by Delia Parr
She blinked back tears, struggling to understand his reluctance to ask her to marry him. “I love you, too,” she whispered. “Why? Why can’t you ask me? If it’s because of your back and how difficult it is for you to earn—”
“No,” he said firmly. He squared his shoulders and tilted up his chin, looking far more formal in demeanor than she had ever seen him. “In all truth, my back is perfectly fine. I’ve spent the past two years working in small towns and villages along the coast, but I’ve never fallen off a roof or hurt my back in any way,” he began, his voice growing steadier as he spoke. “I returned to New York City several months ago to work with my brother again. We own a newspaper there, the Galaxy. My real name is Tripp, not Spencer. And though I’ve always gone by Jake, I use Asher Tripp as my professional name—”
“No. Th-that can’t be true,” she argued, instinctively taking a step back from him as his words sliced through every hope and dream she had ever wrapped around the man standing in front of her.
“I’m afraid it’s true. I came here to investigate you for a story. I know that you’re not Widow Ruth Malloy. You’re Reverend Gersham Livingstone’s daughter, and Lily is not your child. I know it all, Ruth, every last detail of the proof you’ve been hiding, which is likely stored in that wooden chest your father sent to Phanaby Garner several days before you arrived here.”
She dropped the heart she had been holding to let it hang free again and clapped her hand over her mouth, too horrified to scream, let alone speak. She was also far too devastated to cry, but she had the presence of mind to put two more steps of distance between them.
“I’m not proud of who I am or what I’ve done since I’ve met you, but I promise you—”
She held up her hand, saw how badly it was shaking, and used her other hand to steady it and form a shield in front of her. “Just leave. Don’t say another word—just go,” she spat.
She turned her back to him and started walking back to the door with her head held high and her back stiff, more determined with every step she took that she would not shed a tear in front of that … that reporter … that horrible, lying, sneaky excuse for a man!
Not one tear. Not now. Not ever.
“Don’t go. You don’t understand,” he argued, following her. “I’m not going to write an article that will hurt either you or Lily. I’m going to do everything in my power to protect you both.”
Holding onto the door, Ruth turned just enough to glare at him. “Protect us? Just exactly how do you expect to do that in your article when every word that’s been printed in your newspaper or any of the others has done nothing but hurt us with lies and innuendos that are blatantly false and odious to anyone familiar with the truth?”
Breathing hard, she huffed, “By the time your article reaches the pathetic public that worships every word they read in your newspaper as the gospel truth, Lily and I will be gone from here, far enough away that you can’t hurt us anymore. Feel free to print whatever version of the truth that sells the most of your precious newspapers. You will anyway.”
Jake glared back at her. “You actually think that I’d write an article that would subject Lily to the shame of knowing that she was the love child born to a prostitute who was murdered by her own father? She’s your half sister, Ruth. Even if I didn’t give a whit about that child, which I do, I could never do that to you. I love you.”
She dropped her hand from the door and whirled around to face him. “Wh-what did you say?”
“I said exactly what you know is true. My brother’s already confirmed the fact that your father and Rosalie Peale were lovers and had a child together. When she threatened to tell their secret, he killed her, and he was only acquitted because he hid everything he had ever given to her, letters or trinkets or whatever, in that wooden chest and then sent you away with Lily.”
She struggled and struggled to breathe. “You … you’re … despicable. You’re beyond despicable. How could you possibly think that … that disgusting story is true? And even if it was, how can you possibly justify printing it in your newspaper? Rosalie is dead. My father is dead. But Lily and I are still very much alive, and neither one of us deserves—”
“You both deserve much more than I could ever give you, but I won’t break my vow to protect you both because I do love you, Ruth,” he murmured. “Both of you. Please, won’t you try to understand and forgive me for lying to you?”
When he reached out to her, she slapped his hand away. “Your profession of love is just as perverted as your vow. You don’t deserve forgiveness,” she snapped, turned her back, marched inside, and slammed the door in his face when he tried to follow her.
Body trembling, she collapsed against the door. With her fist pressed hard against her lips, she did not utter a cry until she heard him walk away. Deep sobs tortured her body, and she wrapped her hands around her waist. The depth of his betrayal was so overwhelming and the pain so excruciating, she did not know if she could bear it.
When her sobs finally eased into weeping, she sat down on the bottom step, removed the carved heart she was wearing, and shoved it into her pocket. Alone in the dark, she doubted she would ever find the strength to smile or to trust anyone ever again.
Moments later, too weak to cry and too disappointed to pray, she started back up the steps. She was halfway to the second floor when she realized she had no one but herself to depend upon and decided she would have to wake Elias and beg him to go to Forked River today.
By the time she closed the door at the top of the steps, she had also decided to tell them that it was useless to worry about Eldridge Porter, because he was not the only reporter here in Toms River who posed a threat to her and Lily.
Ruth reached their bedroom door and had lifted her hand to knock when she heard Lily whimpering. Anxious not to delay speaking to the Garners, she slipped back into her room, hoping to urge Lily back to sleep again. She found Lily lying in Ruth’s upper bed, but when she picked her up to soothe her and place her back in the lower bed, she grew terrified and all thoughts of Jake quickly disappeared.
