Where We Belong

by Lynn Austin

  “Well, it certainly doesn’t help to weep and wail,” Flora said. “Come, sit down and have a drink of water while Petersen and Mr. Farouk discuss it. Try to calm down.”

  “Do we have enough water? Shouldn’t we ration it or something?”

  “It seems they left all the water and other supplies here. We have plenty.”

  “It can’t last forever, though. And that’s how long we’re going to be here—forever! Even if we knew which direction to go, we have no way to get there.”

  “Oh, do sit down and be quiet,” Becky said, exasperated. “I’m sure this will be resolved soon.”

  “God knows when the end of our days will be,” Flora said, patting Kate’s hand. “We have nothing to fear.”

  Flora had no sooner spoken when Petersen’s angry shout echoed off a nearby ridge. He slid down the hill and hurried toward them, his pale face as dark as a thundercloud. “I need to speak with you in private, Miss Flora and Miss Rebecca.”

  “Hey! I have a right to know what’s going on, too!” Kate yelled.

  He frowned at the maid, who stood with her hands on her hips as if itching for a fight. He shook his head at her and turned to Flora. “I really think we should speak about this in private.”

  “No! You’re not leaving me out of this—”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Becky said. “Just tell us what Mr. Farouk said.”

  He gave Kate a wary look and exhaled. “Mr. Farouk says it’s her fault that they’re gone.” He pointed to the maid.

  “Me? What did I do? You’re just saying that because you hate me!” She lunged at the butler, but Flora grabbed her around the waist and held her back. Kate was so slender that Flora could feel all her ribs.

  “Katie, stop it. Let Petersen tell us what he knows.”

  “It’s hard to understand Mr. Farouk’s terrible English,” Petersen said, “but evidently the sheikh has been asking questions for days about the ‘fiery, red-haired servant girl.’ He’s been pressuring Mr. Farouk to speak to you ladies about . . . um . . .” He cleared his throat. “About bartering for her.”

  Flora felt Kate’s body go limp, sagging against her for support. Flora felt a little weak herself. “Bartering . . . ? That’s outrageous,” she said.

  “The sheikh became furious with Mr. Farouk just this morning because he refused to negotiate with you on his behalf.”

  Rebecca stood and called up the hill, “Mr. Farouk. Come down here, please.” He slouched down the rise to stand before them like a condemned man, his head hanging. “What exactly did you tell the sheikh this morning?” Rebecca asked him.

  “I explain that things go differently in your country. Servants not to be owned by you.”

  “Wait. You mean he wants to buy Kate for his servant?” Rebecca asked.

  “Not for servant. He wants for his harem.”

  Flora pulled Kate close and held her tight, something she had never dared to do with the prickly girl before. “Over my dead body!”

  “Oh, Flora,” Rebecca said. “I’m afraid that may be exactly what they have in mind.”

  Kate twisted out of Flora’s arms and stalked off. Flora watched her bend to scoop up a handful of stones and throw them, one by one, as far into the distance as she could.

  “What would you like me to do?” Petersen asked. He pulled off his turban and ran his hand through his pale hair, obviously distressed by his helplessness.

  “Let’s all sit down in the shade,” Flora suggested. She led the way back to the overhanging rock and waited until Becky and Petersen were settled. Mr. Farouk had climbed the small rise again with the cook. Kate was still throwing rocks at imaginary targets but was close enough to hear Flora. “Remember when we met Edmund on the Gaza road all those years ago, Becky? He was stranded just like we are.”

  “Yes, and thankfully we came to his rescue.”

  “He was praying when we found him, remember? And that’s what I think we should do.” Petersen looked doubtful, but Flora reached for his hand. It felt gritty with sweat and dirt. She took Becky’s hand in her other one to create a small circle. “Lord, you see us right now. You know we’re here. We’re never out of your sight or out of your care. You know how frightened young Kate is—”

  “I’m not scared! I’m mad!” she shouted from a dozen feet away. “I told you I didn’t like the way they kept looking at me! I told you!”

