A Bride at Last

by Melissa Jagears

  She shook her head, hoping he’d believe her red face and shaky voice resulted from anger instead of embarrassment. “I’m searching for a lost student.”

  “Come now, Miss Dawson.” Mr. Kingfisher’s frown creased his brows, and he beckoned her away from the crowd to the church’s side yard where the carriages were parked in neat rows. “Many of us have looked and made inquiries too. There’s nothing more anybody can do but pray. Mr. Fitzgerald has our prayers. Why Mr. Jonesey bothers—”

  “Anthony is Mr. Jonesey’s son.”

  He glanced across the churchyard toward Silas. “That’s not what I heard.”

  “He has proof now, so he’s not going to stop looking for him.”

  Mr. Kingfisher straightened and cleared his throat. “Even so, he can certainly look on his own. The urgency has dwindled enough that you should start worrying about yourself.”

  “Dwindled?” When would concern about a nine-year-old needing to be saved from facing the world alone ever dwindle?

  The Logans and her boss would likely dance a jig if she gave in and relinquished the task of finding Anthony to Silas alone, but she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. “I’m sure Mr. Jonesey and Anthony appreciate your prayers, but I’m not going to rely on prayer alone.”

  At least Silas had rallied after his bad news at the telegram office yesterday and returned to searching for Anthony with vigor.

  Mr. Kingfisher sighed. “I know you think people daft for focusing on your whereabouts. It’s starting to annoy me how many parents worry about your free time, but I must remind you how concerned some of the board members can be about propriety when it comes to our teachers. Perhaps prayer would be a better way to channel your efforts.”

  “I already pray.” God said He heard everyone’s prayers, but He never seemed to care enough to listen to hers, let alone answer any.

  I’m sorry, God. That’s probably blasphemy or something, but I’m frustrated with you. Why aren’t you helping us find Anthony?

  She opened her mouth to tell Mr. Kingfisher he could offer more than just a bended knee but stopped. His searching would likely end up as unproductive as hers. “No need to worry about me running around town much anymore.” At least not in Breton. “I haven’t the foggiest notion where else to look.”

  A male sighed behind her. “How I wish that wasn’t the truth.”

  Her skin prickled. How long had Silas been standing behind her?

  Mr. Kingfisher pulled himself up to his full height, his shadow falling across both of them. “Mr. Jonesey, please have a care with Miss Dawson’s reputation.”

  Silas’s eyebrows puckered almost as much as his lips. “Would you join us this afternoon when we look for Anthony, then? Your presence would certainly keep Miss Dawson’s reputation from being sullied by my lonesome escort.”

  “Do be reasonable.” Mr. Kingfisher tugged at his tie. “It’s been a week. You’ve alerted the proper authorities, have you not?” At Silas’s nod, he turned a twitchy smile toward her. “My wife and I’ll continue to pray you find him soon . . . or find the peace to go on without him.”

  Kate’s hands trembled at his lack of true concern, her fingers clenched involuntarily. She took a step forward—

  Silas’s hand gripped her shoulder. “It’s all right.”

  “I must be going, Miss Dawson. I’m warning you though—people are watching.” Her boss’s gaze lingered on the hold Silas had on her shoulder. He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but he simply nodded before turning to leave.

  “I can’t believe they’re worried about my behavior when a student is missing.” If she were younger, she’d have stomped her foot.

  Silas lowered his voice. “The world continues to revolve, Kate. Even when you’re stuck in grief or pain or anger or sin—it’s how it is. Bad things happen every day. If everyone quit to mourn every tragedy, society would fall apart.”

  She whirled on him. She knew how little the world cared for the trials of widows, orphans, spinsters . . . “So you think we should give up? Just yesterday—”

  “I don’t want to.”

  Doesn’t want to? He considered it a possibility? He’d just learned Anthony was truly his son!

  Well, she wouldn’t give up. Not ever. The pain of simply contemplating defeat had her falling asleep at night with tears in her eyes.

