by Lyn Cote
“Everyone’s depending on you,” Roarke said grimly, hunching over his desk.
Chloe looked up surprised. “How did you know?”
“People stop in, just to chat. But everyone knows your daddy supplied the money that kept everyone working their acres. People are worried about that and whether this bank can keep going. Banks are closing all over.”
“What should I, can I, do?” She leaned forward, resting one hand on his desk.
“Let’s keep talking,” Roarke said without much hope. “Maybe something will come to us.” Her face only inches away tempted him.
Moving to the edge of her chair, Chloe had never felt less capable of answers. Without thinking, she repeated something her Granny Raney used to say, something she’d been thinking of these past few weeks: “‘People got to eat.’”
At that, Roarke’s eyes suddenly sharpened. He nodded thoughtfully, then grinned. “Chloe, I think you’ve got the germ of an idea.”
On the next sunny but cold Sunday, still in mourning, Chloe donned one of her plainer black dresses and hats. Then, without powder or rouge, she set out on foot for church and to launch the plan she and Roarke were counting on. Also dressed soberly for church, Bette met her at the end of the lane.
“Honey, I’m not going to our regular church today. Where’s your grandmother?”
“She has a bad headache,” Bette replied. “Where are you going?”
“To the Baptist Church over on the river.”
“Why?”
Many reasons. “Because that’s where Granny Raney went to church.”
“You mean you live in her house so you gotta go to her church?”
That was as good a reason as Chloe could come up with now for her daughter. She smiled and offered Bette her hand. In the weeks since Chloe had moved into the cottage, her daughter had become her friend. Not yet her daughter, but Chloe accepted what she was offered gratefully. “Coming?”
Bette took her hand and they walked to the church, only a mile down a rutted field road and across the churchyard. Inside the white-clapboard church, they sat in the rear. Many heads swiveled back to gawk at them. No doubt people were tallying up all that Quentin Kimball’s wild daughter had to repent of. Chloe ignored them and Bette concentrated on swinging her feet back and forth as she sat on the high pew.
Preacher Manning had been young when he had officiated at Granny Raney’s funeral. Now he was in his middle years, still wiry and black-haired. He looked her straight in the eye and she felt his welcome. Then the preacher’s text made her tingle with unexpected joy. “‘Give and it shall be given to you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over, shall men give into your bosom. For the measure that ye mete withal it shall be measured to you again.’” He preached on giving rather than receiving. It gave Chloe new heart, confidence that her plan was right before God.
The congregation shuffled to its feet to sing the closing hymn. Sudden recognition made Chloe’s breath catch in her throat. The Baptists sang out loud and robust, “‘Just as I am without one plea, But that thy blood was shed for me . . .’” Granny’s tremulous voice sang along in Chloe’s memory, the song she’d been humming in her mind all across the Atlantic.
“‘Waitin’ not to rid my soul of one dark blot . . .’” Chloe started singing. “‘Just as I am though tossed about with many a conflict, many a doubt . . .’”
Bette stared up at her and joined in, keeping up with her mother. “‘Just as I am Thou wilt receive, pardon, cleanse, relieve . . . Because thy promise I believe . . .’”
Chloe suppressed laughter as many heads turned to her, obviously waiting for her, the woman who painted her lips and danced the Charleston, to walk forward at this invitation to sinners. Well, after all, why not? She stepped into the aisle. She had much to repent of and something important to say.
“I don’t understand what you were thinking,” her mother scolded Chloe roundly later that afternoon. They sat together in the indigo-and-white parlor at Ivy Manor. “What do you mean, giving our croppers seed? You’ll bankrupt us and we’ll lose the land.”
Chloe listened for the brass knocker on the front door. Roarke had promised to visit this afternoon to back her up, but her mother had jumped the gun. “Mother, the country is in a depression.”
“I know that,” her mother snapped. “What has that got to do with you giving sharecroppers free seed! Who’s going to give us free seed?”
The knocker sounded and a well-dressed, confident-looking Roarke walked into the parlor.
