by Jody Hedlund
Even now, the loss hurt so acutely that if she focused on it, she was sure she’d lose herself. Maybe she’d even end up like her father, drinking to escape the sorrow.
The babe released another wail. Zoe guided the girl’s thumb to her mouth. It would have to sate her until Pastor Abe returned with real sustenance.
She expected Herman to leave, wanted him to leave. But he hesitated. “Rose was a good wife and mother.” The words came out in a broken whisper. “I’d be obliged if Violet knew that someday.”
Herman’s words sounded final, almost like a good-bye. Zoe narrowed her eyes upon the miner, but he refused to meet her gaze. Maybe Herman had no intention of coming back for Violet later. If so, she wouldn’t try to change his mind.
Pastor Abe might attempt to convince Herman Cox of his need to turn his life around and become the kind of father Violet needed. Pastor Abe might know how to offer the right Scriptures and prayers to comfort him. But Zoe had nothing to say.
“You’ll take good care of her, won’t you?” Herman’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“’Course I will.”
Blinking rapidly, he turned and hurried toward the door.
Zoe had seen too much heartache in her life to do anything but let this man go, if that’s what he wanted. She bent and placed a tender kiss on the babe’s forehead. Violet deserved better. And Zoe intended to see that she got it.
Pastor Abe returned to the hospital a short while later and was whistling a familiar hymn as he breezed into the first-floor examining room the attendant had allowed Zoe to use while bathing the babe.
He carried a crate. “My baker friend still had half a bottle of milk remaining from his baking projects.”
Zoe stopped bouncing Violet only to have the babe release a wail that was becoming more pitiful—and uncontrollable—with hunger. “Were you able to find a baby bottle?”
“Pete’s wife knew of a customer who just had a baby. And thankfully the family had an extra.” Pastor Abe placed the crate on the table, then held up the typical clear glass, banjo-shaped bottle used for feeding infants. A tube was inserted through the stopper and dangled down into the bottle.
Bouncing Violet again, Zoe crossed to the table and stood opposite the reverend. “Did they give you a nipple?”
Pastor Abe fumbled in the crate before retrieving the small rubber piece that attached to the tube projecting from the top of the stopper. Looking everywhere but at the nipple, he held it out gingerly, almost as if the item were indecent, like a piece of women’s undergarments.
Zoe reached for it but then stopped, humor tickling her, even if faintly. Pastor Abe had clearly never held a nipple. The word itself likely flustered him.
Biting back a smile, Zoe retracted her hand. “You’ll need to get the bottle ready.”
His gaze flitted to the offending object before darting away. “I’m afraid I’m woefully ignorant about nipples. . . .” At his declaration, his eyes widened as if he hoped the floor would open up and swallow him.
His innocence was a refreshing change from the fellas Zoe had known in her Manchester slum neighborhood who were rough and crude and lustful. If she’d been talking to one of them, she could only imagine the turn the conversation would have taken.
Pastor Abe cleared his throat, and then he dropped the nipple back into the crate, his coat stretching taut against his broad shoulders and muscular arms. She couldn’t keep from studying him as she had earlier when he’d first walked into Jane’s hospital room.
She was struck once again that he was much too good-looking to be a pastor. His jaw was square and sturdy, his nose and forehead in perfect proportion, and his mouth attractive. To top it off, he had sandy-blond hair and the bluest, kindest eyes she’d ever seen.
Violet’s fussing turned louder, forcing her to stop gawking and return her attention to the infant. “Hush now, little one. Your belly will be full soon enough—as soon as Pastor Abe gets your bottle ready.”
He held up his hands to deflect her request. “I really am ignorant about such matters.”
“Then you’ll need to be holding the babe while I ready the bottle.” She extended Violet.
Pastor Abe recoiled, his features reflecting horror as if she’d asked him to swim naked in the ocean.
This time she couldn’t hold back her smile. In fact, her smile changed into laughter.