  Silas’s hand on her shoulder tightened. Was she imagining him pulling her closer? Would he dare hug her in front of people who were so set on finding fault with two people grieving over the loss of a boy? The memory of the strength of his arms when he’d kept her from falling into the stream called to her as much as the musky smell of man and—

  Over Silas’s shoulder, Richard’s narrow-eyed glare was almost palpable. What was he doing at church?

  She stiffened and took a step back.

  Silas grabbed her, preventing her escape. “Where’re you going?”

  “Richard’s watching.”

  Silas stepped in front of her, his eyes probing hers. “I told him about the telegram. He doesn’t believe me.”

  “So he’s going to start trailing us now?”

  “He’ll probably be watching us more than ever. He seems to think his court ruling supersedes any information I have.”

  If Richard found Anthony first, now that Silas would soon have proof he was Anthony’s father . . . how much trouble was Richard willing to go through to procure the boy’s talents?

  Probably quite a bit, considering he’d stuck around Breton for two weeks.

  Though, if his bragging to Silas was true, he was having a stroke of luck at the gaming tables. Maybe that’s more of what held him in town.

  Silas blew out a breath. “Did you mean what you said to Mr. Kingfisher just now? Have you thought of no new places to look?”

  “I’m out of ideas—other than going to more neighboring towns. I’m worried that with so much time gone by . . .” She clamped her teeth—she would not cry. Too many parishioners milled about.

  Anthony was either well hidden or gone . . . Hopefully not into eternity. She pinched the bridge of her nose to keep from thinking in that direction.

  “I know you want to help me find Anthony, but after a week . . .” He took her hand. “Maybe you should worry more about maintaining your teaching position since they’ve brought it up again.”

  She stared at his rough fingers encasing hers. He probably shouldn’t be holding her hand with so many people around, people who might imagine improprieties when there were none, but she didn’t want to treat his gesture as anything but kind.

  “With the possibility that . . . well, Anthony’s life may be ruined or . . .” He stared off into the distance.

  She closed her eyes and concentrated on his thumb absentmindedly causing flickers of sensation across the back of her hand, taunting her with what was likely the last touch he’d give her.

  “His life might be over . . . but yours . . .” He looked at her again, his eyes containing far more compassion than she’d mustered for him when he’d lost his wife. “I don’t want your life ruined because of me.”

  At present, she was an old maid in a town with no family and no marriage prospects. If she lost her job, her situation would be worse than when she’d gotten off the train in Missouri two years ago.

  Her life wasn’t all that grand. Especially since the man holding her hand was going to leave soon, with or without Anthony. She’d ruined her life well enough on her own.

  Silas slid off his hired horse and stared at the dark, dilapidated building that often haunted his nightmares. Yesterday, he’d gone to the courthouse as soon as it had opened and informed the judge of the expected proof of his fatherhood coming in the mail. The judge had assured him he’d change the ruling if the letters were convincing. Silas rubbed the back of his neck. What if things still didn’t turn out the way he hoped? What if Lucy’s sister’s proof was as flimsy as the sentence he’d found in Lucy’s journal?

  Even so, he was going to check out every
possibility he could possibly dream up. Which was why he’d traveled most of the day to get to this building full of terrible memories.

  Surely Anthony wouldn’t be here, but Silas couldn’t return to Kansas without looking. If someone had found him, they might have taken him to an orphanage.

  He’d first checked the one the judge had told him about. It was closer to Breton, in Hightree, but Hall’s Home for Boys was one of the larger ones in the region. And he well recalled the long wagon ride he’d endured before being dropped off here.

  The clapboard building looked smaller than he remembered. The roof was missing shingles and the windows were cracked. Angry starlings fought over a nest in the eaves, but no sounds of children playing, laughing, crying, or screaming emanated from within. Was that a good thing? The place seemed far too silent for an orphanage. But boys’ pants and shirts hung on the clotheslines in the side yard, so there were children there somewhere.

  Did Anthony realize if he ended up in an orphanage, he’d likely be given to a family who wanted a servant more than a son? Richard would likely have been a better alternative.

