by Delia Parr
“I could have sold these newspapers twice over and at triple the price,” she snapped, making it clear she resented missing the extra profit, and handed Ruth a package wrapped in plain brown paper. “I had to wrap them up so folks who came here earlier demanding copies of their own wouldn’t see I kept any aside—not that some folks in this village show any appreciation for what I do for them.”
“I’ll be mindful and tell Mr. Garner of your … kindness to him,” Ruth replied before hastily leaving the store. Though tempted to stop to get a glimpse of the headlines, she walked around to the back door of the Garners’ home and slipped upstairs to avoid being delayed by any customers who might be in the apothecary. She checked the second floor quickly, but Phanaby and Lily had yet to return. Thrilled to have the opportunity to read the newspapers in private, she laid the packet of papers on top of her bed.
Her fingers shook and her heart raced with anticipation as she untied the parcel and peeled away the brown wrapper. Lying on top, the headline in the Sun was printed in dark, bold type: Final Justice for One While the People Demand Justice for Another. She quickly dropped her gaze and read aloud the first line in the article below: “ ‘In a remarkable twist of fate that is certain to be welcomed by our readers, death has unexpectedly claimed the life of Rev. Gersham Livingstone, providing justice for the late Rosalie Peale that the jury in his recent trial was unwilling to render.’ ”
Scarcely able to breathe, Ruth clapped her hand over her mouth. Surely this article was either a dreadful mistake or some kind of cruel, twisted hoax.
Heart trembling, she shoved the paper aside to read the next. The headline in the Transcript was much shorter, but the words A Murderer’s Just Reward chilled her to the bone. Blinking back tears, she quickly read through the short article below:
Rev. Gersham Livingstone, recently acquitted of murdering a poor unfortunate in this city, is dead. Apparently the Creator has a greater sense of justice than the jury of twelve citizens who judged the evidence against him. George Madison, the late minister’s lawyer, along with several authorities summoned to Livingstone’s home, discovered his client’s body in bed early yesterday morning, after failing to gain access for the past three days. Dr. Ezra Wheaton, who performed an autopsy at the residence, confirmed the late minister apparently succumbed to a disease of the heart, no doubt aggravated by the stress of his controversial ministry as well as his recent trial.
“No! Please, God, no!” she whispered.
Close to a state of absolute panic, she pushed that paper aside, only to see a similar headline in the Galaxy. A horribly distressing sketch of her father, lying dead in his bed, captured her gaze. She blinked back tears to clear her vision and covered his image with her fingertips to study the rest of the sketch.
The details in the background were not only accurate but painfully familiar to her: the quilt on his bed, that she herself had made for him; the pear-shaped sconces on the wall; the two Bibles sitting on the table next to his bed, one of which had belonged to her mother. These were details that only someone who had been into her father’s bedchamber would know. Grief pierced her heart.
“No. Please, God, no …” she repeated over and over, rocking back and forth and weeping uncontrollably because she had no hope left that the newspaper accounts were not true.
Her beloved father was dead.
Fourteen
Jake slid the inside window shutter open just a notch and saw the dark figure of the man who had knocked at his cabin door and startled him out of a deep sleep. After he climbed out of bed, he stopped to light a pair of candles on the mantel over the hearth where dying embers were still glowing.
“You have an answer for me?” he asked once the man entered and he latched the door tight again.
Capt. Grant glanced at the table in the corner of the room covered with newspapers and handed over a letter. “It’s good to see you again, too,” he quipped and extended his hand.
Jake cringed and shook the older man’s hand. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I’m still half asleep,” he offered weakly. “I saw you sail in earlier today and got copies of the city newspapers you unloaded, but when you didn’t come by right after dark, I just assumed that Clifford still hadn’t given you a response for me yet. How are you, sir?”
“Fair to middlin’ for an old man, but I’d be a whole sight better if I could sit a spell.”
Jake pulled over the chair that Ruth had dragged into the river and set it in front of the fire. “I’m afraid this’ll have to do, sir,” he said and added a few thick logs to the fire to chase the chill from the room. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”
Grant eased into the chair, lifted his feet, and rested them on the crumbling hearth. “I just need to dry out these old boots of mine. Next time, I’ll row the dinghy across the river instead of traipsing all the way over here, assuming there is a next time. Go ahead. Read your letter. I’m as anxious as you are to hear what Clifford wrote.”
Jake walked over to the mantel and broke the wax seal on the letter. “I should have expected that he’d be closemouthed about it to you,” he said as he unfolded the single piece of paper.
The sea captain snorted. “In point of fact, he had a great deal to say.”
Jake met his gaze and held it. “He actually talked to you about what he expects me to do?”
Another snort. “No, he was more interested in making it clear that he did not look kindly on the fact that I helped you travel a bit over the past few years. But I had a few words of my own to say to him he didn’t want to hear, either.”
“I’m sorry. If I had any other way to keep in contact with him other than through you—”
“I don’t have any trouble speaking my piece with any man, least of all your brother, regardless of how old he is. Read the letter. Then we’ll talk.”
