Sarah Redeemed

by Vikki Kestell

O’Dell glanced at it. “A speakeasy invitation.”

  “Speakeasy? I do not know what that is.”

  “Never mind. How did you get there?”

  “My friend sent a gentleman to pick me up. He hired a cab.”

  “Miss Rose allowed you go out with a stranger?”

  “Well, to be fair, she did interview him first. He comes from a respectable family, and he seemed proper enough.”

  “Proper? Was it proper for him to escort you there but leave you to find your own way home?”

  Oh, if you only knew the improper things I witnessed tonight.

  She felt sick with mortification and sighed again. “It was a terrible mistake on my part to accept the invitation.” She looked across the dark car. “I thank you for coming out to rescue me. I know you have more questions, but I fear that my knee is bleeding. I would like to go inside and see to it.”

  He was quiet for a moment before responding. “Very well. I shall see you inside.”

  “Thank you.”

  They were silent up the long walkway and up the steps to the porch. Sarah unlocked the front door with as little noise as possible and stepped across the threshold. A soft light shone from the great room: Miss Rose was waiting for her.

  “Thank you again, Mr. O’Dell.”

  He tipped his hat to her. “I am glad you are all right, Miss Ellinger.”

  She nodded and closed and latched the door behind her. Then she crept into the great room, prepared to face Rose’s questions . . . and disappointment. The clock on the mantel read after one in the morning, and Rose lay curled on one of the sofas, her head cushioned on a throw pillow.

  “Miss Rose?”

  Rose did not stir. She looked older to Sarah in her sleep, and tired. For several minutes, Sarah watched Rose’s even breathing, wondering what to do.

  If I were to awaken her, she would insist that I tell her everything—and she would not rest until she had heard me out. However, I can tell that she needs her sleep. It would be wiser to wait and talk to her tomorrow when we are both rested.

  Coming to a decision, Sarah reached for an afghan and spread it over Rose’s slumbering figure. Rose did not shift or stir.

  Sarah turned off the lamp and crept upstairs. By the time she had undressed for bed, washed her stinging hands, and wiped and bandaged her knee, she had begun to hope she might avoid a difficult conversation with Rose altogether.

  If she fell asleep before midnight, she may think I arrived home on time and that I allowed her to continue sleeping. I can but hope so! If she knew what all I saw, she would be deeply grieved. And I would not want to be the cause of her disappointment. Perhaps I can spare her the details of this wicked evening.

  As she drifted to sleep, a more truthful rationale raised its head: And perhaps you are only trying to spare yourself.

  THE HOUSE WAS FULLY awake when Sarah yanked her covers aside. As she put her feet on the floor and tried to stand, she found she could not bear to put any weight on her leg nor could she bend her knee. Not only could she not stand, but a sharp throbbing recommenced immediately—as did every rueful memory of the previous evening.

  She perched on the edge of her bed and lifted her gown: The makeshift bandage she had wrapped about her knee was crusted with dried and oozing blood; her knee was swollen to twice its usual size. Black and blue streaks crept from beneath the bandage.

  “Oh, bother.”

  Someone rapped on her door. “Oh, Sarah! Breakfast, dear.” It was Blythe.

  “Blythe? Would you come in, please?”

  Blythe poked her sunny face through a crack in the door. “Did you have a lovely evening? I cannot wait to hear about it.”

  Then she spotted the bandage and the cringe of discomfort on Sarah’s face and stepped into Sarah’s bedroom. “Why, Sarah, whatever has happened?”

  “I took a tumble in the dark, and I fear I did not adequately clean the wound last night before I went to sleep. My knee is terribly swollen.”

  “Oh, no! I shall fetch Miss Rose at once.”

  Sarah did not bother to argue. She knew well enough that Rose—and likely Marit—would be upstairs shortly, bringing with them the “bandage basket” Tabitha had put together for the house’s medical emergencies.

  Sarah was right; she was still working the old, crusted bandage loose when Rose and Marit appeared in her doorway. Marit carried a basin of warm water; Rose toted the familiar basket.

  Rose said, “Let us moisten that bandage, Sarah, lest you tear it loose and cause more bleeding,” but it was Marit who took charge.

