Abiding Love

by Melody Morgan

  Lydia climbed into the bed, her mind made up. This would be their home, one way or another. With that decided, she snuggled into the depth of the covers and went to sleep.

  Chapter Two

  Irene awoke to the smell of frying bacon and sat up with a start. Then the memory of the previous night's unusual events cascaded into her mind as if from a bursting dam. With a groan she lay back upon her pillow and closed her eyes to ward off an oncoming headache. She was not yet ready to deal with the decisions she'd have to make that day.

  The slamming of the back door bolted her upright once again. With a deeply felt sigh, she threw off the covers and placed both feet on the floor, stepping into a dainty pair of soft-soled shoes and slipping a warm flannel wrapper over her finely embroidered cotton nightgown. A quick glance in the mirror before going downstairs told her that the braid she'd carefully plaited the night before still held every hair in place.

  The smell of bacon grew stronger as she neared the kitchen doorway. Standing with her back to Irene, Lydia worked at the white enamel-trimmed cast-iron stove. Her dull blue dress didn't quite cover the tops of her shoes,

  showing an inch or so of sturdy black cotton stockings. A knotted string held back her long, limp hair so that it was kept tidily out of her way.

  "Hurry up, Jonathan, put those plates on the table," Lydia said without turning around. "Miss Barrett will be up soon."

  Irene held her breath as she watched Jonathan take three of her imported china plates from the cabinet and set them on the kitchen table. Lydia moved to the dry sink, where she lifted a small crystal vase containing water and a last lingering flower that had bloomed at the back door. She turned to set the vase on the linen-covered table when she spotted Irene in the doorway.

  "Oh! Miss Barrett," Lydia said, staring in startled surprise. "I hope you don't mind. That is, about the vase and everything." She set the vase down and stood with her hands clasped in front of her, much as any student would during morning roll call.

  "It's very lovely. I seldom take the time to add a flower to my table." Irene smiled, showing her sincerity. "And breakfast, too?"

  "I just wanted you to know we can help around the house and we won't be any trouble to you at all."

  Irene hardly knew what to say. She had yet to come up with a solution to their immediate problem. Of course, she would try to locate the children's next of kin; surely there had to be somebody somewhere who not only wanted them but missed them. In the meantime, she supposed they could stay with her.

  "I fixed eggs and bacon," Lydia said, dishing out a portion onto each plate. "And I found the bread and sliced it thin." Lydia tried not to speak so quickly, but she wanted desperately to prove herself. Allowing a glance in the direction of Miss Barrett, she set a small dish of butter on the table.

  Irene watched the young girl busy herself and heard the tremor in her voice. The security and love of her own childhood suddenly came back to overwhelm her, leaving an ache in her heart for these two children. Surely, she thought, an aunt or uncle or grandparent wondered where they might be and if they were all right. For their sakes, she would search until she found that family.

  "Everything looks wonderful and smells delicious," Irene said.

  "I couldn't find any coffee or I would have made some," Lydia offered.

  "I usually drink tea, but well wait until later for that," Irene said.

  Jonathan hadn't said a word since Irene made her presence known. He stood beside a chair, eyeing the plate where the aromatic bacon and eggs slowly cooled while they talked.

  Pulling back her chair, Irene suggested, "I don't think we should let Lydia's cooking get cold, do you, Jonathan?"

  He looked up at her, his eyes round and guarded. "No, ma'am." He, too, pulled his chair back, although with more eagerness, and plopped onto the seat. He glanced at Lydia to see if he could begin eating, then dug in.

  Sitting across from Irene, Lydia buttered a piece of bread. She'd never been in such a fancy kitchen before. It had actually been fun to pump and carry water to the warm, cozy room. And she loved the pretty braided rugs that splashed color everywhere on the wooden floor. Nothing was out of place, not even in the small pantry off the side. She stared at the beautiful plate before her, thinking it was almost a shame to put food on it.

  "You said you came up the canal?" Irene asked.

  Brought out of her daze, Lydia nodded but offered no other information.

  "Where did you live?" Irene asked.

