“Sadie filled me in on your unfortunate circumstances, Miss Rivers. I fully understand why you don’t want to wait another year with your young man going off to war again.”
“This church is perfect. Both Robert and I love history.”
Pastor Gus took out a calendar from his inside coat pocket. “Our wedding packages normally start in late June. Since your date is earlier, I think we can make an exception and pray it isn’t too cold. Of course, we have heat, but we run the furnace sparingly…to preserve the original fixtures. I’ll have to add an extra fee if the weather doesn’t cooperate.”
“That’s fine. Will you be able to officiate as Vicar Gottlieb?”
“I’d be honored. If you follow me I’ll give you the spiel.”
Pastor Gus led the trio through the sanctuary, adding a few more tidbits to Tom Bordeaux’s crash course. While Pastor Gus played tour guide, Abe fell behind, headed toward the entrance, then disappeared, presumably to explore on his own. “Even though Emmanuel Gladstone donated the money to build the church, he and his family never sat in preferential seating, but used one of the common pews instead. After church, Emmanuel usually invited a local family of low means to his home for Sunday dinner. Legend says that Emmanuel paid for the advanced education of twelve local children besides his own, although I can find only one reference to this in the volumes at the House of History—a journal entry by one of his beneficiaries. Apparently, Emmanuel kept his generosity low-key. I did find a bank transaction to match the sum mentioned in the boy’s journal. Seems, though, subsequent generations were much more vocal about their philanthropy. Emmanuel’s grandson, Henry, was the first Gladstone to occupy the Gladstone box during worship services.”
Sam had to know. “Did all the Gladstones attend here?”
“Most were church goers. Some, I’m afraid, more for the political advantages than the call to worship.”
“What about Jonathan Gladstone?”
“He used to attend regularly, first with his mother, then with his wife. He stopped coming after his wife died, but he still sends sizeable contributions for our renovations.”
Justine asked more questions, interspersed with her accounts of what a wonderful man her Robert was. She rambled on about her home church ministries and that she’d be sure to let her friends know about Haven, and particularly Christ Church.
Sam’s attention zoomed in and out, although she caught Justine’s question about decorations. “I live four hours away. Are there any bridal consultants in Haven?”
“Sadie Golden is the best caterer around here,” Pastor Gus said. “She’ll handle everything from decorations to flowers and even your wedding cake. You won’t have to worry about anything except showing up for your wedding.”
While Justine talked with Pastor Gus about her esteemed guest list, Sam took a turn in the box pew, imagining each Gladstone ancestor from Emmanuel to Jonathan, parading with their families, Angelica holding on to Jonathan’s arm and wearing the gown in her portrait.
Justine’s elbow brought Sam back to the present. “Where’s Abe?”
“I think I saw him go downstairs.”
Justine laughed and faced Pastor Gus. “We promise not to leave without him.”
They took the steps, and Pastor Gus continued the tour. “The downstairs has been renovated into Sunday School classrooms. In the early years, the basement would have been a storm cellar. During the days of slavery, because of the water routes, Haven served as part of the Underground Railroad, particularly Christ Church.”
A thump then a muffled, “Get me out of here.”
Pastor Gus shook an amused head and removed a nearby section of floor. Abe crawled out, a spider hanging from his head. Justine flicked it off. “I don’t believe you actually hid in there.”
Pastor Gus pointed to the grave-like opening in the floor. “These cells were used to hide the slaves. The last person I pulled out of there was an eight-year-old boy. Normally adults don’t see if they fit in these tiny places.”
Abe brushed off the moist, clay dirt from his dress slacks and oxford shirt. “Sorry. I saw an odd alignment in the floor. Curiosity got ahead of my better judgment. I wanted to know if a person could hide themselves, or if someone had to do it for them. When I slid the flooring back in place it stuck. I can’t imagine people being cramped in one of these cells for hours on end.”
Pastor Gus rocked on his heels. “Some slaves actually suffocated while they waited. If you’re interested, Tom Bordeaux has written two books on the influence of African-Americans on Washington County.”
