A Patchwork Family

by Charlotte Hubbard

  A slow grin lit Billy’s face. “I’m small, but I’m real good with horses.”

  “And how old are you, son?” Judd asked. He liked the boy’s honesty, the toughness he’d displayed in the face of such betrayal and loss.

  “Ten, sir.”

  “And you?”

  He smiled at the carrot-haired girl, who would try their patience at every turn. But badgering her brother and pretending to be so independent were her ways of surviving, when the only life she’d known had been stripped away by bushwhackers, bankers, and a mother whose treachery defied description.

  “I’m thirteen,” she replied crisply. “I was at the top of my class in school, before the war, and I can quilt and embroider with the tiniest stitches you ever saw. Right now, though, I want clean clothes and a bath. I doubt we’ll stay here long, but it’ll be a relief to stop eating and wearing the dust of the road.”

  “Do you think they’ll stay?” Despite the relentless heat, Mercedes sat close to Judd on the back stoop, as they did every evening before bedtime.

  “Time’ll tell,” he replied in a low voice. He wove her small, sturdy fingers between his own. “We can’t force them to live here. And as long as Christine has those tickets, she’ll be inclined to use them.”

  “Do you believe what she told us?”

  “As far as it goes, yes.” Judd brushed loose tendrils of hair back from her damp cheek, studying her moonlit face. His wife had done him proud today, taking on a responsibility she hadn’t wanted at first. The boy was easy to like—so eager to please them—but his sister was cut from stiffer cloth.

  Christine had shown disgust at having the two colored hands eat with them, and her dislike of their log house, as well as utter disdain for chores performed by servants at home—all before she’d been there for three hours. Mercy’s faith and patience would be severely tested, just tolerating such a thorny rose, much less giving her the care and compassion she so badly needed from another woman.

  “Like Billy pointed out, she keeps changing her story,” he went on. “Partly to bully him, and partly to keep a distance from folks she’d rather not reveal herself to. It’s her way of maintaining some control over her life, now that she’s lost both parents and her home, I suppose. I can’t believe such a comely girl’s been a prickly pear all her life.”

  Mercy smiled ruefully. “I hate to judge their mother, after all the horrible things that have happened to that family. But I doubt Virgilia Bristol will come for them.”

  “Me, too. She may have spells when she behaves unpredictably, but the way Billy and Christine were whisked out of Leavenworth smacks of a plan. A woman who’s grieving for a kidnapped son wouldn’t send her other two kids west alone, unless she had some very strong incentive.”

  “And someone else’s money backing her.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” He slipped his arm loosely around her, aware of the heat her calico dress held in. Ordinarily, Mercy sat here nights in only her shift, but the children’s presence was already affecting their private moments.

  “Could be the man in the checkered suit paid their way to Kansas and made her decisions for her—taking advantage of her financial and emotional state,” Judd speculated. “Plenty of women have fallen into that trap of late. A man with such a flair for fashion must’ve appeared very dapper to Mrs. Bristol, in her loneliness. Judging from the girl’s looks, her mother’s an attractive woman. Ripe for the picking and ready to fall.”

  Mercy’s fingertip found the single dimple beneath the corner of his lips; the distinctive mark that made this burly man look boyishly endearing. “Makes me awfully glad I fell for you, Judd.”

  He settled his mouth over hers, in a satisfying kiss only longtime lovers could share. “I love you, too,” he whispered, plucking out pins until her warm hair cascaded down her back, over his arm. “Shall we go to bed? We’ve had an eventful day, and another one awaits us tomorrow.”

  Chapter Three

  Christine stepped away from the open window. The Monroes’ talk enraged her: they were probably right about Mama, and she hated them for it. Small triumph that a handsome man like Judd found her pretty, when he expected her to work like a slave for the privilege of staying here.

  The upstairs room felt airless despite its two windows. Cloying odors of cabbage and sausages lingered in the heat, and she fluttered the hem of her cotton shift to cool herself. Everything about this place grated on her nerves: the log walls with their yellowed chinking, the prairie that stretched endlessly in all directions, the faded clothing these people wore. She’d peeked into their curtained-off room, appalled to see only muslin and calico hanging in their armoire, and underthings made from flour sacks in their drawers.

