Sarah Redeemed

by Vikki Kestell

  Rose considered Sarah. “I must speak truth to you, Sarah, for Jesus told his disciples that the truth and only the truth of his word will make us free. Yes, I must speak truth to the great lie you have voiced.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened. “The lie?”

  “You say you cannot bear to hurt Lola, that it is wrong to hurt her so: That is a lie.”

  “But . . .”

  “An enormous gulf lies between ‘hurt’ and ‘harm,’ Sarah, and not all that hurts us, harms us: Faithful are the wounds of a friend. Judge for yourself—will you speak the truth to Lola so that Jesus has time and opportunity to save her from hell? Or will you deceive her by obscuring the certainty of the coming judgment?

  “Which of these choices will actually harm Lola? Which is the evidence of real love? Painful truth in this lifetime or deception leading to irrevocable judgment in the next?”

  “O God!” Sarah cried.

  “And it grieves me further to also tell you, Sarah, that not only does your continued relationship with Lola put your walk with the Lord in grave jeopardy, but you also stand to lose everything else good and beloved in your life.”

  Sarah turned her wet face to Rose. “What do you mean?”

  “I am charged with maintaining a godly home within these walls. If you were to choose to continue your relationship with Lola, could I allow you to remain here at Palmer House? No, dear one. I could not allow that.”

  “What? No!”

  “This cannot be news to you, dearest. Do you not recall our first weeks here? Do you not remember that tense morning at breakfast, ten years past now, when I reminded all of us that living at Palmer House was a privilege that came with obligations?”

  Sarah had not forgotten. A decade later, Rose’s words were still fresh in her memory:

  Each of you knew the expectations before you accepted our offer to become part of this family. Unfortunately, attitudes and behaviors as of late have deteriorated badly. This must change, and it must change today.

  . . . If you no longer wish to participate, then you are choosing to go elsewhere.

  Sarah whispered, “It was the morning I surrendered my life to Jesus.”

  “Yes, it was, and you have grown in the truth since then. You know the difference between right and wrong. Therefore, I must ask you, Sarah, have you not considered how damaging your example would be to the young, wounded lives who have only lately begun to trust in Jesus?

  “Think, Sarah! Think of Blythe! Do you see how your little sister follows your every move with her eyes? How she emulates you and longs to be like you? If I permitted you to remain here and you were to injure her faith . . .”

  Rose’s throat closed on her words. “I can only quote from Matthew 18:6, where it is written,

  “But whoso shall offend

  one of these little ones which believe in me,

  it were better for him that a millstone

  were hanged about his neck,

  and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.”

  Sarah buried her face in her hands. “I shall not harm Blythe! No, I shall not! She has suffered far too much already. I could not bear to see her destroyed again.”

  “Then you will break off your friendship with Lola?”

  Through her tears, Sarah slowly nodded.

  “I must have your promise on this, Sarah.”

  Many seconds ticked by before Sarah whispered, “I promise.”

  SARAH’S NERVES WERE on edge Friday morning; she had made a promise to Rose to break off her relationship with Lola, but she was fearful of the confrontation. When the shop’s telephone rang around ten, Sarah answered it with trepidation.

  “Good morning. Michaels’ Fine Furnishings.”

  “Good morning, dearest Sarah!”

  Sarah smiled in spite of her intentions and turned her back to the shop and Corrine’s watchful eyes.

  “Hello, Lola. How are you?”

  “Missing you.”

  “Um, will I see you this afternoon?” While Sarah admitted that she had to follow through on her promise to Rose, she longed to see Lola once more. She would tell her in person that they must not see each other any longer.

  “No, you will not, I am sorry to say. The Pythia has the latest songs to learn and polish before Saturday evening. Also, Meg and Dannie are feuding, and I must play the role of peacemaker or our engagements this weekend will end in disaster.”

  “So, you will not be coming this afternoon?”

  “Not this afternoon nor tomorrow, I fear. I am sorry. I hope you will not be angry?”

  “No, not angry. Of course not.” Sarah exhaled. On one hand, she was disappointed; on the other, she felt she had been given a reprieve.

