Every Perfect Gift

by Dorothy Love

  “I don’t want you to marry someone you don’t love, but wouldn’t it be better for Caleb to tell her himself?”

  “Of course it would. But I can’t be sure he’ll even come out here today. After I saw Flora this morning, I dropped by the Gazette on my way to the livery on the off chance I’d find him delivering supplies or something. The door was open and his hat was lying on the counter. The coffeepot was still warm, but he wasn’t there. I suppose he’d already left to spend the day with his mother and brothers at the farm. But I left a note inviting him here just in case.”

  The parlor doors slid open just then and there stood Mrs. Gilman sparkling like a human Christmas tree in a moss-green gown, a suite of deep ruby jewelry adoring her neck, earlobes, and wrists. “Sabrina, it’s about time you got back here. I was about to send someone to look for you.”

  Gillie nudged Sophie forward. “Mother, you remember my friend, Sophie Caldwell.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Gilman nodded a greeting, but her expression was cold as a trout. “Welcome to our home.”

  “Thank you for inviting me,” Sophie said, although it was Gillie who had invited her.

  “I was sorry to hear about the fire at your newspaper office. Such a frightening thing, right there in the middle of town. It must be very difficult for you, losing your business. Though in all candor, I can’t say I approve of the trouble you caused for dear Mr. Blakely, after he’s done so much to move Hickory Ridge forward.”

  “No more trouble than he has caused me,” Sophie said. “His forced boycott by my advertising clients nearly put the paper under. Luckily, some of my clients have returned.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re reopening.”

  “As soon as my new equipment and supplies arrive.” Sophie couldn’t keep a note of triumph from her voice.

  “And not a moment too soon either,” Gillie said, clearly enjoying defying her mother. “Everyone is clamoring for the return of the Answer Lady.”

  Mrs. Gilman clicked her tongue. “Some may choose to air their petty grievances in the pages of the newspaper. But ladies of quality would never do such a thing, nor would they waste their time reading such drivel.”

  “I’m sorry our answer column doesn’t appeal to you, Mrs. Gilman,” Sophie said, “but I hope you’ll find other things in the paper to enjoy.”

  Just then a slight, white-haired woman wearing a severe black bombazine dress appeared in the parlor doorway and frowned at Mrs. Gilman. “Kindly come into the parlor and sit down like civilized people. You know I can’t hear a thing from way out here. Hello, Sabrina. I thought you’d flown the coop.”

  Gillie kissed the older woman’s cheek. “Aunt Livinia. The thought had occurred to me.”

  “Oh, pish-posh.” The older woman waved one mottled hand and ushered them into the parlor. She lowered herself into a wing-back chair next to the fireplace, drew a lace shawl around her thin shoulders, and peered at Sophie. “Who the devil are you?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Gillie said. “Where are my manners? Aunt Livinia, this is Sophie Caldwell, editor and publisher of the Hickory Ridge Gazette and my dearest friend in all the world.”

  “You’re that newspaper girl?”

  “Yes.” Sophie liked the older woman despite her brusque manner. “I can’t afford much of a staff yet. But I enjoy the work.” She peeled off her woolen gloves and tucked them into her reticule.

  “Sophie’s the reason I got the infirmary open,” Gillie said. “If she hadn’t convinced the mayor and the council to give me a hearing, it never would have happened.”

  Livinia frowned. “I heard the newspaper office burnt plumb to the ground.”

  “It wasn’t quite that bad. The roof and one wall were severely damaged, but my printing press was unharmed. I hope to resume publishing again by Christmas.”

  Gillie sent her mother a defiant look. “I can’t wait to read the next Answer Lady column. I loved the one about forcing a shy child to sing in church. Sophie advised her mother to wait until the girl feels ready.”

  “I quite agreed,” Livinia said. “A trauma like that could scar a child for life. If I remember correctly, the child in question was only nine years old. Of course, the column about how to keep a husband from snoring was much more entertaining. I laughed till I cried when I read that one.”

  “Livinia Merriweather.” Mrs. Gilman drew herself up and glared at her sister. “You don’t mean to tell me you waste time on that silliness.”

