0764217518

by Melissa Jagears

  Snow burrowed under his collar, and he squinted against the wet flakes attacking his eyes. Light flickered behind the church’s thin, tall windows. Lydia was probably in there. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to attend a Sunday night meeting, but he wouldn’t give in to the impulse. He wouldn’t attend church just to get a glimpse of Lydia.

  He scuffled his way past the massive stone church, and the irritated voices grew louder. Maybe he should take a peek inside. He turned to jog up the stairs, then pulled on the heavy oaken doors. A blast of lukewarm air escaped, hitting his frozen face. After stepping inside the little corridor that separated the sanctuary from the out-of-doors, he kept a hold on the brass handles and gently let the doors shut behind him. The voices definitely didn’t sound like worshippers singing. He turned to pad up the balcony’s staircase, the mutinous tones growing louder the higher he climbed.

  Creeping into the darkened balcony, he sat in the blackest shadow and scanned the cavernous sanctuary awash in light from gas flames. Lydia, wrapped in a navy wool cloak, sat up front with some of the women from that meddlesome moral society surrounding her. Quite a few elders of the church—a few with wives and children—were scattered near the front.

  “We’re all concerned, and for good reason.” Pastor Wisely paced in front of the front pew and patted his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief, though the church’s interior wasn’t much warmer than outside. “But we need to make sure we’re thinking clearly and judging with care.”

  “It’s clear, Reverend.” Mr. Taylor stood with a Bible open in his hand. “1 Corinthians 5, ‘Therefore put away from among yourselves that wicked person.’ According to this passage, we’re to judge those within the church and send them away if they aren’t repentant.”

  Leaning forward ever so slightly, Nicholas observed the faces in the crowd. Though it was impossible to recognize everyone, other than the Wiselys and Mr. Hargrove, he didn’t see many known for their level-headed thinking. This didn’t bode well for whomever they were debating on casting out.

  The pastor held out his hand and swept it across the room. “We should not quote the Bible to justify our actions, but rather follow it in full, letting every bit of it direct us.”

  Well said. But would they heed his advice? Mr. Taylor was one of several men in this church who had no right to enforce that verse. Why, right now, he could go down there and reveal several of Mr. Taylor’s moral shortcomings, even one or two misdemeanors he’d gotten away with.

  But he couldn’t expose Mr. Taylor’s secret life without exposing his own.

  Mrs. Little stood. “Whether or not she remains in our church, she certainly can’t remain in our moral society.”

  Which poor lady was at the mercy of these militaristic women? And why did Lydia remain among them rather than stand up and leave? Had she learned nothing in all her time with him?

  “In my eighty-two years on this earth”—Mr. Hargrove huffed as he pushed himself up from his seat—“I’ve lost friends and business partners over things I didn’t do. Even after I tried to clear up misunderstandings, the damage had already been done. I think we need to stop talking about her as if she weren’t here and start asking her questions. But before I sit down, I want to remind us all that Christ supped with the prostitutes and the tax collectors.”

  Evelyn stood to her full height and scanned the room. “Mr. Hargrove is right. Christ didn’t shun sinners, he helped them. Maybe we aren’t—”

  “There is a fine line between helping sinners and being corrupted by them.” Mrs. Little stuck her hands on her hips and glared at Evelyn, who didn’t retreat to her seat despite the cold glare she was getting. “The moral society, as a group, can help sinners see where they’ve gone astray, but cavorting with them is asking for trouble. There is safety in numbers. My son is very concerned about her reputation, as obviously he should be. He’s even warned her not to go there, but she refuses to listen to reason.”

  The mumbling escalated, and Nicholas gripped the back of the pew in front of him. If Sebastian was the one concerned, then that had to mean—

  “Is that true, Lydia?” Mrs. Little shook her head as if she were disappointed in a small child. “Can you not see the wisdom in staying away from that area of town?”

