“Such that I can scarce call it a home at all, sir.”
He studied one of several stains on his greatcoat. “Such experiences are near impossible to overcome.”
The absence of platitudes struck her hard. “Yes?”
He lifted his gaze to hers, revealing a trace of the power that had certainly once filled his now frail frame. “Without God, madam. Without God we are but bruised reeds, ever threatened by the prospect of being crushed by life’s uncaring millstone. Without God we are nothing, our lives worthless, our days an endless circular tread. Without God we stand condemned, doomed to a life without the precious gift of hope.”
There were many people awaiting them by the church doorway. Reginald stood among them, and it seemed to Lillian that all the others faded slightly. Reginald did not speak, but she could feel his gaze on her face. Lillian endured an endless stream of introductions, wishing she were back on that windswept hill with him again.
Horace pushed the wheelchair holding his father up the brick path. Alongside Horace now stood his wife, Beatrice, and four strapping young lads, all in dark suits and hand-tied bows. Reginald was joined by his sister Erica and her young daughter, Hannah. Abigail was on her knees, adjusting the child’s petticoats and chattering in a soft manner. The child smiled shyly in reply. Lillian knew she should be paying attention, yet her mind seemed capable of just two thoughts: Reginald’s presence and the old man’s words.
The Bridge Street Church’s cornerstone announced that it had been erected in 1782. The edifice was stone and wood, the interior gloriously unadorned. They hung their wraps on wooden pegs in the vestibule. Lillian was wearing the most sedate dress she had brought, a blue velvet with pale chalky stripes running from hem to neckline. They walked up the central aisle as the congregation rose to sing a hymn. Lillian could feel eyes watching the progress of the group to the Cutter family pew, and she heard someone whisper countess as she passed. But it could not distract her from the feeling that she was in a hallowed place.
And hallowed it was. Of that she had no doubt. A line of whitewashed iron pillars marched down either side of the church, supporting a broad balcony encircling the rear. The same intensity of spirit she had felt beneath the ship’s billowing white canopy was here as well. Perhaps it was even stronger, she reflected as she slipped into the pew. The group accompanying Lillian filled two entire rows. The pews were entered through little waist-high doors, upon which were named the families who occupied them.
The song ended, the pastor spoke words of welcome, and a second hymn began. A well-worn book was slipped into Lillian’s hands. She did not need it. She knew the words. Oh yes. She knew them intimately.
She had first known of her musical gift when she was seven years old. Long before then, she had loved singing. In fact, it was one of her greatest joys in an otherwise colorless childhood. Lillian had sung with all her heart. Perhaps she had done it for as long as she had known the hymns. But when she was seven, she began to experiment with sounds. At the time Lillian had not known such words as chord structure and tonal elements. Nor could she read music. She had merely wondered one Sunday what would happen if she sang a different note below or above the melody. Would this not add something to the music? She had done so very softly at first. Even then, several of the people around them had stopped singing and listened to the child. The young Lillian found great pleasure in this. She had never had anyone look at her in such a way before. The weeks passed, and she became increasingly comfortable with this exploration. She began to move further and further from the hymn’s standard course. And those clear, confident tones were noticed by her uncle from the pulpit.
Lillian stood in the pew and recalled that horrid night. How her uncle had thrashed her after church! He had called her a bad seed. She remembered it vividly. He had said there was no hope for her. Her uncle had declared that Lillian carried all the elements of doom, just like the one who was lost to them now, another singer who had let her voice take her off into the dark. Lillian had not understood her uncle at the time. But she had seen the rage in his eyes and his voice and his hand as he commanded her to never sing like that again. And she had obeyed him. Until she ran away.
Lillian realized her eyes had clouded over. And at the worst possible moment. The pastor had done something quite remarkable. He had invited the congregation to offer the sign of peace to one another. And then he himself came down from the pulpit and was now walking toward her!
Lillian wiped the tears that marred the carefully applied powder upon her cheeks. The pastor did not seem to notice. He took her hand in both of his and welcomed her. Welcomed her so warmly, in fact, that the tears fell even harder.
Then she was being turned and other hands were taking her own. So many people wished to greet her. And she could see none of them clearly.
Abigail leaned across the people between them to take both Lillian’s hands and say, “Sabbath blessings to you.”
Lillian could not reply, so she merely squeezed Abigail’s hands.
“Grandfather asks if you might wish to come sit beside him.”
She did not know why this offered the solace it did. But Lillian slipped past the people and waited while a place was made for her at the end of the pew. Mr. Cutter remained in his wheelchair, positioned alongside in the aisle. She seated herself, reached over the little swinging door, and allowed the old man’s quivering hand to take her own. For some reason that simple gesture permitted her to regain control of her emotions.
The congregation now began another hymn. Holding Mr. Cutter’s hand gave her the excuse to remain seated and silent. She opened the hymnal and set it in the old man’s lap. She read the words along with him as the congregation sang.
Christ, Whose glory fills the skies,
Christ, the true, the only Light.