  “I’m sure those who write to the Answer Lady take it quite seriously indeed. And I think it’s inexcusably rude of you to denigrate this young woman’s work while she is a guest in your home. Besides, we have a much more serious matter to discuss.” She turned to Gillie. “Now, I know how you feel about that infirmary of yours, but really, Sabrina, a woman of your age ought to be thinking of finding a husband and making a home. Your mother and I only hope it isn’t too late.”

  Mrs. Gilman nodded. “You should have married Franklin West when you had the chance.”

  “Mother. I was barely seventeen, and still mourning the loss of Jacob Hargrove.”

  “So? I was only nineteen when I married your father, and look at what I have now. A fine home, a man to protect me, enough money to live comfortably in my old age. No need to go about sewing up wounds and birthing babies and cleaning up . . . bodily waste.” Mrs. Gilman shuddered. “I can’t imagine it.”

  “But I love taking care of people,” Gillie said. “Opening the infirmary was the best thing I’ve ever done.”

  “And the town is grateful, I am sure. But now it’s time to turn it over to the doctor and take your rightful place in society.”

  Gillie sighed and rolled her eyes at Sophie. “The infirmary is my rightful place. I’m sorry if you don’t agree.”

  Mrs. Gilman stood and paced the room, her slippers whispering on the thick wool carpet. “You know who I blame for this? Your father, that’s who. He never should have given in to your request for medical training. But he was so sure that you’d see what a filthy, thankless task it is and come to your senses.” She paused in front of Sophie, her dark eyes blazing. “I don’t want to seem impolite, but this is a private matter. Perhaps you could wait with the other guests in the library?”

  Gillie stiffened. “If she goes, I go.”

  “But, Sabrina,” Livinia said, “this is a family crisis.”

  Gillie folded her arms across her chest. “You and Mother are the only ones who think it’s a crisis.”

  Mrs. Gilman waved her hand. “Very well. Here is what has been decided. At dinner this evening, your father and I will announce your engagement to William Fortis of Louisville. He has agreed to marry you providing your father settles a decent dowry on you, which of course he is more than prepared to do.”

  Gillie frowned. “In other words, you’re paying him to marry me. How much am I worth, Mother?”

  “That’s a vulgar question and doesn’t deserve an answer. Now, next month Livinia and I will accompany you to Nashville to select a wedding gown and a trousseau and whatever else you might require. Mr. Fortis has been a bachelor all his life, so I imagine his house, fine though it is, could use a woman’s touch. The wedding will be held next April. You may choose the date.”

  “I may choose?” Gillie broke into mirthless laughter, her pale blue eyes brimming with tears. “The only thing you’re leaving to me is to pick the day I give up the most meaningful thing in my life so that you won’t be the embarrassed mother of a spinster daughter?” She shook her head. “Short of your kidnapping me and tying me to the altar, this wedding will not happen. It will be far more embarrassing for you to explain to a church full of guests why there is no bride.”

  The parlor had grown cool. Livinia stood and poked the fire, sending up a shower of sparks.

  “Besides,” Gillie said, “I told you I have fallen in love with someone. I have reason to hope that he loves me too, though he has not yet declared himself. So you see, Mother, I don’t need you to purchase
a groom for me. Despite my advanced age and unsavory occupation, I am not as undesirable as you think.”

  Mrs. Gilman shook her head. “How convenient that you have fallen in love just as I’ve made plans for you. I’m sorry, but I don’t believe—”

  Sophie rose, her gloves and reticule tumbling to the carpet. Never had she met such a cold, uncaring woman. Even Rosaleen had shown more feeling. “It’s quite true, Mrs. Gilman. Gil—Sabrina has indeed caught the attention of a fine young man right here in Hickory Ridge. She asked me to come here today to assure you of his regard for her.”

  “Is that so? Then where is he? Why can’t he speak for himself?”

  “William Fortis is not here to speak for himself either,” Gillie said.

  “William was delayed in his travels. He’ll be arriving this evening.” Mrs. Gilman turned to Sophie. “What does this suitor do for a living?”

  “I can’t tell you that without giving away his identity.”

  “Of course you can’t, because he is simply an invention you and my daughter cooked up to postpone the inevitable.”

  “He’s quite real, I assure you. But I promised to let him speak for himself when the time is right.”

  In the hallway a dinner bell chimed and someone knocked at the parlor door. “Ma’am? Dinner’s ready.”

