The Darcy & Flora Boxed Set

by Blanche Day Manos

  I grabbed my coat and followed my mother out to my car. Whether the Jenkins ladies were ready for us or not, we were going to take a little drive to the other side of town.

  Chapter 21

  The Jenkins house was a far cry from Pat’s humble home. A wide porch wrapped around the house. Gingerbread trim decorated the second story, and the fanlight above the front door was set with colored glass. I rang the doorbell and listened to it echo inside.

  Miss Carolina Jenkins opened the door. Her eyes widened. “Why, Flora! And Darcy too! What an unexpected pleasure. Come in.”

  I followed my mother into the living room. Heavy red drapes covered the tall windows. Lamps with fringed shades cast pools of light on polished table tops. I tried not to stare at this tiny, frail spinster or Miss Georgia who scurried into the room. Was one of these women the lovely young girl in the picture my mother carried?

  “Look, Sister,” Carolina said, turning to her twin. “Flora is back for another visit and this time she brought little Darcy.”

  It had been many years since I heard myself referred to as “little.”

  Georgia caught Mom’s hand, then mine. Her voice was shaky. I didn’t know if it was from age or our unexpected visit.

  “Do sit down,” Georgia said. “It is cold out. May I offer a cup of hot tea?”

  Mom answered before I could speak. I hardly recognized her stiff, formal voice. “No, thank you. This is not strictly a social visit, I’m afraid. I need to talk to you about something mighty important. At least, it’s important to me.”

  I’m sure that neither of the Jenkins women missed the edge to her tone. Carolina’s eyes held a question as she said, “Let me take your wraps and sit yourselves right down there on the divan.”

  Georgia perched in a red-upholstered chair, facing us. A smile quivered on her lips. “If it’s important to you, it’s bound to be important to us, too. How can we help?”

  Carolina hung our coats in the entry then settled down on the edge of the polished piano bench. She leaned toward us, her hands clasped.

  The room felt chilly and I was sorry Carolina had taken away my coat. “Do you remember Mom here to see you a few days ago and asking questions about World War I?”

  Carolina nodded. “Of course, Darcy. Neither Sister nor I are senile yet. As I recall, I told Flora we do not go back quite as far as the Great War.”

  Mom brought the photograph out of her purse. “No, I realize that. What I want to talk to you about is a picture I found, a picture that was taken long after that war, probably in the 1940s.”

  The two women glanced at each other. Mom handed the picture to Miss Georgia whose hand trembled as she gazed at the image. Carolina got up and stood beside her sister’s chair. Both women peered silently at it. In the stillness of the room, the wind moaned across the chimney, sounding eerily like a human in pain.

  At last Georgia handed the photograph back to Mom. “Where did you get that, Flora? And why are you showing it to us?”

  Mom gazed at Georgia. Her voice was so low I had to strain to hear as she said, “A friend found it and thought it was me. But it isn’t. I think it is one of you and I want to know why my mother had it and why I look so much like that girl in the picture.”

  Georgia’s shoulders drooped. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and buried her face in it. Carolina patted her arm and said, “There, there, Sister. You knew this day might come.”

  Georgia sniffled and hiccupped. “I just hoped when it did, I’d already be gone to Heaven.” She took off her glasses and wiped her eyes. They looked huge in her ashen face.

  “I told you this might be too great a shock,” I said to Mom. Then, to Miss Georgia, “May I get you a glass of water?”

  “No, no. Sherry, please, Sister,” she said, looking up at Carolina.

  Carolina hurried from the room. We all sat silently until she came back with two glasses. She handed one to Georgia and carried the second one with her to the piano bench.

  “I didn’t think . . .” began Carolina. “Would either of you like a sherry?”

  Mom and I shook our heads. I wanted to scream, “Get on with it! Drink that sherry or whatever you need to do because we’ve got to have some answers here!” Instead, I waited politely while Georgia sipped and some color returned to her face.

