Chapter Seventeen
Mercy and Rand rode side by side, and with each mile they went, she felt the weight of her dilemma lighten. She had gone to ask for a loan. Enough money to get her a room at a boardinghouse until she could find something more suitable, but Rand had a better idea.
He told her of a modest cottage his family owned on the lake. He’d spent summers there when he was a boy, and the family kept it for sentimental reasons. The place stayed empty except for a bare-bones staff. She could stay as long as she needed to. She’d made a few cursory, weak objections. “Your parents won’t like it.”
“They’re reasonable people,” he said. “And they know how much I care about you. I’ve not kept it a secret from them.”
“Still, maybe you should speak to them first.”
“Father just left for the day, and Mother has retired with a headache,” he said. “I’ll speak to them about it later.”
Less than an hour later, they brought the horses around a sharp bend in the landscape.
“There it is,” Rand said.
She stared at the home about a hundred yards in front of her—the manicured lawn and hedges, the gorgeous birch trees and meticulously planned flower beds. The house itself was a long, rambling one story with a shake-shingled roof that pitched out over a sweeping front porch with strategically placed rocking chairs. Acting as a perfect backdrop for the whole thing was a sparkling lake that went on as far as her eye could see.
“That is not a modest cottage!” she said.
“Of course it is.”
“No. It’s too much. I can’t stay there.”
“You can—and you will,” he said firmly.
“I … I will find another solution quickly,” she said. “This will just be temporary, until I can find some kind of employment and earn my own way.”
“Let’s just get you settled and then think about our future.”
She cast a quick, sidelong glance at him. “You mean my future.”
He smiled but kept his eyes on the cottage in front of them. “Same thing.”
“Why do I get the feeling that you were the one who put Mother Helena up to throwing me out of the convent?” she asked.
He turned to her with wide eyes. “I’m shocked you would suggest such a thing,” he said, feigning hurt feelings. “And I’m actually sorry I wasn’t the one who thought of it.”
They stopped in front of the porch. Rand dismounted, then held up his arms for Mercy. She slid from the horse, her small bundle of possessions in hand.
“Welcome to Ruby’s Cottage,” Rand said.
A screen door pushed open, and a black woman in her midfifties stepped outside. She fisted her hands on generous hips and grinned. “I sure is happy to see you, lil’ mister,” she said.
Mercy unconsciously crossed her arms over her chest at the woman’s appearance.
“I’m happy to see you, too, Kizzy,” Rand said. He sniffed at the air. “Do I smell shortbread cookies?”
Kizzy chuckled. “I swear to da good Lord, you gots a nose like a bloodhound, Mr. Rand. I just did up a batch. It be Isaac’s birthday, and I aim to give him a treat.”
“Isaac’s birthday? Today?”
Kizzy nodded, kept her shoulder against the screen, and shoved her big, padded hands into the pockets of a flowered apron. “Mmm, hmmm, it shore is. I hope you ain’t minding me baking somethin’ for the boy in the cottage. The stove in da quarters ain’t as good …”
“It’s fine, Kizzy. Cookies are a nice gesture,” Rand said. “Now, I want you to meet Miss Mercy. She will be staying here indefinitely.”
He ushered Mercy forward and up the steps of the porch. “I want you to afford her all the hospitality you can muster up.”
Kizzy’s chocolate-brown eyes did a quick sweep up and down Mercy, then she nodded graciously. “Welcome to Ruby’s Cottage, Miss Mercy. We’ll do ever’thing we can ta make you feel at home.”
Mercy stopped short inside the door of the cottage and let her eyes wander around the comfortable yet expensively furnished room. The green velvet chairs and sofa were high backed, with deep cushions and cabriole legs. Parlor tables were polished mahogany and boasted carvings of fruit, flowers, and leaves. Mercy knew nothing—or at least remembered nothing—about art, but even she could see that the oil paintings on the walls were of the highest quality.
