Every Perfect Gift (26 page)

The door across the hall opened and Gillie came out, still wrapped in the quilt. “Are you all right?”

“I guess so.”

“Come inside. You’ve had quite a shock.” Gillie slid an arm around Sophie’s shoulder and they returned to Sophie’s room. Gillie poured tea, and Sophie recounted her conversation with Rosaleen.

Gillie shook her head. “All this time your mother was alive, and you had no idea.”

“No. When I was still at boarding school, Carrie Rutledge told Wyatt and Ada that someone was here asking questions. Wyatt hired Pinkerton’s to investigate, but nothing ever came of it.”

“Weren’t you curious?” Gillie poured another cup of tea. “I would have been dying to know what was happening.”

“I didn’t know about any of it until I was much older. The Caldwells thought there was no point in telling me about a fruitless investigation while I was still at school.” She inhaled the faint scent of ginger tea and wrapped her hands around her cup to warm them.

“Still, I imagine you were shocked when they finally told you.”

“Actually, I found out by accident. Wyatt asked me to retrieve a bill of sale for some cattle from his desk, and I stumbled across the old Pinkerton’s report. He’d forgotten it was there. I was shocked at first, and angry. But then I realized they had been right not to say anything. The wondering and worry would have made it impossible to concentrate on my studies.” She smiled. “I had a hard enough time with mathematics as it was.”

“So what happens now?” Gillie asked, her blue eyes serious.

“I gave her money for a train ticket home. She asked me to visit her in New Orleans.”

“Will you go?”

Sophie shrugged. “Maybe someday.”

“Well, you don’t have to decide that right now.”

Later that evening, after the storm had passed and Gillie had gone, Sophie ate a supper of cornbread and beef stew and retired to her room. She lit the fire to ward off the damp, turned up the wick in the oil lamp, and opened the journal.

The Journal of Elena Worthington, Being an Account of her Life.

Kingston, Jamaica, 9 September 1778. Here begins an account of my days and the history of my ancestors, pieced together from the stories my mother told me when I was but a child. I set them down before life and memory are lost . . .

The handwriting was thin and precise, the ink faded to a reddish brown. Sophie touched the brittle pages, nearly overcome with wonder and reverence. Here in her own words was her great-grandmother’s story. The answer to the mystery of her ancestry.

Knowing where she came from would make all the difference to her. But what would Ethan think?

TWENTY-ONE

New York

October 29, 1886

Dear Miss Caldwell,

I am in receipt of your clippings and those Mrs. McPherson forwarded to me. Although your work is quite accomplished, I am afraid I cannot offer to syndicate it at this time. We expect to serialize certain of Mr. Twain’s writings in the near future, and thus our space for other work is necessarily limited. I quite enjoyed your piece on the unfortunate brigantine
Mary Celeste
and am prepared to publish it in my magazine for the sum of five dollars. Please let me know whether this is agreeable to you.

Yours truly,

Samuel S. McClure

Sophie slumped in her chair and took off her spectacles. Though she was happy at the thought of being published in Mr. McClure’s publication, he might as well have said five cents. Five dollars
would do nothing to alleviate her situation. Her bank balance was dwindling faster than the days of autumn.

She wouldn’t ask Wyatt for more money. It wouldn’t be fair. Besides, she hated to admit failure. But she was out of options.

Ethan had said he had an idea for helping with her money situation. But that was weeks ago, and he hadn’t mentioned it since. Just what did he have in mind, anyway?

She picked up her shawl and reticule, locked the office, and headed for the orphanage. Last night, over steaming bowls of chicken and dumplings at Miss Hattie’s, Gillie had mentioned that Ethan was bringing a couple of his men from Blue Smoke to help Mr. Whiting and the local men finish the repairs. If all went as planned, the infirmary would officially open the week of Thanksgiving. Sophie planned a special edition of the
Gazette
, complete with Miss Swint’s photographs, to mark the occasion. Assuming she could hold on to the newspaper until then.