The words echoed through the vast emptiness within her. Lillian had not recognized it until that very moment. But confessing to Reginald the day before had left her hollow inside. Now the words were filling that inner void.
Sun of Righteousness, arise,
Triumph o’er the shades of night;
Dayspring from on high be near;
Day-star, in my heart appear.
Only it was no longer just a hymn, nor words merely sung by those standing around her. Lillian remained seated by Mr. Cutter, who hummed a tuneless cadence. Now they were words she spoke inside herself. Words spoken to a God she had never truly known until now.
Dark and cheerless is the morn
Unaccompanied by Thee;
Joyless is the day’s return
Till Thy mercy’s beams I see;
Till they inward light impart,
Glad my eyes, and warm my heart.
No doubt it was not a proper prayer. But it was all she could think to do. Her own words seemed so feeble, so marred by all the failings of a squandered life. Yes, even after she had been rescued and refined for polite society, her inner being remained damaged and unclean with selfishness and sin. Why not find comfort and assistance in words she had never truly heard until now?
Visit then this soul of mine,
Pierce the gloom of sin and grief.
It seemed to her that she was both returning home and entering a realm she had never before experienced. And in the spreading sense of comfort that came with her silent voicing of these words, Lillian heard something truly remarkable. A little girl’s voice echoed faintly within her.
Fill me, Radiancy divine,
Scatter all my unbelief;
More and more Thyself display,
Shining to the perfect day.
Chapter 20
After the service, Abigail remained in the pew. Her mind held to a sort of Sabbath clarity. She was able to examine herself and the past, even the most painful bits, with ease. People were crowding in about her, but she made no motion to rise. They soon left her alone, assuming that she was still praying. And perhaps in a strange way she was.
The night in Soho had marke
d a turning point in many ways, she reflected. Some of the changes she was only now beginning to glimpse. Before that night, she had viewed the world . . . how should she put it? Abigail tried to shut out the voices around her by tensing her closed eyes. Yes. She understood now. She had looked at everything as though she were the center of the universe. She had justified her actions simply because they were what she wanted. As though that were always enough. As though that made things right.
It would be painful to acknowledge that God’s hand may have been directing Lillian’s illness during the voyage. But from where Abigail sat, that was how it seemed. Looking back, it appeared to Abigail as though she had spent those long days and nights learning to put herself aside.
Her mind drifted back to the recent afternoon in Erica’s office. Abigail had sat and listened to her exclaim over the letter from William Wilberforce. Erica had explained how they had been planning just such a journey west. Not only that, but her brother Reginald wanted to establish a Langston’s Emporium in Wheeling. This city was the end of the newly opened National Road and the jumping-off point for pioneers headed to the Indiana and Missouri provinces. Abigail had sat and watched as Erica’s previous weariness had dropped away, and she had come alive before her very eyes.
Erica’s brother was not known for original ideas. Erica related how there were myriads of reasons why Erica might have dismissed his notion. They were doing exceedingly well with the Georgetown emporium and their trading business. They had entered into a partnership with Horace Cutter, now director of the trading company established by Abigail’s grandfather. What need was there, Erica had wondered, for them to take on more? And yet, because it was Reginald’s idea, the man who previously had been content to follow someone else’s vision and direction for the firm, Erica had been reluctant to object. It had felt, Erica said several times as she related the situation to Abigail and Mrs. Cutter, as though God had been urging her to remain silent. And now, finally, she understood.
Abigail had sat there between Erica and her grandmother and felt thrilled over being the herald of such glad tidings from their friend Wilberforce. Abigail had spent an afternoon talking and making plans. And her thoughts had been directed toward the needs and wishes of others.
Abigail now noticed that the commotion around her was beginning to dim. She knew it was time to depart. Her grandfather needed to be getting home. But she was reluctant to let go of the moment. God felt so close just then. Abigail clasped her hands in her lap and prayed, Help me, oh my God, to make this a real change. Take these little seeds and help them grow. Make me into someone thou might truly use. Make me into someone thou can indeed call a good and faithful servant. Amen.
She rose and walked down the central aisle. As she stood in the vestibule and fastened her mantle about her neck, a single ray of sunshine managed to pierce the day’s gray cloak. Motes sparkled and danced in the air about her, and the church’s peaked doors appeared framed in heaven’s holy light. Abigail took a deep breath and stepped outside.
Momentarily blinded, she realized she was staring at the young man from Erica’s office. Tall and straight, he stood rail thin in his poorly fitting clothes, and with an almost bashful air he spoke with Reginald Langston. Yet the two men seemed to fit together somehow. Reginald said something and the young man laughed out loud, for a moment seeming to drop his hesitant air.
A group of young ladies stood to one side, waiting for his conversation with Reginald to end. Abigail noted their flushed excitement and the way they whispered among themselves, their eyes never leaving the young man. She found that very odd. She looked at him again and decided he could be handsome, with his dark wavy hair, if someone could take him in hand and attire him properly.
“Ah, there you are.” Horace approached the bottom of the church stairs. “Are you ready to depart?”
