An Unlikely Love (18 page)

His chuckle made her toes tingle.

“Now who's the coward?”

He took her hand, tucked it in the crook of his arm and started down the long slope of the road.

She wanted to turn and run the other way.

“Marissa...”

She loved how he said her name. It sounded different...special. “Yes?”

“Will you be all right?” He covered her hand with his, looked down at her. “I hate the thought of you going home.” His hand flexed. “If your father hits you, I'll—”

Fear twisted in her already taut stomach. She lifted her head, forced confidence into her voice. She couldn't let him know she was afraid. “I'll be all right, Grant. I'm going to talk to the board members of our church about opening a shelter. I'm sure there are members of the congregation who will sacrifice some of their time to run it.”

She reached beneath the fear to find the new assurance of faith in God she was learning. “I've learned so much from your mother about faith, and the Christian way to treat others. Having the church involved will be perfect.”

“Christians are only people, Marissa. They're not perfect.”

She hadn't alleviated his concern for her. It was still in his voice. She tightened her grip on his arm. “I know. But God is.”

“You
are
learning from Mother.”

He couldn't quite carry off the attempt at humor. She rested her head against his shoulder for an all too brief moment, straightened and caught her breath as they reached the curve at the bottom of the hill and the railroad station came into view.
How long...

The
Colonel Phillips
floated at anchor at the end of the long dock. Rowboats and canoes snubbed to the pilings along its length bobbed on the water. People strolled about on the shore area between the lake and the railroad station, clustered in small groups beneath the wide overhangs of the roof. Piles of trunks and mounds of bags sat on the ground beside the railroad tracks. Hers was among them.

“Chatauquans are going home.” There was a quiver in her voice.

“Until next year.”

Frustration colored his words. He turned at an angle and she walked willingly beside him to “their” spot in the dark shadow of the tree close to the station yard. “I'll say my goodbye here.”

Her composure shattered. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

His arms closed around her, held her to him. He lowered his head and pressed his cheek against her hair.

“I hate to have you go home, Marissa. Two years is so long. I don't want anything to happen to you.”

His husky voice added to the pain in her heart. “I'll be all right, Grant. I'll be busy working to make a place of shelter...to make sure my mother will be safe. And there will be speaking engagements to—”

A whistle blew. A beam of light split the darkness.

He lifted his hands and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “And next year at Chautauqua.”

The whistle blew again. The light widened. Wheels clattered against the metal rails.

He kissed her. A fierce, desperate kiss that splintered her heart. She pressed against him, needing his strength, the sureness and security of his arms.
Next year at Chautauqua. A lifetime.
“Yes, next year at Chautauqua. If you don't forget me.”

The clattering slowed, stopped. The door on the baggage car opened and crew members hopped down to the ground, lifted trunks and bags to unseen men inside who stowed them away in the dark cavernous interior. A porter shoved steps in place and helped a woman descend from the passenger car. Two men followed. The porter tugged a watch from his pocket, glanced at it and hurried into the station.

“Forget you?” Grant's voice was thick, gruff. “Never, Marissa. That's not possible.” His lips brushed hers, soft, warm, tender...heartbreaking.

She slipped her hand through his offered arm and they stepped out of the tree shadow, crossed the yard and walked to the passenger car, the ache in her heart deepening with every step. His strong hand held hers, steadied her as she climbed the steps. She entered the car, turned and looked down at him. Her lips trembled when she curved them into a smile. “Next year at Chautauqua...”

Chapter Sixteen

T
he lamps were still lit. Grant scowled at the sight, crossed the porch and opened the door. He wasn't in the mood for conversation. But his mother cared about Marissa. She'd want to know.

He took a long breath, tried to arrange his expression so he didn't look as if he wanted to rip the world apart, and stepped to the sitting room door. His scowl returned. His mother was sitting at the end of the settee wearing a dark gray gown—no doubt “saving” the black mourning gown she'd worn to Chautauqua for when she was in public. He hated it. His mother liked red and blue and green.

What colors did Marissa like? Pain streaked through him. He'd never seen her in any but the somber black, purple and dark gray mourning gowns she wore in memory of her brother. He couldn't even imagine how beautiful she would look in a yellow gown that matched her blond hair, or a blue one the color of her eyes. His scowl deepened. Wearing mourning clothes was a barbaric custom! What purpose did it serve but to keep people gloomy all the time? He'd had his fill of it. He grabbed hold of the black band on his sleeve, yanked it off and strode into the room.

“Mother, I'm the head of this house now, and I don't ever want to see you in that dismal gray gown again. Father would hate it. I saw the way he looked when you walked into a room wearing your red dress. You wear
that
gown tomorrow in his memory.” He walked to the fireplace and threw the armband on top of the wood waiting to be kindled on a cold evening. “You don't need to be walking around in somber colorless gowns, and I don't need a piece of black cloth wrapped around my arm to remember Father.”

He sucked in a breath, turned and faced her. “She's gone.”

“I'm sorry, Grant.”

