“I’m not ashamed of her. Are you?”
“No.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “All the same, if there’s any trouble—”
“I’ll take the blame, so I will,” Caitrin said. “Gladly.”
Jack let out a breath of resignation and started for the door. Seth’s words stopped him. “We wanted to get together tonight,” his former brother-in-law said, “to welcome the newest folks in Hope. I know a lot of you have been watching the smithy going up across the road. Well, that’s Jack Cornwall’s new place of business, and we’re glad to have him here. If you need a new branding iron or a pair of tongs, Jack’s the man to see. And I have it straight from the horse’s mouth—or maybe I should say the mule’s mouth—that he can nail on a shoe quicker than anybody around. Rumor has it he’s never been bit or kicked either. Now how many of you can say that?”
Amid the chuckles, Seth continued. “Jack is a good man, an honest worker, and my son’s favorite uncle. I’m proud to call him a friend. Folks, would you give a nice welcome to Jack Cornwall?”
Caitrin held her breath as the smattering of claps gradually grew into a swell of applause. She noted that the crowd had looked uneasy at Seth’s warm welcome of his former enemy. She really couldn’t blame them for their misgivings after the things Jack had done in the past. Though Hope might appreciate having a smithy, Jack Cornwall himself was still on probation.
As Jack acknowledged the welcome and then slipped out to fetch Lucy, Seth began to introduce Felicity Cornwall. Caitrin belatedly remembered that years ago her husband had run off Seth with a shotgun and that the Cornwalls had treated their daughter’s husband as if he didn’t exist. But Seth had managed to grow beyond his own memories of past hurts. He reminded everyone that Mrs. Cornwall was a recent widow, and he quoted Scripture admonishing Christians to take care of orphans and widows. Rosie must have put him up to that, Caitrin thought.
“Welcome to Hope, Mrs. Cornwall,” Seth said. “We trust you’ll be happy here.”
Patting her silver-streaked hair, the woman nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. I always do my best to find a measure of joy in whatever circumstance God has placed me—no matter how bleak.”
A rumble of mutterings at her comment crossed the room. Mrs. Cornwall simply stood there looking as though she’d just eaten one of Sheena’s dill pickles. Caitrin studied the woman in disbelief. Did she enjoy causing dissent? Could she possibly think God wanted his holy name included in the context of an insult?
“Now we’re going to dance awhile,” Seth said, holding out his hands to quell the tide of dissent. “And then we’ll have us a quilt auction!”
The roar of enthusiasm drowned out any bad feelings in the crowd, and the band struck up a lively square-dance tune that drew everyone from toddlers to grandparents to the middle of the floor. Rolf strode across the room and grabbed Caitrin before she could protest. As he charged around in circles, occasionally stomping her hem with one of his big work boots, she saw Jack and Lucy slip into the shadows in one corner of the room.
“Ouch, you great galoot!” Caitrin cried when Rolf’s attempt at a two-step landed his foot directly on her big toe. “Oh, Mr. Rustemeyer, you really must take some lessons.”
“I take many lessons. Talk English fery goot now, ja?”
“You need dancing lessons.” She looked into his eyes and saw that he wasn’t having much more fun at this than she. Dear God, please send someone for Rolf, she lifted up. And don’t let it be me!
“Ven you marry vit me, is okay the mercantile,” Rolf said. “I don’t get angry. You can vork all days until baby comes.”
“When I marry you?” Caitrin repeated numbly, her feet slowing. “Sure, I never agreed to marry you, Mr. Rustemeyer.”
“Ach!” He stopped dancing and gave his forehead a sound slap.
“In German, wenn means if. I say this one wrong. I mean, if you marry me, is okay the mercantile.”
“But I’m not going to marry you, Rolf,” Caitrin whispered. “I … I love someone else.”
“Ja, Sheena tells me about der Irländer you lof. But he is far away gone. Better you not to be alone. Better you to marry, ja?”
“Perhaps,” Caitrin said, meeting Jack Cornwall’s gray eyes. “Perhaps.”
CHAPTER 12
AS SOON as she could disengage herself, Caitrin hurried over to the corner where Jack Cornwall stood beside his sister. Though Lucy looked haggard and pale, she had dressed in the silky blue gown Caitrin had given her, and she had made an attempt to put up her hair. A flicker of life leapt into her gray eyes as her friend approached.