Her uncle led her to where Lillian and her grandmother stood by the wheelchair. “There have been so many people wishing to speak with you I have forgotten all their names.”
Her grandmother asked, “Did you enjoy returning to our old church, my dear?”
“Yes, thank you. So very much.” Abigail fell into step with her family. Behind her came a peal of girlish laughter. For reasons she could not explain, Abigail found the noise grating. Which was silly, of course. She had never paid attention to girlish flirtations before.
She matched her pace to that of Horace as he pushed her grandfather’s chair. Lillian remained both silent and withdrawn, walking alongside the wheelchair. Further feminine laughter behind them drew her grandmother around. “The young gentleman from Erica’s office seems to have a way with the young ladies. What was the young man’s name, Horace?”
“Abraham Childes. But we call him Abe. It was so kind of you to invite him to lunch today, Mother.” Horace eased the chair over a rough spot in the walk. “A finer young man it has never been my privilege to meet.”
“And so very handsome,” her grandmother said. “Don’t you agree, my dear?” she added, turning to Abigail.
“I really wouldn’t know.” Abigail could not keep herself from glancing back. Abe, surrounded by the young ladies, smiled at something one of the girls said. Abigail shrugged and turned around, wondering why she had never found any man so interesting as to hang upon his every word.
She asked her grandmother, “Do you think God has a sense of humor?”
“What a remarkable question, granddaughter. I should certainly hope so. Sometimes I find myself in situations where I am forced to choose between laughing and raging at the heavens above. It is only because I hope God is laughing with me that I am able to bear it at all.”
Abigail slipped her hand around her grandmother’s elbow. “You are such a wise lady.”
“Thank you for thinking so. I should hope I would have learned something after all these years!” Her warm laugh drew a similar chuckle from Abigail.
The table was crowded with Horace and his wife along with Erica Powers, Lillian, Reginald, her grandmother, and across from Abigail sat Abraham Childes. Mr. Cutter had retired to his chambers, fatigued from the morning outing. Horace’s four boys and Erica’s daughter took places at the kitchen table, where Cook could keep an eye on them while they enjoyed a meal liberated from adult formality. Every time the kitchen door swung open, their soft chatter and laughter emanated with the fragrance of each dish.
Now that she was seated across from the young man, Abigail could not say precisely why she had been rather dismissive of him. He was remarkably self-contained and seemed most comfortable watching others and having no attention paid to him at all. He said nothing unless he was directly addressed. Then he replied in a soft, agreeable voice, using the sparsest words possible.
As Reginald sliced the glistening brown turkey, he said, “I was hoping to hear you sing today.”
For an instant Abigail thought Reginald might have been speaking to her. Then she realized it was Lillian, and she turned to look at her companion. Lillian’s face was flushed, and she spoke softly to the plate in front of her, “Oh, no. Certainly not.”
“Do you sing, my dear?” Mrs. Cutter asked.
“Not for years. Not since . . . not since before my son was born.”
“But why not, may I ask?”
Lillian still had not lifted her gaze. “I couldn’t possibly.”
Reginald sounded contrite. “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken.”
Mrs. Cutter looked from one to the other in bewilderment. “What is secret about being able to sing?”
Abigail realized the attentive silence was painful to Lillian. She turned to the young man opposite her and spoke the first words that came to mind. “Where do you hail from, Mr. Childes?”
He looked at her for a moment with eyes of palest blue-gray. He replied in his soft voice, “That is a difficult question to answer, Miss Aldridge.”
“Why is that?”
“I was orphaned when I was five. My family were farmers along the Shenandoah. My parents
and my two sisters all fell ill with scarlet fever. None survived.”
“Oh, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. It must have been so very painful.”
“I fear I do not remember them very well. It frightens me at times, forgetting my mother’s face. But I know of nothing I can do about it.”
“I do.” Abigail knew she was speaking without proper thought. But only two things mattered just then. First, the table was now observing their exchange and not Lillian. And second, she thought she had an idea to address the pain in those eyes. “Every time you feel the connection to your parents fading, you must inspect your own face very closely in a mirror. When you do, realize that your mother and your father must be so very proud of you.”
Abraham’s jaw clenched hard for a moment, but his gaze did not waver. “How—how can you say that, ma’am?”
“The fact that you are seated with us here today, sir, bears witness to how you are a credit to your beginnings. I know my family well enough to know that is why they invited you.”
“Hear, hear,” Horace agreed.
Lillian lifted her gaze and gave Abigail a look of purest gratitude. Abigail heard Reginald’s sigh of relief from his place beside her. Which gave her the courage to continue, “Where did you live after that?”
“I lodged with an uncle who had three boys and farmed a piece not far from Georgetown. He had lost his wife to the same fever. When I was twelve he married a woman who had two children of her own. She felt I was old enough to fend for myself.”
A plate piled high with sliced turkey was placed in front of Abigail. Someone spooned vegetables onto her plate, but she paid them no attention. “Where did you go?”
“I lodged for a time in a shed behind the church. The pastor’s wife saw to it I had enough to eat. I did odd jobs around the place.”
Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine Page 19