  At last I could stand the silence no longer. “To be blunt, Miss Georgia, we want to know two things. Is that a picture of you when you were younger, and are you Mom’s birth mother?”

  Georgia Jenkins pressed both hands against her cheeks. Her dark eyes never left my mother’s face. “Yes, that is a picture of me when I was much younger and, oh, so foolish. And yes, my darling granddaughter, I gave birth to your mother.”

  The old house creaked as a sudden gust of wind battered it. From the hallway, a grandfather clock chimed eight times, its tone solemn and measured. My heart thudded loudly in my ears. Then, Mom asked one question, “Why?”

  Georgia drew a quavery breath. “It’s a long story.”

  “And one that’s very hard on my sister,” Carolina said. “Could you come back another time, perhaps tomorrow?”

  Georgia shook her head. “No, no, that’s quite all right. This is a secret I’ve carried for nearly seventy years and I’d like to be shed of it.”

  Her gaze shifted to the door, as if she expected to see someone else come walking through. A board creaked somewhere in the old house and a loose shutter rattled. I glanced over my shoulder. Did Miss Carolina lock that solid oak door after we came in?

  “It was so long ago that sometimes it seems like a dream, but I know that it happened because you are real, Flora. You are the proof that I didn’t imagine the whole thing.” Georgia took another small sip of sherry. “You asked about World War I. Well, your story began in another war, World War II with a young American soldier named Jefferson Thorne. My father was a judge, Flora, Judge Jenkins was known and respected—”

  “And largely feared,” Carolina interrupted.

  “Yes, he was quite stern.”

  Carolina nodded. “Oh, he had a terrible temper!”

  “He ruled my mother and us girls. But, I met Jeff and rules suddenly didn’t matter. I loved him with my whole heart and he loved me. But he was a soldier and World War II was going on and Jeff had to leave me and go overseas. He . . . he never came back. They said his plane went down . . .” her voice faded away.

  Carolina fidgeted. “Drink your sherry, dear,” she said.

  “Anyway, after he left, I found that I was going to have a child . . . that child was you, Flora. I didn’t tell my father until I had to. Mother kept my secret, too, while we tried to think of what to do. Then she thought about her dearest friends, George and Grace Daniels. George and Grace had been married a number of years and had no children. Father went to talk to them. You see, Miss Grace’s parents and my parents had known each other for a very long time and they had some sort of bond. Carolina and I believe that something must have happened in the past that sort of forged a deep trust between them.”

  “What was the bond?” I broke in.

  Carolina shook her head. “That’s something we only guessed about. We think we might know but anyway, it isn’t pertinent to this story.”

  “The thing that’s important is that Father asked George and Grace if they would take you, Flora, adopt you and raise you as their own. And, he made them promise they would never reveal my identity.”

  Mom pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped her eyes. A lump in my throat made it difficult for me to ask the next question. “If they were to keep it a secret, why did Granny Grace have your picture?”

  “Oh, I had this lapse from sanity, I suppose. For a time there, I tried to think of ways to get my baby back. I hated giving you up, Flora. Finally, I gave Grace my picture and told her to keep it and maybe one day she would want you to know.”

  Mom blew her nose. “You didn’t want to give me away?”

  Carolina answered for Georgia. “She almo
st went crazy. She’d find some excuse to go by your house, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. She would go by the school and watch you on the playground. I think even our father was worried that she was going to lose her mind.”

  Georgia rubbed her upper lip with her index finger, a gesture I had seen Mom do many times. “Well, I finally got hold of myself and realized it was much better for you if I just kept quiet. And then later I came to be afraid that you would find out, and you would hate me for giving you away. But at least I had the privilege of staying in the same town where you lived.”

  Carolina smiled. “And we got to see little Darcy grow up, too. So, you see, life has its compensations.”

  “Life has its compensations,” I repeated. Life also has its complications, sometimes so complex that they never did get sorted out. This tiny woman sitting across from us turned out to be my own grandmother, a woman I had glimpsed around town from time to time. Never would I have guessed that we were related.

