by Janette Oke
“Can they, Pa?” Abe repeated. He let his eyes return to the crooked arm, locked into its constant position. “Can they right the arm?”
Arnie nodded slowly, blinking back the tears. “Luke says they can,” he said honestly. Then seeing the light suddenly come to the eyes of his son, he hastened on, “Oh, maybe not . . . not perfectly . . . but at least . . . at least they can help it a good deal . . . straighten it some and strengthen it some an’ . . . an’ give it some movement.”
But Abe obviously was not hearing his pa’s words of caution. He was hearing words of hope. His eyes were bright with joy as he turned back to Arnie.
“When?” was all he asked.
Anne finally spoke, brushing away tears that lay on her cheeks and reaching to put an arm around her son. “Abe,” she said slowly, softly, “I . . . I don’t think ya understand. It’s not gonna be thet easy to fix. Ya don’t jest walk in the doctor’s office an’ have him . . . do . . . do yer arm. It means a trip to the city . . . examinations, decisions . . . then iffen the city doctors think it will work out okay . . . then they . . . they need to operate . . . to break the arm again . . . an’ then try to set it . . . mend it better.”
“But . . . but . . .” Abe faltered, his eyes mirroring new despair. “But ya said, Pa, thet it would help some . . . thet Uncle Luke said . . .”
Arnie nodded solemnly.
“Then . . . then . . . ?” But Abe stopped. His eyes misted for the first time. Arnie felt that his son now understood about the pain involved with the surgery.
But when Abe spoke, the pain was not mentioned. “It costs a lot, huh?”
The simple words cut Arnie to the quick. “No,” he said quickly, shaking his head and starting to his feet. “No, son, thet’s not the reason. We . . . we . . .” But Arnie could not go on, and again Anne took over, reaching for Arnie’s hand as she spoke to Abe.
“It was yer pain we feared—not the cost. We . . . we didn’t want ya to suffer no more . . . yer pa an’ me. We . . . we hoped the arm would git steadily better on its own, but . . . but . . . we think now thet it won’t, not by itself.” She stopped and, still clasping Arnie’s hand, reached out her other hand to Abe.
“So . . . so,” she went on hesitantly, “I guess it’s really yer decision. Now . . . now thet ya know about . . . about the . . . the surgery . . . the healing again . . . what do you think we should do?”
Abe did not hurry with his answer. He looked steadily from one parent to the other. Then he looked down at his disabled limb. He swallowed hard and licked dry lips.
“Iffen ya don’t mind . . . iffen it won’t be . . . be . . . too much cost, then I’d like to try it . . . the surgery. Even iffen it jest makes it a little bit better, it would be . . . be good.”
The words brought a flood of tears to Arnie. He reached out and drew Abe to him, burying his face against the leanness of the young body. Abe seemed confused by his father’s response, but even in his youth he knew Arnie needed him. Needed his love and his support.
“It’s okay, Pa,” he mumbled, his arms wrapped firmly around Arnie’s neck. “It’s okay. It won’t hurt thet much.”
“Don’t ya see? Don’t ya see?” sobbed Arnie. “We shoulda had it done first off. Luke tried to tell me . . . but I wouldn’t listen. It woulda worked better . . .”
Abe pulled back far enough to look into his father’s eyes. “Is thet what’s been troublin’ ya?” he asked candidly.
Arnie only nodded. Abe moved to place his arm securely around his father’s neck again. “Oh, Pa,” he said with tears in his eyes. “We’ve been so scared . . . so scared . . . all of us kids. We feared ya had some awful sickness an’ might die . . . an’ here . . . here it was jest my silly ol’ arm. It’s okay, Pa.” The young boy patted his father’s shoulder. “An’ ya know what? Iffen ya’d asked me way back then ’bout breakin’ my arm all over agin, I’da prob’ly been scared ta death an’ . . . an’ run off in the woods hopin’ it’d heal by itself. Now we all know thet ain’t gonna happen,” he finished matter-of-factly. “I know ya love me. The pain . . . it . . . it won’t be too bad,” he reassured them.