  This house could never be home, and she refused to stay here.

  But they’d taken a shine to Billy, like everyone did. Bristling with envy, Christine tiptoed across the hallway to pester her brother. If the Monroes considered her such a prickly pear, she’d live up to that description and make them all sorry before she left.

  Yet the sight of Billy sleeping turned her anger to sadness. He looked almost angelic, bathed in moonlight that cast a glow around his bed. For the first time in weeks, he seemed at peace. At this moment, Christine resented his childlike resilience and charm more than ever, but she didn’t have the heart to waken him just out of meanness.

  Besides, this was her first chance to look through Mama’s things without him gawking over her shoulder, asking pesky questions.

  Christine returned to her room. The two large camelback trunks sat beneath the lowest part of the slanted, unfinished ceiling. It seemed providential that Mama had entrusted the keys to her when they’d left home—in case she suffered one of her spells on the way to Denver. As Christine unlocked the trunks, however, she sensed the Monroes were right: Mama had been in league with the man from Leavenworth all along. He’d probably paid their three stagecoach fares, luring Mama with the flash of his money. And when forced to choose, Virgilia Bristol had forsaken her children for a man who drove a fancy surrey and dressed like a dandy.

  Bitterness welled up inside her. She understood that Mama had been lonely, distraught after losing Daddy and Wesley and her way of life, all in one fateful hour. Ripe and ready to fall, as Judd had put it. But didn’t her two remaining children count for anything?

  I hope you go straight to hell for this, Mama, Christine thought. A hot tear dribbled down each cheek as she removed the wooden tray from the first trunk. Did you fool that man? Does he know what a spineless ninny he’s latched on to? By the time I find you, he’ll probably have thrown you out—tired of your crying and clinginess. I’ll have a good laugh then, won’t I?

  Christine lifted one folded gown after another from the trunk, recalling how pretty Mama had looked at each of the special occasions they were made for. Most of them hadn’t been out of her armoire for months—since before Daddy got shot—and as Christine laid them around her on the floor, their colors shone like a rainbow in the light from her candle. Mama had dyed all her everyday dresses black, so these pretty satins and brocades brought happier times to mind—holiday balls and summer receptions on the lawn, which Mama had gloried in hostessing.

  After seeing how her mother had brightened during Mr. Wyndham’s visit, Christine could easily imagine Virgilia Bristol adorning herself in these gowns to attract an attentive man. However . . .

  Christine fingered the delicate Brussels lace around the collar of a deep green gown Mama wore last Christmas. If she’d planned all along to run off with that man in Leavenworth, why had she left all her clothes on the stagecoach? Lacy silk underthings covered the bottom of the trunk, a testimony to Daddy’s indulgence of her exquisite taste. Hard to believe that any woman would send these personal items down the road with the children she no longer wanted.

  Christine opened the other trunk, vowing to sort through it before she dissolved in tears. She couldn’t believe that Mama had abandoned her without so much as a whispered good-b
ye, or a hint of her intentions. Harder still to think she’d left her precious Billy behind. Because he was small and had an agreeable nature, the boy had been Mama’s favorite since the day he was born.

  Fueled by resentment, Christine tossed hats, gloves, handkerchiefs, and shoes to the floor, heedless of their clatter. Beneath the clothing she found the mono-grammed comb and brush set that had graced Mama’s dressing table. Velvet-covered photograph albums thumped to the floor beside her, the sole mementoes of their home and family before the war.

  She glanced at a few framed likenesses—one of herself with Mama on the verandah; one of her twin brothers, dressed in new riding suits, posed with their favorite ponies, Mavis and Maureen. Wesley’s mischievous grin made her swallow hard. She’d never told Mama or Billy, but she believed that Wesley was dead. Feisty and clever as he was, he would’ve escaped his kidnappers long ago if he were still alive.