  Mrs. Gilman placed an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “Believe me, Sabrina, I want only the best for you. After you’re married, William will open up to you, I’m sure of it. A year from now, perhaps a child will be on the way. And you’ll see I was right to make this decision for you.”

  “Come along, girls,” Livinia said. “Let’s put all this aside and join our guests. It’s Thanksgiving, after all. And I am purely famished!”

  THIRTY-ONE

  I now set my hand to the end of my story. My only daughter, Anna, rests in a churchyard in New Orleans. She was but eight and twenty and the mother of a babe when called to eternal rest. It seemed unjust to me, but what shall I say? There is an all wise Being who orders events, who knows what is best for us and determines accordingly, and we must patiently, if not cheerfully, submit to his will. As to the final resting places of those who went before us, I know naught. I pray they received God’s mercy and passed from this earth into his loving care. Here ends my story. Elena Worthington in the year of our Lord, 1820.

  Sophie closed the journal. Unless she saw Rosaleen again someday, here was all she would ever know of her heritage. But Ethan loved her no matter what, and his devotion had at last filled the empty places inside her heart.

  In the weeks since his proposal, they had spent time together nearly every day. With the residents of the Verandah who worked for Blue Smoke away until next spring, Lucy had hired Ethan to replace a rickety stairway banister and repair zigzagged cracks in the plaster ceiling of the dining room.

  In the evenings when his work was done and she was home from the Gazette, she ate with Ethan, sharing a tray before the fire in Lucy’s cheerful parlor. She loved watching his hands move as he described his vision for a new house on his family’s land near Savannah, the way his eyes lit up when he spoke of Palladian windows, fanlight doors, lintels, corbels, and spiraling staircases.

  He hadn’t pressed her for an answer to his proposal, but the look of expectation in his eyes when they said good night said plenty about his hopes for their future. But as much as she loved him, she still couldn’t bring herself to say yes or no, to break this sweet bubble of possibility they were living in, to face her fears.

  So she kept putting it off. And so far he had been patient.

  Occasionally, they bundled themselves against the cold and walked to Miss Hattie’s for dinner and then to the Hickory Ridge Inn to visit Julian. Just last Sunday Dr. Spencer had pronounced his patient well enough to travel. Though Julian spoke of going home to Philadelphia in time for the holiday, she hoped he’d stay. Julian would have many more Christmases to spend in Philadelphia. But Julian was all the family Ethan had left. Surely Mrs. Worth would understand. Or perhaps she and her son could come to Hickory Ridge for the holiday.

  She tried not to think too much about Christmas in Texas. Every year Ada decorated the ranch house with fresh garlands and dozens of white candles. Silver bowls of clove-studded oranges filled tables in the dining room and parlor. She would miss all of it this year—the smells of citrus and cedar, the sound of Wyatt’s booming laugh, Wade’s mischief, and Lilly’s excited chatter—the sounds and sights and smells that meant home to her.

  She put away her great-grandmother’s journal, parted the curtain, and looked onto the bustling street. Horses, rigs, and freight wagons lined the street near Mr. Pruitt’s mercantile. Clusters of farm wives hurried in and out of shops while knots of noisy children paraded along the wooden boardwalk. The doors to Mrs. Pruitt’s dress shop and Mariah Whiting’s bookshop were dressed in fresh cedar garlands.

  She released a long sigh. Despite her loneliness, her troubles and doubts, this year had been a season of gifts. Ethan Heyward loved her. She’d met her mother at last. And her dream of owning a newspaper had come true despite Mr. Blakely and the fire.

  She’d reopened the Gazette on the first Monday in December and some of her advertising clients had returned. The Answer Lady column was more popular than ever and was gaining a following outside of Hickory Ridge. Caleb went to the post office every afternoon to pick up the letters that arrived from as far away as Louisville and Birmingham, and every week he took a bundle of papers for delivery out of town. Just yesterday she’d mailed the first of her articles for Blue Smoke to a magazine in Boston. Perhaps one day she’d write more articles for Mr. McClure’s magazine too. If she was frugal, and if her good fortune continued into the new year, the Gazette could be running in the black by next summer.

  These days her life seemed like a fanciful story, made up to chase away the dark of night. Until the day Ada Wentworth walked into her life, Sophie had had nothing of her own, not even a name. No home. No family. No toys or books, and no companion save Robbie Whiting and the orphanage director’s haughty cat. Even her threadbare dresses had first belonged to someone else.