“It’s … beautiful,” she said, not moving from her spot near the door.
Rand put a hand on the small of her back to gently urge her forward.
“I want you to consider this your home for now,” he said.
She had barely moved into the room when the screen door banged open and a gangly black boy charged inside. He was halfway across the floor before he realized he wasn’t the only one in the room. Stopping as if he’d seen a ghost, his eyes widened in worry, and he looked around as if to see who else had witnessed his entry to the house.
“’Scuze me, Mr. Rand! I ain’t had no idea you was here!”
“It’s all right, Isaac. We just arrived.” He gestured to Mercy. “This is Miss Mercy. She will be staying here for a while, and I know you’ll do everything and more that she asks of you.”
Isaac nodded. “Yassuh. I will. Yes, I will. Everything and more, suh.”
Rand nodded. “Good. I’ll need you to see to Sherman—and to Miss Mercy’s horse, Lucky. In fact, I’ll expect you to see to Lucky’s needs every day.”
Isaac nodded solemnly. “Yassuh.”
“Where is Ezra?” Rand asked.
“He be cuttin’ wood down by the lake. Letty be with him, harvesting some berries for Kizzy.”
Rand arched a brow. “Berries? Maybe for one of Kizzy’s special pies?”
“I ain’t sure, suh, but I s’pect so.”
“Could be that special pie is actually a birthday pie? Maybe for you?”
Isaac ducked his head in embarrassment but grinned. “Yassuh, but I think I’s s’posed to be surprised.”
“How old are you today?”
“’Bout thirteen.”
Rand pulled his hand out of his pocket and walked over to Isaac. He pressed a dime into the stunned boy’s hand. “Happy birthday, Isaac.”
Isaac stared down at the coin in his palm, then wrapped his fingers around it. “Thanks be to you, Mr. Rand! Thanks be to you. I be seein’ to the horses now.”
“Wait a minute, Isaac. You were in an awful hurry when you came through that door. What were you after?”
Isaac glanced toward the kitchen. “I smelled me some shortbread cookies, and I was gonna talk Kizzy out a’ one or two.”
“I don’t blame you a bit,” Rand said. “Get your cookies, and then look after the horses.”
Isaac grinned. “Yassuh.”
As soon as Isaac was out of earshot, Rand turned to Mercy. “Isaac will be told to come through the back door from now on, and only when summoned. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” he said.
“How many of them are there?”
“Them?” he asked.
“Colored people. Blacks,” she said bluntly.
“There are four servants at the cottage,” Rand said, gently correcting her. “You’ve met Kizzy and Isaac, and there are Letty and Ezra. They’re a married couple who have worked for my family for two decades.”
“And they all live here? In the house?”
“No, of course not. There are servants’ quarters behind the cottage,” Rand said.
“Oh. Of course.”
“Kizzy does all the cooking, Letty does the housekeeping, and Ezra handles the maintenance and the grounds.”
“And Isaac? Is he Letty and Ezra’s son?”
“Letty’s cousin’s boy. His parents are dead, and she’s his only kin. He does odd jobs, runs errands for Kizzy and Letty. Ezra makes sure he doesn’t just laze aroun
d all day long.”
“So … he’s an orphan?”
Rand nodded. “I suppose so.” He held out his hand. “Come on. I want to show you the rest of the place.”
She put her hand in his. “You’re sure your parents aren’t going to be angry about this?”
“I promise it will be fine.” He said it with so much conviction, it had the opposite effect on Mercy. She didn’t believe him for a second.
Given my history and my luck, she thought, I had best enjoy this cottage while I have the chance.
Chapter Eighteen
When I got up this morning I had no idea things would change so drastically for me. When Mother Helena made me leave the convent, I went straight to Rand. I knew he would help me, but I had no idea I would end up in such a beautiful place. By going to him as I did—by accepting his help and living in his house—what am I saying to him? Have I accepted that my past is just that—the past? Is it time for me to get on with my life without the weight of what might have been? I’m growing tired of worrying about people I can’t even remember—people who may have gone on with their lives without me.
