by Delia Parr
In the next heartbeat, the impossible became reality.
“Russell has fallen from grace,” the minister continued. “He’s broken God’s law, but he has confessed his sins and sought forgiveness from his Maker. He’s come to ask his wife to forgive him as well, so he can take her back home where she belongs.”
Martha shook her head, as if to make sure she had heard Reverend Welsh correctly. She refused to accept a word of the minister’s claims until Russell at least spoke for himself. “Forgiveness? You’ve come to ask for forgiveness for . . . for your wife’s accidental fall?” she asked. “Or are you taking responsibility for her injuries?”
Russell paled. His eyes welled with tears. His hands, cupped as if in prayer, trembled. “I . . . I take responsibility,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse and his expression was penitent. “I can offer no excuses for what I did. I was wrong. I hate what I did. I love my wife. I never should have hit her, but . . . but I did. God forgive me, I did.”
The young man’s tears fell freely now, and his lips quivered as he visibly struggled for control. “I love her so much. I need her. I know what I did was wrong, but I swear I’ll never lay a hand to her again. Please, you must believe me,” he pleaded. “It’s just been so hard since we moved here. Then when we lost Peter, I . . . I just don’t know what came over me.”
Moved by the man’s honesty as well as his plea, Martha kept a tight hold on her compassion. “It wasn’t the first time you hit her, was it?”
Surprise flashed in his eyes, followed by just the barest glint of anger, which he extinguished so quickly she almost missed it. His cupped hands briefly clenched into fists, and he dropped his gaze. “No. It wasn’t.”
“And you’ve squeezed her hands so hard, two of her fingers have broken.”
His shoulders shook. “I never meant to—”
“And the day she bore your son, she didn’t trip of her own accord, did she?” she charged, pressing him hard.
When he looked up again, deep sorrow filled his gaze. “Yes, I have hit my wife. But this time will be the last. By all that’s holy, I swear it will be the last time. All I want to do is see my wife and beg for her forgiveness. On my knees if that’s what it takes, and I’ll spend the rest of my life treating her properly. But I need to see her today. I have to convince her to let me prove I can be the loving husband she deserves.”
Reverend Welsh had been nodding as the younger man pleaded to see his wife; he spoke before Martha could fully comprehend the enormity of what she had just heard. She would not have believed it if she hadn’t witnessed it herself.
“As Christians, we must be people of compassion,” the minister urged. “We must all do our share to help Russell and Nancy,” he admonished, as if he sensed Martha’s reluctance. “Under the circumstances, Sheriff Myer has agreed not to pursue the matter. I’ll continue to counsel both Russell and Nancy, of course. And they’ll both be joining the congregation, too. With their prayers and faithful attendance at meeting, along with the congregation to provide guidance and support, I’m convinced this young couple can overcome their difficulties and remain together, united as one by faith and fellowship.”
Stunned by the minister’s support and Sheriff Myer’s reluctance to intervene, Martha was momentarily speechless. Any relief she felt for not having to testify and give an official statement was short-lived. The whole scenario had unfolded almost precisely as Fern and Ivy had predicted it would. Did Thomas know what had transpired? Did he approve?
Regardless of Thomas’s involvement, Martha had to be ever mindful that her responsibility was first and foremost to her patient. She also needed time to be sure of what to do. “You may see your wife, of course, but not today. She’s still groggy from medications,” she cautioned.
Russell stiffened. His eyes flashed once more, and this time Martha recognized his anger as a challenge she was ready and willing to meet, if only to give herself time to talk to Nancy and decide how to proceed. “Nancy needs to regain her strength. At least wait until Sunday after meeting. By then, her lip should be better healed so she can actually talk to you without causing further damage. I’m sure you’ll agree to wait a few days . . . if you truly have your wife’s best interests at heart.”
Russell’s shoulders drooped a bit lower. His face was troubled. Clearly disappointed, he looked to Reverend Welsh to support him against Martha.
To the minister’s credit, he patted the young man’s shoulder, then released him. “He can wait. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s to trust your judgment, Martha.”