  “Lord, send someone to rescue us, we pray. Show us the way out and what we should do. Calm our hearts with the assurance that you will never leave us or forsake us.”

  Flora continued praying aloud for several minutes until everyone was calm again, including Kate, who finally stopped throwing rocks and settled down with them to wait.

  “Help will come,” Flora said. “You’ll see.” Just as help had arrived in answer to Edmund’s prayers when he’d been stranded along the road on that long-ago day. . . .

  Chapter 15

  CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND

  1865

  TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO

  Flora couldn’t get over how lush and green the British countryside looked as the train neared the town of Cambridge. After three months in arid lands, it was as if she had returned to the Garden of Eden. She thought it would be lovely to stay and explore the English countryside with Edmund, but then she remembered her fiancé, Thomas, and was struck by an arrow of guilt. According to their original plan, she and Becky should have returned to Chicago more than a month ago, but they were still a long way from home. Flora had sent cables to Thomas from Cairo and France, then another one from London explaining their delays and assuring him they were fine, so he wouldn’t worry.

  “Come with me to Cambridge,” Edmund had pleaded when they’d arrived in France after their long trek through the Holy Land. “I don’t want to say good-bye yet.”

  Flora hadn’t wanted to say good-bye to him, either, but she knew she shouldn’t stay any longer. She needed to return to Thomas and her life in Chicago before she lost her heart completely to Edmund. The longer Flora traveled with him, laughed with him, and talked with him, the deeper she fell in love with him. In the end, Becky had decided the issue.

  “Yes, please let’s go to Cambridge, Flora. I’ll need a week to look over Edmund’s notes for our book and pack all his materials to ship to Chicago. Then we’ll sail home, I promise.”

  Flora fell in love with Cambridge the moment she stepped off the train. She could easily imagine living here. “It’s like a page from a storybook, Edmund,” she said as she gazed at the historic town.

  “Yes, it is lovely this time of year, isn’t it? As much as I love traveling, I’m always pleased to come back.” He showed them around the village and the university campus and found rooms for them to rent in an inn. Edmund’s tiny apartment near the library was as interesting and exotic as he was, with boxes and bins and dusty shelves filled with pottery shards, old scraps of parchment, and even a stray bone or two, brought back from his many travels. He had wonderful stories to tell about each item in the room, and he entertained them with tales of his journeys as they sat on the floor sipping tea together. And books! Rows and rows of interesting books filled Edmund’s shelves. The extras lay piled on the floor or stacked beside the bed or heaped haphazardly around the cluttered room.

  Flora couldn’t help comparing his collection to the tidy, well-dusted library that Thomas Worthington had once shown her in his family’s home. She also recalled her shock when Thomas admitted he’d never read a single one of those books. “Not one,” he’d repeated. He had sounded proud.

  “But why not?” she’d asked. “There are so many wonderful titles here.”

  Thomas had laughed, making light of her astonishment. “Because I have neither the time nor the interest in reading them. You may borrow them if you’d like. My father collects them, but he doesn’t read them.” Flora still felt sad when she recalled that conversation. Now, as she perused Edmund’s books, many with markers and papers stuffed between the pages, she could see that h
is collection was well-used.

  “Have you read all of these books?” she asked.

  “Most of them. That pile over there contains the ones I hope to read this fall. Why?”

  “No reason.” She hated herself for comparing the two men; it wasn’t fair to Thomas. Edmund’s life was free from the enormous responsibilities heaped on Thomas’ shoulders. Managing money was a very weighty matter, he’d informed her.

  Flora and Becky worked all week with Edmund, sorting through his notebooks and papers. Becky wrote pages of notes as Edmund explained what he’d planned for each chapter, and the proposed book grew in size and scope as Becky came up with even more ideas to add to his. “That’s a wonderful idea!” Edmund would say as they sat at his table with their heads bent together. “I wouldn’t have thought of that, Rebecca.”

  “It will require more research, but I would love the chance to tackle it.”

