Courting Miss Adelaide

by Janet Dean

  “Do we have to go?” Emma whined.

  “Yes, it’s going to storm.” Adelaide took Emma’s hand and the three of them walked to the area where they’d picnicked. “We’ll come again. Just you and me,” she promised Emma.

  Pain twisted in her heart until Adelaide could barely breathe. Had she been thinking she could trust a man? That she could risk her heart? Whenever she did, she paid the penalty.

  Once again a man wanted to silence her. Even knowing its importance to her, Charles wanted full ownership of the paper, asking her to sacrifice the opportunity to express her views. Well, she couldn’t make him love her, but she could hang on to ownership of the paper.

  She straightened her shoulders. She would survive without Charles, as she had survived when her mother had kept her at arm’s length. The days might be drabber, might not hold the promise they once had, but she would not think about that now.

  Emma skipped ahead picking a few dandelions along the path home.

  Charles touched her arm. “Please, you don’t understand why I want to do this.”

  Wheeling around, she said, “You know what, Charles? I might buy you out. As for this…” She swept a palm over the blanket. “You made a mess of our picnic. Now you can clean it up.”

  Her heart heavy with loss of something, someone she’d never really had, Adelaide sat sewing in the workroom, grateful for Emma’s sweet voice in the showroom as she played with her doll. Thankfully the little girl was blissfully unaware of the impasse between Adelaide and Charles.

  Adelaide heard a crash, breaking glass and then Emma’s shrill scream. Barely able to breathe, she scrambled to her feet and ran. She found Emma cowering on the floor with shards of glass only two feet away.

  Adelaide scooped up the trembling child, doll and all, into her own trembling arms and darted to the corner, away from the window to check for cuts or bruises. “Are you okay?”

  Against her shoulder, Emma nodded. “Someone broke the window. I’m scared.”

  “Of course you are,” Adelaide said, rubbing Emma’s small tense back.

  Carrying the child, Adelaide picked her way through the glass to the frame of the shop window that now had a gaping hole in jagged edges of glass and peered into the street. She saw no one suspicious.

  Edging away from the window, the toe of her shoe hit something solid. A rock. A piece of paper had been tied to it with a knotted string.

  Hot fury distorted Adelaide’s vision and she swayed on her feet. If that rock had hit Emma in the temple, the impact could have killed her. With Emma clinging to her, Adelaide knelt and picked up the stone, the weight of it heavy in her hand.

  “Emma, would you like a cookie?” Adelaide asked, forcing a note of cheer into her voice.

  The little girl raised her head and nodded. “Can I have two? One cookie for me and one for my dolly?”

  “Two it will be.”

  Later, while Emma sat across from her, nibbling on the treat, with the sweet scent of vanilla and cinnamon from Emma’s cookie filling her nostrils and a sickening wad of fear filling her gut, Adelaide removed the string, and unfolded the slip of paper. Barely discernable, the words appeared to be printed by someone using his left hand. It read: You’re going to pay for the trouble you’re causing.

  Adelaide shivered and tears welled in her eyes. She bit her lip, determined not to frighten Emma more. Had Jacob done this? Or Ed Drummond? Or someone else? Her heart stuttered in her chest. Her actions had put Emma’s life at risk.

  Weeks before her life had been simple with a future of loneliness spread out before her. She’d taken action, sought change. And now even her home, once a haven, had become a dangerous place. She’d have to go for the sheriff—again.

  If only she could turn to Charles…

  No. Every fiber of her being yearned to lean into the comfort of his arms, but Adelaide would not run to Charles. She might not know who threatened her bodily harm, but she knew without a doubt if she didn’t stay away from Charles Graves, her heart would be broken.

  Charles might as well give up his job. Instead of doing any of the hundreds of things that needed doing, he’d spent the morning staring out the window. All because of Adelaide Crum.

  Days before, she’d marched off, leaving him indeed, with quite a mess. And she hadn’t even given him a chance to explain.