  Pulling up a low seat, Marit lifted Sarah’s foot and carefully laid Sarah’s leg across her lap. She placed a warm, wet cloth on the bandage to allow the water to soften the dried blood. When she pulled the last strip of the soiled bandage from Sarah’s knee, both she and Rose huffed with dismay, and Marit commenced to scold Sarah.

  “Vat vere you thinking, Sarah? So much dirt and many bits of gravel left in the vound!”

  “Gravel?” Sarah bent forward and peered down at her knee. “I guess I did not notice last night.”

  “We will have to soak her leg to coax that grit from it, Marit.”

  “Ja, ve vill.” Marit transferred Sarah’s foot to the low seat and bustled downstairs to set water on the stove to heat, leaving Sarah and Rose alone.

  Sarah could not look Rose in the face when she asked, “What happened, Sarah?”

  “I-I fell. On the driveway of the house where we were. I did not realize how hard I had hit my knee.”

  Rose spotted Sarah’s dress hanging on a peg and lifted the hem, finding the jagged hole in the delicate fabric “Oh, Sarah! And your lovely dress is ruined.”

  Ruth and Pansy appeared, lugging the tin bathtub from the second-floor washroom. They set it on the floor of Sarah’s bedroom and disappeared, only to return with clean towels and washcloths; Blythe materialized behind them, wringing her thin little hands. Rose thanked all three girls and shooed them away, leaving with them. She had not asked Sarah any further questions.

  Soon Ruth and Pansy returned to pour the contents of two steaming kettles into the tub. They did so several times until Marit had heated enough hot water for the tub. She and Rose eased Sarah down into eight inches of steaming water. Sarah flinched when the water touched her skinned palms—and she hissed as the warmth penetrated the torn flesh in her knee. She made no further sounds, but tears trickled down her face and dribbled into the tub.

  “Let me see your hands, Sarah.” Rose washed Sarah’s grazed palms with soap and clean water, then dabbed them with ointment. “Your hands will heal in a few days, but I do not like the look of your knee, Sarah. It is quite bruised and inflamed.”

  “Ja, so svollen.” Marit worked a warm cloth across Sarah’s knee, sponging bits of debris from the flaps of torn skin. “Ach. This tear is too vide and deep. It vill not stop bleeding.”

  Rose leaned closer. “I think it may require stitching. We must call the doctor; I shall ring him now.” At the door she added, “Later, when you are feeling better, we shall talk further.”

  Sarah slumped back in the tub, defeated.

  “WELL, MISS ELLINGER, you have suffered quite a nasty gouge to your knee, but that may not be the worst of it. You say your knee twisted when you fell on it?”

  “Yes.”

  Sarah gritted her teeth as Dr. Croft pressed gently on and around her knee and bent and moved her leg this way and that. Every manipulation of the swollen joint stung her, but not as much as the indignity of a man touching her bare leg—in particular, this man.

  “We shall not know the extent of the damage to your knee until the swelling has gone down. I shall stitch the worst of your wounds and paint them all with merbromin. Then I shall show someone the correct way to pack your knee in ice and leave instructions on the duration of the ice compresses, so we do not burn your skin.”

  He glanced up at her. “You are not to place any weight on this knee for a week. I shall return next Saturday to rem
ove the stitches and appraise your progress. The injury could be only a severe sprain, but you are as likely to have torn or damaged the ligaments or tendons. We shall know more when the swelling abates.”

  “Next Saturday? But, my work at the shop. I—”

  Croft waylaid her objection. “You are excused from work at present, Miss Ellinger. We shall see how you fare in a week’s time.”

  Preparing to stitch Sarah’s knee, he laid out the necessary instruments on a clean cloth, poured alcohol into a dish and placed the thread and a curved needle into the disinfectant. “I must warn you that this will sting, Miss Ellinger.”

  Rose gripped Sarah’s hand as he took up the threaded needle with an instrument like a pair of pincers. He drove the needle into her skin and wove the torn edges together. Sarah was determined not to make a sound, and she ground her teeth to make good on her vow—but tears forced their way out and down her cheeks with each tug of the needle and pull of thread through her skin.

  When Croft had finished stitching her knee, he painted the skin with a liberal quantity of a carmine-red solution that stung far worse than the needle or alcohol-soaked thread had. Sarah tried so very hard, but she could not hold back a prolonged whimper.