Pastor Abe lowered his hands and then smiled. This smile was different from the one he’d given her earlier, which had been impersonal but full of compassion. This smile was wide, revealed his perfect teeth, and made him roguishly endearing.
As Violet’s angry wails intensified, he reached again for the discarded nipple and picked it up cautiously. “Let’s get this baby fed.”
Over the noise, Zoe instructed him how to fill the bottle with milk and attach the nipple to the piece of rubber tubing. Once he finished and passed Zoe the container, Violet took to it greedily, grasping the glass with both hands, her cries now replaced with noisy sucking.
For a minute, Zoe watched the sweet babe eat and pictured Eve doing the very same thing. Swift tears stung Zoe’s eyes, and grief rushed into her heart, nearly overwhelming her. Not only was Eve just a memory, but now Jane was dead. Her dearest friend was gone.
Several tears escaped and slid down Zoe’s cheeks. She swiped at them, wishing the pain would go away and that the loss didn’t have to hurt so much.
“Are you thinking of Jane?” Pastor Abe’s voice was gentle. He still stood at the center table across from her.
“Aye.” When she chanced a glance at him, the sympathy in his eyes unleashed her grief again. She had the sudden need to fall into his arms and sob. There was just something comforting about him, an air of understanding and compassion that she needed. She supposed that’s what pastors were like. They probably practiced lowering their eyebrows sorrowfully and setting their mouths into grim lines.
“I’d love to hear about Jane and what she was like,” he stated softly.
“You would?”
“Yes. She must have been a wonderful person if she had a friend as kind as you.”
Kind? Zoe had never thought of herself as particularly kind. No, but she was determined, resourceful, and persistent. Those qualities had helped her survive when her world had crumbled, especially over the past couple of years when most of the cotton mills in Lancashire had closed. With the ongoing war in the United States, England lost the steady cotton supply that fueled the mills. As a result, the booming textile industry had come to a near halt. Thousands upon thousands had no work and therefore no means to pay rent or purchase food.
Like many others, Zoe had resorted to standing in long lines every day for food from different charity organizations that had come to Manchester in an effort to provide relief. She’d hated accepting the handouts, had only gone when she absolutely needed the food. She’d been waiting in one such charity line with Jane when Miss Rye of the Columbia Mission Society offered them an alternative.
“Jane was wonderful. And of the two of us, she was the one who deserved a better life.”
“Were you friends growing up?” His expression contained genuine interest, as though he truly cared and wasn’t asking because that was his job.
“I met her when I started working at the mill three years ago—”
“You began working three years ago? You must have been just a child.”
Her mind flashed back to her first day of walking to the mill with the other workers, the darkness of predawn, the frigid air waking her up, the clomp of their clogs on the stone pavement, huddling under her shawl and head covering for warmth and to hide her identity.
“I was sixteen. Most of the others, including Jane, started a lot younger than that. But my mum wanted me to be attending ragged school as long as possible.”
“I like your mother. She was not only a praying woman but a wise woman for valuing your education.”
“Then you approve of girls going to school?”
“
Absolutely. Why wouldn’t I?”
Was he sincere? She hadn’t met too many men who thought her schooling was worthwhile, least of all her father. He’d only agreed to it because he’d adored Mum and did whatever she wanted. “Some fellas don’t want a wife who has more learning than they do.”
“You needn’t worry on that score. From everything I’ve witnessed about you, you’ll have no trouble finding a husband. Fellows will line up at the door of the Marine Barracks, if they aren’t already.”
Once his words were out, he rapidly dropped his attention to the crate on the table and began fidgeting with the empty milk bottle. “So tell me more about Jane.”
