sitting room would put both men too close to Nancy. Instead, she nodded toward the side room in the shop where day-old offerings at reduced prices and tins of hard pretzels and cookies were displayed. “I’m keeping an eye on things this afternoon. Perhaps we could talk for a moment in there,” she suggested.
Without waiting for either of them to argue, she led them straight to the side room. After the minister and Russell entered and stood side by side in front of the colorful tins, she took a place in the center of the archway to block anyone’s view. “Nancy is resting as comfortably as can be expected,” she offered.
Russell paled. His hands trembled, but he remained mute.
Reverend Welsh put his arm around the younger man’s shoulders. “I met Russell only yesterday, but we spent a good part of the day together. Tragedy takes a heavy toll at times, especially when we feel . . . alone. Losing a child, a son, is never easy, but God’s mercy and His love can sustain us if we turn to Him and when we have other followers to help us through our sorrows.”
When he paused to take a breath, Martha held silent.
“When that tragedy is compounded by another, and we try to continue alone, we often fail. And young Russell has failed,” he murmured. “He has failed his Creator. He has failed himself. And he has failed his wife, the woman he vowed before God to love and protect.”
Martha’s heart began to race. Had Russell actually confessed? Was that what Reverend Welsh meant? It was impossible to even think Russell would simply admit his guilt and expect all to be forgiven so quickly and so easily.