  Rose squeezed her hand. “There, there. Almost done.”

  As Croft bandaged her wound, he smiled in Sarah’s direction—a detached, professional smile—and admitted, “You did well, Miss Ellinger. I admire your fortitude.”

  To Sarah’s ears, he was talking down to her, and she itched to retort, “I do not require your approbation, Dr. Croft, nor did I ask for it.”

  She gnawed a hole in her bottom lip instead.

  Croft then produced a brown bottle which he handed to Rose. “Shake this well before each use and see that Miss Ellinger takes one teaspoon every six hours for the pain. Follow this dosage for three days. After three days, you may give her the same dosage as she needs it, but never to exceed one teaspoon every six hours.”

  He spoke as if Sarah were not in the room—or, worse, as if she were a child in need of adult supervision.

  Sarah stuffed her mouth with a fisted hand, fearing what words might jump out should she remove it.

  IN ANSWER TO THE DISRUPTION of their Sunday morning routine, Rose had sent the girls off to church with Billy, Marit, and Mr. Wheatley. She and Olive stayed behind to see to icing Sarah’s knee.

  “Joy and Mr. O’Dell will fetch us more ice after church this morning,” Rose commented. “Perhaps you and Joy can decide how to manage the shop without you this week.” Rose still had not broached the subject of the previous evening, nor had she delved deeper into how Sarah had injured her knee.

  All Sarah could think was, Perhaps Miss Rose has given some thought to my objections over being treated as one of the “girls.”

  That afternoon, Joy and O’Dell purchased the required ice and brought it to Marit to store in the house’s ice box. Joy came upstairs and sat with Sarah. Blythe was already keeping Sarah company. While they talked, Blythe held baby Jacob in her arms and marveled at his soft skin and minuscule perfection.

  “I have decided to work Corrine’s hours while you are laid up, Sarah, and Corrine will take your hours. I shall keep Jacob with me, and Tabitha has agreed to have Matty visit Liam while I am at the shop.”

  “I would keep him for you, if I could,” Sarah murmured, drowsy from Dr. Croft’s medication. “I am so very, very sorry to subject you to this inconvenience. Very, very, very sorry.”

  Sarah’s tongue felt furry and slow, but not as sluggish as her thinking, nor did she realize her last (and redundant) words came out as, “Verrrrr, verrrrr, verrrrr sorrrrrr.” She also did not notice when Joy and Blythe traded amused winks.

  Joy cleared her throat to keep from chuckling aloud. “Do not fret, Sarah. We shall manage, and we shall pray for you to recover and suffer no permanent damage to your knee.”

  THE ICE APPLIED TO her knee and the medicine Dr. Croft had prescribed managed much of Sarah’s pain. However, Sarah began to understand that the medicine—a nasty, bitter concoction—also put her into a dreadful, fog-like state. She spent the rest of Sunday sleeping off the medicine’s effects. On Monday morning, she begged Rose to cut the dosage in half.

  “I cannot talk or think straight. I have horrid dreams,” she told Rose—although her words were slurred and came out sounding as, “Can’ talk . . . rrriii . . . think . . . straigh’ . . . horrrrd dreamssss.”

  “We must follow Dr. Croft’s instructions, Sarah. Three days, he said.”

  The spoon hovered near Sarah’s mouth; she shuddered and turned her face away. “Sooo bitt—ugh!”

  Rose had taken the opportunity to insert the spoon and dump its contents into Sarah’s open mouth. She gagged, then swallowed it.

  “Rest now, Sarah.”

  Rose placed the bottle on Sarah’s dresser and closed the door behind her.

  SARAH WAS DOZING AGAIN when Rose stooped over her. “Sarah, dear. You have a visitor.”

  “Whaaa?”

  You have a visitor.”

  “Uhhh?”

  Rose lifted Sarah and tucked two pillows behind her. A moment later, she murmured, “This way, please.” Someone entered Sarah’s room and Rose closed the door behind her.

  “Hello, Sarah.”

  Sarah cracked her eyelids and tried to focus. “Lo . . . la?”

  “Yes, I am here. I heard about your accident. I-I brought you flowers.”

  “Kind . . . of you.”