  Mom drew a shuddering breath and stood up. I rose, too, as did the Jenkins sisters. My mother squared her shoulders. “I guess we got what we came for. We came for answers and we have them. Thank you, Miss Georgia. I am sorry for all the hurt you’ve been through. Darcy and I are going to go back home now and try to digest what we’ve learned here.”

  “I . . . I hope you don’t hate me,” Georgia whispered. “I think George and Grace gave you a good life.”

  “I could never hate you. And yes, Mom and Dad loved me and I loved them. It must have taken a lot of courage for you to give me to them. You did what you thought was right. That was a very unselfish act and I thank you.”

  Georgia set her glass on the floor. “It wasn’t necessarily what I thought was right. I didn’t seem to have any choice. I haven’t held you in my arms since that day I wrapped you in a pretty pink blanket and handed you to my father. Do you mind if I hug you just once?” She came toward Mom, her arms outstretched.

  Mom gathered her close. I turned away, tears clogging my vision.

  We slipped into our coats and the Jenkins sisters followed us to the door.

  The cold winter wind had blown away the clouds. Stars glittered above us. Before getting into my car, I turned to look back at the Jenkins house. Light from the living room behind Georgia and Carolina, framed them in the doorway, the two small figures were silhouetted against the backdrop of the imposing house. Slowly, Georgia raised her hand and waved.

  Chapter 22

  After we got home from the confrontation with Georgia and Carolina, Mom and I again huddled in front of the fireplace. The flames had burned down while we were gone. Jethro jumped up on my lap, rubbing his head under my chin and purring mightily. I don’t know how, but that cat always seemed to know when either Mom or I was troubled.

  “Are you cold, Mom?” I asked.

  “No. Well, yes, I guess I am, but it’s not something that coffee or this old afghan could help. I feel cold inside. Do you know what I mean?”

  I patted her hand. “Yes, I understand.”

  “I just simply don’t know what to do with all this trouble that’s coming at us.” She shook her head and repeated, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Who would, Mom? This mystery isn’t about other people. This is about our family; it’s about us.”

  She stood up and sighed. “It certainly is. It seems like one thing leads to another, and I can’t puzzle out any of it. I’m going up to bed, Darcy. I’m going to get under the covers and read my Bible. Maybe things will look better in the morning.”

  Maybe things will look better in the morning—those words I had heard from Mom and Dad all my life. They made sense to me. Although Granny Grace had died when I was very young, I remembered many things about her and many of the things she had said. She had a hard and fast rule which I tried to put into practice as an adult: never make an important decision when you’re so tired or worried that you can’t think straight. Wait until morning.

  Yet this quiet, wise woman I knew as my grandmother had carried more than one secret with her to her grave. I never would have guessed the depths of my Granny Grace nor the trouble she had faced in life. I wished I could talk to her and beg her to shed some light on a few things.

  “Good night,” I called as Mom trudged toward the stairs.

  I lifted Jethro from my lap and settled him onto his cushion in front of the fire. The snug room seemed too confining. I needed fresh air to clear away the cobwebs in my mind. Hopefully, sitting on the porch for a while would help me think more clearly. I hadn’t hung up my coat since our visit to the Jenkins’ home, so I pulled it off the kitchen chair and slipped it on again.

  The porch swing moved gently in the wind. Other nights, summer nights long ago, Grant and I sat in this swing, holding hands and dreaming of the future. What a lot of things had happened since then. Jake came into the picture, lives had changed, and different paths had been taken. How strange that no matter what plans we mortals made, life stepped in and rearranged things. As Robert Burns said, “The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”

  The night air felt crisp and I filled my lungs with it. I gently pushed the swing with my toe. My heart and mind felt muddled. Too much was happening too fast. I could not wrap my mind around these disturbing recent events. The gentle rhythm of swinging was in direct contrast to the thoughts running roughshod through my mind.