  A hush fell over the sanctuary, but a low, dangerous rumble rolled in Nicholas’s throat. He clenched the pew, forcing himself to remain seated. His churning stomach was urging him to go downstairs and spew out the secret lives of some of the men looking so smug below. But he couldn’t, not without the congregation asking how he knew, not without revealing things about himself he’d made certain very few people knew.

  What had he done to Lydia? If he hadn’t decided to teach her a lesson, she’d not be here now, feeling the condemnation of a group of so-called Christ followers.

  He’d been responsible for what happened to Gracie—he knew that—but he’d been forgiven for it. But unlike with his wife, he’d not been unfeeling or self-centered with Lydia.

  He swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. Why would God allow his actions to destroy her when his motivations this time had been good?

  Lydia fidgeted in her cloak, then raised her chin just like she did when he’d chastised her. “I failed to hear anything reasonable in Sebastian’s warnings.”

  He winced. She should say nothing and let them believe however they wished, or leave before she riled them up. He stared at Pastor Wisely as if he could jolt the man into ending the meeting.

  Mrs. Little marched up to the platform stairs. “She’s been seen in the red-light district talking to prostitutes several times apart from our crusades.”

  And who saw her? Sebastian? Why wasn’t he here now? Was he so wrapped up in his mother’s skirts he’d allow her to accuse Lydia in front of an entire assembly without showing his face? Certainly it was some male, since the witness was not on trial alongside Lydia.

  He barely suppressed a maniac-like growl. How he hated the double standard. If he dallied with prostitutes, no man in town would quit working with him. If Lydia simply talked to a lady of questionable character, she’d be shunned and raked over the coals by men and women alike.

  He could save her if he spoke up, though defending her publicly was equivalent to throwing away everything he’d been working on for the last few years.

  “A decent woman would never socialize with a harlot. The corrupt nature of a prostitute is vile and contagious.” Mrs. Little raised her fist. “She destroys young men with disease and lies; she demolishes marriages and community morals. Any lady seen keeping company with fallen women can no longer be considered respectable.”

  He stood so fast his pew thumped against the wooden floor.

  A thump in the balcony arrested Lydia’s attention. She turned slightly in the pew to see a tall bundle of black standing in the upper-story shadows. She gripped her hands together, as if she could anchor her heart from flying from her chest.

  He’s here.

  For a moment, she’d thought it’d be a fool’s errand to defend herself, but she had to say something to stop Nicholas before he came down and told them anything.

  Lydia shot up beside Evelyn and turned to face the crowd. “I am a decent woman, and I’m ashamed to be a part of a congregation that condemns me before asking what I was doing.”

  “So what were you doing, Miss King?” Mrs. Taylor asked, her husband scowling beside her.

  “I’m helping those who need help, like the church ought to do. As a member of the moral society, I think it’s right that I be worried about those entrapped in a life of sin. If they want to get out—”

  “So you don’t deny being in the red-light district?” Was Mrs. Little’s scowl actually a smile?

  “I’ve been there just as you have.”

  “Going with the ladies in the moral society on a serenade is not the same thing.”

  “Who’s going to fault me for looking out for the needs of three abandoned children?” She looked around the roo
m. Very few eyes met hers. “You can go to the police station and look in the record books. I informed them of a very urgent need on behalf of some innocent children, and nothing was done about it.”

  “There are reasons, Miss King, that the moral society does things the way we do. Going against us—”

  “Now, Mrs. Little.” Pastor Wisely held up his hand. “Miss King has been a conscientious member of your moral society. My wife and daughter have mentioned her good heart several times.”

  Lydia shook her head at the suggestion that her heart had had much good in it, but at least it had gotten better. “I wasn’t going against anyone.”

  “Hearing that you were alone in that area of town with no chaperone makes me question whether we can believe anything you say.” Mr. Taylor’s accusation caused a few gasps.

  Lydia’s skin froze, and in turn, her whole body. How could she answer that? If he believed such a thing, what could she possibly say that would make him accept anything different after she’d already explained her purpose?