Jake nodded. He saw that the letter was dated the same day as the newspapers that had just arrived. He skimmed the opening remarks, which made it demandingly clear his brother expected him to continue with his assignment, even though Reverend Livingstone had died as a result of heart failure. “He wants me to stay and finish,” Jake said.
Capt. Grant shook his head. “After what I read in each of the other newspapers, I rather expected he would. Livingstone’s sudden demise has only inflamed public curiosity about his daughter’s whereabouts. There’s a growing consensus among the city officials I spoke to that she’s still alive. There’s even stronger speculation among the press that she took evidence that would have convinced the jury to convict her father.”
“I read the newspapers, too,” Jake reminded him. He turned his attention back to his brother’s letter, but then quickly crumpled the letter in disgust.
“Bad news?”
Jake huffed. “Since both the Sun and the Transcript have added two additional reporters to find Livingstone’s daughter, Clifford is assigning another reporter, Robert Farrell, to the story, which means he’ll probably be coming here. He’ll be traveling by stagecoach, following whatever leads he develops.”
“This Farrell. Do you know him?”
“Not personally,” Jake admitted, “but I understand he’s young, ambitious, cocky, and totally devoid of principles.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Clifford’s desperate for Ruth’s story. Did he say how soon Farrell would be arriving?”
Jake nodded. “Likely within days.”
“You can’t let him or any other reporter find her first,” Capt. Grant insisted. The concern in his voice was far more of an incentive for Jake to succeed than Clifford’s harsh directive. “Other than making it clear that he has little faith in you, did Clifford find anything out about Martin Malloy?”
“I didn’t read that far,” Jake replied. He uncrumpled the letter and finished reading:
I can report unequivocally that Martin Malloy did not operate a stationery store on Broadway or anywhere else in the city. Nor can I find any evidence that the man ever resided here, if he exis
ted at all. I trust that this information will be helpful in your search for Ruth Livingstone, although your letter did not detail what her connection to this man might be.
Jake paused to share this information with Capt. Grant, then asked, “What do you think that means?”
“I think your brother is capable enough that you can trust his findings in this matter.”
“I agree, but I was wondering what you think about Widow Malloy.”
“I think it’s fairly obvious that she’s fabricated an imaginary husband who had an imaginary store, which means she’s fabricated both her status and her name. That doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s the woman you’re looking for, though, does it?”
Jake shook his head. “No, but from the description Clifford gave me, I think it’s likely that she is, in truth, Ruth Livingstone. She must have been devastated to read of her father’s death today,” he murmured, surprised by his desire to protect a woman he barely knew.
“How well did you know Reverend Livingstone?” Jake asked, in part to distract himself from feelings about Ruth that were entirely unprofessional and totally inconsistent with his goal as a reporter.
The captain stared into the growing fire for several long moments. “Well enough to know that he loved his daughter very much. He would have gone to great lengths to protect her if he were still alive. If you think this woman is actually Ruth Livingstone, I’d say you have a bit of a problem,” he suggested as he shifted his feet a bit closer to the fire.
“Problem?”
“The child. Lily. How do you explain her?” he asked, voicing the same concerns that nagged at Jake.
“She can’t be Ruth’s natural child,” he replied. “I’ve never discovered any hint, either spoken or in print, that she bore a child. Her father’s ministry was highly controversial long before he was accused of murder, and his detractors would have gleefully used the fact that he had a granddaughter who had been born out of wedlock against him.”
“Quite so.”
Jake raked his hand through his hair and sighed. “Then who is she? Who are her parents? And why did they allow Reverend Livingstone to send her off with Ruth? I know he had a large number of supporters at one time, but it’s hard to imagine that any of them would sacrifice their own child for any cause, especially a man charged with murder.”
“But he made the arrangements with me for Widow Malloy and her little girl to sail to Toms River a good week before he’d been charged with any crime,” Capt. Grant argued as he stood to his feet. “You raise all good questions, and I have no doubt you’ll find answers that I trust you will consider wisely. Have you determined what role the Garners play in all this?”
“Not yet,” Jake admitted. He suspected the answers he needed were in that wooden chest Grant had delivered to Mrs. Garner. At this point, however, he realized he was pinning all of his hopes to redeem himself on the contents of that chest— contents that might very well be disappointing, if not totally useless after all. No, he would be far better served to focus his efforts on learning as much as he could from Ruth herself, efforts all the more urgent with Farrell’s imminent arrival.
Capt. Grant yawned and shook his head. “The older I get, the sooner dawn seems to come. It’s time for me to head back to my ship. You know how to get in touch with me,” he said and then headed for the door.
“I’ll walk back with you,” Jake offered.
A raised brow.
“Just to the bridge,” he added and blew out the candles. He hurried ahead of his visitor, unlatched the door, and opened it. “Along the way, perhaps you can give me some advice.”
Grant stepped outside. “About?”
“What do you know about turkeys?”
“They make mighty fine eating. Other than that, very little. Why?”