  By offering to buy her out, he’d been trying to protect her from herself, from the damage her views brought into her life. Against his better judgment, he’d published her third suffrage article. But that hadn’t mended the rift between them.

  Addie was right across the street, a wide thoroughfare, but nothing compared to the gulf separating them now. He’d seen the broken glass in her store window, and Sheriff Rogers had told him about the rock-throwing incident. His eyes stung. She’d hired a handyman to replace the glass rather than coming to him for help. For comfort. But that didn’t matter. He only cared about her safety.

  “Afternoon, Charles.”

  Charles jerked up his head to see Roscoe Sullivan standing near his desk.

  “Hello, Roscoe.” Charles took in the wide smile on Roscoe’s narrow face. “You look like life’s treating you well.”

  “It is, and that’s a fact. Even my rheumatism’s eased.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Roscoe plopped down in the opposite chair, the chair Charles now kept tidy thanks to Addie. She wanted to straighten more than his office. She wanted to straighten him out, too—a job, too big even for Addie.

  “I miss the energy of this place, even if I almost ran it into the ground.” Roscoe glanced out the window. “Say, I’ve been wondering, who broke the window in the millinery shop?”

  Charles shifted in his chair. “I don’t like to say this, Roscoe, but your nephew is one of the suspects.”

  “That’s ridiculous! Where did you get such an idea?”

  In dangerous territory, Charles knew to tread with care. “I saw Ed in town that day. And he has a beef with Miss Crum.”

  “So do a lot of people. That suffrage column of hers has the whole town in an uproar. She’s the cause of any problem my nephew might have with her.” Roscoe jumped up and paced in front of the desk. “From what I heard, she wants Emma and William and will go to any length to get them. Even as far as breaking Frances’s and Ed’s hearts to steal those youngsters away.”

  Roscoe stopped in front of Charles’s desk and leaned on his palms, his face inches away. “She’s obviously got you in her clutches. You’d better stop seeing her, Charles. The fact you’re courting her gives her status in the community.”

  Now that Addie wasn’t even speaking to him, the irony of Roscoe’s words twisted in his chest. “See here, Roscoe, Miss Crum had the respect of the town long before I came.”

  “That’s before she went off her rocker with these obsessions with children and voting.”

  Charles let out a gust. “She’s saner than anyone I know.”

  “It’s your fault. You’ve given her too much leeway at the paper. Appears to me you’re on her side.”

  Even though he questioned the wisdom of her column, he was on Addie’s side. “Miss Crum is half owner of The Ledger. She has a right to run what she wants in the paper.”

  “I’m going to talk to John Sparks. Emma should be back where she belongs.”

  Charles’s throat tightened. “You need to reconsider that. If Ed did vandalize Miss Crum’s shop or threw that rock, he has a serious problem. The children might not be safe wi—”

  “What are you saying? That my nephew could hurt a child? Knowing what he went through losing Eddie.” He pointed a finger under Charles’s nose. “Mark my words. I have considerable influence in this town. If either you or Miss Crum harms my nephew’s family, I’ll do whatever I can to ruin that shop of hers and this paper. You can bank on it!”

  Roscoe pivoted and strode to the door, slamming it behind him, setting the glass dancing in its frame. Charles tugged his fingers through his hair. Roscoe
had the clout to ruin their reputations and their businesses.

  Since owning the paper, Charles had taken charge of his life, his destiny. Now, thanks to his father’s malicious will, he didn’t own it outright. Addie’s column added fuel to the fire of opposition Roscoe resolved to light. But somehow the paper no longer mattered to him.

  He leaned forward, dropped his head in his hands and closed his eyes. And saw the sweet face of Addie. A face filled with joy at receiving Emma, then fear when her shop had been vandalized, and later determination.

  His stomach knotted. How far would the evildoer terrorizing Addie go? Where would this end?

  That night, restless and unable to sleep, Adelaide climbed the stairs to the attic, hoping to take her mind off the rising hostility and the fear it planted in her mind.