A modicum of guilt shadowed her conscience. She nudged it aside.
Though the minister started forward to leave, Russell held his place. He locked his eyes with Martha’s, and she could see he was torn between roles. The domineering man determined to get his own way battled with the penitent one, while his sense of natural superiority as a man reared against her place as a woman, his inferior.
Martha hardened her expression to one she reserved for situations that demanded one and all to accept the authority that her status gave her.
Reverend Welsh paused and turned to the young man. “Come along, Russell. We’ll go back to the house. I know I have an extra Bible or two somewhere. Mrs. Welsh can help me find one you can keep. We’ll look at some Bible verses together till supper. I have a meeting with the church elders tonight. Perhaps you’d like to come along.”
Russell covered his reluctance to leave well. “I don’t want to impose—”
“Nonsense, son. Mrs. Welsh enjoys having someone to fuss over besides me, and the elders will be anxious to meet the newest member of our congregation.”
Apparently, Russell realized he had nothing to gain by antagonizing either the woman who stood between him and his wife or his earnest intermediary. He donned his hat. “You’ll tell her I was here, won’t you?” he asked Martha.
The minister answered for her. “Of course she will.”
They approached Martha together. “We thank you for your time,” the minister murmured. “If Nancy is able to see her husband before Sunday, just send word to my house. Russell will be staying with us until he can take his wife home.”
She stepped aside to let them pass. Long after she heard the shop door close behind them, she was still standing there, so lost in dark, troubled thoughts that she never heard the door open again.
“Oh, there you are! I was hoping you’d be here. I have such news! And you simply have to be the first to hear it!”
Hearing Aunt Hilda’s voice at that moment was as joyous as hearing a babe cry for the first time in this world. Martha swung around, barely in time to ready herself for a bone-crushing embrace.
“He’s come home. He’s here!” Aunt Hilda whispered. “Come. I want you to—”
“Who’s here?” Martha asked. Obviously, Richard Seymour had not told his wife of Martha’s complicity in his scheme to surprise her, and she had enough control of her wits to feign ignorance about his return.
Beaming, Aunt Hilda looked up at Martha. Her eyes danced with a gentle reprimand. “Who’s here? Why, my Richard, of course.”
Martha’s eyes widened. “He’s here? In Trinity? He’s really come home?” she asked. She did not want to spoil her aunt’s enthusiasm with a confession about the role she had played in summoning Aunt Hilda home. Later, she would have to confess, but not now. Judging by the level of her aunt’s excitement, whatever fears Richard Seymour had harbored about being well received had been for naught.
“He’s here. Back in his very own house. Just like he promised. Now get your cape. I want you to see him for yourself, but you can’t tell everyone else he’s here. They’re just going to have to wait till Sunday when we both show up for meeting. That’ll be some surprise!”
Aunt Hilda shook her head. “Poor man’s as thin as a sapling. While I’m waiting for you, I’ll just wrap up a few goodies. I did manage to get a good stew to pot, though. We’ve just been so busy. Talking and .
. . and such, I haven’t had a moment to bake a thing.”
Martha gazed down at the elderly woman. Her cheeks were stained pink, but not from the cold. She was blushing! “And such,” Martha repeated.
Aunt Hilda gave Martha’s shoulder a playful swipe. “We’re old, but we’re not so old we’ve forgotten how to . . . to . . .” She sputtered and mumbled something under her breath. “Go get your cape. If you think Victoria could keep a secret, you could bring her along. We’ll have a double reunion.”
Rather than tell her that Victoria was upstairs with Nancy, which meant Martha would have to explain the entire situation, she decided nothing should dampen Aunt Hilda’s joy. “I think we should surprise Victoria on Sunday, too,” she suggested.
“Then get your cape!” her aunt-by-affection repeated.
Chuckling, Martha did as she was told. Sunday’s meeting was going to be one the town would never forget. First Victoria. Now Richard Seymour. Prodigal daughter and prodigal son. The folks here would have quite a bit to say about their both coming home to Trinity. Perhaps enough to overshadow another homecoming of sorts, especially if Russell Clifford had come home to his faith and planned to attend meeting, hoping to garner the congregation’s support. That possibility merely strengthened Martha’s resolve to see that did not happen.
