Abiding Love

by Melody Morgan

  Taken aback, Irene was alarmed by the idea and reached out a comforting hand to the child. "Of course you don't!"

  Lydia had just told more truth in the space of a few minutes than she had in the last few weeks. Not since her mother's death had she trusted anyone; but somehow she knew she could rely on Miss Barrett. She knew it in her soul. For the first time in months, a portion of her burden lifted and the relief she felt revealed itself with tears, hot brimming tears that burned her eyelids and scalded paths down her cheeks.

  With her own soft heart aching, Irene watched her valiant attempt to stem the flow.

  "Oh, child," she crooned, pulling her into the safe circle of her arms. She held Lydia close and let her cry, stroking the limp curls on her back. "Shhh. We'll work this out, you'll see. Don't worry anymore. Shhh."

  Lydia wrapped her arms around Miss Barrett and cried as she had not allowed herself to cry since her mother's death. Someone cared, really cared. Whatever it took, she was determined to stay with this wonderful woman forever.

  Finally, when the tears abated and the sobs became merely sniffles, Lydia lifted the hem of her apron and wiped her nose. She felt better than she had in a good long while.

  "Now," Irene said, "I need some information if I'm to try locating your aunt. And you haven't told me your last name."

  Brushing a stray lock over her shoulder, Lydia answered truthfully, "Our name is Jefferson, and I think my aunt's name is Sarah Jefferson."

  "Good." Irene patted Lydia's clasped hands. She would not pry any longer and decided to end the questioning. "What do you say we cheer ourselves up by baking something wonderful?"

  Lydia brushed back another lock of hair that slid over her forehead and nodded.

  "I have some apples. We could make a pie or this delicious concoction of apples and cake that my mother taught my sisters and I to bake. Which one?"

  A tremulous smile appeared. "The cake."

  "Ah-ha, I take it that means you're adventurous." Irene laughed. "A girl after my own heart."

  And she was.

  They spent the remainder of the morning paring, sifting, measuring, and baking. Irene didn't ask any more questions, sensing Lydia's reluctance, as well as her relief and gratitude.

  Soon the sweet smell of apples, spices, and cake floated throughout the big house along with the pungent but pleasant smell of wood smoke.

  Jonathan, who had not been seen since breakfast, appeared as if by magic when the apple cake was done. A light noon meal, a piece of the cake, and he was on his way again, saying nothing to either Lydia or Irene. Since Lydia didn't seem to be concerned, Irene made no remark, but she thought Jonathan's silent behavior to be out of character for a boy his age.

  Later that evening, after the baths were over, Irene saw the children to bed. Lydia explained Jonathan's fear of the dark, and Irene allowed the lamp to be left on in his room until after he fell asleep.

  When she'd finally gone to her own room and prepared for bed, she had time to reflect on the happenings of the day. She still felt strangely disconnected from Emma in a way she hadn't before. Not even Emma's marriage to Howard had affected their friendship until now.

  Remembering their talk, Irene thought about the man in the saloon. She could still feel his cold blue eyes staring mercilessly into hers. Indeed, this was a man who would do as he pleased regardless of the opinions of a town full of women. But she need not spend time worrying over his fate since she would have little to say on that subject. Clara rarely solicited her opinion on anything.

  The smell of apples still lingered in the chill of the upstairs room, taking her back to her own secure, happy childhood. Her sisters Janie, Mary Ellen, and Rosie, along with their mother had had many wonderful hours in the kitchen. And probably they still did.

  Irene stood before the large cherrywood secretary dominating one wall of her bedroom. The beautiful piece of furniture had been a wedding gift from her mother, having belonged to her father before his death. She never failed to think of Randolph Barrett when she sat before the polished desk with its multitude of pigeon holes and tiny drawers.

  Pulling a piece of paper from a drawer, Irene removed the stopper from the ink bottle and dipped her pen. She needed to feel the touch of home right now, so she wrote a letter to her mother, telling only a little of what was going on in her life because very little usually did, and of course she omitted everything about the saloon and the children. After all, those were only momentary diversions in an otherwise ordinary life, she told herself.