  But all that was behind her now. Now the Gazette was hers, the best achievement of her life. Now she had a home, a name. How could she be anything but grateful?

  Downstairs the front door slammed shut, rattling the windows. “Sophie? Are you up?” Lucy’s voice echoed in the stairwell.

  “Coming.” Sophie grabbed her shawl and hurried downstairs past the freshly cut Christmas tree Caleb had lugged into the parlor last night. Homesickness and childlike anticipation mingled inside her. On Christmas Eve, after services at church, she and Lucy would gather with Ethan, Julian, Caleb, and Gillie to decorate it. Already Lucy’s cozy kitchen smelled of Christmas spices. Dozens of gingerbread and raisin cookies filled the jars on the counter.

  She crossed the empty parlor and found Lucy in the kitchen putting away supplies.

  “Good morning.” From her perch atop her step stool, Lucy smiled at Sophie, her eyes bright, her cheeks and nose still pink from the cold. “I’ve never seen Mr. Pruitt’s mercantile so crowded. Christmas shoppers everywhere.” She handed Sophie a sack of sugar. “I guess that’s what happens when folks wait till the last minute. I saw Caleb Stanhope just now, shopping in the ladies’ department.”

  Sophie laughed and put away the sugar. She had completed her own shopping just after Thanksgiving: a red woolen shawl for Lucy, a delicate enameled bracelet for Gillie. More modest gifts than they deserved, but after giving Rosaleen her emergency money and writing a check for a new typewriting machine, there was barely enough left for the gift she wanted for Ethan—a polished brass spyglass like Miss Swint’s. The lady photographer had given Sophie the name of a manufacturer in Boston. Of course this one had never belonged to a famous pirate, but she still couldn’t wait for the look on Ethan’s face when he opened it.

  She peered into Lucy’s shopping bag and took out a pound of rice and a box of beeswax candle
s. “I suppose Caleb was shopping for Gillie. She’s so in love he could give her a sack of pebbles for Christmas and she’d be perfectly happy.”

  Lucy stood on tiptoe and shoved a sack of cornmeal into the pantry. “Have the Gilmans come to terms with her choice of a husband?”

  Sophie set the candles on a shelf. “Mrs. Gilman isn’t exactly thrilled with the match. She thinks Caleb is beneath them.”

  “Caleb is a fine man, from what I can tell, and besides, Gillie is a grown woman. The only opinion that counts is hers.” Lucy finished putting away her supplies and set the teakettle on to boil. “I only hope she doesn’t leave town once she’s married. We need her at the infirmary. Hickory Ridge keeps growing. Doc Spencer is getting older. And who knows how long it will take to replace him, when that day comes.”

  Sophie took two mugs from the pantry and poured a pitcher of milk from the jug in the icebox. She filled a platter with cookies and tossed another log onto the fire in the fireplace. “I don’t think you have to worry about Gillie leaving her infirmary. It’s very dear to her heart.”

  The kettle whistled. Lucy spooned tea leaves into the teapot and poured the water in, filling the room with the heady scent of bergamot. She pulled out her chair and sat down. “What’s the matter? You look much too glum for this time of year. It’s almost Christmas, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Ethan wants to go home to Savannah. Reclaim his family’s land. I can’t blame him for that.” She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “People don’t realize how important home is, until it isn’t there anymore.”

  Lucy touched her shoulder. “You’re missing the Caldwells.”

  Sophie’s eyes burned. “Yes. This will be the first Christmas we’ve spent apart since I was a child. It hardly seems like Christmas without them. But I suppose I have to grow up sometime. I’m not a ten-year-old orphan anymore.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Heyward is headed for Georgia anytime soon. He told me yesterday that half my roof is about to cave in. He can’t take the old one off until warmer weather, and then who knows how long it will take him to put on a new one? I’d say you’re safe until at least next spring.” Lucy’s eyes glittered like copper pennies. “But I wouldn’t wait too long to say yes to his marriage proposal.” She lifted the tea strainer and poured the fragrant brew into their cups. “After all, Ethan Heyward is the handsomest man in Hickory Ridge. When Blue Smoke reopens next spring, there will be a whole passel of young women parading through here, looking for a husband.”