Justine glowed. “Yes, I’ve read them. Fascinating.” She slapped Abe’s shoulder. “No more hiding. Please.” She turned to Pastor Gus. “Thanks, again. I’m sold on the church. You can ink in the date.”
Pastor Gus stretched his brows as he took out his calendar and put the date in. “If you’ll excuse, me, I really should make a visit at the hospital. I look forward to your wedding, Miss Rivers.”
The three went back to the lounge. On the way, Justine spurted ideas she planned to discuss with Sadie.
Sam smiled at the thought, the sheer inanity lifted her spirits: Justine and Sadie—together they would be lethal—death by ambiance. “Why don’t you throw a masquerade ball for the reception?”
Sam had meant it as a jibe, not a real suggestion, but Justine screamed with excitement. “That’s a marvelous idea.”
“I was kidding, but if that’s what you want, I’m sure Sadie can make it happen.”
The lounge was empty, with the exception of the shuffleboard and bridge players. Sadie rushed up and ushered them all to a table. “I’ll be right back.” Before they could sit, she returned carrying an album, flipping to pictures of flower arrangements and cakes. “These are a few of the parties I helped plan. Might give you some ideas. Now mind you, I don’t run a restaurant, and I don’t have a consulting business. I don’t give you a bill, not even for the food. You’ll pay the vendors directly. The vendors and I work out an informal deal amongst ourselves. One hand washes the other I always say. I give them business. They send business to my store.”
Justine surveyed the lounge once again, her eyes popping with enthusiasm. “I love this place. But how do I pay you?”
Sadie sloughed off the question with a wave of her open hand. “If you want to reimburse me, well, that’s between friends. Right, Sam?”
Abe and Justine hopefully would stretch their imaginations and give Sadie the benefit of the doubt. As for Sam, she was no longer a public servant.
27
Sam stifled the yawn begging to escape. For three hours, Justine pored over pictures and scenarios and Abe wandered the lounge, counting the lanterns, reading the scripture verses on the crossbeams, and talking with Aaron. Sam, on the other hand, felt drained, wanting a nap in the worse way, resentful of the constant tiredness since her accident, glad when Justine announced the end to deliberations. “Looks like we’re all set, Sadie.”
Sadie closed her notebook and engulfed Justine with as much tenderness as she would Tracey. “Don’t worry about a thing, dear. You leave everything to Sadie.”
The door burst open like the SWAT team on a raid. Jonathan entered and all eyes except the shuffleboard and bridge players turned in his direction.
Justine’s jaw dropped.
If his baggy eyes were any indication, he hadn’t slept all night. He came up to Sam, ignoring Justine and Abe, rudeness as natural to him as his talent. “Sam, I’ve decided to fight, and stay at Dawn’s Hope. Will you represent me?”
To think she had kissed him, the rudest man in the world. “Jonathan, these are my friends, Justine Rivers and Abe Hilderman. They’re here to make arrangements for Justine’s wedding.”
Jonathan raked his hair. Something in his mannerism endeared, in spite of his forwardness, pulling Sam in when she wanted out. He offered Abe a handshake and bent his head in an aristocratic bow to Justine. For Sam, Jonathan’s brusqueness was as brisk as a cold fall day, but Ju
stine ogled him like a Madame Tussaud wax exhibit.
“My apologies. I shouldn’t have barged in like this.” Jonathan said.
You’re right. Then why am I glad to see you?
Scanning his height, Justine gulped. “No need for apologies, Mr. Gladstone. If you want to talk to Sam privately, Abe and I will check out Sadie’s store.”
Sadie took Justine by the hand and motioned for Abe to follow. “I’m going over now. Did you need anything, Jonathan?”
“No.”
Abe rose reluctantly and followed the women, his face furrowed, probably not overjoyed to spend another hour in girl-land while Justine gushed over every one of Sadie’s displays, especially the landscapes. Served him right.
Jonathan cast his gaze to the floor. “Sam, can we step outside a moment?”
Stay inside. You shouldn’t be alone with any man right now. “Sure.”
