A Hope Beyond (42 page)
“I will see to it yet today, and I will forward enough in the way of funding to allow him to ship Mr. St. John home.”
“Yes, that would be quite appropriate.”
Carolina felt rather strange in speaking of such matters with Mr. Swann. Only last week they had pored over investment information and plotted strategies for increasing the St. John fortune. Now Blake was dead, and his dream of going west would never be realized.
“What business did Mr. St. John have in New York City?” she asked, suddenly realizing she had no idea why he delayed in pushing west.
“Railroad business. He had a good friend in New York who had encouraged him to get in on a new railroad venture. Mr. St. John thought perhaps to set himself up with another line and see it through from coast to coast. He was very excited about the prospects of a transcontinental railroad.”
“Mr. St. John said that?” She was amazed, for Blake had rarely told her anything of his personal interests.
“He did indeed.” Swann smiled. “I think you had much to do with that. Railroads were only a minor concern of his until you showed up.”
“Did you disapprove of his new fascination?”
“Not at all. I have always seen the merit of rapid transportation. Locomotives will write the pages of our future.”
“I quite agree.” She considered Blake’s business once again. “What railroad had he concerned himself with in New York?”
“The Erie. I believe they are calling it the New York and Erie Railroad. The intention is to have a railroad that runs from the New York City harbor to Lake Erie. This would allow the southern portion of the state to enjoy the same freedoms and benefits that the northern portion enjoys with the Erie Canal.”
“How very interesting. And Mr. St. John was on business with this matter?”
“Yes. He had tickets, however, to take the canal west, and from there was scheduled to meet up with several gentlemen who were going to the Oregon Territory with one of the fur trading companies.”
“It’s so sad he will never realize his dream,” Carolina said softly. She looked down at her hands, which she’d been twisting rather nervously. Blake was dead. It was no easy matter to imagine how she would explain his passing to Victoria.
“I will trust you to make whatever appropriate arrangements you deem necessary,” she said, gazing up at Mr. Swann. “I will speak to the minister and have him prepare a eulogy that avoids the religious rhetoric Mr. St. John so hated.”
Swann got to his feet. “I will do as you bid and hope you know that should any need arise, I am at your service.”
Carolina nodded and rose. “I thank you, Mr. Swann.”
After he had gone, Carolina went to the dining room and found that Victoria had already finished her lunch and was up in the nursery preparing for their reading lesson.
“Isadora, if you would, we need to discuss something,” Carolina said, coming down the hall toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Graves, who was just coming from having removed Victoria’s dishes, seemed to note the concern in Carolina’s voice. She followed Carolina into the kitchen without a word of questioning.
“Cook, we need to talk.”
Mrs. Dover turned, a bulk of dough between her pudgy fingers. “Of course.”
“Please, both of you sit down.” Carolina motioned to the small kitchen table. The two older women eyed each other as if to question the knowledge of the other, but nevertheless did as they were requested.
“Mr. Swann brings us bad tidings. Or maybe I should better say, sad tidings. Mr. St. John has been killed in a carriage accident.”
“No!” exclaimed Mrs. Graves.
“Lord preserve us,” said Cook.
“I’ve instructed Mr. Swann to arrange for the body to be brought home for the funeral. I will speak to the minister and see to it that the funeral might be done in a way fitting Mr. St. John’s tastes and desires.”
“When did it happen?” Mrs. Graves asked.
“I’m not sure. I believe sometime last week. Mr. Ramsey was injured badly enough to lay him up for a while. It is his desire to remain in New York City, and thus I have instructed Mr. Swann to see to his keep while he recovers.”
“Mr. St. John dead,” Cook muttered. “It just don’t seem possible.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t seem possible to me, either,” Carolina replied. “I suppose it won’t seem real until I see the body for myself. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, getting to her feet, “I must go to Victoria and tell her.”
“Poor little tyke. ’Tis a good Lord that saw fit to put you and Mr. St. John together before taking away her papa,” Cook declared.
“Yes, I thought of that, too,” mused Carolina. “Victoria will surely be more dependent on us than ever before, for even though she scarcely knew her father, she at least counted on his existence.”