There are blacks here. Servants who live on the property and take care of the house and the grounds. I don’t know why that bothers me—but it does. I tried not to let it show, but I think Rand noticed my aversion to them. Where does that come from? Why do I feel the way I do?
Tonight, I will sleep in a real bed with soft sheets and a beautiful quilt in a room all to myself. If I want to keep the lamp lit and write the night away, I can do it without fear of bothering Oona and Deirdre.
I wonder if they will miss me.
I wonder what Rand’s parents will say when he tells them I am living in the cottage.
I wonder if the morning will have me moving on again.
Please God—just let me stay.
“Have you lost your mind?” Ilene Prescott said, keeping her voice low enough so that the nosy servants wouldn’t overhear. She sat on the edge of an ivory-draped sofa in her formal living room and fingered the strand of pearls around her neck. The gaslight in the room made everything in the room seem soft—except for the hard lines of Ilene’s annoyed face.
Rand paced in front of the fireplace with a drink in his hand. “No, Mother, I haven’t lost my mind.”
“Don’t you think this is something you should have discussed with us first, Rand?” Charles asked. He lit a pipe, then flicked the match into an ashtray on an ornately carved table.
“I like to believe that you trust my judgment, Father,” Rand said.
“I just cannot reconcile Mother Helena asking the girl to leave the convent,” Ilene ruminated. “There must have been a reason, Rand. What did she do?”
“Believe me when I say the infraction was so minor, it boggles the mind.”
“Well?” Ilene lifted a brow.
“She was late for her curfew last night,” Rand said.
“I thought you left in plenty of time to get her back to the convent.”
“I misjudged the time,” Rand said. “In any event, Mercy believes, and I concur, that it was time for her to go. She didn’t really belong with the nuns.”
“I still don’t understand why this girl’s unfortunate circumstance has become your dilemma,” Ilene said. “I know you were just peeved with the notion that Mercy was a charity case, so you made your big declaration of love, but for goodness’ sake, Rand, we all know you cannot possibly entertain the idea of a future with her.”
Rand dropped his eyes to his drink. When he failed to look his mother in the eye, she audibly gasped.
“You are! You are thinking about a future with her!” she said accusingly, stabbing a finger in the air at him. “I was right—you have lost your mind!” She turned to Charles, who sat stoically puffing away on his pipe. “Well, Charles. Don’t just sit there. Don’t you have something to say about this?”
“Look, Son, you are putting us in an untenable situation here,” Charles said. “We know nothing about this young woman except for some very unusual details. It was fine you brought her home to dinner, took her to a few plays, and had a picnic or two—just like you’ve done with more young women than I can begin to count. But that’s where it needs to end.”
“Amen to that,” Ilene said succinctly. “Tomorrow you will help her find another living arrangement.”
Rand shook his head. “No, ma’am, I won’t. Ruby’s Cottage is partially mine, and I want her to stay.”
“Your grandmother is probably spinning in her grave to think of a complete stranger in her cottage,” Ilene said.
“Grandma Ruby had a bigger heart than the three of us combined,” Rand said, “and you know it, Mother. She would have been the first to take in a stranger if there was a need.”
“There are other women far more suitable for you, Rand. Cora, for instance …”
“I don’t want any other woman,” Rand said. “I want Mercy.”
“I forbid it,” Ilene said. “I forbid you to marry her.”
“Good heavens … what if she’s already married?” Charles mused. “She would be a bigamist! You cannot move forward with this relationship until her memory returns, Rand. You have to wait!”
“For how long, Father? How long is long enough for you to believe her memory is never coming back? One year? Two? Five? Because I will wait if I have to—but not because you want me to,” Rand said. “I’ll wait because Mercy won’t even discuss marriage with me. She doesn’t want to see me hurt—nor hurt anyone she doesn’t remember from her past.”