  “Superb!”

  Becky came alive when she was with Edmund. In fact, Flora had never seen her so happy. Her sister had fallen in love with Edmund Merriday, too. But Edmund didn’t gaze at Becky the way he did at her. The knowledge that he preferred her filled Flora with guilt. Perhaps if she went home to Thomas, as she knew she should, Edmund would see Becky in a different light. Maybe he would marry her. They worked so well together.

  Much too soon, their time in Cambridge came to an end. One day remained before they would return to London for the voyage home, and that day was the Sabbath. “If you’re not too tired,” Edmund said, “and if you’re willing to get up early, I would love to show you the work I’m doing with the poor.”

  “We would love that,” Flora replied.

  Edmund came to the inn to fetch them early the next morning with a hired carriage. As they drove down Mill Road, leading out of Cambridge, Edmund explained how the growth of the railways had caused a surge of population in this area. “And poverty along with it,” he added.

  “It’s much the same in Chicago,” Flora said as she gazed at the rows of disheveled housing, the ragged, dirty, working-class children playing in the streets. Many weren’t wearing shoes. Smoke from locomotives and factory chimneys hung low in the gritty air, even on the Sabbath. The carriage halted, and they walked to an old stone church built centuries ago. Flora felt out of place among so many impoverished people, even though her skirt, shirtwaist, and bonnet were ordinary compared to the fashionable dresses in her wardrobe back home. But the parishioners sang the hymns with spirit, and the pastor preached about Jesus’ love for the poor. When the worship service ended, Edmund led them outside again.

  “You didn’t bring us here simply to attend church, did you?” Flora asked. She didn’t say so, but she would have preferred to attend the magnificent Kings College Chapel.

  “No, the service was merely for starters. Now the fun work begins. You see, some colleagues and I have established a Sabbath school in this part of town so we can teach the poor, working-class children how to read and write. We also teach them about the Bible and who Jesus is.”

  Flora’s heart gave a little skip of excitement. “What a wonderful idea!”

  “A Christian named Robert Raikes started the first Sunday school because he wanted to do something about the poverty and illiteracy he saw all around him. The idea has grown since then, and we now have more than 100,000 volunteer teachers reaching more than a million children each week.”

  “I would love to help you,” Flora said. As the sisters followed him to the building where the classes were held, Flora told Edmund what she and Rebecca had once done, dressing up in rags and dirtying their faces in order to see inside the garment factory.

  Edmund laughed at her descriptions. “You didn’t really!”

  “Yes, it’s a true story. But we only lasted one day in that factory—and we never did go back for our wages, did we, Becky?”

  Her sister laughed and shook her head. “Why bother? It amounted to less than a dollar.”

  “I can’t imagine you beautiful ladies in raggedy clothes and with dirt on your faces.”

  “It wasn’t just a lark, Edmund. Once we saw how those people lived and how little they earned, we wanted to do something to help. Like you’re doing here. This is such a wonderful idea. Remember those girls we worked with in the factory, Becky? And the children on the street? I would love to teach little ones like them to read and write.”

  “I think you would be very good at that,” Becky replied.

  Dozens of wiggling, chattering children were already pouring inside what looked to be a factory shipping room. They sat on the stone floor, using shipping crates for desks. Flora worked side-by-side with Edmund as he taught the eager students who seemed thrilled to be learning to read. They clearly loved Edmund, who poured all of his bumbling energy into teaching. Flora tried to imagine Thomas here and couldn’t. Again, she was angry with herself for comparing the two men. Becky joined in, too, using her most dramatic voice to tell Bible stories to the enraptured children sitting in a circle around her. When it was time to leave, the entire group of children skipped down the road alongside them, hugging them and waving good-bye.

  That evening, as Edmund and Becky finished packing materials from his apartment, Flora walked outside to sit on the grassy riverbank alone. She loved watching the boats drift by, rowboats and punters and a rowing team from the university straining against the current as the coxswain called the signals. As the sun began to set, Edmund came outside and silently sat down on the grass beside her. “Is the packing all done?” Flora asked him.