Carolina made her way upstairs and entered the nursery, completely uncertain of what she should say. Would Victoria be able to understand that her father’s death was a permanent thing? So often Blake had come and gone in the life of his child that Carolina seriously wondered if Victoria would simply see this as yet another of his absences.
“Mama, I can read this whole page without any help,” Victoria said upon seeing Carolina.
“That is wonderful news,” Carolina replied. “But right now I have some sad news, and I want you to come sit with me a moment.”
Victoria dropped the book and hurried to Carolina’s side. “Is the baby sick?”
Carolina looked at her in confusion for a moment. “What baby?”
“Mrs. Cabot’s baby.”
Carolina sighed. “No, sweet. The baby is just fine.” She led Victoria to a settee where they often cuddled for stories. Sitting down, she pulled Victoria onto her lap and hugged her close. “I’m afraid your papa is the one who is . . . well . . .” She stammered for words. “Your father has died, Victoria.”
The child’s dark eyes seemed to narrow as though she were taking in the information and forming it into an understandable manner. “Did he go very far away?”
Carolina nodded. “Yes, and he can never come back to us. Except,” she paused, realizing that the funeral might well confuse the child, “his body will come back, and we will put it in a beautiful box and bury him in the ground.”
“But the ground is dark and smelly,” Victoria replied.
“Yes, but your papa’s body will not know this. You see, people have souls inside their bodies, and it is this soul that makes them who they are. That soul leaves the body when a person dies, so the body we put in the ground is much like our clothes. We take off our clothes and put them away, but it doesn’t change who we are simply because we’ve removed them, now does it?”
“No.” Victoria hugged Carolina and remained silent.
“I want you to understand that I will always be your mama, even though your papa has died. You mustn’t be afraid that I will leave, too, because I will always be here for you.” Carolina felt bad that she couldn’t assure the child of such a thing truthfully. It was always possible that she, too, could die tomorrow. “People can die at any time, Victoria,” Carolina said, raising the child’s face to meet her loving gaze. “But God looks out for us, and if we love Him and accept His Son Jesus as our Savior, our souls will never die.”
Victoria seemed to understand, but Carolina couldn’t be sure. She wanted for the child to say something, and when Victoria spoke, she was surprised at her request.
“Can we go into Mother’s room now?” Victoria had never called Suzanna St. John anything but Mother.
Carolina nodded. “If you would like.”
“I want to see what’s in there,” Victoria said, scooting down from Carolina’s lap. “I want to see why Papa locked it up.”
Carolina had to admit that her own curiosity about the place had been piqued at times. “Let’s get the keys from my dressing table.”
Victoria remained silent as they retrieved the keys and unlocked the door to Suzanna’s room. She walked in quietly, almost reverently, Carolina thought, and peered at the room as though trying to find some link to the past.
Over the fireplace, a large oil painting by Samuel Morse portrayed a blond-headed woman and small boy. The woman looked quite cheerful, and the boy on her lap was darkly handsome like Victoria and Blake St. John.
“Is that my mother and brother?” Victoria asked.
“Yes,” Carolina whispered. “I’d imagine so.”
“She doesn’t look like me,” Victoria stated, not seeming overly concerned.
“No, but you and your brother share your father’s dark features.”
“Are they in heaven?” Victoria suddenly asked.
“I believe so. Your mother loved God very much. Mrs. Graves told me that much.”
“What about Papa?”
It was the question Carolina had hoped Victoria wouldn’t ask. Should she lie to the child, giving her the idea that everyone went to heaven? When she was older, she would of course learn the truth of the matter. Was it kinder and gentler for one so young to believe that God took in all people, as Victoria took in all strays?
Swallowing hard, Carolina prayed for guidance, and as she opened her mouth to speak, she thought of the verse that declared that the truth would set you free. Surely truth and freedom were what they both needed.
“I don’t know, Victoria,” Carolina finally answered. “A person must repent of their sins, remember?”
“That means stop doing them and be really sorry for what you’ve done, right?”