“Lucy, you came!” Caitrin said, extending her hands.
“Oh …” Lucy drew back for a moment. Then she let out a breath and clasped the outstretched fingers. “Caitrin.”
“That dress is positively stunning on you.”
“Well, I …”
Lucy fell silent, and Caitrin waited.
“I got it dirty the other day,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I just … I can’t …”
“It looks lovely tonight.” Caitrin took a tentative step forward and folded the trembling young woman in her arms. “I’m so happy to see you, Lucy. I was sorry to hear you weren’t feeling well. Sure, you’ve no idea how I’ve missed your cinnamon buns for breakfast.”
When Caitrin drew back, Lucy was smiling. “I just … I … I like to bake.”
“And when we build our restaurant, the food will be famous thanks to you.”
“Would you make some cinnamon buns for me, Luce?” Jack asked. “I’ve never tasted your cooking.”
Lucy pursed her lips for a moment. “Usually I wear those … those chains.”
She pointed to the iron handcuffs hanging from Jack’s back trouser pocket, and Caitrin frowned. “I’m quite certain those aren’t necessary tonight,” she said. “Why did you bring them, Jack?”
“Just in case.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “You know, Lucy’s not real comfortable around crowds of people.”
“Who is? I’d far rather be sitting in the soddy eating cinnamon buns and drinking tea with Lucy than allowing Rolf Rustemeyer to make minced meat of my toes. But here we are, and we’ll make the best of it. Lucy, would you like something to drink?”
The wide gray eyes turned to her. “Punch,” Lucy whispered. “And a slice of pie, please.”
Caitrin gave Jack a victory smile. “I’ll fetch us all something to eat.”
When she returned, they still were seated side by side in the half-dark corner of the mercantile. Lucy was tapping her toe in time to the music, and Jack had managed to slip his hand around his sister’s. Caitrin could have wept. Father, please, she pleaded in silent prayer. And when she couldn’t think of words adequate to express her feelings, she turned the matter over to the Holy Spirit. Groanings, she thought. Oh, God, my soul groans for Lucy.
“This is one of my favorite tunes,” Lucy shared as Caitrin joined her on the narrow bench. “Mary used to dance to this tune. But now … now Mary’s …”
“Would you like to dance with me, Luce?” Jack asked his sister.
“No,” she whispered. “You and Caitrin. Please, dance together.”
Jack glanced at Caitrin, and she read the uncertainty in his eyes. Leave Lucy alone, and who knew what might happen? He would not likely abandon his sister.
“Where is your mother?” Caitrin asked. “She could sit with Lucy.”
Jack grunted. “Mama’s over there by the table. I don’t want to bother her.”
“Sure, I can’t see why not. She’s only arranging the food—setting pies and cakes this way or that. Fetch her at once, Jack. She’ll accompany Lucy while you and I dance.”
Jack raked a hand through his thick brown hair. “Mama’s had an ornery look on her face ever since I brought Lucy in here. She won’t cotton to—”
“Mama doesn’t like me to go out in public,” Lucy said. “She’s afraid I’ll … I’ll say something or do something shameful.”
“Oh, Lucy, I’
m sure that isn’t so.”
“I can stay here,” she whispered to her brother. “I’ll watch you dance. I would like it.”
“Well, I don’t know.” Jack studied his sister. “You might get to thinking about things.”
“I’ll try not to. I promise.”
Caitrin understood the man’s concern, but she couldn’t help feeling that this overprotectiveness was bad for Lucy. The young woman seemed fine at the moment, drumming her fingertips on her knees and chewing a bite of apple pie. What is it that eats away inside Lucy, Father? What are these terrible secrets that gnaw at her soul and tangle her reason?
“I don’t think dancing is such a great idea,” Jack said finally. “We’d better stay close.”
Caitrin glanced at Lucy and absorbed the longing in her eyes.
“Please escort me to the floor, Jack. After the dance, Lucy and I shall watch the quilt auction together. It’s to start right after this song.”
“Go on, Jack,” Lucy said.