  In her hand, she held a lantern, and in her heart, a determination to find a clue to her mother’s relationship with Charles’s father. Crossing the attic floor near the eaves, she stepped on a squeaky plank. She didn’t want to risk waking Emma, but first thing tomorrow morning, she’d nail that board into submission. How many nails would she need?

  She knelt on the floor and noticed that the board had no nails. Her heart tripped. She sped to the toolbox at the top of the stairs, removed a screwdriver, then knelt and pried off the loose board.

  Underneath the plank, she found a packet of envelopes tied with a thin red string. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Could this be what she sought?

  She slid the first envelope out and opened it. Her gaze flew first to the salutation, then to the date, September 8, 1866, and then down the page to the signature, Calvin Crum. The father she never knew.

  As she read, phrases jumped off the page and hooked her heart. “…not a man to settle down.” “…better off without me.” “…free you to marry the love of your life.”

  With only this letter, her father had deserted them, without a doubt breaking her mother’s heart. No, not breaking—hardening it. She’d only been a few weeks old when her father left. Tears slid down Adelaide’s cheeks and plopped onto the page. She suddenly understood her mother’s bitterness, her loss of joy, her distrust of men, distrust that she drummed into Adelaide.

  She read on to where her father referred to the love of her mother’s life—it had to be Adam Graves.

  With shaky hands, she pulled out the next letter from a smaller envelope, addressed in a tight, wobbly script. Not from her father. From someone else.

  Adelaide scanned the page and the signature at the bottom. “This is from him,” she whispered.

  For a moment, Adelaide wanted to put it back under the narrow red string, to not know these things about her mother. But the past had intruded into her life and she couldn’t turn back. She read the words from thirty years ago.

  January 6, 1866

  Dearest Constance,

  From childhood on, I expected we would marry. That you could betray me this way, become pregnant with another man’s child, is more than I can bear. Though my hand shakes with anger as I write this, I love you still. I will never recover from this blow, but I will attempt to put you out of my mind. I cannot fathom how I will succeed.

  Always,

  Adam

  The paper quivered in her trembling hand, then fell to her lap. This letter must have arrived mere days before her parents’ wedding. Had her mother loved Adam? Had she wanted to cancel the nuptials? Or had she married the man she loved?

  Adam, with his claim of undying love, hadn’t offered marriage. This letter was a rebuke, not a solution to her dilemma. Beneath his declaration of love lay a veiled cruelty.

  How had this letter affected her mother? Or her father, if he found it?

  Adelaide sighed. Had they argued over Adam? Or worse, had her father left to clear the way for Mama to have the man he thought she loved? Maybe in here…

  Adelaide opened the last letter.

  October 22, 1867

  Dearest Love,

  I cannot tell you how exhilarated I was to get your letter. And how devastated. To hear you love me as much as I love you brought untold happiness. Your declaration that you’d never stopped loving me and had made a huge mistake heals the wound that your infatuation with Calvin Crum ripped in my soul.

  To know you’re divorced and free to marry, now that it’s too late, is the vilest irony, the worst of nightmares. For you see, I married a woman I met in Cincinnati and she’s already expecting my child. My heart will be with you always, but I can’t shirk my duty and leave Beulah to raise the child alone.

  If only I could. For in every way she is a disappointment. I feel cheated, enraged at this cruel twist of fate. I cannot stop thinking of you, as you once were, the lovely innocent girl of my dreams. No one will ever fill your place in my heart.

  With undying devotion,

  Adam

  And there, in Adam Graves’s stifled scrawl, were some of the answers she’d been seeking and even more questions. Imagining the pain these letters must have brought her mother, tears flowed down her face. If Adam wanted to stay with his wife, why had he held on to his feelings for her mother?

  She stared again at the yellowed sheet, willing it to provide more answers. But it held the same words as before.