  She found a tin of money, most of it worthless Confederate paper. Assorted fans and buttonhooks and the heavy leather-bound Bible lay at the bottom of the trunk.

  Christine smirked. Religion was the furthest thing from Mama’s mind these days. Indeed, they hadn’t attended a single service since Daddy’s funeral. Perhaps Mama’s guilty conscience kept her from entering a church, for fear that God would send the roof tumbling down around her. How long had she been planning to deceive her children? To send them away, on a wild-goose chase west?

  When she shoved her mother’s embroidery bag aside, her breath caught. Here lay the small diary Mama had kept in her nightstand, locked, so curious eyes couldn’t enter Virgilia Bristol’s private world.

  Christine paused. After all that had happened this week, she had every right to read the secrets recorded between these red velvet covers. A few seconds and a hairpin opened Mama’s innermost soul to her, and then she scanned the pages of neatly looped script, eagerly searching for the answers her heart craved.

  Entries from last January gave a glowing account of Daddy’s surprise birthday party and Mama’s crafty ways of keeping it a secret. These paragraphs seemed much too cheerful to be of any use right now, so she skipped forward.

  Late February revealed the stark terror that held them captive after the Border Ruffians stole so much more than their horses. Here Mama’s penmanship faltered, and details were sketchy. So many things Christine vividly remembered about that stormy night had gone unrecorded, and then days passed when Mama wrote nothing at all. Not surprising, considering how their mother hadn’t dressed or left her room for nearly a week following Daddy’s funeral.

  Brief mention was made of Leland Massena’s visit, and Christine scowled. Had the old buzzard given them half a chance to rally, she wouldn’t be stuck here in this godforsaken place with two do-gooders who expected her to feel grateful for the chores she was to perform! A page later Mr. Wyndham appeared, dressed in pinstripes with his jaunty hat and handlebar mustache, just as she recalled from peering through the upstairs railing.

  Mama’s tone radiated hope, and the ink splotches and shaky strokes disappeared from her writing.

  Richard Wyndham provided pure delight today when he stopped by unexpectedly. I must’ve looked a fright in my widow’s weeds, muddied by my work in the garden . . .

  Christine sucked in her breath. Mama hadn’t breathed a word about this visit, nor about the ones mentioned on the next few pages! Her eyes devoured the paragraphs, racing through descriptions of his British accent, his genteel manner, the picnic he brought one afternoon. Richard this, and Richard that!

  She rocked in a crouch, thunderstruck. Mama was in love with this Englishman—only weeks after she buried Daddy! And Mr. Wyndham had disregarded the conventions of mourning as eagerly as she did.

  So why had they left Missouri? Even if this Englishman had found their property in need of too many repairs, he could have acquired another place the bank had foreclosed on. That Mama would have said yes to a marriage proposal was painfully evident on these pages. Yet when she’d explained why they’d be starting fresh in Denver, she spoke only of business opportunities rather than romance.

  Christine frowned. What on earth did her fanciful mother know—or care—about business? That should have been the first clue that something was amiss, when they made such feverish preparations for taking the stagecoach to Denver. Forgetting the room’s oppressive heat, she plunged back into Mama’s narrative, so close to the answers, her heartbeat raced in anticipation.

  “Whatcha doin’?”

  Christine fell back on her bottom with a gasp and glared toward the doorway. There stood Billy, his hair standing in auburn tufts like ruffled chicken feathers, his drawers drooping from their drawstring waist.

  “Nothing! I—” She slammed the diary shut, cursing her brother’s uncanny sense of timing. “What’re you doing up? Last time I looked, you were dead asleep.”

  “Heard a funny noise. Then I got to thinkin’ about Mama and couldn’t drift off again.” He took a few steps into the room, taking in the two featherbeds and the washstand with its plain pitcher and bowl, before focusing on the items scattered on the floor.

  “Forget about her, Billy. Mama’s long gone.”