She took two steps with every one of Jonathan’s and still fell behind his pace. He stopped on the other side of Sadie’s enterprises, sufficiently out of earshot of any lounge guests.
Sam leaned against the wall, partially for support and partially to distance herself from coconut eyes, a hyacinth-scented coat, and pine-scented cologne, the scents ordinarily incompatible, but on this mountain man, tantalizing. “What do you want from me, Jonathan?”
“I want to contest my father’s will. Can we, after so many years?”
“There are always contingencies, especially if it was an informal probate.”
“How’s that?”
“How the will was registered.”
“I don’t recall ever signing off, or agreeing to the terms in any formal situation.”
Like Sadie who couldn’t take the caterer out of the woman, Sam energized with a legal challenge. “We might have a case, then.”
“I want the land for my own. Name your price. I’ll even throw in free rent at the cabin.”
Sam bristled to her full height and glared. “Look, Mr. Gladstone. For your information, I don’t need a job, and what makes you think I need housing?”
“Zack called me this morning and told me about your predicament.”
Sam seethed. “For your information, I’m merely taking an extended leave. There is no predicament. If I remain in Haven, which I have not made a decision about one way, or the other, I already have a room. I won’t take this case based on your outlandish belief I’m in need of charity.”
Jonathan’s windblown lips slanted upward. “I’m not offering charity. I’m impressed by your diligence with the Styles case. I want that kind of determination on my side. And as for the cabin, I thought you’d enjoy the view.”
Sam shifted her posture to a practiced legal stance. “We can file a petition, but I must warn you, the process might be a lengthy one.”
“But winnable, right?”
“I can’t make any promises, but I believe so. I am curious, though. Yesterday you were ready to give the estate away to the town of Haven. What changed your mind?”
His lips moved into a full smile. “Your tirade, for one. People generally tell wealthy people what they think that person wants to hear. Except for you and Zack, I rarely get an honest opinion. That’s why I like you—you speak your mind.”
Far from it. Especially now.
“I don’t think I was that persuasive. What else happened?”
“You are good, Miss Knowles.” He hesitated. “After you left, I couldn’t shake free of what you said. You are rather blunt.”
So she’d been told.
“I suppose that directness makes you good at what you do.”
“Maybe not. I’m unemployed. Go on.”
“I couldn’t sleep last night and paced the house. For some reason, I ended up in my father’s study. Not a place I frequented. Father summoned me to his study only three times. Once when he told me Grandmother died. The second time was after Mother died. He told me he’d be spending time away from Dawn’s Hope and that he’d hired a nanny to take care of me. The last time was when he told me he’d changed his will, making my son the heir to Dawn’s Hope.”
Jonathan looked away, as if fighting a memory. “Out of curiosity, I tried to open his file cabinet, maybe find some kind of clue as to why my Father hated me so much. But, the drawer was stuck. I managed to pry it open and found Father’s journals. One of the journals had been tipped up, causing the jam.”
Jonathan reached inside his coat and handed Sam a yellowed letter, tucked inside a gold embossed envelope. “When I opened the journal to read it, this fell out.”
Sam studied the envelope addressed to Estelle Gordon. “There’s no stamp on it. I don’t think this letter was ever mailed.”
Sam examined the handwriting, hasty and scrawling, possibly written during a time of emotional stress. “Your father’s last wife was named Estelle. Is this the same woman?”
“Yes, but this letter was written years before Father and Estelle married, before my mother died. If you check the date at the top, you’ll see that when Father wrote this letter, Estelle was married to Senator Gordon and lived in New York City.”
The more Sam learned about Richard Gladstone, the more reasons she found to hate a man she’d never met. “Were they having an affair?”
“Estelle is a good woman. I don’t think they ever had an affair, although they were close friends since childhood. My grandparents were frequent visitors to her parents’ estate in Greece. Go ahead, Read it.”
She slipped the letter from its entombment.
Dearest Estelle,
I thought you should know that my father passed away last week. I am left with an odd feeling I cannot explain. I find myself as indifferent to my father in death as he was to me in life.