  "Kentucky." Lydia continued to stare with interest at the eggs on her plate before tasting them. "Do you raise chickens?" she asked.

  Irene smiled. "No," she said, and decided to drop the questions for now.

  When breakfast was over, Lydia pushed back her chair. "I'll do the dishes."

  Irene looked down at her wrapper. "Perhaps I had better get dressed first," she said, rising from her seat. "I'll be down shortly to help you."

  After Irene left the room, Lydia absently gnawed at the inside of her lip, wondering how long before Miss Barrett really started questioning her. Their only chance was to show they would help in every way. So she resolved to set to work immediately, knowing Miss Barrett wouldn't be sorry she let them stay.

  "Jonathan, take this pail outside and fill it again," she said, thrusting a bucket at him. "And hurry." Then she cleared the table, shook the tablecloth outside, and poured hot water from a kettle into a dishpan. In a matter of minutes she had everything washed, dried, and ready to put away. Quickly she refilled the kettle from Jonathan's pail and placed it on the hot stove for brewing tea later.

  A knock at the front door drew Lydia away from her task. She hurried through the dining room to the parlor, lightly touching the beautiful wooden furniture as she went.

  When she opened the door, she smiled politely at the small brown-haired woman who stared back at her in surprise.

  "Hello," Lydia said.

  "Is . . . Miss Barrett home?" asked the woman distractedly. "I'm . . . Mrs. Gregg."

  Pretending not to notice Mrs. Gregg's close scrutiny, Lydia nodded just as she heard Miss Barrett enter the parlor.

  "I'm here, Emma. Won't you come in?"

  Lydia stepped back, opening the door wide for Emma Gregg to enter. She watched as the two women stood facing each other, one short and slightly plump while the other stood tall and elegantly graceful. ''I didn't know you had a guest," Emma said, with a smile aimed in Lydia's direction.

  "Actually, I have two. This is Lydia. Her brother Jonathan is in the kitchen." Irene sensed Emma's burning curiosity.

  "I see."

  But Irene knew she didn't see at all.

  "I'll bring some tea if you'd like, Miss Barrett," Lydia said.

  "That would be very nice, Lydia, but we can go into the kitchen to visit and I'll make the" Irene felt a nudge against her arm, then saw Emma shake her head ever so slightly.

  "Well, maybe you could bring us some tea," Irene said, taking the cue Emma gave her.

  When Lydia left the room, Emma turned to Irene. "Is she a relative of yours?"

  "No," Irene hedged.

  Emma stared toward the kitchen. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised about that. She looks so poor," Emma whispered. "Where on earth did she come from? And how long will she stay?"

  Irene feared how quickly talk could spread, and with school beginning next week she thought it wise not to put the children in an uncomfortable position before their classmates. But she really abhorred lying.

  "They're only here temporarily," she answered, feeling good about not even having to stretch the truth.

  "Temporarily? I don't understand."

  "I can't explain now," Irene said, feeling good about that statement, too.

  Emma's head lifted and her mouth formed "oh" as if she understood that Irene couldn't talk with the children so nearby.

  "Well, truthfully," said Emma, "there's another reason I came to see you." She took Irene by the arm and led her to the settee, an air of confidentiality a
bout her. They sat down and Emma leaned close.

  "I wanted to explain about last night," she whispered. "You know how Clara is when she gets a notion in her head. Nobody can change it."

  Irene listened, making no comment.

  "But weLucy and Ididn't really think she would go through with it. Especially since she'd invited you to go along." Emma paused, fidgeting with the handkerchief she'd pulled from her sleeve. "I mean, you know how she is about . . . unmarried women."

  Irene heard the unkind remark but refused to comment. She had no intention of disclosing her feelings on the matter. Besides, it would make little difference anyway. Clara did as Clara thought best.

  "I suppose she had her reasons," Emma went on. "Unless she'd forgotten that she'd asked you to join in." The inflection of her voice made it sound more like an inquiry than a statement.

  "Perhaps," Irene answered, unable to keep from bristling at being singled out so obviously.