  Her brother blinked, looking sleepy and confused. “Then why’d you let on at the table like she was comin’ by here to—”

  “Shhh!” Christine pointed to the floor, a signal that the Monroes’ bedroom was directly below this one. “These people don’t want us as part of their family,” she went on in an ominous whisper. “They plan to work us like slaves, same as they keep that monstrous big darkie to train their horses—”

  “Nathaniel? He is big—and mean-lookin’,” Billy agreed, “but he sure has them yearlin’s takin’ to the bit. Maybe he’ll let me help him, after a while.”

  “—and that little old Asa’s not fit to be more than a house boy! Yet they’ve got him out in the hot sun, working just as hard!” She paused, wondering what ploy would convince Billy they should leave as soon as possible. Since he’d been so close to Mama, perhaps some of her ideas would persuade him.

  “Mercy and Judd come on like fine Christian folks, Billy,” she said in a low voice, “but they didn’t take us in out of the kindness of their hearts. They’ll be driving us like slaves before long, and we weren’t raised to be anyone’s servants. Mama always said we Bristols should never stoop so low.”

  Billy scowled sleepily. “Daddy gave us chores, Sis. Can’t see no harm in helpin’ out, after the way they let us have these rooms. Mrs. Monroe makes a fine pie, and—”

  “Shhh!” Christine hissed. “There’s more to life than pie! And you know darn well we’ll have to share these rooms when travelers pass through!”

  Her brother was obviously too young—or too stupid—to understand the degradation and toil that would be their lot if they remained under this roof, so reasoning with him would get her nowhere.

  “Do you want to look at these log walls and wear homespun every day? No, thank you!” she said in a sibilant whisper. “We have our tickets, and when the next stage passes through, we ought to be on it.

  “But don’t you let on!” she warned, pointing a finger at him. “If they suspect we’re short-timers, they’ll lock us up here at night, so we can’t escape.”

  Billy didn’t look the least bit fazed. In fact, he shuffled slowly around their mother’s gowns and belongings, wearing a wistful yet wary expression. “And what about Mama? Are you writin’ her off, after only three days?”

  “I intend to find her, Billy! She owes us an apology for humiliating us in Leavenworth. For forcing us to scrape and bow for people’s pity!”

  The heat and her exasperation almost pushed her too far; it wouldn’t do to admit she’d listened in on the Monroes, because Billy would tattle on her. If he thought she was innately wise to the ways of women, however, maybe he’d realize she was right—and leave her alone with Mama’s diary.

  She stroked its crimson cover, continuing in a furtive voice. “She and that man are too smart to fol
low the stage route, knowing we could spot them. But I bet they head west anyway. I was just reading Mama’s account of Mr. Wyndham’s enterprises in—”

  “How’d you unlock that?”

  “Shhh!” Christine shot him a catlike smile. “With a hairpin, silly. Now scat, so I can figure out where they’re going. I doubt they’ll stay in Leavenworth long, so we’ve got no time to waste.”

  Billy didn’t take the hint. He stood as though rooted to the floor, pondering what she’d just told him. “You think that was Mr. Wyndham driving the surrey?”

  “I do. Mama wouldn’t take off with a stranger, you know—and from what I’ve read, she spent quite a lot of time with him that we didn’t know about. Out by the garden, in the gazebo, down around the spring house . . .”

  As angry as she was at her mother, Christine couldn’t help smiling about her secret rendezvous. “I bet she told him when we’d be working on our lessons with Miss Bryce, so he’d come over when we couldn’t spy on them.”

  Billy’s brow puckered. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a man lookin’ to buy the farm?” he demanded. “I shoulda been there, to show him how we’d reseeded the pastures and painted the outbuildings—things Mama didn’t know nothin’ about! Maybe he would’ve let us stay on to run the place for him when he went back to England.”

  “I’m not sure it was the land he wanted, Billy,” she said with a sad sigh. “Now get back to bed. We need to be rested, so we can formulate a plan to leave this awful place.”

  But again, he seemed deaf to her suggestion. “It really ain’t so bad here,” he said in a faraway voice. “Better’n bein’ squeezed into a stagecoach, gettin’ stared at and bein’ asked all them nosy questions. Better’n not knowin’ what we might find for ourselves in Denver, or—”