  “I shall certainly come Monday, my dark-haired beauty, and perhaps I shall bring you chocolate.”

  “Oh, how lovely! Well, I shall see you then.”

  When Sarah hung up, she relaxed. I cannot be blamed for not seeing Lola until Monday, she thought. It is not my fault I cannot keep my promise until then.

  The relief she felt was palpable.

  Part 2

  But now thus saith the Lord

  that created thee, O Jacob

  and he that formed thee, O Israel,

  Fear not: for I have redeemed thee,

  I have called thee by thy name;

  thou art mine.

  (Isaiah 43:1, KJV)

  Chapter 15

  Lola appeared at the shop Monday afternoon and, as she had intimated, she presented Sarah with a sizable box of assorted chocolates. The box was beautifully wrapped in gilt foil and tied with a wide, red organza ribbon and bow. The scent of newly poured chocolate wafted in the air.

  “Sweets for the sweet,” Lola murmured as she embraced Sarah, “made fresh this morning by a chocolatier on Grand Street. I selected each piece especially for you.”

  Sarah was touched. “Thank you, Lola. I-I have never had a whole box of chocolates of my own.” She sniffed at the box. “Mmm.”

  “I shall think of you eating them,” Lola said. She caressed Sarah’s cheek in a manner that was unmistakably intimate. Sarah blushed and turned away—but she had thrilled under Lola’s touch.

  I promised Miss Rose.

  I promised Miss Rose.

  I promised Miss Rose.

  “It is all right, Sarah,” Lola whispered. “I shall wait for you—as long as I must. Surely you know by now that I love you and long to care for you, Sarah.”

  Sarah’s heart pounded. I promised Miss Rose I would break off my friendship with Lola, but how can I . . . how can I dash Lola’s heart to pieces? I cannot do it . . . today. Perhaps tomorrow would be better.

  Sarah set aside her dissembling arguments; she tugged on the ribbon around the box instead. It fell away, and she lifted the foil-wrapped lid, exposing an exquisite array of candies—pralines, caramels, truffles, bonbons, chocolate-covered cherries, and almond-crusted toffees.

  “Go ahead, darling. Try one,” Lola urged her.

  As Sarah selected her first piece, a convicting thought intruded. Esau sold his birthright for a mess of porridge; have I done the same for a box of chocolates?

  SARAH AND LOLA SPENT time together at the shop every afternoon that week. Lola even walked Sarah to her trolley stop each evening, vowing, “It is too dark for you to be walking the streets alone.”

  Sarah reveled in the care Lola showed for her, in the small gifts she brought, and in her patience. At the same time, Sarah wrestled with her conscience: She had given her word to Miss Rose and had not fulfilled that promise. Not yet. She refused to admit the truth to herself: that she had no intention of breaking off with Lola.

  Because Sarah was cognizant of Rose’s warnings regarding her example before the girls of the house, she was, as a result, guarded around Corrine and withdrawn at Palmer House, even shunning Blythe. Blythe’s pained expression did not escape Sarah’s notice—but Sarah told herself that she was protecting the girl from the further harm of a bad example.r />
  In reality, Blythe interpreted Sarah’s avoidance as rejection, and she suffered the agony of not knowing what she had done to lose Sarah’s affection.

  WHEN SARAH STEPPED through the door Saturday evening, pre-dinner preparations were not ongoing in the normally well-timed routine that Marit demanded. The girls milled about the dining room without direction—and the smell of overdone meat drifted in from the kitchen.

  “Goodness! What is happening here?” Sarah demanded.

  “Oh, hello, Sarah,” Pansy greeted her. “Blythe has a stomach complaint; Miss Rose and Marit are upstairs with her. Dinner will be delayed.”

  “Why, where is Olive?”

  “She is off to visit Gretl for the weekend and will be gone until Monday.” Pansy’s little mouth tightened. “Really, Sarah, if you were not so distracted lately, you would have remembered.”

  Sarah shook her head. I, distracted?

  She addressed the milling girls. “Ladies, I would like half of you to finish dinner the best you can—Frances, please take charge in the kitchen. The rest of you, kindly set the table. I shall find out if Miss Rose wishes us to eat without her.”