Her mother glared up at him. “Roarke McCaslin, you must talk some sense into this daughter of mine. She’s giving away seed!”
Chloe drew strength from Roarke’s presence.
“I know, ma’am.” He bowed and then, at Chloe’s nod of invitation, sat down on the blue wingchair by the cozy fire. “Chloe and I discussed the situation at length a few days ago.”
“You approve of this insanity?”
“Ma’am, please let me explain.” Roarke unbuttoned the last button on his suit jacket.
Chloe’s mother humphed.
Chloe realized that Bette and Haines stood, eavesdropping in the hallway. “Mother, I’ve explained it to you.”
Her mother glared at her with a haughty lift of her chin.
“Times are hard, Mrs. Kimball,” Roarke began. “And both my father and I agree that this is just the beginning. There isn’t going to be much of a market for cash crops, tobacco, or cotton. And this county has never boasted large crops of those anyway.”
“But the cash crops are what bring in money,” she objected, red creeping into her wrinkled cheeks.
“They won’t bring in much this year,” Roarke countered. “Commodity prices have all dropped through the floor.”
Motioning for Roarke to stay seated, Chloe stood up and walked over to stand beside him.
Her mother gaped at Roarke. “But President Hoover says our economy will revive again—come spring.”
“He must say that,” Roarke said. “He can’t tell the truth. The country’s already in a panic.”
“But giving away seed.” She held out both hands. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Doing what’s right does,” Chloe said, resting her hand on the top of Roarke’s chair, near his shoulder. She wished he would reach up and take her hand. This still felt risky. “People need to eat. If we buy seed for truck farming, at least, we’ll eat.”
“But that won’t pay the taxes,” her mother snapped.
“We’re hoping that our croppers will share their produce and profits from what they sell in Baltimore and Washington with us,” Chloe said, leaning against the chair and Roarke. Her promise to Drake still held in her mind whether she wore his ring or not. But she’d freed him to let him decide if his circumstances had altered his feelings toward her. Nevertheless, Roarke had the power to draw her. But I gave my word.
“I announced,” Chloe went on, “this at the River Baptist Church this morning and plan to visit the A.M.E. Church tonight to tell them also. Most of our croppers attend one of the two. I said if we all work together, I won’t have to throw anybody off their land.”
“It’s our land, Carlyle land. If the croppers that are on it can’t make a go of it, they should be thrown off. Besides”— her mother looked disdainful—“do you think they’ll just hand over the money they make to you?”
“They will,” Roarke asserted. “They understand that taxes must be paid and that if Chloe loses the land because she can’t pay the taxes or has to sell because she can’t keep her family fed, the next owner might not be so generous.”
Chloe couldn’t have said it better herself. Confident that they were going to prevail, she rested her hand on his shoulder. Still, she kept her pleasure under wraps, unwilling to give her mother something to use against her sometime in the future. No wonder she was afraid of showing real emotion. And Bette had caught the habit, too. Dear Father, you’ve got to help me with my girl.
> The phone rang and Haines answered it. He stepped into the parlor. “Mr. Roarke, your father, sir.”
Roarke immediately rose and went to the phone. “Dad?”
“Come home quick, Roarke, and pick up the doctor on the way. Your mother is having trouble breathing. She says bring Chloe and Bette, too.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Just after sundown, Chloe soundlessly paced the floral-carpeted landing outside Mrs. McCaslin’s closed bedroom door. Jamie and Bette sat huddled on the top step at the other end of the landing. Their drawn expressions wrung Chloe’s heart.
The door opened. Dr. Benning walked out. “Chloe, Mrs. McCaslin would like to speak to you.”
Chloe stepped close to him. “How is she?” she whispered.
“I’ve had her under an oxygen mask for about an hour and her breathing is better. She can talk for a while.”
“She’s better then?”
He leaned close to her ear. “She has maybe a day or two at most. The tumors are crushing the breath from her.”