“Come along, Mr. Cornwall.” Caitrin stood and looped her arm around his elbow. “If you don’t take me out onto the floor at once, my feet will simply start dancing of their own accord.”
“I’ll be right back, Lucy,” he said as he drew Caitrin into the midst of the crowd. The moment he stepped away from the darkened corner, a familiar teasing light filtered into his eyes. “Feet dancing on their own? Now that would be a sight. Allow me to ease your distress, madam.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
As Jack Cornwall whirled Caitrin through the crowd, she thought he was the most thrilling partner she had ever had. Though he wouldn’t know the intricate steps of the Irish dances Sean O’Casey had performed, she began to understand that her young love’s action had been just that—a performance. Sean had displayed his theatrical style with all the flair of a strutting rooster. Caitrin had been a flattering arm piece, a perfect foil to direct everyone’s attention to the man himself.
But Jack Cornwall’s focus was riveted to his partner. His whispered compliments sent her head spinning. His strong arms kept her close. He escorted her down a promenade, circled left and right, and fairly lifted her from the ground as they stayed in step with the music. By the time the music slowed, she was breathless.
“That was a delight!” she exclaimed. “I can’t think when I’ve had such fun.”
Jack gave her an extra twirl that lifted her skirts from her ankles. Laughing, she clapped her hands together as he caught her against his chest, dipped her low, and touched her lips in a warm kiss. “Caitrin Murphy,” he said, “I could get lost in those green Irish eyes.”
But when he lifted his head and looked across the room at his sister, his face sobered. Caitrin followed the direction of his gaze to find Lucy huddled into herself and staring blankly down at her lap.
“She’s thinking about her troubles again,” he said in a disheartened voice.
“I’ve missed your sister greatly,” Caitrin whispered. “How is she, Jack? Please tell me the truth.”
“Sometimes—like tonight—I start to think she’s perking up. I tell myself I don’t see any trouble, even when it starts to crop up again. I try to convince myself it’s all right that Lucy sleeps day and night, and she won’t get out of bed even to eat. Maybe she’s just tired, I think. And when she sits staring at her lap for hours on end, I try to believe she’s working out some kind of a tricky problem or something. But after a while, it’s no use pretending.”
“She told me her thoughts go around and around. She can’t make them stop.” Caitrin was aware that the crowd had moved toward the tables heaped with food. This rare moment with Jack must not be wasted. “What is Lucy dwelling on, Jack? What are these thoughts that plague her?”
“Memories, Caitrin.” His face was solemn. “She’s got a lot of worries and a lot of bad memories. Lucy always has been more sensitive than most folks to things that happen around her. Even as a little girl, she used to cry a lot. But she always laughed louder, hugged tighter, and loved deeper than everyone else, too.”
“Maybe the trouble is something within the very essence of her spirit. Perhaps ’tis something she was born with.”
“I reckon you might be right. And, too, she’s had some pretty big hurts.”
“Mary’s death, your absence during the war, the loss of the family farm and your father.” Caitrin recited the list. “Is there anything else, Jack? Did something else happen to Lucy?”
He looked away. “She just couldn’t hold up under the pile of troubles.”
“She said she has many secrets.”
“I reckon so,” he said. “In the Cornwall family, you keep certain things under wraps—no matter what. Lucy’s always been the peacemaker of the bunch. She’s so sweet, so trustworthy, that she’s had a lot of confidences shared with her.”
“Such as?”
He was silent a moment. “Seth Hunter, for one. Not until everything had blown sky-high did I learn that Mary had been seeing him on the sly. Seth was just one of our farmhands, you know. He didn’t have a hope in the world of earning Mary a good living, and he was a Yankee sympathizer to boot. Mary confided to Lucy about Seth, but Lucy kept the information to herself. Then Seth and Mary got married in a hush-hush ceremony, and before long there was a baby on the way—and not a soul knew about any of that except Lucy.”
“Oh my. What other troubles has Lucy borne?”
“When Papa took sick, he kept his illness a secret. The only way anybody found out was that Lucy used to empty his chamber pot every morning. She saw the blood, and that’s how she knew. Papa made her swear she wouldn’t tell Mama, but then when—”
“It sounds as if Lucy is the only Cornwall keeping secrets,”
Caitrin said. “’Tis as though she’s been the hiding place for the entire family’s sin and pain. What guilty knowledge have you laid on her fragile conscience?”