He nodded, looked down at his shirt she was mending—the one he'd caught the sleeve of on a nail in the barn. It seemed as if his mother always had something to do with her hands. He unclenched his and shoved them in his pockets.

“I know this isn't what you wanted...”

His snort burst out before he could stop it. “Sorry, Mother, I'm a little...angry. I'm being forced to accept a circumstance I want no part of.” He yanked his hands from his pockets and strode to the window that looked out on the porch. “If her father strikes her...” His jaw muscle twitched, his hands fisted. “If he hurts her...”

There was a quick rustle, the swish of his mother's hems across the oriental rug. Her hand rested on his back. His muscles tensed at the touch. Countless times his mother had soothed his hurts with that tender touch, but not this time. Nothing would alleviate the snarl of emotions within him until Marissa was safe in his arms again.

“I understand your concern for Marissa, Grant. I was worried for her safety, too. But I've been praying as I sewed, and—I can't tell you how or when—but I know everything is going to be all right. God is going to work this out.”

I can't tell you how or when...

An image of Marissa standing in the doorway of the passenger car with tear-filled eyes and trembling lips flashed against the darkness outside. “Forgive me, Mother. But I'm finding it a little hard to believe that at the moment.”

“I hate to see you hurting like this.” Her voice had thickened; her hand rubbed his back. “Please, Grant, trust the Lord. He'll work it out. Where's your faith, son?”

The image flashed again. But this time Marissa turned away and hurried into the passenger car. The whistle blew...

“My faith, Mother?” He turned and looked down at her. “It's on a train to Fredonia.”

* * *

The passenger car rocked gently in rhythm to the sound of the wheels against the steel rails. Clackity-clack...
two years...
Clackity-clack...
two years...

Marissa tugged the black shawl she'd draped around her head a little farther forward and kept her face turned toward the window beside her to further discourage any attempt at conversation by the woman sharing the bench seat. For once, she was thankful for the black mourning gown she wore. It explained her tears, her swollen red eyes and the sodden wad of handkerchief she clutched in her hand—or so the woman would think.

Bits and pieces of the conversations among the other passengers floated through the car identifying those speaking as having been to the Chautauqua Sunday School Assembly. The conversationalists had been comparing notes about their experiences the entire trip.

One year and she could return. They would ride the
Colonel Phillips
to Fair Point together and—

The locomotive's whistle blew. She jerked, blinked the film of tears from her eyes and searched the darkness outside the window. They were approaching the Fredonia Station. Her stomach knotted. She dabbed the wet handkerchief against her burning eyes and prepared to detrain. But she would sit on one of the benches under the wide overhanging eves of the station for a bit before she walked home. She did not want her parents to see her so...undone. And her father would send one of his employees to fetch her trunk tomorrow.

Steam hissed. The bell on the engine clanged. The car lurched then rolled to a stop. The door at the back opened. “All off for Fredonia!” The porter strode to the side of the car, opened the door at the center and lowered the steps.

She rose from her seat, avoided the glances of others getting off the train. A man stood in the narrow aisle at the end of his seat, held his hat in his hand and waited for her to pass. She approached the door and descended the steps assisted by the porter. A heaviness weighted her chest, made it hard for her to breathe. Would she find her mother well or bruised? Would her father be in his right senses or inflamed by wine? There was no way to know what awaited her at home.

Moths fluttered around the lanterns hanging from the wide eaves and threw huge swooping shadows against the brick building. The night air chilled her. She lifted the black shawl off her head, lowered it to rest around her shoulders, spurned the bench beneath the lantern and started for the one in the shadowed area by the corner away from the moths.

“Miss Bradley?”

She halted, turned.

A short, stocky man stepped away from the station door, removed his hat and gave her a brief, polite nod. “I'm Cyrus Nielsen, Miss Bradley.”

“And what business have you with me, Mr. Nielsen? And how do you know my name? We have never met.” She stepped to the side, glanced toward the station door.

“That's true, Miss Bradley.” The man nodded, stepped back. “I'm sorry if I gave you a fright. Your father set me to watch for you. He told me to look for a young lady with golden curls wearing mourning clothes.”

“My father sent you?” A cold chill ran up her spine. “Why would he do that, Mr. Nielsen? I don't understand.”
Please, Lord, let my mother be all right. Please—

“He said I was to give you this letter, Miss Bradley.”

A
letter
? Why would her father send a man to her with a letter?
Her stomach knotted. She stared at the sealed envelope the man removed from his pocket and held out to her. It was true. The bold
B
impressed in the sealing wax was her father's insignia. A dozen dire reasons for the letter chased through her mind. She held her breath to quell her shaking and took the envelope into her hand.

“Good evening, Miss Bradley.” Mr. Nielsen dipped his head, put on his hat and walked away into the night.

She was trembling so hard she was afraid her legs would collapse if she moved. She inched her way over to the bench beneath the lantern and sat, her fingers clutching the letter, fear clutching her heart.

Men removed trunks and bags from the train, stacked them on the platform against the station wall. Hers was there, its alligator cover and domed lid plainly seen against the bricks.