  Bernadette stood up on her other side. “We have no reason to believe Lydia is lying. She’s told us she attempted to do charity, and we should take her motivation at face value. If God is calling her to help these people—and the Bible backs up such a calling—who are we to stand against her?”

  “Then why aren’t you taking up her crusade and going to The Line after dark with her, if it’s God’s will?” Mrs. Taylor’s tone sounded as skeptical as her husband’s.

  Bernadette rubbed her arms. “I know what God wants me to do, and at this time, that’s not it.”

  Evelyn helped her mother sink back onto her spot on the pew as her father held up his hand. “Now, people, let’s watch what we’re saying, or I’m going to end tonight’s service. Maybe I should do that anyway.”

  “Just because your wife isn’t worried about doing the Lord’s work anymore, doesn’t mean we aren’t.” An arrogant male voice echoed in the sanctuary.

  Lydia stalked down the aisle. “I have nothing but respect for Mrs. Wisely’s decision to pursue God instead of works, and you should too. She’s more concerned about her relationship being right with God than pleasing you. And now, the same goes for me. I want God to tell me, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant,’ and whether or not you’d tell me the same doesn’t matter to me anymore. I don’t want to belong to a group more concerned with banishing the immoral rather than eradicating immorality. Christ didn’t sit in the synagogue gossiping with his apostles on how bad the world was. No, He went out and changed it for the better, one person at a time, like Mr. Hargrove said.”

  She stopped in the middle of the aisle and spun in a slow circle. “Maybe I’m not going about it the best way, and maybe I can’t make a real difference, but I know that sitting on my backside lamenting the existence of eight blocks of sin in the middle of our town won’t do the people there who need Christ any good.” She glanced up to where she thought she could see Nicholas standing in the shadows. “Not long ago, my motivations were terrible, but God has given me some wise examples to follow, and I intend to.”

  She looked back at Bernadette, who was focused on her lap, but Evelyn gave her an encouraging nod.

  “Why are we willing to help some and not others? When I was forced to plumb the depths of my heart, what I found wasn’t pretty, but I can change. I want to change. It may not be comfortable, it may not be safe, but I’ll seek God’s favor over man’s. Won’t you?”

  Some woman’s sniffles and the shuffling of feet filled the silence as Lydia waited for anyone to answer. She spun toward Pastor Wisely, who was holding his hand across his chin, a sad droopy set to his eyes.

  She turned to Mrs. Little. “I can no longer support your son’s political ambitions if all he wants to do is regulate immorality. What he needs is a plan to change the hearts of people who frequent sordid places. Otherwise, his slogans and campaigning are a waste of time.” Like this meeting.

  She shook her head. Their hearts wouldn’t change instantly—hers hadn’t. “I don’t expect to change your minds tonight, because it certainly took me a while to see how my heart wasn’t right. But please think about it. Don’t shove away what I’ve said.”

  Mr. Hargrove smiled and winked at her, but mostly everyone else stared at their laps or scowled.

  “I’ll leave now. But please, the next time you hear things about me that worry you, ask me first.”

  She stalked out to the foyer and hovered a moment near the balcony staircase as the murmuring behind her grew. She climbed the stairs to peep into the balcony but saw no one. Had Nicholas left or had she only imagined the shadow of a man?

  If he believed she’d just done the right thing, wouldn’t he have stayed to steady her as she walked out on legs made of gelatin?

  Well, whether or not Nicholas had been here, she hoped she’d made God proud, because He was likely all she’d have left to cling to as her world fell apart.

  35

  The snow picked up as Nicholas raced the flakes home. It was too late to look for the children now.

  After Lydia had left the church, he’d stayed in the shadows to see how the congregation would react to her speech. However, Pastor Wisely had quickly dismissed everyone, trapping Nicholas upstairs until the crowd dispersed.

