Isabelle lowered her brows. “You have a friend who’s a lawyer?”
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t know a lawyer?”
She had insulted him, but that was the least of her worries at the moment. “Do you think he would be available to speak to me today?”
Aaron’s frown deepened. “Maybe. But you’re working today, remember?”
Isabelle ducked her head. Of course. She had things to do. Her parents had taught her to honor her responsibilities. Regardless of how desperately she wanted answers now, she couldn’t simply leave the Rowleys shorthanded.
Her head still down, she admitted, “You’re right, Aaron. I am working.” She stifled the sigh that longed for release and lifted her gaze. “Perhaps when you see him next, you might inquire about a convenient time for us to meet?”
He offered an approving nod. “Yes, I can do that. I meet with him every Friday afternoon.”
Isabelle couldn’t imagine what business a storekeeper’s son would have with a lawyer—especially business that required weekly contact—but she wouldn’t resort to nosiness. Friday was only two days away. She could wait that long. “I thank you.” Pushing herself to her feet, she squared her shoulders. “I apologize for burdening you with my personal troubles. I assure you I will not do so again. I will allow this lawyer friend of yours”—she forced herself to smile—“to take care of things from this point forward.”
Aaron and Mrs. Rowley exchanged glances. Isabelle was sure she read sadness in their eyes, and her heart contracted with the knowledge of their genuine concern for her.
Mrs. Rowley reached out and brushed her fingertips down the length of Isabelle’s arm. “Honey, I have to tell you . . . you need more than just a lawyer.”
Isabelle stiffened. She didn’t care to be reminded of the number of things she needed. A lawyer, yes—but also her home, her place in her family restored, a return to the life she had led in Kansas City. The warmth of the previous moments swept away, and she opened her mouth to protest the woman’s callous remark.
“You need a Savior.”
Mrs. Rowley’s simple statement sent Isabelle’s heart to clamoring, but she didn’t know why.
Aaron rose and met Isabelle’s gaze. “Isabelle, before you go downstairs, can we pray for you?”
Isabelle stepped away from her chair and took hold of the spindled back. Ministers prayed in churches, and of course Mr. Rowley prayed before meals, as had her own father on occasions such as Christmas or when important guests were present. To pray in the middle of the morning felt uncomfortable . . . yet she did, for some reason, want Aaron and Mrs. Rowley to pray for her.
Aaron walked around the table and stood between the two women. Taking his mother’s hand, he offered his free hand to Isabelle. After a moment of hesitation, she placed her hand in his. Then Mrs. Rowley caught hold of her other hand, and they formed a small circle. Both Rowleys bowed their heads, and Isabelle followed suit, closing her eyes and listening as Aaron petitioned the Lord on her behalf.
“Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for bein’ a God who cares about all of our needs. Isabelle needs to know the truth of her past. You know the truth, God, so I ask that you help her learn who she is and . . . where she belongs.”
Did she hear a catch in his voice? She fought the urge to peek at him, to see if he looked as troubled as he sounded.
“You have a perfect plan for Isabelle’s life, God. I ask you to help her find her plan an’ then give her the wisdom to follow your leading. Amen.”
Isabelle’s heart pounded. God had a plan for her life? God cared . . . about her? She raised her head and offered Aaron a puzzled smile. “You truly believe God has made a plan for my life?”
Aaron nodded, his expression eager. “’Course I do. Psalm 139 talks about how all the days ordained for us were in His book before one of them came to be. He has a plan for every life.”
“He surely does,” Mrs. Rowley put in, giving Isabelle’s hand a squeeze. “And, honey, He’s just waiting for you to recognize He wants what’s best for you. That’s His greatest desire for all of us—for us to follow His ways.”
Isabelle nibbled her lip, her brows crunched in confusion. All of these ideas were so new . . . and strange. It almost felt wrong to think of God dictating where a person should go and what he should do. Yet, at the same time, she yearned for someone wiser to give her direction, to put her on a proper pathway.