“Well, thank God for small favors,” Ilene muttered. “At least she has a brain.”
“Yes, Mother, she has a brain. She’s also funny, courageous, sweet, and beautiful …”
Ilene held up her hand. “Stop. Just stop extolling her virtues, because it doesn’t change anything.”
“I never dreamed you would be so narrow-minded,” Rand said.
“We have worked very hard to get what we have, Rand. Your father’s reputation is sterling—his work ethic incomparable. The Prescott name is synonymous with patriotism and the cause your father worked so hard to preserve. That young woman would embarrass you at every social occasion. She wore a common day dress to a dinner party, for heaven’s sake. She has no idea how to be the perfect companion to a successful young man.”
“Then help her,” Rand pleaded. “Who better to teach her how to be everything she is expected to be than you, Mother? Everyone in St. Louis admires your style, your grace—your eloquence when speaking. If you want to see me make a good match, then help Mercy become a proper lady!”
“And if she happens to wake up one morning and remember that she has a husband and a child or two tucked away somewhere? What then?”
“I don’t believe that is going to happen, but if it does, I will bow out gracefully,” Rand declared.
“And if I refuse to help?” Ilene asked.
“Then I will find someone else who will,” Rand said. “Mercy won’t have the benefit of the very best instruction, but at least she will learn the basic social graces. Maybe Ava Klein might help.”
“Ava Klein? Be serious, Rand,” Ilene scoffed. “Unless of course we are talking about Mercy entering a pie-eating contest.”
And with that statement, Rand relaxed. They spoke of logistics and a shopping trip, and he assured them again that he wasn’t going to rush into anything. His only intention was for Mercy to have a roof over her head in a safe place and for her to have the instruction of a cultured woman such as his mother. As he watched his parents retire to their respective bedrooms, Rand congratulated himself on winning the first round in his quest to make Mercy his bride. Now all he had to do was convince the girl.
Chapter Nineteen
There was a sickle moon in the autumn sky tonight that appeared to be hanging by a thread. I noticed it after I made my trip to
give Lucky his evening carrot. Then as the sky darkened, stars emerged in handfuls at a time—twinkling, sparkling—reflecting off the lake and teasing me into believing my past and future don’t matter, that only the moment I’m living in is important.
There are still things that bother me that I haven’t told Rand.
I hate a chiming clock. Hate it with a passion that makes no sense.
Sometimes Ezra rounds a corner and I have to bite back a scream.
I had to get rid of the silver-handled brush Rand gave me as a gift. It felt like a hot poker in my hand.
Still, I am happy. Happy to be living in this cottage, happy to have a bed to call my own at night, and happy to have Lucky to ride whenever the spirit moves me. I want to give in to it—the happiness—but there is something that lingers at the edges of my mind, and it tells me to be careful. That I’ve been happy before only to have it all come crashing down on me. It scares me more than I want to admit—because there is something else that I have to contend with now, and it makes things so much more complicated. Despite all my concerns and worries about the damage it could cause me, Rand, and people I don’t even remember—I’ve gone ahead and done what I said I wouldn’t do. I have fallen in love.
Mercy sat in the bow of the fishing boat and watched the muscles in Rand’s arms tense and relax as he rowed them farther and farther away from the shoreline. She snuggled into the shawl across her shoulders, and he stopped rowing for a moment. A crease of concern crossed his forehead.
“Too cold?” he asked.
She shook her head, causing the natural curls in her hair to dance with the motion. “No. I’m just perfect.”
He gave her a look that sent sweet chills up her spine. “That’s what I was going to say.”
She blushed at her choice of words. “I meant to say that the weather is just perfect—and I’m not too cold.”
Rand smiled, then found the familiar rhythm of rowing again. She tipped her head back to admire the steel-blue October sky.
“I think Mother Helena was right,” she said.
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