I’m reminded of what you said the day you refused my offer of marriage. You called me a heartless man, just like my father. You were right to say so. Never has emotion been so absent in me as when I watched my father take his last breath.
Yet, through this week of formality, my heart aches for Jonathan. Will history repeat itself when my time comes? Will my son be as unmoved in my death as I was at my father’s? I am, however, comforted in this, that at the last my father and I shared one mutual love—Dawn’s Hope.
What saddens me most is that Jonathan and I lack even that bond. Jonathan, I fear, is not cast from the Gladstone mold. He takes after his mother in his love of the arts. I doubt he will ever grasp the magnitude of his heritage, though I’ve all but beaten it into him. I must conclude that he will never love the land he is to inherit.
I find myself offering up a desperate plea to the Almighty for favors I do not deserve. If Dawn’s Hope is to be preserved, it will be by God’s grace alone. Sadly, my biggest failure in this life is that I produced no appreciative heir.
You have been much on my mind of late, and I am filled with regret. I cannot say which pains me more. Knowing I will never gain a son’s affection or having suffocated your love for me. Should our paths cross again, I pray I’ll be a better man than when you last saw me.
I remain forever,
Your Ricky
Sam folded the letter and returned it to its crypt. “Of course, your stepmother’s claim may be another factor to consider if we contest.”
“She doesn’t want Dawn’s Hope. She moved out two weeks after Father died. But, I do think she would testify on our behalf.”
“This letter might prove helpful.”
Jonathan turned and gazed toward his mountain. “I know childhood memories are usually blurred, but honestly Sam, I don’t remember Grandfather at all. He died when I was ten. I remember Grandmother, probably because she lived with us, although I didn’t like her very much. At every dinner, she scolded me to sit up straight and to remember I was a Gladstone. Odd, I remember her so well, but not my grandfather. The only thing I know about Oswald Gladstone is that he was an ambassador, primarily to Greece.”
Sam followed Jonathan’s gaze. Dawn’s Hope no longer loomed as a mystery, like Rochester�
��s gothic mansion, but a home barren of love. “Geesh, Jonathan. What a horrible way to grow up.”
Jonathan veered his gaze and met hers. “I have known love, Sam. Mother…Angelica. But, I never thought Father cared for me much…until I read that letter. Father pushed Gladstone duty on me like a daily vitamin, and I resented him for it. After Mother died, I think resentment turned to hatred. If only he could have told me his true feelings…”
Sam’s throat tightened, Jonathan’s childhood was as marred as hers had been. “Believe me Jonathan, regrets are poison. Your life was what it was…you can’t change the past, but you can go forward. And that’s what we’ll do by contesting the will.”
“I think all these years I tried to hate Dawn’s Hope because Father loved it. If I hadn’t married Angelica, I would have left Haven and never returned.”
“And now?”
“Father loved the legacy, the power, the prestige it gave him, but not the land. I realize now, the ghosts that haunt me are not Angelica, or Mother. They come from within. I am bound to Dawn’s Hope—my heritage is not in power or prestige, but as Emmanuel’s seed. I am bound to his vision, not his empire. Does any of that make sense?”
“On some level, I think it does.” Her gaze shifted from Jonathan’s adolescent eyes, confused, frightened eyes, to his lips—dry, caked, and so appealing.
And what about Zack? What was wrong with her? How could she be so equally attracted to two men at the same time—men as different from one another as day and night?
Her thoughts raced. She pretended to re-read the letter while Jonathan impatiently tapped his feet. She wanted to accept the case, the cabin called to her, the frosting on Jonathan’s tempting cake. Haven had given her new friends, but Dawn’s Hope offered serenity. She couldn’t ignore the risks. Could she maintain her professionalism in close proximity to the most alluring puzzle of a man she’d ever known?
She resealed the letter and handed it back to Jonathan. “I will represent you. I’m not so sure the cabin is a good idea, although, the offer intrigues me. You like to paint there. Wouldn’t I be in the way?”
The Other Side of Darkness Page 19