Zoe smothered her smile. Pastor Abe seemed to have about as much experience with women as he did with bottles. But in some indefinable way, his presence and his company were the distraction and the balm her aching heart needed.
five
Abe stood in front of the sitting room fireplace of the Marine Barracks and held out his hands to warm them. From the hours spent combing Victoria’s streets and taverns last night and all morning, not only was he weary to the bone, but the damp cold had seeped into his limbs as well.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t any closer to finding Herman Cox today than he’d been yesterday after the man had disappeared from the hospital, leaving Violet in his care. Even so, he softly whistled the hymn he oft did when he felt discouraged, knowing that praising the Lord was one of the quickest ways to take his mind off his troubles. “Rejoice, the Lord is King! Your Lord and King adore! Rejoice, give thanks, and sing, and triumph evermore—”
“Pastor Abe?” Someone spoke behind him.
He spun to find Miss Hart standing in the doorway, holding Violet, who appeared to be sleeping contentedly, thank the Lord. After the bouts of crying yesterday, he’d been uncertain whether Violet would ever stop, even after Miss Hart assured him the baby would be fine once she had enough nourishment.
The young woman didn’t step into the room but regarded him warily. Except for the slight pinch of a frown between her brows, her face was flawless, even more beautiful than he remembered. Not that he’d been thinking of her. At least not oft, and only because she’d insisted on bringing Violet back to the Marine Barracks with her and taking care of the baby while he looked for Herman.
“How is Violet today?” he asked.
“She was fussy off and on throughout the night, but she’s sleeping now.” The dark circles under Miss Hart’s eyes told him she’d gotten very little sleep herself.
“Is she still hungry? Do you need more milk?”
“We’ve plenty left from what you had sent over last eve.” Miss Hart tucked in a corner of the infant’s swaddled blanket. “She’s sated now.”
“Is she ill, then? Shall I call for a doctor?”
“She’s got her nights and days mixed around is all.” His expression must have shown his ignorance, because she offered an explanation. “Herman probably stayed up drinking at night and slept during the day, so Violet naturally thinks nights are the time to be awake and days are for sleeping.”
“I see. That poses a problem.”
“My niece was mixed around for a while too. But I eventually got her straightened out.”
He was tempted to ask how one went about changing a baby’s sleeping habits but decided he’d already shown enough of his lack of knowledge for one day. Instead, he leapt upon the chance to talk about something else. “Your niece? How old is she?”
“She was six weeks old when she died.”
Miss Hart wavered slightly, a sign of her exhaustion. Perhaps her grief over her friend had also interrupted her sleep.
Whatever the case, Miss Hart needed to sit down before she collapsed. Though the room was sparsely furnished, Abe strode to Miss Hart, took her arm, and guided her to the closest sofa.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes glistening with sudden tears. “I’m just tired. Mum always said everything’s worse when you’re tired.”
He crouched before her, wishing he could do something to ease her grief and heartache. He started to reach for her hand, but then drew back. He needed to be careful. As a pastor and a single man, he couldn’t place himself in any compromising situations.
Yesterday’s time alone with Miss Hart at the hospital had bordered on inappropriate, even with the examining room door open and an attendant nearby. He’d lost track of time while Miss Hart had shared about Jane, about their escapades at the mill together, their months of unemployment, and finally their voyage across the Atlantic to Victoria.
In the moment, he’d told himself he was simply fulfilling his pastoral duty of comforting the bereaved. He oft sat with grieving families as they poured out memories of their loved ones. The sharing was the beginning of the healing process.
Even so, she was a single woman. And he needed to exercise more caution so he could remain above reproach. He’d learned that lesson all too well when he’d been offering comfort to Wanda.
If only Miss Hart didn’t look so forlorn. . . .
He hesitated in front of her. Her dark hair was pulled back today into a simple knot, but already a strand had come loose, as if it couldn’t stand to be contained. Her lashes were wet, making them appear longer and darker as they framed her shimmering eyes.
“Did you find Herman?” she asked.
“Not yet—”
“Good.” Her shoulders visibly relaxed, and she hugged Violet a little closer.