Poor Lily was burning up with fever.
Thirty-Seven
Within hours of his arrival in New York City, Jake was tempted to get back on the Sheller, sail to Boston with Capt. Grant, and disappear again.
He balled his hands into fists, ready to charge over the desk that separated him from his brother at the Galaxy office, if that was what it took to get a clear, forthright answer from him. Instead, he tried giving his brother one last chance to respond honestly before he resorted to physical intimidation.
“No,” Jake repeated. “I haven’t read what the other newspapers reported, Clifford, because I’m only interested in what’s printed in the Galaxy.” He pointed to the front page of the paper he had purchased as soon as he debarked the Sheller. He hadn’t been able to read more than the first page before he stormed into the office less than five minutes ago, infuriated. “Now, for the last time: This headline and the articles below it. Are they based on provable facts or not?”
Clifford glared back at him. “There’s no need for a show of temper. Of course they are,” he stated. He sorted through the papers stacked on his desk, chose several, and threw them onto Jake’s desk. “If you don’t believe me, sit down and read those. There’s a copy of the actual deathbed confession, which I paid dearly to get and paid even more dearly to guarantee that none of the other newspapers had a copy of it in time for today’s issue; a statement from all of the witnesses who signed it; and notes from my interview with the constable, as well as Reverend Livingstone’s lawyer.”
Clifford paused to clear his throat. “I’m not as irresponsible as you apparently think I am. I know what I’m doing—and I did it every day while you were off nursing your wounded pride for two years before you decided to return and redeem yourself.”
Satisfaction was hardly the word for the feelings that churned in Jake’s gut and colored his opinion of his brother. While his brother continued
to glare at him, he stood at his desk and read every single document. By the time he finished, he was able to control the urge to literally strangle his brother, but only barely. “Since it appears that someone else is actually responsible for killing Rosalie Peale, and not Reverend Livingstone, how do you explain what you wrote to me in your last letter—which, as it turns out, I was fully justified to toss into the fire?”
Clifford replied, “At this point? It’s irrelevant.”
Jake’s pulse went straight into a gallop. “Irrelevant? That’s the best you can offer as an excuse for the misinformation you sent to me? What excuse would you like me to give to Ruth Livingstone to explain why I told her that I had proof that her father had killed Rosalie Peale because he had fathered her illegitimate child? Or should I just tell her to forget it because it’s ‘irrelevant’ now that the real killer has confessed?”
Clifford’s eyes glittered. “Then you confronted her. Excellent! Based on these new developments, you’ll need to alter your article, of course, but we’ll still have an exclusive that will have the other newspapers on the defensive. We’ll tease the readers, perhaps with just a few tidbits for a week or so,” he mused, talking more to himself than to Jake. “Then we’ll publish the full article you’ve written, just as we promised.”
“Promised? When?” Jake demanded, fearing the nightmare he was having had somehow just gotten even worse.
Clifford opened the newspaper on his desk and pointed to an announcement placed prominently on the third page. “I had every confidence you’d come through with a good article, but since you were actually able to speak to Ruth Livingstone, the revised article will be better than good. It’ll be great.”
Jake read the announcement, squared his shoulders, and stared at his brother. “You shouldn’t have promised to write the truth about her. Anything and everything about Ruth Livingstone is now ‘irrelevant,’ ” he argued, tossing his brother’s own word back at him again. “Her father has been completely vindicated, once by a jury, and now by the actual killer’s confession.”
“That may be true,” his brother countered, “but the public’s fascination with him is ongoing, perhaps even more so now with that woman’s dramatic confession. I’m going to use that fascination to my advantage. Think about it, Jake. It’s entirely possible that at least some of the information I was able to uncover about Peale was based on fact. If Peale actually had a child, and Ruth Livingstone can offer any kind of proof, perhaps something her father hid in that wooden chest you mentioned—”
“Stop!”
Clifford looked at Jake as if he had grown a second head. “Stop?”
“You’re not going to print anything about any child, if one even exists,” Jake said firmly, determined to keep his vow to protect Lily as well as Ruth. There was so much more he wanted to do for them, if Ruth would only give him another chance.
“You don’t make the decisions about what I decide to print in the Galaxy,” his brother argued. “I do, and I’m going to pursue this story and print what I can until the readers tell me they’re not interested anymore. The public has a right to know the truth—”
“The truth? The public? Listen to yourself. You can’t seriously think the truth is best served by exploiting that woman and opening her life for public scrutiny. She’s as much a victim in this whole sordid affair as Rosalie Peale, and public demand for—”
“I don’t want to argue with you, Jake. A successful newspaper meets the public demand or it folds, which is precisely what would have happened if I hadn’t saved it two years ago,” Clifford said, his words laced more with anger than disappointment. “I need to print the story I asked you to write about Ruth Livingstone. Beyond that, it’s entirely up to you. Stay and help me continue to build the Galaxy, or go. I’ve got any number of investors ready to buy out your share of the paper. But if you decide to stay, be prepared to loosen up those principles of yours. They’re far too rigid for you to be successful in this business.”