Not until Martha was able to fully make up her mind about whether to support Russell in his attempt to reconcile with his wife or to support Nancy and convince her she might lose her life if she returned home with her husband.
Martha would find her decision only through prayer. With patience and with faith, and with an answer that would sit comfortably with her conscience.
She grabbed her cape, then proceeded up the stairs to tell Victoria and Fern about visiting with Aunt Hilda. Each step Martha took only made her more determined. If Russell Clifford thought he could rush her into making a hasty decision, he would quickly learn that when confronted with choosing between her duty to God and her patient and her duty to acquiesce to any man’s authority, Martha Cade was one woman he could not bully or intimidate, even if he did have every single official in town on his side.
And she would not be alone.
The image of Fern and Ivy standing on either side of Martha, each with their weapon at the ready, was very real. Real enough for her to decide to keep Russell’s startling confession and Reverend Welsh’s intervention to herself, at least until she had time to think of how she would tell the sisters that their fears had come to fruition. Russell Clifford was staying with the minister and his wife, far closer to Nancy than anyone had imagined.
18
Joy and happiness had virtually transformed Aunt Hilda’s cottage from a shrine devoted to the past into a living, breathing home again.
A fire blazed in the sitting room that for years had sat cold and abandoned. Delicate lace doilies, long relegated to a trunk, once again decorated the faded upholstery on three chairs in the center of the room. The stew bubbling in the kitchen added tantalizing aromas, but they were not quite strong enough to keep Martha from detecting the subtle scent of lavender when Aunt Hilda came close and took Martha’s cape.
“I’ll just hang this up with mine and tell Richard you’re here. Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
Martha had scarcely sat down when Aunt Hilda accompanied her long-gone husband, hand in hand, into the room. If Aunt Hilda glowed any brighter, Martha suspected the woman’s face might burst into flames.
“Here she is, Richard. You probably don’t recognize Martha,” Aunt Hilda said. “She was so young when you left, but you should remember her mother, Rena Fleming. She favors her, don’t you think?”
He winked at Martha. “I most certainly do. Fact is, I already told her so myself.”
Aunt Hilda looked up at her husband, then at Martha. The confusion in her gaze quickly gave way to understanding. “You knew! That’s why you got young Lucy to replace me. It wasn’t Victoria you brought me back to see at all!”
Martha looked to Richard for help. “Well, I—”
“And you!” Aunt Hilda elbowed her husband’s stomach playfully. “You didn’t tell me you’d seen Martha! Of all the things you had to tell me, how could you forget—”
He grinned and silenced her protests by smooching her lips. Eyes twinkling, he finally set her back before she swooned from lack of air. “Forgiven?” he asked.
She blushed and swatted his arm. “Forgiven.” She turned to face Martha and shook her finger, at her feigning disappointment, which did not match the merriment in her eyes. “As for you, young lady . . .”
Martha surrendered by raising both hands. “I apologize. I had only come to check on the cottage and to get some honey wine when I accidentally discovered he was here waiting for you to come home. He made me promise I wouldn’t spoil his surprise.”
“That’s exactly what happened,” he admitted. “Now that that’s settled, suppose we all have a seat. I’m still tuckered out. . . . Long journey,” he explained.
“Thirty years long, but I’m not complaining. Not one bit. Especially now that I know. . . . Well, you tell it, dear. It’s your tale, not mine,” his wife suggested before they all sat down together.
The couple, Martha noted, still held hands.
Richard Seymour toyed with his wife’s fingers and rubbed the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb. “Before I do, there’s something I should say to you, girl. Hilda tells me you’ve been very good to her all these years, as good as our Charity would have been if she had lived past girlhood. I thank you for that.”
Martha swallowed the lump in her throat. “Aunt Hilda is easy to love.”
He smiled and pressed a kiss to the back of his wife’s hand. Aunt Hilda’s blush deepened, and Martha began to fear the stain might become permanent.
