Speak Through the Wind

by Allison Pittman

  “I … I …” In all the travels she’d taken to get back to this place, she’d never once taken the time to think about what she would say when she actually got here.

  “Leyna!” The familiar, authoritative voice boomed from the back of the house. “Haven’t I told you not to open that door?”

  “It’s a lady,” the child said, using the doorknob to support her slight weight.

  “I don’t care if it’s—” Jenny took one step into the entryway and stopped with her jaw unhinged. “Oh, my Lord …”

  “You don’t care if it’s your Lord?” The child laughed, tickled at her joke.

  Kassandra laughed too, if at nothing but the child’s delight.

  “Now what would the reverend say if he heard such blasphemin’ in his house? Get yourself back in the kitchen. I made some scones.”

  “Yeah!” the girl said, and without another glance at Kassandra, clattered back to the kitchen.

  “Well, well,” Jenny said, leaning against the open door. “I was always wonderin’ when you would show up. Come on in.”

  “For scones?”

  “But not in the kitchen. You sit yourself in the front parlor. I’ll bring in a tray.”

  Kassandra had never been a guest before—anywhere. She sat now in Reverend Joseph’s front parlor, not sure how to conduct herself. She tugged her gloves off her hands and took off her bonnet, laying both on the sofa beside her.

  “The reverend’s not home just now,” Jenny said, entering with a tray laid with tea, scones, and little dishes of jam. “But he is sure to bust some thin’ when he sees you.”

  Kassandra didn’t want to pass the afternoon in idle chitchat. She wanted to run into the kitchen, take the child Leyna into her arms, and run away.

  “And how is Mrs. Hartmann?” she asked, pasting on her best polite smile.

  Jenny set the tray down on the table. “She passed,” she said, standing upright again.

  The news wiped the smile off Kassandra’s face, leaving her with just enough breath to stammer, “What?” before pointing to a chair on the other side of the tea table and saying, “Please, sit down and tell me everything.”

  Jenny checked over her shoulder before smoothing her skirt and sitting down to pour Kassandra a cup of tea.

  “Not much to tell,” Jenny said. “‘Bout two years ago, she took sick. It got into her lungs, she took to her bed, and never got up again.”

  “Reverend Joseph must have been heartsick.”

  “Yeah, he took it hard. She wasn’t the easiest person to love, but he did somehow. Course Mrs. Hartmann always did have it in her head that he had strong feelin’s for you. He was fit to be tied when she came back alone with that baby.”

  “And the little … Leyna?” Kassandra asked.

  “Well, she was so young. She don’t have much of a memory of her ma—of Mrs. Hartmann, that is.”

  “It is all right, Jenny. I know my daughter knew Mrs. Hartmann as her mother, but tell me—was she a good mother?”

  “Mrs. Hartmann? Oh, she was lovely with her. Always had her dolled up in the prettiest little dresses, all kinds of ribbons in her hair. She’d sit and play tea party with that child for hours at a time, singin’ silly songs and carryin’ on.”

  “So Leyna was … is happy?”

  “Oh, yes miss. The reverend, he just took up where the missus left off, and that child don’t know what sadness is in any way.”

  Kassandra looked around the room where a few scattered toys bore witness that a child lived here now, and she wondered just how she would ever fit in with such a family. She was, in fact, sure she wouldn’t—just as Mrs. Hartmann had predicted the day Leyna was born. She put her cup back on the tray and began to pull her gloves back over her fingers.

  “Well, then, Jenny, I will not keep you any longer. I just wanted to see—”

  “Ah, don’t go yet, Miss Kassandra. The reverend will have a fit knowin’ he missed you.”

  “Then do not tell him,” Kassandra said, feeling the collar of her dress constrict her neck.

  Jenny chuckled. “That little one seen you, and she’ll describe you to the last detail. He’ll know exactly who was here visitin’.”

  Just then, Leyna came bounding into the room, red curls flying, and ran right to Jenny’s side, laying her head on the woman’s shoulder.