A chill breeze rattled the trees, and a swirl of fallen leaves crunched underfoot as she turned onto the river road. Nearing the orphanage, she spotted several wagons loaded with stacks of lumber and cans of paint and a crew of men milling about. Ethan’s rig was parked beneath the trees.

She saw him then, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, helping Mr. Whiting and another man carry a long table up the steps and into the building. One of the men said something. Ethan laughed in response, and she smiled. Almost from the beginning, she had been attracted to that sound, to the way his hair curled over his collar, to the light in his deep blue eyes when he looked at her. But it was his bone-deep goodness, his desire to help her and to ensure the success of the infirmary, that touched the deepest recesses of her heart.

Ethan spotted her and waved, and her heart jolted as the truth dawned. She loved him. Plain and simple. And maybe it was all
right that he hadn’t yet shared with her everything from his past. Maybe Carrie Rutledge was right that the future was more important than what had gone before.

She pushed through the newly oiled and painted gate, following Ethan and the others up the front steps and into the long, narrow room that had once served as the dining room. The wooden walls had been painted a soft cream color that caught and reflected the sunlight streaming through the new windows overlooking the street. Partitions had been erected to form separate rooms where patients could be seen and treated. Lined up along the walls were wooden crates filled with medical supplies. The office that once belonged to Mrs. Lowell, the orphanage director, had been transformed into an office for Dr. Spencer.

Ethan helped the men place the table beneath the windows, then walked over to greet Sophie, wiping his hands on his dungarees. “I’m glad to see you. I was just about to call on you at the office and invite you to take a look.”

He swept his arm toward the new staircase and the large room beyond. “My crew is nearly finished. All that’s left is a little bit of painting and the cleaning up.”

“It’s marvelous. I never imagined this place could look so cheerful. You’ve done a wonderful job, Ethan. The whole town owes you a huge vote of thanks.”

He smiled into her eyes. “It was Miss Gilman’s vision. I only helped with the practical things. But I’m glad you’re pleased. I can well imagine what it was like, living here.”

“I thought it might make me sad, coming back inside. But I’m not. It seems like a hopeful place now.”

He took her arm. “Come on. I want to show you the second floor.”

He guided her past a couple of workmen who were busy sanding the newel posts, and they ascended the staircase to the upper
hallway. Sophie went still, overcome with memories of the years when it seemed her life would never change. Her gaze went to a nook in the far corner, where her bed had been tucked beneath the eaves, apart from the other girls. She had spent countless hours there with only Mrs. Lowell’s cat for company, inventing fanciful dreams to ease the lonely ache in her heart. Many nights she drifted into sleep imagining long sea voyages beneath billowing white sails, the ship loaded with bright silks, parrots in cages, baskets of gleaming pearls. A crew of gypsies who played sad songs on violins. Ladies dressed in purple silks, holding fringed parasols to ward off the blazing sun.

But mornings brought the insistent clanging of the breakfast bell and Mrs. Lowell’s strident voice, pulling her back to reality.

She thought of the other human castoffs who had lived there with her. What had happened to them? And what had become of the wooden treasure box filled with a hair ribbon she was forbidden to wear, a treasured piece of colored glass, some arrowheads Robbie Whiting had given her? Had she taken it with her to Texas all those years ago? She couldn’t remember.

“Sophie?” Ethan murmured. “Are you all right?”

“I suppose I’m not as unaffected as I thought. But I’m fine.”

“Look at me.” Ethan placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. “The things that happen to us in childhood are the hardest to overcome. They mark us forever. But somehow we keep going.”

He drew her into his arms and kissed her, his lips warm and demanding on hers. She leaned against him, wishing with all her heart that she could undo the past and sweep away the secrets and deceptions, the pain that had marred them both. Start fresh, like the Bible said, washed clean and whiter than snow.

“Mr. Heyward?” One of the men stood at the top of the stairs, a box in his hands. “Where do you want this?”

Ethan released her and cleared his throat. “Just over there in that alcove will be fine, Joel.”

He winked at Sophie. She smiled back.

Joel set the box down. “I reckon that about does it, Mr. Heyward. Soon as they get done sanding the stairs, we’ll paint ’em, then get this place cleaned up.” He wiped his hands on his shirt. “We done a right good job of it if I do say so m’self.”