Father and son held each other close, and Anne breathed a prayer to God as she wiped her tears. There was much ahead for all of them—for there would be surgery to be faced just as soon as Luke could make the arrangements.
Arnie went to see Luke the next morning, but on the way he stopped to ask forgiveness of Clare and to beg Clark and Marty to forgive him for all the suffering he had caused them in his bitterness. He pleaded to be restored to his old relationship within the family circle, and with tears of joy and prayers of thanksgiving he was drawn back into their loving arms.
Nineteen
Boston
“Are ya comfortable?” Belinda asked Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. They were settled on the eastbound train for Boston after an emotional and teary good-bye at the station. Most of Belinda’s family had been there to see her off. She was glad that neither Rand nor Jackson had appeared, although she had received messages from each of them the night before her departure.
May your trip to Boston be smooth, uneventful—and hasty, said Jackson’s light little note tucked into a basket of forget-me-nots. Belinda had not been able to hide her smile.
Rand’s message had been more direct. Sorry for any misunderstanding, it read. Whenever you are ready to come back, I’ll be here. Rand. This note came with a small packet of house plans, and etched in a corner in Rand’s script was the terse comment, Study at leisure.
Poor Rand, mused Belinda. It seemed he was refusing to give up.
But now all of that was behind her. She leaned back against the velvet seat of the Pullman and tried to gather her thoughts into some kind of order.
I’m actually on my way—to Boston! Imagine! She had made the decision, arranged for her absence from her work, checked with her family, planned the departure, and sent word to her new employer’s home in Boston. I guess I’m really grown-up now! she joked inwardly. She was on her own, bound for a city hundreds of miles from home—and with indefinite plans as to the length of her stay.
Marty had shed some tears, of course. Belinda had expected it. She was Marty’s baby—the last of the children to go. Belinda knew it would be hard for her ma and pa, but she was so thankful the clash between Arnie and the other family members had been healed before she left. Again she said a quick prayer of thanks to God. That morning at the station her mother had looked years younger and much more relaxed, even though she was bidding her youngest a tearful good-bye.
Belinda took a few moments to worry about the office. Would Flo really be able to take over all the tasks that had been Belinda’s for so long? Would she be skilled enough to assist with the simple surgeries that were done in the little surgical room? Of course, now that Jackson was there, he would be able to assist Luke—or Luke assist Jackson, whichever way it went. Belinda, happy for that fact, was able to dismiss the office from her mind.
Next, Belinda considered her nieces and nephews. They grew so quickly. If she stayed away for any extended period of time, they would grow up without her. She pictured rambunctious Dack. It seemed like such a short time ago that he was a boisterous, sometimes in-the-way little preschooler, and now he was playing boyish games and doing lessons. Even Luke’s three little ones were growing up so rapidly. Belinda found it hard to believe that Ruthie was already toddling about and saying words that might not be understood but seemed to mean something to the pint-sized chatterer.
What will they be like when I get back home? she wondered. They change so quickly.
Then Belinda remembered Melissa and Amy Jo. Word had just arrived that Melissa was the mother of a baby boy, Clark Thomas, and that Amy Jo would have her turn at motherhood some time in November. It seemed unreal to Belinda. She thought again of Rand’s angry words. He was right, Belinda admitted. Most girls—women—do know their own minds by the time they’re my age.
For a minute Belinda’s face grew warm with the memo
ry, and then she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and assured herself, And I do know my own mind, too. I knew then and I know now that I’m not ready to marry either Rand O’Connel or Jackson Brown. It would be wrong, wrong, wrong for me to do so.
Feeling better with that matter settled, Belinda turned her eyes back to her patient. “Would ya like another pillow?” she asked solicitously.
“Stop fussing so,” scolded Mrs. Stafford-Smyth good-naturedly. “If I want something, I will let it be known. This is your first trip. Enjoy it. Look theah—out the window. See that sleepy little town? The whole country is filled with one aftah the othah. I wondah how folks can tell them apart.” She smiled. “Wondah just how many people get off at the wrong stop,” she mused on, “thinking that they have arrived home.”