  "Well, I for one have no intention of ever joining in on anything even vaguely resembling thethe madhouse happenings of last night." Emma straightened, her small round eyes wide with repressed fear. "Did you see that man? What an awful person he must be! After all, he's from those gold fields out there in the mountains. You can imagine how uncivilized he is. At least I can imagine." Emma shivered visibly.

  Irene knew first-hand just how uncivilized he actually was, and either Emma wasn't aware of her encounter or she was hoping Irene would tell her about it. But Irene kept silent.

  "Clara said that man's brother almost never came to Grand Rapids. He just let the bartender run the business for him. Isn't it strange the way that man wants to be here in person? I say he's up to no good and wants to ruin the town just when things are getting so peaceable, too." She sighed and tucked the handkerchief back into her sleeve.

  "What does Howard say about all this?" Irene knew him to be a level-headed businessman who might have a word to say about the situation.

  "Oh, he just pooh-pooh's the things that Clara says and does. He said she needs to worry less about the business of others." Emma looked a little contrite. "I suppose I have to agree with that point.

  "So did Irene.

  Emma shook her head. "Howard wasn't at all pleased about the doings of last night. Of course, I had to tell him all about it before some of his customers did. Thank goodness I could also tell him that we wouldn't be going to the saloon again for a while. Clara feels confident that we struck sufficiently hard enough to cause a problem for that man and he's probably packing his bags now."

  Remembering those cold blue eyes, Irene doubted that was true.

  "And if he isn't packing his bags, then Clara says he's up to something no good, even worse"

  The sound of teacups tinkling on a tray interrupted their conversation. Emma squirmed slightly on her seat.

  Lydia carried the steaming, fragrant cups to a side table, handing each of the ladies a crisp linen napkin and a china cup with a saucer.

  "Thank you, Lydia," Irene said, smiling. Where had Lydia observed such manners? she wondered. Then she caught a surreptitious glance from Emma toward Lydia and knew Emma wondered the same thing.

  "I couldn't find a teapot or I would have brought it with me." Lydia straightened a lace scarf on the table and took the tray.

  Irene watched as Lydia did her best to be seen favorably.

  "Is there anything else you'd like?" she asked, her body almost leaning forward in her eagerness.

  "No. Thank you."

  Smiling, Lydia hurried off to the kitchen only to appear again a few minutes later, passing through the parlor and up the stairs.

  "What an interesting child," Emma said. Then added, "Poor thing."

  Irene decided to bring the subject back to the main reason for Emma's visit. "What sort of no good is he up to? Did Clara give you any ideas?"

  "Well," Emma whispered, with one eye toward the stairs. "She heard that he might start a . . . a . . ." She paused as if she couldn't go on. "A . . . bawdy house," Emma finally finished, nearly choking on the words.

  Irene felt a bolt of shock run between her shoulder blades. She was speechless.

  "You're surprised, aren't you? So were we." Emma sat so close to the edge of her seat that she nearly fell off and had to squirm back a little.

  "How can you be so sure?" Irene asked, her voice lowered in response to Emma's.

  "Has Clara been wrong yet?" Emma didn't convey a gladness about this, but more of an inevitable dread of how right Clara had usually been.

  It was true. Clara's insights had been remarkable in the past. Enough so that nearly every woman in town listened to herand believed her. "How can he expect to get away with that? Surely, he knows the town would never stand for it," Irene said. But she remembered the town's history and the many saloons that still lingered. And she also remembered how callous and frightening the man was.

  "Clara said, where he comes from those houses are common and he probably doesn't even consider what we think. It's just another opportunity to take money from our husbands."

  Irene thought she could see the reason behind the ladies' fears now. They were afraid for their husbands' well-being, not just their money. But, she acknowledged, that was as it should be.

  "What does Howard say?" Irene asked, deferring to Howard's sensible and logical mind again.

  Emma blushed. "I haven't told him. How could I?"

  Irene was amazed, although she hid it. She held the unshakable belief that a husband and wife should share everything without embarrassment.

  "Perhaps you should mention it. Chances are he can put your mind at ease. I'm certain, if there was any truth to the matter, he would know."