  Silas marched up the front stairs and pushed against the door to the one place he’d vowed he’d never return.

  The heavy smell of turpentine and the acrid scent of burning food made his eyes water. He stared down both empty hallways flanking the wide staircase to the second floor. Should he talk to the directors first? If the Oldsteins still ran the place, could he be civil? Down the right hallway and past the office, he treaded softly, then ducked his head into the dining area. The burnt smell was definitely beans. Three redheaded boys, stair-stepped in size, ate from tin bowls on the left side of the scarred table. A larger blond boy sat across from them, hair hanging in his eyes, absently staring out the back wall’s window.

  No adults, but the clanging of pots indicated the cook was busy.

  So few children. Did more people open their homes to orphans now, or had the demand for cheap servants after the war surpassed the number of abandoned children?

  He ducked back out. Adult voices sounded somewhere down the hall, likely from the office. Anthony might not be in the dining room, but he could still be here somewhere. Slipping back into the main foyer, he looked up the staircase. The only other adults who’d worked in the orphanage when he’d lived here were a janitor and a preacher, whose sermons had always been the same: obey the directors, and when the time came, their new parents. He never seemed to realize that some children, like Silas, had resided there long enough to quote his lectures verbatim.

  Padding quietly upstairs, he shot past the first landing, up the next flight, and then headed straight for the small square door next to the first bedroom.

  His throat tightened, and he forced himself to breathe normally. No one would be shoving his now-five-foot-ten frame under that two-foot door, but his palms still turned clammy. Kneeling, he grasped the brass bolt that slid so easily for him now. How many times had he tried to kick against the sturdy latch from the other side or attempted to jiggle it open with whatever utensil he’d hidden in his sock for when he was thrown back in?

  Grasping the little doorknob, he braced himself for the sour smell of unwashed bodies or worse, but strangely, cleaning supplies lined one side, cloths on the other. He couldn’t see the back wall without a lantern, but nothing smelled as if a child had been jailed there for days. He let his eyes adjust to the dimness, trying to erase the nightmarish details with the vision of everyday cleaners and rags.

  “Can I help you?” The wizened voice made Silas’s heart pound.

  He hit the back of his head on the doorframe’s top. He groaned and rubbed what would surely become a bruise as he turned to face the one man he’d hoped to see even if Anthony wasn’t there. “Jonesey.” He smiled at the beloved janitor dragging a wet mop behind him.

  Jonesey’s freckled, light-chocolate skin sagged under his now foggy brown eyes. A pair of cockeyed, wire-rimmed spectacles sat on his large, flat nose, his five o’clock shadow now mostly white. Jonesey tilted his head to look over his glasses. “Do you know me?”

  “I’m Silas.”

  The man stared at him with a raised eyebrow.

  Silas pointed to the closet. “You used to let me out of there to stretch my legs when Mr. and Mrs. Oldstein left the building, used to sneak me food.”

  “I did that for countless young men when they was running the place.” He propped the mop up and leaned on it heavily.

  Silas’s smile wavered. “Do you remember a Silas? I was here between ’59 and ’66 off and on.”

  The old man scratched his head. “I came in ’64.”

  No wonder those first years had been so dark in his memory. He’d not had a hug before 1864. He pointed at the cleaning nook. “One night I’d been in there two days I think, screaming and kicking, not caring how many more beatings I’d get if I didn’t calm down. You whispered through the closet door, told me God thought you and I were worth something even if nobody else did.”

  “The Oldsteins treated you children like dogs.” The man’s hazy eyes hadn’t cleared.

  Silas pushed around his sticky tongue until he was able to shove out more words. “You don’t remember me, then?” He hadn’t been anything special to the man? Just one of many?

  “My memory ain’t what it used to be.” Jonesey shook his head and put down his bucket, the dirty white foam sloshing over its battered rim. “I’m surprised you remember me though. I’m nothing no white child would care to remember.”

  Silas stepped toward him and gripped the man’s arm.

  Old Jonesey looked down at his hand as if alarmed.