Belinda smiled. But she was sure that no homecoming included such a problem. She realized Mrs. Stafford-Smyth saw even Belinda’s little town as one of tiny duplicate beads of a necklace stretching all across the great continent. Yet, if she, Belinda, were heading home, she knew no other town would look the same to her as her own town would.
She decided to check with her patient one more time. “Ya promise ya’ll ask if ya wish something?”
“I promise,” laughed the woman.
Belinda shifted some hand luggage so she could move closer to the window.
“In that case,” she said lightly, “I will be glad to accept yer invitation and enjoy the scenery. I’ve never traveled quite this far from home before,” and Belinda settled down to follow the changing landscape as the train rocked and rattled its way east over the uneven tracks.
The landscape soon began to change. The trees were bigger and forests denser. The farms looked different to Belinda than the farms at home. The small towns gave way to larger ones. They even passed through some cities. Belinda, face pressed to the window, found them especially intriguing and couldn’t see enough of the people who lined the platforms or walked the streets. This is a new world from the one I’ve known all my life, she told herself. She could sense it, even though the glass windowpane held her back from it.
They were obliged to make two train changes. Belinda worried that the procedure of getting resettled might be hard for her patient, but Mrs. Stafford-Smyth seemed to handle the situation well. They had plenty of help from the solicitous porters, who probably sensed a good tip from the hand of the older woman.
On the third day Belinda noticed Mrs. Stafford-Smyth begin to lean forward in some agitation. At first Belinda wondered if her employer was experiencing some kind of pain or discomfort. Then she noticed the shining eyes, the flushed cheeks. “We should be in Boston by teatime,” the woman exulted, and Belinda understood her excitement.
Belinda tried to imagine what the home of Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was like. Whenever she had asked, the woman had refused to indulge her curiosity. “You shall see for yourself in due time,” she answered comfortably, and so Belinda was forced to wait. Now that they were almost there, she found her own excitement mounting.
Just as Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had told her, shortly after two, Belinda began to see buildings crowding in closely on both sides of the tracks. The shrill whistle of the train announced that they were coming to another city center, and then the conductor was walking the aisles, crying his message of “Bos-ton. Bos-ton. Next stop, Bos-ton,” and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth began to twitter and flutter and primp for their arrival.
Belinda felt a-twitter, too. She peered from the train window for as long as she dared, trying hard to gather all the information she could by staring out into the busy city streets.
“This is the shoddy part of town,” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth said with a wave of her hand. “We’ll see the real Boston latah.”
Belinda looked around. It did look rather shoddy, but she would not have said so to her elderly charge. She knew how much Mrs. Stafford-Smyth loved her city.
The train was decidedly slowing, and Belinda began to gather bags and packages together. She picked up the hat she had laid aside and carefully settled it back into position on her curls, pinning it securely into place with her hatpins. Then she moved to assist Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, who was smoothing her grayish hair into place, and Belinda helped her arrange her hat and veil securely.
“What do we do once we arrive?” Belinda asked as she worked.
“Windsah will be theah with the carriage,” replied the lady.
“Will you wish to lie down?” asked Belinda, wanting to know how to prepare things for her patient.
“My word, no!” sniffed the woman. “I will ride through my own town sitting up.” Then her tone softened. “I’m not sure that I will evah want to lie down again,” she added. “Seems I have been lying down for ye-ahs and ye-ahs.”
Belinda smiled. “It has really been just months and months,” she corrected softly.
Windsor was there just as Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had said. He came aboard and assisted his lady from the train, helping Belinda settle her in the elaborately ornate carriage. Belinda was so busy staring she could hardly keep her wits about her to do what was necessary. At length they were ready, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth ensconced among many pillows, and Belinda sedately seated opposite her beside the butler, Windsor. The driver was given the signal, the whip cracked, and the impatient horses were off with a flurry into the traffic of the downtown streets.