  He nodded and plucked a few blades of grass, twiddling them between his fingers. She heard him sigh. “For the first time in my life,” he finally said, “I find myself regretting that I have so little in the way of worldly possessions and wealth. Regretting that I’ve spent all of my meager resources on travel and research.”

  “But why would you regret that, Edmund? You clearly love your life.”

  He gently turned her face so she would have to look at him. “Because I’ve fallen in love with you, Flora, and I have nothing to offer you. It pains me to send you back to America and to your fiancé, and yet I know he’ll give you the life I only wish I could provide. And your happiness is my deepest wish.”

  Flora opened her mouth to speak, to tell him she had more than enough money for both of them, but he stopped her with a gentle kiss. “No, don’t say anything, Flora. Let me remember this beautiful moment just the way it is.”

  What else could she say? Did she want to break her engagement with Thomas and move to England to marry a man she’d known for only a few months? She thought she did, but the chance to speak had passed. They returned to Edmund’s flat to fetch Becky.

  That night in their room at the inn, Flora felt a deep sadness she couldn’t name. Becky couldn’t seem to settle down to sleep and paced the narrow space between their beds as if propelled by an inner clock spring that had been wound too tightly. She gestured to the crate full of Edmund’s books and notes and said, “I can’t begin to describe how excited I am about the work ahead of me. I’m meant to write this book with Edmund, I know I am. It was no accident that we met him on the Gaza Road that day and . . . What’s wrong, Flora? Why are you crying?”

  Flora had hoped Becky would continue talking and pacing and never notice the tears running silently down her face. Flora couldn’t seem to make them stop. “I’m going to miss Edmund and . . . and all of the exciting things we did this summer and . . . oh, I really don’t know why I’m crying!” She wiped another tear and said, “Yes, I do. . . . I’m crying because Edmund told me he loved me tonight.”

  “Well, of course he loves you. Haven’t I been saying that?”

  “He said he wished he had money so he could provide for me, but since he doesn’t, he’s sending me home to my fiancé. I didn’t know what to say. He has no idea how wealthy we are, Becky. He doesn’t know that I don’t need Thomas or anyone else to provide for me.”

  “Do you love him, Flora?”

&nbs
p; “I . . . I do. But I thought I loved Thomas, too, a few months ago.” Becky handed her a handkerchief to blow her nose. “I’m sorry for blubbering. I need to be sensible about this and not let romantic notions carry me away. Edmund is like . . . like a hero in an adventure novel. And everything was so exotic in the Holy Land this summer, with the moon shining down on the Sea of Galilee and the scent of rosemary and cedar filling the air. I shouldn’t have allowed Edmund Merriday to sweep me off my feet.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?” Rebecca asked. “Don’t we all need a little romance in our lives?”

  “I let him kiss me, Becky. I’m engaged to Thomas, and I betrayed him. I don’t know what I’ll say to him when I return home, but I need to tell him I’m sorry for allowing my heart to get the best of me. I should have followed my head, not my heart. I’ve done a terrible thing, and I feel so guilty about it. I need to confess everything to Thomas and—”

  “Wait. Whoa! What would be the point of confessing? You would only injure Thomas’ pride. Remember how Edmund warned us that Middle Eastern men are prideful? The truth is, all men have too much pride.”

  Flora’s tears continued to fall. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Then don’t do anything. Take time to sort out your feelings. You won’t be with either man on the voyage home, so you’ll have a chance to gain some perspective. Think about all the lessons we learned on this adventure—and it was an adventure, wasn’t it?”

  “The best one of my life! I can’t wait to follow Edmund’s example and start working with local churches back home to start Sunday schools. You’re excited about the book you’re writing, and I’m just as excited about the work ahead of me. I can’t wait to tell Thomas all about it, so he can show me how to set up a charity.”

  “So, you’ve decided to return to Thomas?”

  “We’re engaged. . . . I think I should . . . don’t you?”