  “Miss Leyna,” Jenny said with exaggerated politeness, “how would you like to take our visitor up to show her your room?”

  Leyna turned to look at Kassandra with just a hint of suspicion. “Would you want to see it?”

  “Very much.” Kassandra nearly choked on the words, but soon composed herself.

  She followed Leyna up the stairs and to the very room that had been hers so many years ago. The door was open, and white lace curtains fluttered in a late autumn afternoon breeze. The coverlet on the bed was lace, too, and the bed skirt a deep pink velvet. On the walls were a series of small paintings depicting all kinds of woodland creatures—rabbits, skunks, raccoons—wearing waistcoats and top hats.

  “My mother painted them,” Leyna said proudly.

  “They are quite beautiful,” Kassandra said, wondering what she could ever have created for this little girl. “Do you like to paint, too?”

  Leyna nodded vigorously. “My father says I have a gift.”

  “Your father is a very wise man. You should always listen to him.”

  “Do you know my father?”

  This time Kassandra nodded, afraid to speak lest she burst into tears.

  “Well,” Leyna continued her tour, “this is my bed. And that is my chair. And this is my table where I have tea parties. That is my window. This is my carpet. And that is my bureau.”

  Kassandra spun slowly taking each element in and emitting hums of admiration with each revelation. But when she came to the bureau, there was no patronization to her gasp.

  “Oh, Leyna, look what you have!”

  Its porcelain feet clung to a branch, legs poised and wings spread out as if on the edge of flight. There was a tiny chip on the tip of its beak where it had flown against a wall so many years ago, but other than that, the piece was perfectly intact.

  “That is not a toy, so be very careful,” Leyna said. “My father gave that to me. He said it used to belong to a very special lady. And that she had gotten lost in a storm and couldn’t find her way back right away, but that she would come back someday for the gift she left behind.”

  “And this is the gift?” She could barely speak.

  “Mm-hmm. Are you the lady?”

  “I … I think I might be.”

  “Oh.” The child’s face dropped in profound sadness. “Are you going to take this away with you?”

  “Well, I don’t know, Leyna.” Kassandra turned the figurine over and over in her hands. “Would you miss it very much if I did?”

  Leyna nodded gravely. “Yes.”

  “Then you must keep it,” Kassandra said, setting the bird back in its place of honor on the bureau. “We must learn always to hold on to those things that are precious.”

  There was a sound of a bell downstairs, the one Kassandra remembered being attached to the front door.

  “Father’s home!” Leyna shouted, and tore out of the room. “Father! Father!” she shouted all the way down the hall and stairs. “The lady’s here! The lady for the bird!”

  Stunned and a little embarrassed, Kassandra took a few seconds to compose herself before walking out of the room.

  He stood at the foot of the stairs, unchanged. Although it had been just a few years since she had last been here, she fully expected to see an old man. Perhaps she’d always seen him as an old man. But here he was, as tall as ever, his blond hair still hanging straight, though maybe slightly more receded. He was still bone thin, but strong enough to hold Kassandra’s daughter aloft over his head, letting her red curls fall down to tickle his face, before taking her in a big hug and setting her down at his feet.

  “Well, well,” he said, still
not turning to acknowledge Kassandra as she eased down the stairs. “You say the bird lady is here?”

  “Yes, but she says she isn’t going to take the bird away. She says it can stay right here.”

  “Is that right?” Reverend Joseph stood up, turned around, and looked straight into Kassandra’s eyes. “Well, well,” he repeated, giving her his smile with the same gap between his front teeth that she always found endearing. “What have I done to deserve such a present?”

  In an instant, Kassandra took the final step and found herself locked in Joseph’s embrace. His arms were stronger than she ever imagined, and she felt his lips in her hair, kissing the top of her head gently.

  “You’ve come home to stay?” he said, stepping back and looking deep into her soul with his soft brown eyes.

  “If you will have me.”

  He embraced her again, while little Leyna danced in circles.