She shook her head. “Well, I thank you for your prayer, Aaron.” She suddenly became aware that he still held her hand, and she pulled it loose, pressing it to her thumping heart. “But for now, I believe my pathway is the stairs leading to the market. Mr. Rowley can surely use my assistance by now.”
Mrs. Rowley clapped her hands to her face. “Oh my, yes! We’ve left poor Ralph down there alone far too long!” She waved both hands at the pair. “You two go down. I’ll get these dishes washed up.”
Aaron gestured toward the stairs, and Isabelle preceded him to the lower level, keenly in tune with the sound of his feet on the risers behind her, the gentle swish of his calloused hand on the rail. She recalled the rough calluses against her own smoother palm when they’d held hands to pray, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled with awareness, making her want to hurry her steps and escape the feeling. But at the same time a part of her wanted to slow her pace and more fully examine the sensation. Why was she always so filled with mixed emotions these days? Aaron’s prayer—the request that God give her wisdom to discover His leading—tickled her mind. If God answered, where might she be taken next?
She reached the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner to enter the market, allowing Aaron to step past her. She watched him head straight to his father’s side, and for a moment she observed the pair, at ease with one another and their tasks.
Never, in all of her growing-up years, would she have envisioned herself in this setting. Yet, despite everything, she had discovered a sense of purpose here—assisting the homeless newsboys. Was it possible God had led her to this place?
With a shake of her head, she pushed that thought away. Randolph’s jealousy and Glenn’s greediness had been the force behind her coming to Shay’s Ford. Nothing more than two men’s selfish choices brought about this change in her life. But as she slipped a work apron over her mourning dress, Aaron clinked two glass jars together, reminding Isabelle of the church bell’s toll. The sound had beckoned her to the Sunday service, where she had met the Rowleys and been offered a job here in the market. Her hands fumbled with the apron ties. Had God orchestrated that series of events, or was it simply chance? Her breath came in little spurts as thoughts tumbled through her mind. The family had offered her a home and a job, and now Aaron had offered to speak to a lawyer for her—to help her discover a way to regain her home and social status. She might soon be going back to Kansas City!
She finished the bow and smoothed the apron over her hips as she slipped behind the counter. After work, she would read Psalm 139 in the Gallagher Bible.
But when her gaze fell upon Aaron leaning down to hug Petey, who must have slipped in for a cup of coffee, she felt her heart lurch. Suddenly the thought of leaving Shay’s Ford lost some of its appeal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I thank ya, miss, for these long johns.” The boy beamed up at Isabelle. The bruise on his cheekbone appeared even deeper in hue now that his face was clean, thanks to Isabelle’s scrub bucket and rag. Isabelle watched the boy, who couldn’t be more than ten years old, rub his hands up and down the soft cotton fabric covering his thin ribs. The sight of those ribs made her chest feel constricted, and she turned away, speaking briskly. “Yes, well, mind you don’t sell them to someone.” She’d already heard of two boys letting their fine new clothes go for the price of a dinner. “If you’re hungry, you come here to the market. I’ll see you’re given something.”
The boy nodded, his smile showing one missing tooth. “Oh, I won’t be sellin’ ’em, I promise ya that! First gif
t I ever got that I c’n remember. I won’t be sellin’ ’em, no, ma’am!”
The first gift he ever got . . . a pair of long johns. Isabelle followed the boy to an open pallet, thinking about all the wonderful gifts her parents had lavished on her during her childhood. Had she ever considered how fortunate—how spoiled—she was while growing up? These children made her view the world in a different way, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. She determined that even after she returned to Kansas City and her rightful home, she would continue to seek out children such as these and help them.
The boy stretched out on the pallet, and Isabelle draped a thick wool blanket over his lanky form. He yawned, pulling the blanket to his chin. “Thank ya, miss.”
Isabelle watched him for a few moments, wondering where he’d gotten that ugly bruise. When she’d asked, he’d changed the subject. Wasn’t it enough that he lived on the streets—must he also suffer abuse?