  Adelaide wiped her eyes, then folded the letter and laid it in her lap. She couldn’t comprehend how her mother and Adam had such a great love for each other, but couldn’t love their own flesh and blood.

  Whatever Adam had felt, it hadn’t been love. Not the kind of love spoken of in the Bible. As they’d read the passage on love, Pastor Foley had explained to the congregation that charity meant the same as love. The words paraded through her mind. Love is patient, love is kind, not easily angered, keeps no record of wrong. Always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

  If only she and Charles had grown up in loving homes.

  She choked back a sob. The last shred of hope of finding something that would truly explain her mother’s indifference drifted like dust to the attic floor. In her unhappiness, her mother had distanced herself, had wasted years, losing opportunity after opportunity to love her daughter.

  Replacing the letters in their envelopes, Adelaide slipped them under the string, and then returned the packet to its resting place.

  She remained motionless in the attic thinking about what might have been if her mother had seen past her infatuation and realized Calvin Crum wasn’t a staying kind of man.

  How ironic that Adam Graves couldn’t let go.

  Or had her mother been the lucky one? If she’d married Adam, would she have suffered as Beulah had? Or had discontent with the way his life had turned out led to such bitterness that Adam had taken it out on his family?

  A mouse darted past, his tail flicking as he scooted under a chair and into the dark depths of a corner. Adelaide roused.

  Her days had been filled with one shock after another, first the vandalism, then Charles’s request to sell him the paper when she’d thought he wanted to propose, then the rock shattering her window and her peace of mind and now these letters from the two men who had ruined her mother’s life.

  Life wasn’t easy, and as Charles once said, was often unfair, but with God’s help, she’d survive. Though tonight, she had no idea how.

  Adelaide opened the shop as usual, but so weary she feared her bones might collapse beneath her. She’d been up half the night, thinking about the letters, missing Charles. Unable to sleep, she’d stewed about Ed or Jacob coming after her and the shop’s lack of business. She sighed, ashamed when she needed it most, she’d been unable to release her worries to God.

  Against her will, she crossed to the window to check for any sign of Charles. Leaning her face against the frame, she ached to have him near. Somehow, she’d find a way to go on without him. Inside she felt hollow, as if a space had been vacated that no one else could fill.

  The bell jingled. Forcing a smile to her face, Adelaide crossed to the door to greet her customer. “Mrs. Hawkins
, I’m glad you stopped in. I have your alterations done.”

  Her face pink and moist from the heat of the warm spring day, the buxom matron nodded. “I’d hoped you did.”

  Adelaide led her to the counter and pulled the wrapped garment from underneath, then handed Mrs. Hawkins the bill. “While you’re here, would you like to look for a hat? I’ve repaired the damaged ones from the break-in. They’re a bargain.”

  Digging in her purse, Mrs. Hawkins shook her head. “If I came home with one of your hats, Leroy would pitch a fit. Roscoe Sullivan told him you and the new editor blame Ed Drummond for the trouble you’re having. Leroy’s worked up.” She slapped the cash to pay her bill on the counter and the coins bounced to the floor. “He and Ed are hunting buddies.”

  Adelaide bent to retrieve the coins. Did Charles now suspect Ed rather than Jacob or some disgruntled citizen?

  Mrs. Hawkins’s hands fluttered in front of her like a bird on its first flight. “Where on earth did you get the notion ladies should vote?”

  “You don’t think women should have the right to express their opinions?”

  “Not when it causes me trouble.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “You should be! I need a new hat and now I have to order it out of the catalogue, without getting to try it on first. Too bad you didn’t think of anyone but yourself.” Mrs. Hawkins grabbed the bundle and headed for the door.

  Adelaide watched her customer’s retreating back, biting her lip, squelching a desire to weep. Exhaustion—that must be the reason for her reaction.

  Why had she tried to bring about change for herself and the women of Noblesville when all that mattered were Emma and William? And now after her columns, no one respected her suspicions about Ed Drummond’s treatment of the children.