  “You were the only adult I remember who cared a whit for me, Mr. Jonesey. After I left, I . . . I even took your last name since I didn’t know my own.” He let go of the janitor’s arm and offered him his hand. “I’m pleased to see you again—name’s Silas Jonesey.”

  The old man didn’t take his hand. His eyes didn’t quite look straight at him either. Maybe he couldn’t see well enough to recognize him or see his hand. “I’m Ezekiel Jones.”

  Not Jonesey? He blinked. “I guess I should’ve realized Jonesey was a nickname.”

  The man’s face split with a grin. He had far fewer teeth than twenty years ago. “Never heard of no white child naming himself after a black man. Jones was my old master’s name, though. Don’t rightly know my family name either.”

  Silas let his hand drop. “I want to thank you for everything you did for me.”

  The man nodded slightly, but his face still looked blank. Was he going blind?

  Silas waited for light to fill the man’s foggy eyes, but the janitor only stood politely, patiently. “You wouldn’t know if a dark-headed boy named Anthony came here sometime in the last few weeks?”

  “Naw, just got five boys right now, and they’ve been here awhile. None of them dark headed.”

  Silas sniffed and glanced down at the little torture chamber. “Glad to know they don’t use the closet like they used to.”

  “Yes, sir. My mop bucket and rags are much happier occupants.”

  Silas rubbed a hand across his face. “You wouldn’t happen to know what my real last name is?”

  “What’s your name again?”

  Silas’s shoulders slumped. “Silas.”

  The man rubbed his stubble. “Was your hair the color it is now?”

  Silas nodded and closed his eyes. Please remember.

  “Hmm, there were so many of you after the war. But I hear the new directors are sticklers for paperwork. Might ask them if they have a file on you.”

  “Yes, I suppose I should talk to them before I leave.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. The whole way to the orphanage he’d imagined giving his namesake a hug, but now? Had old age fuzzed his memory? Or had no one—not even this cherished memory of a man—ever had a lasting care for him?

  God . . . oh, God, why does this hurt so much?

  The hole he carried around inside him widened, fel
t emptier, bore deeper.

  No one had ever cared for him enough to miss him, to want to stay with him.

  The Bible said Jesus offered to love everyone, and he’d begged for that love years ago, clung to that promise as he’d clawed his way out of a life of despair. But if God couldn’t arrange for one person on this earth to trouble themselves with him . . .

  Silas tipped his head toward the janitor, who’d at least made him feel loved once. “It was. . . . nice to see you again.”

  The man nodded, his eyes foggy but concerned. “I wish I could help you, son.”

  He swallowed at the man’s choice of words, wondering if they were as intentional as they sounded, despite the man claiming he didn’t recall him. He nodded before turning to tromp down the stairs to meet the new directors and see if he could find out his real last name.

  Though with Anthony gone, what did it matter?

  Chapter 11

  Silas stood outside Red’s Tavern, one hand strangling the brown paper-wrapped bottle hidden inside his coat pocket. Troubled by his visit to the orphanage and the telegram he’d picked up after returning to town an hour ago, he’d wandered around Breton in the spitting rain . . . and gotten himself into trouble.

  How long had he grasped on to that thread of love he’d believed Jonesey held for him?

  Now he had nobody, and nobody cared what he did.

  A flash of navy blue and auburn hair flounced in his peripheral. He groaned. Was Kate looking for Anthony by herself in this weather?

  Would Kate still believe he’d become a better man if she saw him now? She’d told him she no longer believed him to be the man Lucy described, but he’d read enough of his wife’s journaling rants to know he’d been a short-tempered drunk. And what did it matter if he became one again? It wasn’t as if he had a son to care for. It wasn’t as if anyone needed him. Least of all her. But she was the only person who might care enough to wrestle the demon from his hand.

  Maybe, maybe not.

  He caressed the curve of the heavy bottle. At one time, he’d thought a fine whiskey could help solve his problems. It had at least dulled the pain for a while. And he certainly had plenty of worries to bury right now. He crumpled the telegram in his pocket more compactly.