“Me? None.” His eyes went hard. “Don’t try to blame me for what’s happened to Lucy. When she’s feeling bad, she’s like a sledder on top of a big snowy hill—going down fast and nothing can stop her. Once she’s over the crest, you might as well give up. But I’ll tell you one thing. It’s never been me who gave her a push at the top. I’ve always stood by my sister and protected her.”
“By clamping her in chains?”
“It’s that or an asylum.”
“For heaven’s sake, Jack, why must you—”
A shrill shriek cut off her words. Caitrin swung around in time to see Lucy scramble from the bench, fall to her knees, and crawl into the corner. Rolf Rustemeyer leapt over the bench toward her, and Casimir Laski grabbed the German man by his suspenders.
“Stay away from that woman!” Laski shouted at Rolf. “She’s crazy! A madwoman!”
“What I haf done?” Rolf said, turning toward the crowd in dismay. “I bringen her chocolate cake, no more.”
“Get the Cornish strumpet out of here!” Jimmy O’Toole cried, pointing toward Lucy, who began to sob. “We won’t have a lunatic—”
To Caitrin’s horror, a string of foul language and denigrating epithets spewed from Jimmy’s mouth. Lucy held her hands over her head as though she were being physically beaten as she screamed like a wounded coyote. Jack left Caitrin’s side and shoved his way through the throng.
“Shut your mouth, O’Toole!” Jack shouted at the Irishman. “And you, Rustemeyer, get away from my sister. Leave her alone.”
“Aber I only bringen torte!” Rolf returned, stumbling into his native language. He held up a plate bearing a slice of chocolate cake. “Ich bin sehr … I am fery goot man, ja! Not hurt nobodies.”
“And you, O’Toole,” Jack snarled, “if I ever catch you talking like that to my sister again—”
“You’re as insane as she is!” Jimmy hurled back. “Your whole family is a pack of filthy Cornish—”
“Lemme tell you something, buster.” Jack shoved his finger in the man’s chest. “You stay away from my family or I’ll—”
&
nbsp; “Jack, Jack!” Felicity Cornwall grabbed her son’s arm. “Get Lucy. You must get Lucy!”
Caitrin stood nailed to the floor, staring in disbelief while Felicity raced for the door as though ravenous wolves were after her. Jack scooped up his weeping sister and followed his mother out into the night. As the door banged shut, a hush fell over the room.
Finally Jimmy O’Toole cleared his throat. “’Tis a good thing they’re gone. That family has no business in our mercantile. God created the different races to be separate and apart. The Cornish and the Irish. The black and the white. The Indian and the Spaniard. There is to be no mixin’ of people.”
An assenting murmur ran through the gathering. Caitrin glared at the self-righteous group—Poles, Italians, Germans, French—all a medley of racial backgrounds. Jimmy nodded importantly.
“Mr. O’Toole,” Caitrin spoke up. “Could you please remind me where that particular verse is located in the Bible? Sure, I’d like to read for myself the Scripture where God tells us he wants the different races to remain separate and apart.”
The Irish immigrant folded his arms across his bony chest. “Tower of Babel,” he said. “Genesis, I believe.”
“At the Tower of Babel, God confounded the language of the people,” Rosie Hunter spoke up. “Because of their conspiracy to reach God through human effort, the people were given many different languages. But the Scriptures in Genesis say nothing at all about the color of folks’ skin or the place of their birth, Mr. O’Toole. Isn’t that right, Seth?” She looked at her husband for confirmation.
“Well …”
She lifted her chin. “You said, ‘Rosie, let’s start at the beginning of the Bible and read all the way through.’ And just last week we read that passage about the Tower of Babel. The story is not about the races; it’s about languages. I remember the passage very well.”
“Me, too,” Chipper chimed in.
“My father told me that everythin’ is in the Bible,” Jimmy insisted. “Everythin’ right and true. And he said ’tis true that the Cornish folk are wicked, and they cannot turn to good. For myself, I can hardly believe that a Cornishman has a soul. They’re not completely human, but more like the devil himself, and so it cannot be right for us to have aught to do with the Cornish.”
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