  It was unbelievable that Granny Grace had been married to someone before she married Grandpa George, but evidently she had, whether I wanted to accept it or not. Somehow, the disappearance of that first husband was mixed in with the troubling events of Mom’s birth, Eileen Simmons, and our new house. How were they all connected? It seemed to me that the World War I soldier Granny had married, Markham Cauldfell, was the key to unlocking the whole thing. If I could just find out what happened to him! Tonight Mom and I found that another soldier had played a direct part in our lives. Because of a young man named Jefferson Thorne, my mother and I existed. Someday I wanted to ask Miss Georgia (would I ever call her Grandmother?) about this man who was my grandfather. Perhaps she had pictures or a letter, something that would let me get acquainted with this link to my past.

  I prayed silently, asking the Lord to help me sort through the confusion of recent events. Why had my Granny Grace kept her first marriage a secret? Who had ripped the record of that marriage from a Bible and why? Who put that page and gun where they hoped they would never be found?

  Opening the bundle that held the gun and the proof of a secret marriage had indeed been like opening Pandora’s box. If Cub hadn’t found it, would Eileen still be alive? Would we even have met Eileen?

  Where was the quiet, peaceful time of healing I had yearned for when I left Dallas? My life was as full of knots as a tangled ball of yarn and instead of smoothing out, it became ever more snarled.

  Shivering, I burrowed my hands deeper into my pockets. Why had Eileen appeared just as the old sheepskin and its secrets were discovered? Had she heard the gossip Cub had started circulating? Why did she question Mom’s ownership of the land? Was she really a descendant of the elusive Markham Cauldfell? Grant was working on Eileen’s connection to the bushy-haired man, Jude Melton, but what was their purpose in coming to Levi at this time? How about Stuart Wood, the man from Innovation Technology who wanted to buy some of Mom’s land and offered an exorbitant price? Why did he want the land badly enough to pay three times more than its value? I had lots of questions but, as yet, no answers.

  Pat’s discovery of the old picture and Georgia Jenkins’ admission that she was my grandmother had left Mom and me shaken to the core. This was the most mind boggling fact of all. How would I deal with this truth? How would my mother handle it? We had always known that Mom was adopted by a middle-aged Grace and George, but never would we have guessed that Mom’s birth mother was the tiny, soft-spoken Miss Georgia. In fact, Mom had not seemed to be curious about the woman who had given her life. That is, not until Pat had handed her the picture.


  An owl hooted somewhere in the trees behind the house, and near the pasture, a dog barked and howled as if he were in trouble. Was he injured?

  I jumped up from the swing and hurried down the porch steps. If an animal was in trouble, I would try to help. Opening the back gate, I stopped and listened. The bark and howl came again, perhaps from the edge of the woods bordering the back pasture. I ran toward those dark trees.

  Something zinged past my cheek. Simultaneously, I heard a loud crack. A shot! Somebody had shot at me and narrowly missed. I dropped to the ground. Another bullet sprayed dirt and gravel against my cheek. My thudding heart threatened to burst through my parka. Who was out there in the woods? Who was shooting at me? Would he shoot again? I had no weapon and no defense against someone who was out in the darkness, someone who evidently wanted me dead.

  Running footsteps pounded across the ground. They came closer. I groped beside me for any kind of weapon. My fingers closed around a good-sized rock, a poor protection from someone with a gun, but it was all I had. I jumped to my feet and drew back my arm.

  “Miss Darcy, wait! I won’t hurt you. Are you all right?”

  The frightened face of Jasper Harris appeared out of the darkness.

  “Jasper!” I shouted. “Why did you shoot at me? What’s wrong with you?”

  He grabbed my hand and took the rock. “I didn’t shoot at you, Miss Darcy. Honest. I don’t have no gun anyhow. But somebody shot at you. I heard him running away after he fired. He saw me and took off.”

  “Thank God you came, Jasper.” My legs felt like water and I leaned for support against his shoulder.

  “You’ve got blood on your face. Did he hit you?”

  I swiped my forehead and looked at my hand. “I guess it was the splinters of rock that sprayed my face. He came that close, Jasper.”