Wishing on Buttercups (35 page)

Wilma’s heart galloped at an alarming rate. “Announcement?”

“This isn’t the way I planned on asking, but I’m not sure I can stand it much longer.” He gathered both her hands into his and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles. “Wilma Roberts, I love you and want to marry you. Would you consider taking on an old man like me this late in my life?”

Wilma stood silent for what felt like minutes. Then happiness radiated through every part of her being. “I’d be proud and honored, Caleb Marshall. In fact, I can’t think of anything that would make me happier.”

He placed a tender kiss on her lips. “I promise you won’t be sorry.”

She wiggled an eyebrow playfully. “I don’t intend to be. What do you say we get inside where it’s a little warmer and share with Beth, and then the rest of the family? That is, unless you want to keep it a secret for now?”

His face transformed into one huge smile, and he pushed open the door. “No more secrets. I could shout it from the rooftop, you’ve made me so happy.”

Wilma sailed into the foyer and tugged Caleb toward the parlor. They stopped at the doorway as Mark Tucker came up the hall from the dining room.

He tipped his head. “Good afternoon.”

Caleb stuck out his hand and gripped Mr. Tucker’s. “A fine one, indeed.” He pumped the other man’s hand.

Wilma peered into the parlor. “Jeffery. Beth. I’m so glad to see you both. Is Frances or Katherine about?”

Beth raised her head, her face pale and tight. “I don’t know, Auntie.” She scooted to the edge of the sofa. “Would you like me to go look?”

Wilma stared at Jeffery, then back at Beth. “We’ve come at a bad time, haven’t we?” How foolish. Why hadn’t she bothered to look into the room before speaking? It was quite apparent the two young people were having a serious conversation. She turned to the two gentlemen standing behind her. “Let’s go to the kitchen and see if Katherine and Frances are there.”

Beth pushed to her feet. “It’s all right. Mr. Tucker needs to speak to Jeffery, and I’m going to my room. I hope you’ll all excuse me.” She brushed past Wilma with barely a nod.

Wilma’s stomach twisted in a knot. She hadn’t seen that lost look on her girl’s face for many years. Not since the day seventeen years ago when Beth had arrived at her door.

Beth had kept the letter Jeffery had given her tucked in the folds of her skirt as she made her way out of the parlor. She lay on her bed, though she didn’t remember climbing a single stair.

If only Aunt Wilma and the others hadn’t come in when they did. Beth had so many more questions to ask Jeffery, but she didn’t care to make this situation public—especially since the letter Jeffery had handed her was addressed to Miss Elizabeth Corwin.

Her hands shook so hard she wasn’t certain she could open the envelope. Jeffery told her Steven Harding had given it to him before he boarded the stage heading back to La Grande. The young man who’d asked for rooms for himself and his mother.

His mother.

Was it even remotely possible the woman could also be
her
mother? Why hadn’t he spoken to her personally, rather than using Jeffery as a go-between?

Beth groaned and rolled her head against the pillow. Her pen name. But why did he think Elizabeth Corwin might be his sister? She propped her hand on her elbow and stared at the envelope with the flowing script across the face. The only way to get the answers to those questions was to gather her courage and see what this contained.

And would it contain the truth? Jeffery had expressed concern and reminded her of Brent’s scheme to gain access to her finances. What if it
was
a hoax?

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed.
Please God, don’t let Aunt Wilma come up to check on me.
Beth wanted to fall on her knees and cry out to her heavenly Father, begging Him to make this be true. But another part of her wasn’t so sure. Would the cords of her life begin to weave together with the reading of this letter, or would they unravel worse than before?

Beth slid her fingertip under the glued flap and raised the edge until she exposed the creamy stationery inside. She stared at it, drawn to the paper like a child to a candy counter.

Gathering her courage, she pinched the exposed portion of paper, tugged it out, and lay it facedown on her skirt.

How childish. It was only a letter from a stranger and might have no meaning at all. Resolutely Beth flipped over the missive. She closed her eyes, then took a deep breath and opened them, staring down at the beautifully scripted words.

Dear Miss Corwin,

I’m not certain how to present this. At best, you might find it ridiculous, or at worst, it will come as a shock. My name is Steven Harding, and my mother’s name is Isabelle Mason, as she married again after my father’s death. I would like to inquire—

Forgive me, I find it hard to know how to proceed. I’ve rewritten this letter five times now and am on my last sheet. My mother and I have been searching for a missing family member for a number of years. She saw your drawings in The Women’s Eastern Magazine and noted your name. I realize it will sound fanciful and presumptive, but my sister’s name was Elizabeth. We called her Bess. My mother’s maiden name was Corwin, and when she saw your name, it gave her hope that you might know something about her daughter.

Mother felt you might be she, but after careful reflection, I am more of the opinion this is a mistake. But I must keep my word and inquire, as Mother has numerous spells of weakness, and I fear another disappointment could cause grave consequences. Is it possible you might be related to our family? My father was Charles Harding, and my maternal grandmother was Mary Ann Elizabeth Corwin. We traveled by wagon train to Oregon seventeen years ago.