  “Your Miss Rose helped me arrange them in a vase. Would you like me to set them here where you can see them?”

  Sarah flopped her head in the affirmative. “Howww?”

  “How did I hear of your accident? I stopped into the shop to see you. Mrs. O’Dell and Corrine told me. I already had your address, so I came ’round to look in on you.”

  “Ohhh.” Sarah thought Lola’s explanation sounded a little choked and watery, but she was in no fit state to be certain.

  Lola leaned over Sarah, took her hand, and stroked it. “Tell me, did you injure yourself at Jason’s party, Sarah? Was that where you fell?”

  “Mm hmm.”

  Lola sniffled and wiped her eyes. “Then it is my fault you hurt yourself. I am terribly sorry. Everything about that evening—all of it—was my fault. It was entirely cavalier on my part and unfair to you to thrust you into such unfamiliar surroundings.”

  She caressed Sarah’s forehead. “I promise I shall make it up to you, sweet Sarah.”

  Her touch was soothing, and Sarah nodded off. She did not later recall when Lola departed. To be precise, she was left with only fuzzy fragments of Lola’s visit.

  Hours later, when Rose reappeared to administer Sarah’s next dose, Rose commented in a subdued voice, “It was kind of your friend to visit and bring flowers.”

  “Mmm.”

  Sarah did not know that when Rose left her room, she went to her own. She did not know that Rose locked her door or that she dropped to her knees beside her bed to pray.

  “O Lord, please help us to win this new friend of Sarah’s to Jesus. Help us, Lord, for I am concerned for the influence Lola is having on Sarah.”

  Chapter 11

  On Wednesday Sarah refused Rose’s first offer of the medicine. “I cannot bear being out of my mind any longer,” she declared. “And I really must get shut of this bed and this room! All my bones ache from inactivity.”

  Shortly after breakfast, Rose enlisted Billy to carry Sarah downstairs to the great room, where Olive appeared with a pair of borrowed crutches. Blythe hovered nearby; she carried a lightweight afghan.

  “Dr. Croft said that you are to place no weight upon your leg, Sarah,” Rose reminded her, “therefore, I must insist that one of us be with you whenever you move about with these aids. We do not want you to take another fall. So, then. Let us see now how you get on with them.”

  With Billy on one side and Olive on the other, Sarah stood upright, balancing on her left leg, the crutches under her a
rms. She swayed—and Billy steadied her.

  “Only three days in bed and I am as dizzy and weak as a kitten,” Sarah moaned.

  “It will pass. As soon as you are steady, try to take a few steps.”

  Sarah had to learn how to plant the crutches ahead of her and swing her good leg to follow them. After she had mastered the movement, she made two full turns up and down the great room. She was perspiring from the effort.

  “That is sufficient for a first attempt,” Rose declared. She and Olive had prepared a comfortable chair for Sarah to sit in and an ottoman to support her leg. They helped Sarah into the chair and elevated her leg with a pillow placed upon the ottoman. Blythe spread the afghan over her feet.

  Sarah sighed. “Thank you, Billy and Olive. Thank you, Blythe, dear. Thank you, Miss Rose. I shall do much better here.”

  “How is your pain?”

  “I can bear it,” Sarah declared. She wanted no more of Dr. Croft’s vile concoction!

  She laid back with a new book supplied by Rose, Billy left for his job, and Rose and Olive joined Marit in the kitchen to plan the day’s household tasks.

  That left Blythe, still hovering nearby. “May I do anything for you, Miss Sarah?”

  “No, dear heart. Unless you wish to read to me?”

  “Oh! I-I do not know how to read very well. I am sorry, Miss Sarah.”

  “You do not need to be sorry, Blythe. Perhaps I could read to you?”

  “I would like that.”

  So, with Blythe sharing her ottoman, Sarah read aloud.

  Later, Rose sat down at her little desk in the corner of the great room and began to answer some correspondence. Olive appeared every hour to help Sarah stand and walk about with the crutches, and Mr. Wheatley, having finished his work in the yard, played three games of checkers with her.

  But Sarah was not a person content to sit idle all day.

  “You must have something I can do, Miss Rose!”

  “Hmm.” She thought a bit. “I shall ask Olive to supply you with handwork.”