Snores and snuffles filled the room as the nearly dozen boys settled down to sleep. Most of them Isabelle had seen before, and a few, like Petey, were regulars since she’d put out the word about the availability of a warm, safe sleeping room. She recognized Petey, Johnsey, Hank, Anders . . . Her gaze drifted back to the boy with the bruise. His eyes were closed, his mouth hanging slack. Sound asleep already.
She turned to leave and noticed Petey’s bright eyes following her. Crouching by his pallet, she resisted the urge to smooth his shaggy hair away from his eyes. There was no sense in getting too attached to any of these children since she would be leaving soon. Instead, she pointed to the new boy. “Petey, do you know that boy’s name?”
Petey nodded, his hair flopping with the movement. “Uhhuh. He be Matt.”
Matt—short for Matthew. . . . Isabelle’s heart set up such a thrumming she found it difficult to breathe. Jolting to her feet, she wished Petey a quick good-night and left the room, closing the door behind her. In her crowded room, she picked up the Bible and sat down on the edge of her bed. She didn’t need to open the book to remember the names listed inside the cover.
Matthew Gallagher, born in Dunshaughlin, County Meath, Ireland, in 1880 . . . Where was that boy now? Had he grown up on the streets, too, selling newspapers to survive? Had he been smacked and bruised and forced to sleep in the cold? Had anyone shown him a hand of kindness?
Standing, she paced the narrow slice of floor between her bed and the crates of goods. If she was truly Molly Gallagher, somewhere out there she had a brother and a sister. At least, she supposed she did. According to the documents the Heatons had shown her, the parents had died in a fire. Nothing was said about the children named Maelle and Matthew. They could still be alive—perhaps even together somewhere.
Isabelle stopped in front of the bureau and examined herself in the round, cracked mirror that hung on a nail pounded into the plaster wall. Green eyes, red hair . . . According to the letters penned by Papa, that was why she had been chosen—for her looks. Did that mean her sister and brother didn’t have red hair and green eyes?
A sudden desire welled up inside of Isabelle, nearly closing off her throat. It wasn’t a new desire. Often, as a child, she’d experienced it when Randolph was particularly unkind. She’d longed for the protective love of an older brother. Would she have had that if she’d been allowed to remain with Matthew?
Releasing a groan, Isabelle threw herself across the bed. She must stop torturing herself. Hadn’t she decided she wasn’t Molly Gallagher—that it was a mistake, one which she intended to right?
Suddenly, the words she’d read the day the chapel bells had encouraged her to attend service flitted through Isabelle’s mind. “Thou hast beset me behind and before . . .” How she wished to know the security of family, of a protector, maybe even of God.
“Who am I?” she whispered to the quiet room. “Are Maelle and Matthew out there somewhere? Do they know about me?”
Although she listened for a long time, no answer came.
Isabelle wove her fingers together and pressed her hands to her lap. Aaron, in the horsehair chair on her right, sat quietly, just as he had while she had explained the course of events that led her to Shay’s Ford and employment with the Rowley family. Now they waited while Jackson Harders examined each document by turn, his thick dark brows pulled into a thoughtful scowl. He opened the cover of the Gallagher Bible and slid his finger down the list of names. Isabelle’s heart pounded hopefully. Surely her deliverance was near.
Jackson let the cover slip closed, and he set the Bible on top of the stack of papers. He met her gaze and quirked one brow. “Well, Miss Standler, if these documents are forgeries, your brother found an expert to create them. Even the ink in the Bible has the appearance of age, lending credence to the names having been recorded several years ago.”
Isabelle’s heart sank to her stomach. Her hands began to tremble. “Then you—you believe all of these are authentic?”
The ebony-haired man gave a slight shrug. “Well, at first glance, they appear to be in order. I would like to show them to my superior and get his opinion.”
Aaron placed his hand over her clenched fists. Although her mother’s friends back home might have considered the touch inappropriately intimate, Isabelle welcomed the comfort it provided. She focused on Aaron’s work-roughened hand joined with hers and swallowed, fighting the sting of tears.