Ethan nodded. “I appreciate your help. I’ll be sure you all get paid out of my personal account.”

“Me and the boys ain’t worried about that.” Joel stroked his bushy beard, dislodging a handful of wood shavings. “It feels good to be doing something for the town. ’Specially the womenfolk.” He leaned against the wall and fished a plug of tobacco from his shirt pocket. “My sister died last year, right after her boy was born. She wadn’t but twenty years old. Had a real hard time of it. Reckon she might have made it if there’d been someplace like this she could come ’stead of waiting for Doc Spencer.” He bit off a plug of tobacco. “It wadn’t his fault. He was off tending to other folks and couldn’t get to Jenny in time. Miss Gilman is a saint, if you ask me.”

“Joel, will you excuse us?” Ethan took Sophie’s arm. “I want to show Miss Caldwell the children’s ward.”

“Sure thing.” Joel made room for them on the stair. “Oh, boss?”

Halfway down the stairs, Ethan turned. “Yes?”

“I saw Lutrell Crocker at the mercantile this morning. He’s looking for you.”

Ethan frowned. “I haven’t seen him since Founders Day. I figured he’d gone back to Alabama for good. What does he want?”

Joel shrugged. “Don’t know. He seemed awful mad about something.”

“Maybe Mrs. Crocker kicked him out.”

“Maybe.” Joel shifted his plug of tobacco to his other cheek.
“You know he’s got a temper on him. You oughta be careful around him, ’specially when he’s drinking.”

“I will.” Ethan took Sophie’s arm as they reached the ground floor. He led her through half a dozen rooms already set up with cots and washstands. At the far end of the building was a playroom equipped with a table and a bookcase. New doors led out to the old playground, which had been swept clean. Ethan smiled at her. “Like it?”

“I do. It’s wonderful. The children will love it.”

“I hope it will make a difference, but I did it partly for you.” He drew her into the shadows and took her into his arms again. “I want you to be happy, Sophie.”

“I know. And I’m grateful.” She brushed a couple of wood shavings from her skirt. “But I came here to discuss something else.”

“And what is that?”

She took a steadying breath. “You mentioned a plan to help me replace the income I’ve lost because of Mr. Blakely. As much as I prefer handling my own problems, I do need your help. I was hoping—”

“Ethan Heyward!”

A skinny man in a dirty gray shirt strode across the playground and grabbed Ethan’s shoulder. “I been looking for you.”

“Lutrell.” Ethan pried the man’s hands away and stepped back. “I’m happy to talk to you, but not in front of this lady. I’m heading back to Blue Smoke in a little while. We can talk there.”

“What if I don’t want to go up to Blue Smoke?”

Sophie touched Ethan’s arm. “I should go and let you talk to this man.”

Lutrell Crocker glared at her. “That is exactly what you should do, missy, because what I’ve got to say to him ain’t fit for a woman’s ears.”

Ethan turned to her and winked. “We’ll have to finish our talk later, Miss Caldwell, if that’s all right.”

“That will be fine, Mr. Heyward.”

Leaving Ethan to deal with Mr. Crocker, Sophie crossed the yard, went out through the gate, and headed to the office, her thoughts racing faster than her feet. Ethan had said he wanted her to be happy. And he’d kissed her just now in a way that left her breathless. That proved he had at least some tender feelings for her, didn’t it?

She paused beside the road as a farm wagon clattered past, a towheaded boy at the reins, a shaggy black dog beside him. Would Ethan still care for her once he knew about her family? As long as there was doubt, she could pretend to be anything. But her great-grandmother’s journal left no room for what-ifs.

Sophie had read the little book so many times, savoring the quaint spellings and turns of phrase, that she knew it all by heart. Elena’s father was a Spanish soldier “fond of ale and musick.” Elena herself had married a British merchant in 1770. Her daughter Anna, who was Rosaleen’s mother, had wed a Frenchman in New Orleans in 1820. And according to Rosaleen, Sophie’s own father was a Frenchman too.