  Emma eyed her critically. She couldn't help but concur with everyone else that Irene had made a mistake five years ago when she'd turned away her chance of marriage to Andrew. And now here she sat, a single woman, giving advice to a married one. It rankled Emma no little that Irene thought she knew what a husband and wife ought or ought not to talk about.

  "I do not believe that Howard would be any more comfortable discussing such matters with me than I am with him." Her small nose inched upward.

  Emma's indignation seldom raised itself except in situations of high emotional intensity. This evidently was one of those situations. Irene reached out to touch Emma's hand in apology, but Emma pulled it back and the air thickened with unresolved hostility.

  "I only meant," Irene began carefully, "that your husband might have obtained some information from a friend, or an acquaintance, that could settle the whole matter easily."

  She watched with relief as Emma's hackles slowly drooped and she quickly went on. "We need to know for a fact what we're up against, don't you agree?"

  Somewhat mollified, Emma nodded.

  Irene patted Emma's hand, and this time she didn't withdraw it. Emma had been her friend from the moment Irene arrived in Grand Rapids all the way from Cincinnati. That had been six years earlier, when she'd accepted her first teaching position, and before she'd met Andrew. She truly didn't wish to alienate Emma for any reason.

  "So what has Clara decided to do?" Irene asked, getting back to safer, more familiar ground.

  "Well," Emma said, relaxing, "she isn't sure. But her advice is that we should double our effortsat a later date, of course. After all, this is our town."

  Would they actually go on another saloon-smashing spree? Irene fervently hoped not.

  "Well, I really must go," Emma said, rising briskly and laying her napkin alongside the teacup. "Tell Lydia thank-you for the tea." At the door she turned to whisper, "I'll let you know if anything comes up."

  They said their good-byes with their friendship safely mended although, Irene feared, somewhat frayed.

  After she'd gone, Irene glanced around at the lovely room with its upholstered chairs, wooden tables, mirrors, and carpet. It was to have been her and Andrew's house, but now it was hers alone. Crossing the carpet, she put her hand on the newel post at the bottom of the
stairs, feeling its smooth yet grainy surface. Time had healed the hurt and somewhat eased the pain of betrayal. Now there was nothing but a desperate loneliness that no one seemed to understand. Her friends had just the same as locked her up in this house, allowing her out only when they decided it was best for her. Everyone except Emma. And now she too, by silent consent, was locking Irene inside.

  A movement at the top of the stairs drew her attention. Lydia came quietly down the stairs and stopped on a step that made them the same height.

  "Has Mrs. Gregg gone?" she asked.

  Irene nodded.

  "I made all the beds and dusted the rooms. Is there anything else I can do?"

  Irene decided that now was the time to talk to Lydia about her family, before she continued with the wrong assumption about living here permanently. And it was obvious that she hoped to stay.

  "We need to talk, Lydia. Let's sit in the parlor."

  Lydia followed, dread filling her and making her shoes too heavy to lift off the beautifully carpeted floor.

  "I couldn't help noticing that you have lovely manners. Who taught them to you?"

  Clasping her hands in her lap, Lydia sat as straight as a yardstick, trying to decide just how much truth to tell without divulging the wrong information.

  "Would you tell me who?" Irene asked again, prodding gently.

  Lydia bit her lip, not wanting to tell another lie, but unable to see any help for it. "Aunt Lenore." Then she hastily added, "But she wasn't my real aunt."

  "Wasn't?"

  "Yes, ma'am." Lydia bit her lip again. "She died."

  "I'm truly sorry to hear that." Irene frowned. "Do you have any real family? I mean, surely there must be a cousin or an uncle . . ."

  "Not that I know for certain," Lydia said, thinking at least that much was true.

  This sort of questioning wasn't getting Irene anywhere, so she chose to look for facts.

  "Where were you going when the captain put you off the barge?"

  "Cleveland."

  "And why were you going there? That's a very long way from here."

  "I was hoping to find a home for us. I remember my mother once talked about an aunt in Cleveland, but I don't know if she's still there or if she's even alive." Lydia desperately appealed to this kind woman's heart and spoke softly of her greatest fear. "We don't want to live in no orphanage, Miss Barrett."