  Sarah ran up the stairs as quickly as her skirts and weak knee allowed her. She gave Pansy and Blythe’s door two soft knocks, then entered without waiting for a reply.

  Rose and Marit turned at her entrance; Rose spoke. “Ah, Sarah; please keep back. I do not think we need have much concern, but we do not yet know if Blythe is contagious.”

  “What are her complaints?”

  “Fever. Chills, Nausea. Stomach cramps. All indications of stomach influenza.”

  Sarah relaxed. “Horrible, but short-lived, I hope.”

  Rose smiled. “We hope so, also. Will you see to dinner and restore order? I can only imagine the chaos downstairs.”

  Sarah chuckled. “You imagined right! I gave instructions before I came up, but I fear the roast may be beyond rescue.”

  Marit slapped her forehead. “Ach! I should haf told Frances to take it out from the oven.”

  At the sound of Sarah’s voice, Blythe opened her eyes. She tried to smile but groaned instead.

  “Rest, my little sister,” Sarah called to her. “You will be fine soon.”

  Dinner—such as it was—was followed by a peaceful evening without much concern over Blythe’s condition. Marit came down and ate from the plate set aside for her. Afterward, she joined her family in their little cottage. Sarah went back upstairs to check on Rose and was relieved that Blythe was sleeping.

  “I think she will be fine by tomorrow,” Rose said. “The complaint should have run its course by then.”

  “Come down and have your dinner before it spoils, Miss Rose,” Sarah urged her.

  “Yes, I suppose I should.”

  When Rose and Sarah looked in on Blythe near bedtime, Pansy had just settled under her covers on one side of the room; Blythe was still sleeping on the other.

  “I am concerned about her fever,” Rose murmured.

  “Surely, rest is the best thing for her?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes, you are right.”

  Rose nodded at Pansy. “Good night, Pansy. Do wake us if Blythe needs us.”

  “I shall. Good night, Miss Rose.”

  Pansy would not look at Sarah, but she muttered, “Good night . . . Sarah.”

  She has remained angry with me, Sarah realized.

  “Good night, Pansy.” Sarah went to her own bed, confident that Blythe would be better by morning.

  STILL EARLY IN THE night, Sarah awakened to find Pansy leaning over her, roughly shaking her.

  “What is it?”

  “Blythe is a-crying something awful. I think she is terrible sick. Shall I wake Miss Rose?”

  “I shall get up.”

  Pansy’s response was terse. “Well? Should I wake Miss Rose?”

  “Not yet. Let me come and check on her first.”

  Sarah heard Blythe’s pitiful wails while she was padding down the hall toward the bedroom. She found the girl thrashing against the covers, her arms wrapped around her middle. Her body was covered in a sheen of perspiration, her bright curls dull and plastered to her head. Blythe moaned and then her moan rose into a shriek.

  Sarah placed her hand on the Blythe’s forehead. She was burning up.

  “Blythe! Blythe! Wake up, sweetheart.”

  “It hurts! Hurts!” Blythe drew her knees up to her stomach until she was bent in two.

  “Where does it hurt, child?”

  Blythe panted against the pain and tried to answer. “S-stomach. My back. Please . . . make it stop!”

  Without warning, Blythe gagged. Sarah reached for a basin and caught the little vomit that came up with a choking cough.

  “Pansy. I need cool water and a clean cloth.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Sarah cleaned Blythe’s mouth and sponged her face with water, but Blythe’s pain only worsened, twisting her groans and squeezing them into screams.

  “Wake Miss Rose,” Sarah instructed Pansy. “Tell her we need a doctor.”

  Sarah did not leave Blythe’s side until the doctor arrived, half an hour later. By then, most of the house was awake, wincing at Blythe’s every cry of pain. Rose sat in a chair near Blythe’s head, her hand resting on Blythe’s matted hair, her lips moving in prayer.

  When Dr. Croft entered the room, he barely nodded in Rose or Sarah’s direction; his focus was entirely on Blythe. He stooped over her bed, felt her forehead, then asked her, “Miss, where does it hurt?”