I am hesitant to go into much detail by post, as my mother has suffered deep guilt over the loss of her child, and it is something she should explain. I am feeling most foolish writing this, as my sister’s name was Harding, not Corwin. But if you can convey any information concerning a young woman named Bess, I would be forever in your debt. You can reach me by post, and we’ll await your reply with humble gratitude.

Yours most sincerely,

Steven Harding

Beth fell against the pillow, clutching the letter.
Seventeen years ago. Headed to Oregon. His father was dead.
The thoughts flew through her mind faster than she could process them. Why hadn’t he explained how his mother had “lost” her child? What did that mean, anyway?

Hope tried to surface but was quickly replaced with a deep sense of dread. Was it possible a child could be accidentally lost for so many years, or was the woman having pangs of supposed “remorse” after seeing the illustrations in a national magazine?

Beth rubbed her hands over her face, not sure what to think. Jeffery had admitted he’d found Steven Harding to be a decent sort, but they’d only spent a short amount of time together, and anyone could put on airs if the need required. She’d certainly learned that from personal experience.

She could conceive of no reasonable explanation as to how they could have lost a three-and-a-half-year-old child. And even if they had, why hadn’t the parents come looking? Plucking the letter up, she scanned it again, searching for the sentence that struck her so hard.

My mother has suffered deep guilt over the loss of her child, and it is something she should explain.

Why would the woman be suffering guilt if she hadn’t done something inherently bad? Beth’s fingers relaxed, and the letter fluttered to the floor while her thoughts continued to race. And why care now, so many years later, unless she had something to gain?

Beth had waited seventeen years for the truth, and right now she wasn’t positive she could handle it. Too often truth only brought pain and deeper loneliness.

Maybe she would pray about it and talk to Jeffery, then give it a few days, or weeks, and see how she felt.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and grew louder as they progressed up the hall. Beth bolted from the bed and swept the letter off the floor. She stuffed it into the envelope and hurried to her desk. This was not something she cared to discuss with her aunt. Not now, and possibly not ever. The last thing Beth wanted to do was to hurt the woman who had poured so much love into her life.

Jeffery paced the floor of the parlor across from his father, situated on the sofa. He had wanted to dash up the stairs after Beth, hold and comfort her, and assure her everything would be all right. Hope had blazed in her eyes when he’d given her the letter from Steven Harding, but within minutes it had withered, replaced by anxiety. Had he done the wrong thing in conveying the message? Why hadn’t he thought it through longer, rather than rushing home and delivering the envelope? He should have known how it would affect her.

“Son, why don’t you sit down so we can talk?” his father requested. “I would guess your trouble has to do with a certain young woman who appears to be in distress. But I have something I want to discuss with you as well.” He waved toward the chair flanking the sofa. “Sit.”

The habit of boyhood years made Jeffery halt, but he took his time doing his father’s bidding. His guard slipped into place. He had little doubt that the subject up for discussion was returning home at the earliest possible convenience. It didn’t matter—he had no intention of going anywhere. Not with Beth upset and her future at stake.

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time. You’re correct. Beth is upset. I appreciate you noticing, but I doubt there’s anything you can do to help.”

Mark Tucker gave a slow nod. “Perhaps so; we’ll have to see. But, first, the item I want to discuss.”

“Yes, about that.”

His father quirked a brow. “Tell me a little more about Miss Roberts and her aunt.”

Jeffery’s heart stilled, and he eyed the parlor door. “Anyone could walk in, you know.”

His father nodded. “Quite so. But I do have a reason for asking, and I’d appreciate an answer.”

Jeffery restrained a snort. It was amazing how kind his parent could be one moment and how haughty the next. “Then I suggest we retire to my room, if you don’t mind.”

“Lead the way.”

They traveled upstairs in silence. Jeffery pulled the door shut and motioned toward the overstuffed chair, then took his own seat at the straight-backed chair next to his desk. “What did you want to know?”

“From what Beth said, I gather they traveled here from Topeka, but I didn’t catch what brought them so far west. Do they have family here?”

Jeffery winced. A couple of days ago he could have honestly answered in the negative, but now that he knew about Steven … yet what did he really know? No proof had been offered by Harding or his mother, and Beth had not confirmed their suspicion as correct. “I can’t say, sir. From what I understood when they arrived, Mrs. Roberts made the decision to travel for personal reasons.”

“Do they plan on relocating here or returning to Kansas?”

“I’m not certain, but I haven’t heard either of them discuss leaving.”

“It’s curious they would be content to remain in a boardinghouse and haven’t found a home of their own.”

Jeffery laced his fingers around his knee. “May I ask where all of this is leading?”

His father hesitated, then gave a short nod. “I suppose that’s a fair question. I am trying to determine if you will ever be willing to move back to civilization where you belong.”

Jeffery could not tolerate another round of pressure about returning home. “Father, I’m sorry. Let me make it clear for the last time. I am not going to Cincinnati with you. I want to visit, but I have no immediate plans to live there again.”

“I understand that, and I imagine I have enough sense to decipher the reason. But that is not what I have on my mind at the moment.”

“What do the Roberts ladies have to do with it?”

“Everything, from my perspective, as it appears you are in love with the young woman.”

Jeffery could only stare. He finally shook his head. “I beg your pardon?”