“However,” the young lawyer continued, “regardless of their authenticity, there could be some legal recourse for your abrupt displacement from your home. I would need to see a copy of your father’s will to determine whether at least a portion of your inheritance could be recovered.”
Bringing up her chin, Isabelle stared at Jackson. “You think . . . even if it’s proven that I am not . . . Isabelle Standler by birth . . . I might be able to receive my inheritance after all?” If that were true, she needn’t stay in Shay’s Ford. She would have money to travel wherever she pleased, purchase a home, and regain her former status as one of the elite.
Jackson held up both hands, palms out. “I don’t want you to get your hopes too high. I said there could be. It will depend on how the document is phrased.” He folded his hands together and rested his elbows on the desktop, fixing her with a querying expression. “Would it be possible to receive a copy of your father’s will?”
Isabelle bit down on her lower lip. Would Randolph send a copy? Probably not—he wouldn’t wish to assist her in any manner. But, she thought with a rush of hopefulness, her father’s lawyer might forward a copy, if he were paid well for the service. Immediately her elation crumbled. She had little money to offer.
Aaron asked, “Isabelle, who would we contact for a copy of your father’s will?”
Isabelle once again read genuine concern in Aaron’s expression, and her heart turned over in her chest. Even if everything else was falling apart, she had Aaron’s friendship. Turning back to Jackson Harders, she admitted, “I am quite certain my father’s lawyer would be willing to submit a copy were he given . . . monetary incentive. However, I—” Swallowing, she took in a deep breath. “I find myself with limited financial resources, and I am unable to—”
“Don’t worry,” Aaron cut in, giving her hands a pat. “We can work something out. Can’t we, Jackson?”
Jackson raised his shoulders, his jacket pulling taut. “Certainly. You just need to give the go-ahead, Miss Standler.”
Isabelle offered a nod, hoping she didn’t appear too eager.
“Very well, then.” Jackson slid a sheet of paper and gold fountain pen across the desk. “Write down the name of your father’s lawyer, and I will proceed. I believe a telegram would be the quickest means of communication.”
Isabelle wrote the name with a trembling hand.
“Now,” Jackson said briskly, setting the address aside, “I will confer with my superior and send a messenger when I have his opinion as to the genuineness of these documents. Perhaps I’ll have information for you by the end of the day.”
Filled with hope, I
sabelle nodded. “Thank you very much.”
The lawyer rose. “You are quite welcome, Miss Standler. I hope the situation will rectify itself with the proper motivation.”
Isabelle looked at the stack of papers on the desk and the Bible prominently on top. Jackson had indicated he needed to show the documents to his superior, but she wondered . . . “May I take the Bible with me?” I didn’t realize I’d formed such an attachment to that little book.
“Of course.” Jackson handed it across the desk. He looked at Aaron. “Will I see you this evening?” Aaron nodded, his thick hair falling across his forehead. He smoothed the locks back in place with a brush of his hand. “Eight-o’clock sharp.”
Isabelle looked from one man to the other. They were such an incongruous pairing. Curiosity swelled, but she kept the questions to herself.
Putting his hand beneath Isabelle’s elbow, Aaron escorted her out of the lawyer’s office and onto the street. They walked briskly over the boardwalk toward the market, their feet squeaking on the damp wood. The rain that had fallen over the past week had blessedly ceased, and the yellow sun cast its golden light, but the moist ground cooled the air. Isabelle hugged the Bible to her chest to help ward off a shiver.
Aaron glanced down at her. “Cold?” The single word query managed to convey concern.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, giving him a quick smile. His dimpled grin in return made her heart skip a beat. Confused by her odd reaction, she posed a blunt question. “Are you cleaning for Mr. Harders this evening?”
One eyebrow shot skyward. “Cleaning?”
“Yes.” She lifted her skirts slightly as they crossed the street. Aaron’s hand cupped her elbow. The brief gentlemanly contact pleased her. “You said you’d see him promptly at eight. Do you clean for him as well as for the church?”
Aaron chuckled. “No. We’re workin’ together on legislation to get the children off the streets an’ into school, where they belong.”
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