Two men walked out of the station and boarded the train.

The whistle blew. The bell clanged.

“All aboard for Dunkirk and parts north!”

The porter glanced her way. She managed to shake her head, and he shoved the steps into the car, leaped up and closed the door. Steam huffed from the stack. The train rolled forward, grew smaller and smaller, then disappeared from view.

Her lungs wouldn't obey her command to breathe. The band of fear squeezing her chest drew tighter. But delay would only make it worse. She slid her fingernail beneath the wax, lifted the envelope flap and pulled out the folded paper inside.

Our Dearest Daughter,

It was her mother's handwriting. Her mother was all right! Still...why would her father send the man to meet her with a letter? She unfolded the paper, smoothed out the creases and read on.

Oh, Marissa, the most wondrous thing has happened. And, my dear daughter, it is all because of you.

It was
good
news, then. The painful constriction stopped. Air filled her lungs. She frowned, stared at those last words. Because of
her
? How could that be?

Yesterday, your father found your most recent letter about Miss Gordon choosing your lecture on the “abused victims of those who overindulge in wine or other strong drink” for her feature article in the
Sunday School Journal
. I was so frightened when I saw your letter in his hand.

And then it happened. Your father read what you wrote about the abused needing “a place where they can shelter and be safe until the imbiber sobers and the danger passes” and how “the abused require a place where they know they will receive understanding instead of judgment and not be made to feel shame” and he cried out, “What have I done to my family! God in Heaven, help me!” and he began to weep.

I scarce knew what to think! And then he ran to his study, smashed his wine decanter and glasses upon the wood laid up on the hearth, then leaned out of the window and emptied all the rest of his wine bottles out onto the grass. He promised me he would never drink wine again.

Her father had thrown away his wine! Tears welled into her eyes. She blinked them away and devoured the remainder of her mother's letter.

Your father spent last night on his knees praying. This morning he told me to pack a trunk for each of us, that we are going to move from Fredonia, away from the many hurtful memories, and make a new life elsewhere. And that we are leaving this very day! He said he was going to give up town life and go back to farming, and that he had heard there was good land to be had to the south, near the Allegheny River. He also told me to write this letter to you explaining what has happened. His intent is to include a bank draft in your name so that you may live in the hotel until we find a place, settle and send for you. To that end, I have packed your things in a trunk to be delivered there. Your room will await you.

Your father will leave this letter with one of his trusted employees, a Mr. Nielsen, to give to you when the Chautauqua Assembly is over and you come home. There is insufficient time to reach you by post.

But to return to my story: I packed in a frenzy, uncertain of what would happen next, and then began this letter. In a short time, your father returned. He told me he had sold his business and our house, including all of the furnishings, to Mr. Ferguson, who has wanted to buy both for some time. And then he showed me the carriage and team of horses he had purchased.

Marissa, I feel I am dreaming, but it is all true. I am finishing this letter to you while your father loads our trunks and the few little things I cannot part with into the carriage.

And now it is time for us to go. But I cannot close this letter without telling you how different your father is today. He is the man I married so many years ago. He has returned to me. Please do not worry about me, Marissa, my dear. I am safe. I am well. I am happy. There may be days and nights ahead when troubles arise, but I now have hope that your father and I will face those times together.

Your father gives you his love. His provision for you is enclosed.

Be well, our dearest daughter. We will send for you when we are settled in our new home.

Your loving,

Mother and Father

It was wondrous indeed. And impossible to believe. She wanted to, but— Her father had
sold
his business and their house? That gave her pause. Perhaps it
was
all true.

She read the letter again, and then for a third time, her emotions swinging between worry and elation. In the end, it didn't matter. She did not know where her parents were, and had no way to help her mother now, should her help be needed.

The bank draft was in the envelope. She tucked it and the letter into her purse and stood. Her trunk sat alone beside the station wall. She stared at it, pulled open the station door and managed a polite smile when the stationmaster looked up from his papers with a query in his eyes. “I shall return for my trunk tomorrow.”

“Very good, miss.”

The hotel was not far. Flames flickered in the gas lamps atop posts that bordered the walkway, whispered their sibilant hiss as she passed. The brass knob on the ornate door was cold to her touch.

She entered the large lobby, adjusted her shawl and crossed to the long, paneled counter.

The clerk swept an assessing glance over her and lifted his lips in a polite smile. “May I help you, madam?”

“I'm Miss Bradley. I believe you have a room prepared for me.”

“Oh.” The polite smile warmed. “We do indeed, Miss Bradley. If you will sign here, please.”

* * *

The room was spacious and well appointed. The hot bath was a glorious luxury after two weeks of washing from a bowl full of warm water in the tent. Marissa fastened the loop closures on her dressing gown—a
yellow
dressing gown. She ran her hand over the lovely bright-colored fabric. It made her feel brave to wear it. Not that she had a choice. There were no dark mourning clothes in the trunk her mother had packed for her. She yawned and cast a covetous eye toward the bed.