Belinda longed to lean out the window to see all they were passing, but she knew it would not be ladylike. Instead, she sat silently as the good man Windsor inquired about their journey.
“And was the trip tedious, madam?” he was asking.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth sighed. “Yes,” she said simply, “quite tedious. But it would have been much worse had it not been for Belinda. She made me quite comfortable.”
The butler did not turn to look at Belinda, but she could tell he was greatly relieved to know she had made things as easy as possible for his madam.
“And how are things at home, Windsah?” asked Mrs. Stafford-Smyth.
“We have done ou-ah best in Madam’s absence,” he said simply as she nodded.
Belinda turned her head slightly to gaze out the small window of the carriage. Would she ever have opportunity to see all the fascinating things they were whisking by in this wonderful city? Mrs. Stafford-Smyth and Windsor seemed not the least interested.
“Cook needs instructions,” Windsor was telling her. “She wishes to know what diet regimen Madam might be on.”
“Madam is on no diet,” declared Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “I am so sick of flat-tasting hotel food. I can scarcely wait for the flavahs of my own kitchen. You tell Cook to prepare the usual—and lots of it, because I plan to eat my fill ovah the next few days.”
The butler’s face barely hid his amusement. “Very well, madam,” he said. “And where does Madam wish to be served? In your own chambers?”
“I shall take tea in the drawing room the moment we arrive,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “Then I wish to see my rose garden. I have missed it terribly. Then—”
“But Madam should rest after such a long and rigorous trip,” Windsor chided her with just the proper amount of respect and liberty born out of long years of service.
To Belinda’s surprise Mrs. Stafford-Smyth did not argue. “Perhaps,” she consented, “for an hou-ah or two.”
“And does Madam wish Miss Davis to occupy the Omberg suite?”
“No, she shall have the suite next to mine.”
“The Rosewood?”
“The Rosewood.”
How foreign these terms seemed to Belinda! This talk of “suites” instead of rooms, of names instead of locations. The Omberg suite! The Rosewood suite! It all sounded very mysterious—and so elegant.
But when Belinda got her first view of the mansion Mrs. Stafford-Smyth called home, she gulped and understood why they had to name rooms. She was sure they never would have kept things straight otherwise. Never had she seen so many rooms under one roof—not even at the Rose Palace Hotel.
The
house was of brick and stone, and its extensions and gables and additions seemed to go on and on. I’m glad to be near Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, she decided with no small amount of relief. She might never find her way otherwise.
The house was nestled on the wide expanse of carefully manicured green lawn, with flowerbeds filled with hollyhock, daisies, and begonias. The driveway of red stone circled to the wide front step, and an arched brick canopy reached out to keep all who arrived protected from the weather.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was excited to be home, but she showed none of the awe Belinda felt as her eyes scanned the imposing sight.
“Welcome to Marshall Manor,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth softly, smiling at Belinda.
“Oh my!” was all Belinda could manage. She felt she had just stepped into a fairy tale. She was glad Windsor, at least, had his wits about him. He stepped down from the carriage to help Mrs. Stafford-Smyth.
Two maids stood at the top of the stairs, ready to be of assistance at the least nod from the butler. Windsor spoke to the one nearest to him. “Madam wants her tea in the drawing room,” he said, and the girl bustled off without so much as a nod.
Then Windsor spoke to the second girl. “Show Miss Davis the Rosewood suite,” he said, “so that she might freshen herself for tea. Then escort her back to the drawing room.”
The girl nodded to Belinda and led the way through the doorway and up the long circular staircase. Belinda was still gazing about her, enamored by the polished wood, the glistening chandeliers, and the sparkling crystal. Never in all her wildest dreams could she have imagined that such a place existed. No wonder Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was so anxious to get home! The place was absolutely breathtaking.
Twenty
Getting Acquainted
The Rosewood suite was like a dream, too. Belinda, expecting to find a pretty little room in a soft rose color, found instead a suite of rooms done in rich wood paneling, blue velvets, and white lace. Never had she seen anything so exquisite, not even in the picture books Melissa had shared with her during their school days.