He sobered and let go of his wife’s hand to rub his left arm a bit before entwining his fingers with hers again. He met Martha’s gaze and held it. “I want you to know that I expect folks will be mighty surprised come Sunday when I show up at meeting.”
When Martha opened her mouth to agree, he raised his other hand. “Let me speak.”
She nodded.
“I’ve made my peace with my Shepherd and He led me back home. Now that I’ve made my peace with Hilda and she’s forgiven me for what kept me from her side for so long, the only one who deserves to know the truth is you. Since that’s what Hilda wants, that’s what she’ll get. Everyone else can wag their tongues till they fall off, but they don’t have a right to know nothin’. I can’t change what happened, but I won’t have this good woman sufferin’ from gossip for a single moment for somethin’ she didn’t do herself.”
Moved by his honesty and devotion to Aunt Hilda and touched by his willingness to share an obviously painful tale with her and trust her to keep their confidence, Martha blinked back tears. She was curious beyond measure, and even though she would have no trouble keeping the secret he was about to reveal, she loved and respected Aunt Hilda too much to question her decision to welcome this man back into her life.
She leaned forward and gazed at them both. “I’m so happy you’re finally home. Wherever you’ve been and whatever you’ve done all these years concern only the two of you and have no bearing on my thoughts. Just seeing you together, seeing how happy Aunt Hilda is, well, that’s good enough for me.”
His eyes widened. He cocked his head and tugged on his beard. “You’re sure?”
She smiled. “As sure as I’ve ever been.”
Aunt Hilda tugged on her husband’s hand. “I told you she was special,” she murmured. “Just wait till you meet Victoria on Sunday. She’s mighty special, too.”
Before Martha could say a word, Aunt Hilda rose and nodded toward the kitchen. “I have to check that stew. While I’m gone, you can tell him all about Victoria and where she’s been and what she’s got planned for herself now that she’s home.”
Martha barely got to describe what Victoria looked like when Aunt Hilda returned. �
�Stew’s fine. Just needed a little more salt. Go ahead. I don’t mind hearing again about how that girl of yours landed after she ran off.”
Martha held nothing back. She detailed Victoria’s adventure exactly as she had told Aunt Hilda yesterday, as well as her daughter’s plans for the immediate future. When she concluded, Aunt Hilda smiled. “You’ve learned some hard lessons along the way, but you’re still amazing. I’m proud of you. I know I already told you that, but I am. I’m proud of Victoria, too. She’s proven what I knew all along,” she suggested.
Martha cocked her head.
Aunt Hilda chuckled. “After all is said and done, Victoria truly is her mother’s daughter, isn’t she?” When Martha could not find her voice to protest, Aunt Hilda scowled at her. “Don’t look at me like you’re all confused. Just think about it. You’ll see it for yourself. I don’t suppose you’d like to stay to supper?”
“No,” Martha said absently. “I promised Victoria I’d be home for supper.” With her aunt’s words still begging for an explanation, Martha made her way home, wondering if this time Aunt Hilda had gone too far.
Martha could not imagine a mother and daughter who were more different than she and Victoria were. Or had Martha yet more lessons to learn about her daughter as well as herself?
More joy awaited Martha at the confectionery.
Supper was just about to begin, and they had saved a place for her at the table. No easy task, not with June Morgan, Dr. McMillan, and Thomas there, too. With Nancy resting upstairs, Victoria had come down. Fern and Ivy had even stored away their weapons.
Supper was delicious and the desserts too tempting, as usual. Conversation had been interrupted by laughter more than a few times. Whether by chance or choice, the topic of Russell Clifford and his wife had never surfaced. The mood around the table was as festive and gay as any Martha could recall, and she accepted this supper as a blessing indeed.
While Fern and Ivy took June on a tour of the shop, with Dr. McMillan tagging along to snag a few goodies for himself, and with Victoria upstairs to see if Nancy was awake and willing to try a little supper, Martha and Thomas had a moment alone. “How long will you be staying before you leave?” she asked.