  Reader’s Guide

  Throughout much of the book a little bird figurine acts as a symbol of Kassandra herself. Do you have a little trinket that represents who you are?

  Of all the reasons Ben gives to convince Kassandra to run away with him, which do you feel was his most compelling?

  Would you say that Kassandra is a strong woman? Why or why not?

  Consider what we know of Biddy by the end of the book. What future can you predict for her?

  Consider the relationship between Kassandra and Jewell. Would you classify Jewell as a mother? A sister? A friend?

  What is your opinion of Mrs. Hartmann? What do you think was the motivation for her actions and decisions?

  Kassandra first appears in the novel Ten Thousand Charms (Book 1 in the Crossroads of Grace Series). What new insights into her character do you gain from reading this book? Is your perception of her changed?

  How would you classify Ben Connor? Is he purely a villian? Tragic figure? Hero? Why?

  The lyrics of the hymn, “Dear Lord and Father of Mankind” (appearing at the front of and throughout the book), echo Kassandra’s pleading, conviction, and repentance at several stages of the story. Is there a hymn that brings you particular comfort? One that brings you to a sense of conviction?

  Revisit the first chapter of the book. In what way is it a snapshot of all that is to come?

  Lamentations 3:22 (NIV) says, “Because of the LORD’S great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” What message of hope is in this verse for Kassandra? For you?

  Wyoming Territories, 1860.

  Gloria is in trouble. A mining camp is a merciless place when you’re young, pregnant … and a prostitute. No matter. Life will not defeat her.

  John William McGregan is in despair. His beloved wife died in childbirth. And while John is a resourceful man, raising an infant daughter on his own seems impossible.

  Thrown together by a seemingly cruel fate, Gloria and John William make a pact: She will nurse his daughter; he will raise her son. Neither asks for marriage. They are joined by necessity, nothing more.

  But after a move to the new Oregon territory facing John William’s faith day after day, and receiving an older woman’s motherly mentoring, Gloria longs for something more. For the love she’s been denied all her life. If only that life hadn’t made her unfit, not only for John William … but for God.

  Then tragedy strikes—making even the resolute John William question his faith. Terrified, Gloria turns to the One she has never been able to trust. But can even God save what now means more to Gloria than life itself: her newfound family?

  Here’s an excerpt from book 3

  in the Crossroads of Grace series

  I wasn’t asleep—wasn’t even pretending to be—when my cousin Phoebe slipped into my room. Her white nightgown fought through the darkness until her body settled on the edge of my mattress, creating such an imbalance that I rolled toward her, giggling as our bodies collided.

  “Ssh!” Phoebe hissed into the shadows. “Do you want to wake the whole house?”

  “Sorry” I whispered.

  “Do you have everything?”

  I nodded. She gripped my hand with her soft, pudgy one and led me across my own bedroom floor. I held my other hand out, gingerly searching out the familiar obstacles, and stopped when my fingers brushed the corner of my bureau.

  “Wait.” I slipped my hand out of her grip and walked my fingers along the grain of the wood and brass pulls of the top drawer. It opened smoothly, silently—trademark of a quality piece of furniture, Mother said—and I had to stretch up to my tiptoes to feel inside.

  Normally I would be sifting through a collection of rolled stockings, cotton chemises, and ruffled pantalets, but all of those things were packed away, wrapped protectively around porcelain figurines. Now the cavernous top drawer was empty, and after just a few searching pats my fingers closed around the stump of a white tallow candle and the gilded handle of the mirror I received as part of a matching set for my twelfth birthday.

  “Let’s go.”

  When we came to the top of the stairs, I transferred the stub of candle to the hand that was holding the mirror and used the other to grip the banister. I’d been running up and down these stairs at least twenty times a day for most of my life, but never in the dark. I gripped the varnished wood—slick enough to slide on if Mama wasn’t around—and used my toes to search out the edge of each step before moving down. Phoebe was behind me, breathing impatiently down my neck, occasionally tapping her knees into my spine to hurry me along.