Chloe closed her eyes, drawing up her strength to face this. She walked into the ivory-and-beige room, lit only by two small bedside Tiffany lamps, and Roarke closed the door behind her. She halted, startled—awed—by the terrible and beautiful scene before her. Mr. McCaslin stood by the bed, treasuring his wife’s hand in both of his. Their love radiated in the shadowy room, almost palpable in its force. Each face searched the other; a tender smile lifted both. Their private communion separated them, set them apart from Roarke and her. Mr. McCaslin was losing the love of his life.
Chloe pressed the back of her hand to her trembling lips. Why aren’t you here, Kitty?
Pale and thin, Miss Estelle looked over at Chloe and lifted her other hand. “I need to talk to you, my dear, while I can still make sense.” Resistance to pain flickered across the woman’s face. “The doctor is giving me more morphine and pretty soon I’ll just come and go in dreams, I guess.”
“Roarke and I’ll leave you, then.” Mr. McCaslin started away.
“No, dearest, my heart, stay,” she pleaded. “The time for secrets is over. Please sit down near me.” Her husband nodded and sat on a vanity chair close by the bed.
On the other side, Chloe approached and accepted Miss Estelle’s frail, outstretched hand. She couldn’t believe how quickly the woman had lost ground since Christmas.
“Chloe, I’m glad you finally came home.” Miss Estelle gazed up with eyes now too big for her face. “Bette and your mother need you and you need them.”
Chloe only nodded, not trusting her voice. Roarke’s presence so near and yet untouchable brought fresh desolation to this parting.
“You lost your nerve when Theran died,” the woman said with searing accuracy, “but I think you’re getting it back. Your father’s mother was a wonderful person. It was fortunate that she and Jerusha’s mother had the raising of you.” Another twinge of pain etched itself on her pallid face. “Bad times are here, but you’ll find your feet.” The woman tried to squeeze Chloe’s hand.
The meager effort brought tears to Chloe’s eyes. “Don’t exhaust yourself talking to me.” I’m not worth it.
“Why did Kitty leave us?” Deep, hopeless sadness infused each of Miss Estelle’s words.
“I don’t know. She left me, too.” Just like Roarke. The double loss dragged at Chloe’s heart.
Miss Estelle closed her eyes. “I can’t believe we lost her. Something happened in New York and not that bad alcohol—something else. When she brought Jamie to us, I thought we might get another chance, a chance to start over. But as soon as we’d adopted him, she left.” A single tear dripped from the lady’s eye. “I guess she just didn’t want to leave us—Thomas and me—all alone.”
Chloe could think of nothing to say to this, so she tightened her hold on Miss Estelle’s hand.
The lady opened her eyes. “Roarke, come stand beside Chloe.”
Roarke obeyed his mother. His face was a dangerous rock cliff again. His brooding anger at this new sorrow vibrated in the air around him. Chloe longed to turn to him, hold him against the loss he now faced. But no.
“Son, I don’t have any time left for sensitivity or discretion. I don’t know what you did or was done to you in France, but it’s time to put it behind you.”
Chloe clung to the lady, reckless hope glimmering—hope that his mother could break through at last.
Roarke’s face softened. “Mother, I—”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t have the strength to hear it even if you’re ready to tell me now. I’ve prayed and prayed that shadow would pass from you, but it hasn’t. You’ve nearly lost Chloe. And your father and I have nearly lost you, too, along with Kitty.” Sweat beaded on the lady’s forehead. “We must have been sadly poor parents to lose both our children this way.”
“That’s not true,” Roarke accentuated each word. “You and father were, are wonderful. Kitty and I failed you. You didn’t let us down.”
“Then, don’t disappoint us now. Tell your secret to Chloe and clean it out of your soul and your life. Thomas and Jamie are going to need you when I’m gone. Your father’s heart is frail. You must shoulder the load and keep the bank afloat.” Miss Estelle looked transparently pale, as though she were vanishing before their eyes. “I think it will take all your strength and intelligence. But the county needs the—” She faltered.
“I’m getting the doctor again, Estelle.” Her husband left.
“Call in the children,” Miss Estelle murmured, writhing silently in pain.
Chloe moved away from the bed, taking refuge in the shadows. Roarke stepped to the doorway. “Children, Miss Estelle wants to see you.”