Unease nudged Abe, prodding him to stand and put some distance between himself and so beautiful a woman. He crossed to the fireplace and stretched his hands toward it, though he was no longer cold.
He cleared his throat and stared at the flames rather than at Miss Hart. “I’ll continue to look for Herman. And I will find him eventually.” He had enough connections throughout Vancouver Island and on the mainland that Herman Cox wouldn’t be able to avoid him for long.
“He doesn’t want the babe back,” Miss Hart said with too much confidence.
“Herman Cox is a good man. It would appear he’s simply lost himself to grief since his wife passed away.”
“That’s no excuse for neglecting this babe.”
Abe turned to face Miss Hart. Though tears still glittered in her eyes, now fire sparked there too. “You’re right—”
“He doesn’t deserve the child.” She jutted her chin, daring him to contradict her. Her expression reflected all the hurt and injustice and pain she’d experienced so far in her life.
Although she’d shared some of her hardships, he suspected he didn’t even know the half of what she’d suffered. Her hurts likely went deeper than he could begin to understand.
Even so, Herman Cox was the baby’s father. Abe planned to find the man and point him to the only One who could truly carry his burdens. Once he was sober and right with God, Herman would be as good a father as he’d been a husband.
“Miss Hart,” Abe started, uncertain how to communicate his thoughts.
“I’ve had the night to think about it. And I’m keeping the babe.”
How had this situation become so complicated so quickly? “I understand your concerns.” He was grateful for his practice using patience with the miners so that his tone didn’t betray his mounting worry. “But even if I’m unable to find Herman, you cannot keep the baby, not as a single woman without any means of support.”
“I’ll get a job and place of my own.”
“That’s not so easy to do. And even if you can support yourself, who would take care of the baby while you worked?”
“Who will see to the babe when Herman works?”
She had a point. Without a woman to aid him, Herman would be in a difficult position. Even so, Miss Hart had to realize she would have an even harder time keeping an infant.
“If Herman will not have her, then she must be given up for adoption, hopefully to a real family.” He honestly didn’t know any English families who would be willing to adopt the child, especially since Violet was of mi
xed race. Perhaps that’s why Herman had been looking for Rose’s tribe—he’d been hoping to place her with a native family. But a tribe might not want Violet any more than the English. The sad truth was that the child likely wouldn’t belong in either place and would be an outcast.
The other sad truth was that the smallpox epidemic among the natives had already left too many orphans and not enough people willing to care for them.
Pete and Arabella would take the child in if he asked them to. They had large and willing hearts. Already they’d adopted two native girls who’d lost their family. But now with Pete’s parents having moved to Victoria, the small apartment above the bakeshop was overflowing. Of course, Pete was in the process of purchasing land and ordering supplies to build a house. However, the project was still months away from completion.
What about Sque-is? Would he and his wife be willing to give Violet a home? Abe hadn’t seen or heard from his native friend since late autumn. Although he prayed for Sque-is and his tribe, that they’d been spared from smallpox, the longer he went without word, the more he suspected something had happened.
“Ultimately,” Abe said, “the best place for Violet is with her family—her father.”
“Absolutely not.” Zoe stood, her body rigid. “It’s the worst place.”
“I’ll talk to Herman and help him—”
“No one can help a drunk unless he first wants to help himself. Believe me, I know.”
How did she know? Had she suffered at the hands of a drunk? Was that why she felt so strongly about protecting Violet?
“I don’t know what you’ve experienced,” he said gently, “but not everyone who drinks is hopelessly lost. I’ve seen many hardened men repent of their sins and turn to the Lord.”
“Herman’s not hardened. He’s dead inside.”
“Not dead. Not yet.” Abe refused to give up on people. Nothing was impossible for the Lord. In fact, the Lord was in the business of bringing the dead back to life.
“Herman was obviously trying to give his child a better life, especially for the sake of his late wife.” Zoe looked down at the sleeping infant and brushed a finger across her cheek. “Let him give his child this gift.”