  While they’d slowly made their way out, he’d pondered why he’d stayed in the shadows instead of coming to Lydia’s defense.

  At the top of the rise, his mansion’s lamps flickered in the first-story windows, beckoning him like a sailor headed to shore. Except home wasn’t where he’d find a stable beach, but rather turbulent waves of second-guessing everything he was doing.

  He was the reason Lydia had been accosted tonight, yet she’d fearlessly admitted to her part in their escapades despite the hardships that would bring.

  Whereas he’d hidden his mission to avoid the condemnation of his brothers and sisters in Christ.

  Publicly declaring what he was about would make everything so much harder. And yet, he and Caroline alone couldn’t help all the women and children desiring to be free of the red-light district’s clutches.

  Perhaps Lydia had been right. If they were given the chance, more people might be willing to help than he’d thought. Mr. Hargrove and the Wiselys had come to her defense tonight. Several more had filed out more slowly than the vocal naysayers, muttering their concern over how the congregation was treating Lydia and the people in the red-light district.

  After thumping up the porch stairs, Nicholas tapped the mucky snow off his boots and unlocked the door, letting the welcoming heat warm his face. It was probably a sin to warm such a large place for just himself and his servants, even if it was his own natural gas fields fueling his brand-new furnace.

  “Mr. Lowe?”

  He spun on his heel to face the night, his neck hairs prickling at the unfamiliar voice in the darkness. “Who’s there?” The door clicked shut behind him, and he forced himself not to yank out his pocket knife—it was a woman’s voice, after all. But none of his maids would’ve skulked outside in the blowing snow to talk to him.

  A figure unfolded from where she’d sat on the portico’s stone ledge.

  He held up his hand. “Stay right there and tell me who you are.”

  The house lights made the snow resting on the woman’s cloak glisten. “Well, I’m . . . I’m not sure whether . . . I mean, does it matter what my name is?”

  “It matters since you’re on my property uninvited.”

  “I’ve heard you take in people like me, uninvited even.”

  It was too cold for talking in circles. “Tell me plainly who you are.”

  Silence.

  This woman had to have a compelling reason to see him if she’d waited in the snow. “If you tell me who you are, I’ll let you inside.”

  She shuffled back.

  Was she worried about propriety? “My cook and housekeeper should be in the house since I’ve yet to have dinner.”

  “I’m . . . ah, I’m .
. .”

  His ears hurt and his fingers were numb. “It’s too cold for either of us to be out much longer.”

  “I used to be called Bessie. I’ve heard you take in prostitutes—not for favors, but to work. No one wants to hire me for a regular job, and no one wants me for favors anymore.”

  Why hadn’t she approached Caroline instead of him? Despite the freezing wind, he felt beads of sweat above his brow. He wiped the moisture off with his woolen coat sleeve.

  If this woman knew what kind of women lived beneath his roof—and believed he knew it as well . . .

  He looked up at the moon barely glowing behind snow-laden clouds. You’re done with me doing things my way—aren’t you?

  If he acknowledged this woman now, it was as good as going public. If she left and told others . . .

  He wasn’t ready; he’d just escaped revealing his mission back at church.

  But he couldn’t turn away a shivering, desperate woman just to keep his secrets.

  He licked his lips and opened the door. “Come in.”

  She swept past him.

  He closed the door and pulled off his boots to keep from tracking in snow. “Take off your cloak, if you’d like.” He could smell thyme, pepper, and rosemary wafting out of the kitchen. “I’m about to have dinner, if you’d join me—”

  “I couldn’t eat with you.” She shook her head, her hood pulled so far forward her face remained in shadow.

  He shook off his hat before hanging it on a hook. What did it matter anymore? If he admitted to taking in prostitutes for work, he might as well eat with one. The town would know soon enough.

  But how did this woman know already? Although Henri was no longer helping him—and seemingly never had for the right reasons—he didn’t believe his friend would expose him. “Who told you to come to me?”