Jamie and Bette tiptoed into the room as though afraid of waking someone. Miss Estelle patted the bed on both sides of her. “Come. Lay down one on each side of me. I’m lonely.”
The children obeyed hesitantly. Jamie lay down and gazed into his mother’s eyes. On the other side, Bette tenderly patted Miss Estelle’s shoulder and whispered, “I love you.” Chloe pressed the back of her hand to her quivering lips.
Dr. Benning walked in and replaced the celluloid oxygen mask over his patient’s mouth and nose. He turned on the valve on the green oxygen tank standing beside the bed as Miss Estelle closed her eyes. Her husband sat back down in the chair while the doctor checked his wife’s pulse.
Roarke and Chloe walked out of the room as in a dream. Roarke led her down the hall without one word. Chloe found herself in his bedroom, a room she hadn’t entered since childhood. She looked around at the masculine room done in navy and white, at the gold cuff links tossed on the highboy and the brown silk tie hanging over the closet door knob. Awareness of Roarke brought gooseflesh up on her arms.
“I didn’t want to take you downstairs. Maisie and the cook are there,” Roarke explained, feeling hoarse as if he’d been screaming. “We won’t be overheard here.”
Chloe stared at him, unwilling to chance believing he would finally open up. “You’re really going to tell me?”
His expression was harsh yet rueful. “I know you were never close to either of your parents,” he voiced the first thought that came to mind. “I’ve watched you quietly mourn your father. It does you credit.” The woman he loved stood so close and when she had heard the truth she’d leave him once and for all.
“I think I’ve mourned for what might have been between us. Are you going to tell me then?” Her audacity shocked her. They were alone at last. Roarke was close enough to touch. She shuddered with the nearness of him.
He nodded. “Sit down.” He motioned toward a blue-plaid armchair near the hearth where a low fire burned. “These old houses. We should have put in a modern furnace but now we won’t be able to afford to.”
“Don’t talk to me of furnaces.” She let herself down into the soft chair and thought of Roarke sitting here each night reading, all alone.
Roarke eased down on the edge of his high antique bed, covered by a thick quilt in bl
ues and white. He pressed both hands down on either side of him. The haunting image of the battlefield crinkled in his mind like a photograph about to catch fire. “The funny thing is that I think I can tell it now. Knowing I’m about to lose Mother makes it easier somehow. I don’t know why.”
Chloe waited, tense, hardly daring to hope yet at the same time fearful of what he might reveal. The intimate setting was lowering her resistance and she was remembering the times Roarke had held her in his arms. Dangerous memories.
Roarke gazed at Chloe, drinking in the way she glowed in this room, the beauty she brought wherever she was. Then the image of the battlefield, shells exploding all around, men screaming, cursing; dust spurting up as bullets bit the earth. “I was a coward, Chloe.”
She looked at him, her lips parting. “No.”
He closed his eyes, seeing it all over again. “I ran and hid under enemy fire.”
Chloe couldn’t believe her ears. He’d put them through all these years of agony because he ran? “There’s more to it than that,” she said flatly.
“I was the lieutenant.” He pushed back his hair with his good hand. “I was to lead my squads as we repelled a German raid and . . . I didn’t. I hid behind dead bodies and cowered while my men led themselves into the fray.”
The words, spoken so matter-of-factly, seemed almost unreal to Chloe. This man wouldn’t do that. “Roarke, you’re not a coward. You’re not.”
“Chloe, how can I say it any plainer?” Acidic irritation spurted through him. “I did not stand and fight. I turned and ran. Theran wouldn’t have turned tail. I did.”
Of course, Roarke would demand the most of himself. Struggling for words, she looked down. While she searched for what to say, she spread her white hands out on the lap of her black dress. Her hands and nails were no longer those of a lady. Scrubbing floors, washing her own dishes, rubbing clothes on a washboard had taken their toll. After years of running away, she’d come home. She’d finally turned to face the fight. Her calluses and broken nails were her badges of honor. “You’re not a coward—not anymore. You came back.”