Jake swallowed hard. Completely disillusioned by the divide that existed between them, which was based more on principles of faith than the principles men had built upon them, he stepped through and beyond his brother’s shadow for the first time in his life to stand alone, beneath the shadow of his Creator. “I don’t want to argue, either. I’ve written an article about Ruth Livingstone that I’d like you to print. In return, I’ll sign whatever documents are necessary to give you full title to the newspaper, which will also assign my original investment to you.”
Clifford shook his head. “While your offer sounds generous, I doubt very much I’ll be interested in what you wrote. Maybe it’s best if you just leave and think my offer over.”
“I don’t need to think it over. I know exactly what I want. Will you at least read the article before you reject my offer?”
Clifford sighed. “Give me a few days. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do. Let me show you the article,” Jake offered, praying God would intervene and soften his brother’s heart.
When he left the office two hours later, he found Capt. Grant waiting for him in the oyster bar down the street, just as he had promised.
“Well?”
“He’s agreed to consider printing my article,” Jake replied.
The older man nodded. “Then there’s hope yet. I hope you’re as hungry as I am,” he said when the waiter suddenly appeared with a tray of food that would feed half the captain’s crew.
Jake leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Now will you tell me how you got so involved in Reverend Livingstone’s network?” he asked, anxious for the captain to keep his promise and explain the mystery of the role he had been playing.
Grant smiled. “Later. After we eat and we’re back on board again. And after you tell me what you’re going to do to win that young woman’s favor. But there is one thing I can tell you now.” He placed half a dozen boiled oysters onto his plate.
Jake leaned closer still.
“It’s not Reverend Livingstone’s network,” Capt. Grant whispered. “It’s always been mine, and I have great hope that you’ll join us.”
Thirty-Eight
For two straight days, Ruth only left Lily’s bedside for a few brief periods—to make certain Phanaby was still regaining her strength and good health, or to prepare a meal. But there was never a single beat of her heart that did not contain a prayer for God to spare Lily.
By the time the sun rose on Sunday, the third full day of Lily’s illness, Phanaby was well enough to resume her household duties again, although she felt incredibly guilty that her illness had spread to the little girl she loved as her own. Ruth was free to devote every moment, day and night, to her niece.
In addition to her prayers, she even tried to bargain with Him, offering to exchange her life for Lily’s. She thought about offering the life of the man who had betrayed her instead, but thought God would find the idea too self-serving.
Although Dr. Woodward had refused to bleed Lily because of her tender age, he had prescribed nearly the same remedy for her as he had for Phanaby. Ruth had bathed Lily’s fevered body several times a day with cloths dipped in the same white willow bark tea, which she diluted and sweetened with honey to entice the babe to drink more. She had rocked Lily in her arms and walked her and swayed with her when she was too exhausted to take a step. Whenever Lily did sleep, albeit fitfully, Ruth had lain by Lily’s side in the lower bed, cradling her in her arms.
On Monday, Lily finally fell asleep at noon. Ruth’s fears for Lily had distanced her from the shock and horror of Jake’s betrayal. All that remained now was a deep anguish and more heartbreak.
She still found it difficult to accept that Jake Spencer, the tenderhearted man she had come to love, and Asher Tripp, the villainous reporter, were one and the same man. But Ruth decided not to share this truth with Phanaby and Elias unless it became absolutely necessary.
Unsure of how much time she would have before Lily awakene
d, Ruth was anxious to freshen up a bit in the hope she might feel slightly human again if she did. Although she was tempted to open the window for some fresh air, she was afraid the draft might be harmful to Lily, so she tiptoed across the room to the chest of drawers instead. After slipping out of the clothes she had worn for the past twenty-four hours, she washed up and changed into the clean gown Phanaby had laundered and set out for her.
“Bless you, Phanaby. You even remembered a new ribbon for my hair,” she whispered and tied a clean apron at her waist. She left the room just long enough to carry the soiled clothing to the back of the hallway. When she found Lily was still sleeping, she went to the kitchen and indulged herself with a rather thick slice of bread slathered with molasses.
Once she finished, she returned to the bedroom, removed the tired ribbon she had worn to keep her hair pulled away from her face, set it aside, and started brushing her hair. The small cut on her finger from the broken glass had nearly healed. Not so the wounds to her heart. She brushed harder and harder, unable to bear the thought of the hateful lies that would soon be in the newspaper, if indeed they had not already been put to print. Lies that would vilify her father’s name. Lies that would shame Lily’s name. And lies that would make it nearly impossible for Ruth to challenge them without revealing the truth—a truth that would still shame Lily’s name.
The sharp rap at her bedroom window startled her so badly she yelped. With her heart pounding, she whirled around and saw Mr. Toby standing on a ladder and staring at her through the cracked glass, motioning for her to open the window. Directly over his head, a blanket of storm clouds darkened the horizon. She hoped that Elias, who had left early that morning for Forked River, had not run into bad weather.