  Blythe did not answer. She keened again as the pain took her.

  “She said her stomach and her back,” Sarah offered.

  Croft glanced at Sarah. “I need your help to palpate her abdomen.”

  He rolled Blythe onto her back. “Hold her hands away from her belly, please.”

  Sarah did as he asked, but Blythe fought her, grasping at her belly instead.

  “Pansy. Help me.”

  Pansy and Sarah, together, each took one of Blythe’s hands and pulled them away. Dr. Croft’s examination did not take long.

  “The lower right side of her abdomen is distended. I am convinced it is appendicitis. We must get her to St. Luke’s as soon as possible—before the appendix bursts.”

  “What is to be done?” Sarah demanded.

  “Surgery to remove the diseased appendix. I shall take her in my motor car.” Croft was already gathering Blythe into his arms. He jerked his chin at Sarah. “Bring a blanket for her and follow me. You will keep her still during the drive.”

  “But I am not dressed!”

  “Then go! And do not dawdle. Time is of the essence.”

  Fuming at his peremptory orders, Sarah, nevertheless, grabbed the blanket off Blythe’s bed and raced down the hall to her room. When she had buttoned herself into a clean dress, slipped on her boots and hooked enough buttons to keep the boots on her feet, she ran down the stairs and out the front door.

  Croft was waiting for her, still holding Blythe while her wailing cries echoed on the empty street. Sarah slipped into the back seat of the doctor’s car. Croft laid Blythe on the seat next to Sarah. She cradled Blythe’s head in her lap and spread the blanket over her.

  “There, there, darling girl,” Sarah crooned. “You will be all right soon.”

  Blythe writhed and moaned, unable to be still, drawing her knees up and twisting as though attempting to escape the pain clawing at her insides. Then, near the hospital, Blythe suddenly calmed.

  “Blythe? Dear? Are you all right?”

  Blythe moaned a little. “S-sarah?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I love you so much, Sarah. You were always good to me.”

  Sarah started to sob. “I am so sorry, Blythe.”

  “Sorry? Why?”

  “I-I have stayed away . . . lately. I have . . . ignored you.”

  “I know you love me, Sarah. It is—ohhhh!” Blythe cried out in agony.

  “Shhhh, little one. Just rest.”
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  “But . . . but I am so glad you t-told me Jesus would f-find me, Sarah. I am not l-lost anymore . . . ohhhh—”

  Blythe’s groan tore at Sarah’s heart.

  “Blythe, sweetheart?”

  “I . . . it is . . . all right.”

  Croft turned his head toward them. “How is she?”

  “She ceased thrashing just a moment ago. What does that mean?”

  “The respite will not last. When the pain returns, it will be worse.”

  “But what has happened?”

  “Her appendix has ruptured.”

  Croft was right; by the time he drove to a back door in the hospital’s main building, the intense pain had reasserted itself with a vengeance. Blythe could no longer speak; she was alternately crying and screaming. Croft lifted the girl from the back seat and commanded Sarah, “Open that door for me and stay close.” He gestured at the hospital.

  She ran ahead, pulled open the door, then followed behind. She opened a second door, and they came upon a nursing station. Things moved quickly after that as Croft shouted orders; two orderlies appeared to take Blythe away and nurses wrote down Croft’s instructions.

  A nurse touched Sarah’s elbow. “You cannot remain back here, miss. Please wait on the other side of those doors.” She pointed at a set of double doors.

  Sarah was alone in the waiting room, but she soon realized how disheveled her hair was when she caught sight of her reflection in one of the windows. She finger-combed out her hair and, lacking enough hairpins to pin it across her head, settled for braiding its length down her back.

  With nothing more to keep herself occupied, Sarah paced the small room, praying for Blythe, fighting back her fears. When she grew too tired of walking, she sat down on one of the hard benches.

  She did not know when she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  A HAND JOSTLED SARAH’S arm. “Miss?”

  “Mmm?” Sarah came slowly awake. She stretched her stiff neck and shoulders and looked around. Daylight filtered through the windows that last night had been black boxes reflecting her own image.