“That’s right.” Carolina led her to the dusty canopied bed and sat down on the edge. “A person must be genuinely sorry and desire to be better. But that’s not exactly how they are saved, you see. God loved us so much that He sent us Jesus.”
“Jesus is God’s Son,” Victoria interjected.
“That’s right. Jesus came to help us better understand God and to give us everlasting life. When we accept Jesus as our savior, we are making a choice to forget about having our own way. We turn away from evil and bad things. We ask for forgiveness and we believe by faith that God will save us from our sins. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Victoria answered very solemnly. “And you don’t know if Papa was sorry.”
Carolina was amazed at the understanding of one so young. “That’s right. I do not know if your papa had asked Jesus to save him. But I do know that your mother did and that your brother was too little to know right from wrong.”
“So God forgived him anyway?” Victoria asked, seeming quite intent on the answer.
“I believe God forgives all of the little children. There comes a time, however, when children learn the truth of right and wrong. They learn about sin and salvation, and then I believe God expects them to make a choice. A choice for the wrong things of life, or for His way.”
“I want to go His way,” Victoria suddenly said. “When I die, I want to go to see God and my mother and brother. Maybe even Papa.”
Carolina felt a swell of pride in realizing that she was leading this child to salvation. How like God to take a moment of seeming devastation and replace the misery with joy.
Carolina slipped from the bed and knelt down. “Come kneel here,” she instructed Victoria. “We will pray together and tell God how much you love Him and how you want to be His child.”
“Can I still be your child, too? Even when I’m God’s child?”
Carolina smiled and felt warm tears slip from her eyes. “Especially then, Victoria. Especially then.”
James hurried on his way to the Pratt Street Station and was almost regretful for having not taken a cab when the rain began to pour in earnest. Under his arm he carried a satchel for his father. Uncle Samuel had been most adamant upon locating him, saying that since he must journey back to Washington anyway, he could surely deliver these papers to his father.
James was far more concerned, however, with the reason he was eager to return to the capital. His mother had fallen gravely ill last August, and his father was just now seeing fit to tell him of the matter. Ducking under the awning of a nearby tavern, James looked around to see if there might be a hack he could hire. His agitation grew, realizing that no sane person would venture out into the sudden downpour. He pulled out his pocket watch and grimaced. He’d have to hurry along on his own. There were barely fifteen minutes before the Washington train was scheduled to pull out.
Could his life possibly grow any more despairing? His father had noted quite impersonally in his letter that “Mrs. Baldwin, succumbing to her usual complaint, has taken to her bed. The doctor remains gravely concerned that she has not yet recovered.”
That was it. The entire message was nothing more than a bulletin of affairs. No emotional plea for James to return home. No suggestion that her last days could be made better by knowing that her son had come to be at her side.
He will never forgive me, James thought, making his way ever closer to the station. Stepping from the curb, he found himself in ankle-deep water and growled angrily as he pressed forward.
And perhaps I do not deserve his forgiveness, James chided himself. The now wet satchel suddenly slipped under his arm, and he fought to grasp it more firmly, but to no avail. It fell into the mud and water and spilled its contents out into the street.
“Could I possibly be any more clumsy?” James muttered and bent to retrieve the papers. “Father will hang me for this as surely as he would like to hang me for all of my other offenses.”
He gathered the rain-drenched papers and tried to shake off the excess water, but the steadily pouring rain defeated his purpose before he even got started.
“Oh bother!” he exclaimed and stuffed the wet pages back into the satchel. “I’ll dry them on the way to Washington.”
Barely making the last call for the train, James pushed his way through the gentlemen’s car and found a seat where he could lay out his things. He was soaked to the bone and felt a chill take him, though the day was mildly warm.
Pulling a damp handkerchief from his pocket, he used this to wipe the better portion of water from the satchel before opening it to do the same for its contents. Muttering to himself, James scarcely noticed what he held in his hands until he saw the smudged imprint of POTOMAC AND GREAT FALLS RAILROAD.
These were railroad stock certificates, he realized and felt a surge of concern that he had somehow cost his father yet another monumental charge. But why did Uncle Samuel have the certificates?