Jake shut the door and looked around. “You didn’t by any chance encounter one when you approached the cabin, did you?”
The captain chuckled and started walking away. “Got yourself a pest, have you?”
“Apparently. The stupid bird just started following me around the other day and it swoops at anyone who approaches the cabin.”
“So shoot it, clean it, cook it on a spit, and eat it.”
Jake snorted. “I’m tempted, but I don’t have a gun.”
“Then I suppose you’re stuck with it, but I wouldn’t worry. It won’t bite you,” he said with a hearty chuckle.
“That’s some consolation,” Jake said. He figured having that dumb turkey following him around was going to be far less of a problem than meeting up with the little imp he rescued from the river. She had nearly ruined his efforts to convince her mother he was too disabled to pose any threat to her at all.
They parted ways at the end of the path, and on the way back to his cabin, Jake stopped to glance over at the rear of the apothecary. Like the other buildings in the village, the windows were dark. But unlike the rest of the people who were abed, he suspected that Ruth Livingstone was sleeping fitfully, if at all.
Although he had lost his father when he was only eight, he still remembered the crushing grief and confusion that had stayed with him for a very long time, especially at night when he felt totally and utterly alone. He did not know how Ruth Livingstone would grieve for her father when she could not openly acknowledge their relationship, but he did know the one place where she could go to grieve in private: her garden.
And regardless of how much he empathized with her situation, he could not afford to let sympathy keep him from completing the assignment he had been given.
Not when Farrell might very well be on the next stage that pulled into the village.
Fifteen
“Mr. Garner needs to speak to you. He’s in the sitting room,” Phanaby said, lifting Lily out of Ruth’s arms. “I’ll keep this little angel busy with me in the kitchen while I fix breakfast.”
More curious than alarmed, Ruth followed Phanaby down the hallway and found Elias standing in front of the hearth. His glum expression matched her mood, still fragile since her father’s death two weeks ago. “You wanted to see me?”
He nodded and motioned for her to take a seat on the settee.
She shook her head. “I’m fine standing. What is it?”
He cleared his throat. “With Dr. Woodward sick in bed with a fever, I was called out to Burkalow’s in the middle of the night last night. One of the guests at the inn was suffering from a stomach disorder.”
“I thought I heard you leave,” she replied.
He dropped his gaze for a moment. “The guest is a reporter from the Galaxy, Robert Farrell. Apparently, he arrived on the stage late yesterday afternoon. He’s looking for Ruth Livingstone, although I daresay he’d be quite interested in anyone connected to Reverend Livingstone and his ministry.”
Ruth felt the blood drain from her face and bunched her skirts with her hands to keep them from shaking. Taking small, deliberate steps, she managed to get to the settee and take a seat before her legs gave way. Although Elias had no idea that she was, indeed, Ruth Livingstone, his need to protect her as one of Rev. Livingstone’s Prodigal Daughters would serve her just as well.
“I talked to the man at rather great length when I delivered the remedy,” Elias offered quickly. “He told me he spent a few hours in the village yesterday talking to a few people before taking ill, but he made it clear to me that he’s far more interested now in continuing on his journey once he recovers than he is in staying here. I really don’t think he poses any great danger to you or to Lily.”
Ruth blinked back tears. After learning of her beloved father’s death, she had spent every waking hour of every day living in a constant state of emotional and spiritual turmoil, unable to stop the endless flow of tears, unable to find peace, even unable to pray. Now, with a reporter in the village, fear overwhelmed her grief.
“Wh-what do you think I should do?” she asked, half afraid to hear his answer.
He shrugged. “Actually, nothing. I just wanted you to
know—”
She nearly choked. “Nothing?”
He nodded. “At least for now. You haven’t been out at all these last few weeks, and I’m not suggesting you should venture out unnecessarily now, at least not until he leaves. But I don’t think there’s any need to panic. Folks have gotten used to seeing you work in the apothecary now and again, so I think you should continue to do that, although today might be a good day to tackle straightening up that storeroom instead of helping me with customers.”
“But what if this Mr. Farrell comes into the apothecary for more of the remedy you gave him last night?”
“There’s no need to worry about that. I told him I’d deliver more to him at the inn. In fact, I’ve already prepared it and intend to walk it over later this afternoon. The remedy itself is fairly potent, so the man should be more inclined to sleep than anything else.” He paused and shook his head. “Trust me, Ruth. Even if he is up to wandering about the village today, he’s far more interested in finding Ruth Livingstone than anything else.”
She exhaled slowly and reined in the temptation to tell Elias, as well as Phanaby, that she was the woman Mr. Farrell was looking for. She’d felt God urging her to remain silent up to this point, and protecting sweet Lily—and the Garners—was now her priority.
He smiled gently. “You do trust me, don’t you? You know I won’t let anything happen to you or to Lily, don’t you?”
She managed to return his smile. “Yes, of course I do,” she whispered, even as her heart trembled.
Fueled by uncertainty, fear, and a growing anger toward her father for leaving her, Ruth had Elias’s storeroom looking cleaner than it had probably been in years.