  Once safely on the ground floor, she brushed past me and took the lead, her white gown iridescent in the night shadows of my family home. It never occurred to me at the time to wonder why I was following her, why she took the lead in navigating through our front parlor, our morning room, our receiving hall. I suppose her frequent visits—sometimes lasting for weeks on end—made her feel less like a guest than did my other cousins who were all gathered in what used to be our formal dining room. Where twelve perfectly carved and upholstered high-backed chairs once stood, a litter of bedrolls and blankets covered the floor. When Phoebe and I walked into the room, the bundles sprang to life, and six girls were up on their feet, hair streaming unplaited down their backs. They burst into whispered anticipation, then exchanged even louder admonitions to be quiet until Phoebe had to actually raise her voice to achieve silence.

  “Is everybody ready?” Phoebe said.

  “Yes, yes!” they chorused, first quite loud, then softer in response to Phoebe’s scolding finger.

  “Come on, then.” The pack of little girls—the youngest not quite eight years old—followed us out of the dining room and into the kitchen.

  This is where I took over. Phoebe might have been able to stride her way through the vastness of our rooms, but she knew nothing of the intricacies of the working part of the house. After handing her the mirror and candle, I reached into the box on the shelf above the stove and took out a match, drawing it swiftly across the striking surface attached to the wall. The sulfurous odor leant an additional air of mystery to our little adventure, and the “girls let out a spontaneous collective gasp and shiver at the ordinary spark and light. I touched the new flame to the stub of candle Phoebe held, then brought the match to my lips to blow it out.

  “No,” Phoebe said, her tone insistent enough to stop me.

  “You can light the other candles off this one,” I said, not happy about being in a power struggle in front of these younger girls.

  “Each candle must have its own flame.” Her voice took on a deep, earthy quality, and I could sense the excited shivers of my younger cousins. I, however, was not impressed.

  “It’s going to burn my fingers.”

  “Only if we waste time arguing about it.”

  “So we’ll stop arguing.” I gave a decisive snap of my wrist, extinguishing the flame. The only light in the kitchen came from the candle Phoebe held close to her face, her pale skin now ghostly, her blond hair trans
parent. She narrowed her perpetually pink-rimmed eyes to angry slits.

  “You’re going to ruin everything.” She shouldered in close so the other cousins wouldn’t hear.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this anyway, and you know it,” I said, matching her tone. “Mother would skin us all alive if she knew.”

  “That’s why nobody is going to tell her.” She slowly turned and faced the whole group. “Nobody’s going to tell anyone.” The cousins took a collective step back, twelve wide eyes nodding in pale faces. Then she turned directly to me. “Now, what can we use to break the mirror?”

  “Isn’t that bad luck?” I asked.

  “Only if you believe it is.”

  “I got this for my birthday.”

  Phoebe leaned in close. “Listen, Belinda, you chicken out on me now, and I’ll march right upstairs, wake your mother, and tell her this was all your idea.”

  I believed her threat, so I snatched the candle out of her hand and used it to light my search for any leftover tea towel and some heavy utensil not yet confiscated by a needy neighbor. I quickly found a scrap left crumpled on top of the counter after being used to wipe it clean, and a rusty potato masher left to languish in a drawer.

  I offered these to Phoebe, who took them with the solemn air of a presiding priestess. As the girls craned to see over her shoulder, she placed the mirror on the kitchen counter, covered it with the tea towel, and with one decisive whack of the potato peeler’s handle, produced the distinctive sound of broken glass. We all jumped back at that moment, as if expecting the shards to fly straight into our faces, but surged forward again when Phoebe removed the towel to reveal the broken surface of the mirror. She gingerly poked around and handed me the largest piece.

  “For your soul and your soul mate,” Phoebe said in that eerie voice she seemed to have affected just for this evening. She repeated the gift and the incantation until each—even the youngest—held a sharp-sided piece of mirrored glass. “Now, whoever goes first will have to be very, very brave. I’m sixteen, the oldest, but I can’t go because I’m holding”—she looked pointedly at me—“the first flame.”