  When it was signed and sealed, she wrote another letter and addressed it to Lydia's aunt in Cleveland. Then she replaced the stopper on the ink bottle and cleaned the tip of her pen. She tidied up the already tidy desk, turned the lamp beside her loveseat a little lower, and pulled her box of novels from beneath the bed. Selecting the one she hadn't finished the night before, although she'd read it several times over, Irene tucked her feet under her as she sat on the loveseat. And once again she gave her heart to the gallant man who lived within the binding of her well-worn book.

  Chapter Three

  On this crisp October morning, Lydia danced and skipped circles around her teacher all the way to school, as if her new shoes were magic slippers. At last, Lydia thought, they would have a home and friends; finally, they were putting down roots. Her elation simply couldn't be contained. She danced along with the brilliant colors canopied overhead and carpeted beneath her feet, warmed with happiness inside, though her breath puffed visibly in the air before her. Occasionally she glanced back at Jonathan, who lagged several steps behind and smiled encouragingly at him.

  Jonathan glared at his sister. He hated school and didn't understand what Lydia had to be so happy about. After all, they were living with the teacher! They probably would have to spend their entire evenings reciting their lessons. He paused long enough to kick a stone so hard it thumped on a nearby tree. With his hands jammed into his pockets as deep as they would go, he resumed his slow walk toward the large, two-story brick building looming before him.

  Inside were two classrooms on the first floor. Jonathan tried not to breathe in the smell of chalk dust, waxed floors, and the other odors so peculiar to a schoolroom. It gave him a pain in the gut, as if he had eaten too many green apples. Reluctantly, he followed as Miss Barrett led the way through the door to her room.

  Irene inhaled deeply the familiar scents of the tools of her trade and as always felt a satisfaction that nothing in life could compare to so far. Although she always left the room clean in the spring, with the desks and benches lined up and the slates neatly stacked, there was always some dusting to be done the day before school began. But yesterday, with Lydia's help, it had been finished in half the time and now all was ready.

  As planned, Irene arrived at the schoolhouse precisely forty-five minutes before the other children were expected. She wanted time to get the necessary admission papers filed for Lydia and Jonathan without the prying eyes of Clara Wilson looking over her shoulder. Actually, there was very little information to give other than their names and temporary address. But undoubtedly some explanations would be in order, and so far this past week, she'd managed to avoid Clara.

  She set out a fresh bottle of ink along with her pen and the book in which she would write the names of the children while mentally deciding how to introduce Lydia and Jonathan.

  Jonathan stood at the back of the room until several children had straggled in, then he made his way toward Lydia. She took his hand and he felt better. Most of the children stared at him, but nobody spoke. Finally, Miss Barrett rang a little bell on her desk and everyone ran to get a seat. Lydia wanted to sit in front, but Jonathan managed to tug her hand until they were a few rows farther back.

  ''Good morning, boys and girls," Irene said, smiling.

  "Good morning, Miss Barrett," came the unrehearsed chorus.

  "I see we have some new faces this year."

  Jonathan slunk down in his seat as far as he could.

 
"Perhaps," Irene went on, "those who are returning students would like to help me welcome the others by standing and telling them your names. Let's begin with you, Mary."

  Mary stood shyly and gave her name, then each child after her did the same until everyone but the newcomers had identified themselves.

  "Now, let's find out who our new friends are. Would you please stand?"

  Lydia stood up. Jonathan's heart pounded so hard that he thought for sure it would pop right out of his chest. To his dismay, Lydia pulled him to his feet.

  "My name is Lydia Jefferson and this is my brother Jonathan," she said, her voice quavering.

  Relief flooded Jonathan's entire body. He felt so thankful that he didn't have to speak, he could have hugged her right in front of everybody. After that the day was a blur of faces, names, and instructions. He sat for what seemed like hours and hours on the hard bench trying not to squirm. He daydreamed about walking along the river and pitching stones as far as he could and about the barges in the canal going to faraway places.

  "Jonathan?"

  Guiltily, Jonathan looked up at Miss Barrett, who had suddenly appeared by his seat.

  "It's your turn, Jonathan," she said quietly.

  His turn for what? he wondered fearfully. Panic-stricken, he glanced around the room, and to his horror everyone stared directly at him. Some even snickered behind their hands.

  With a hammering heart and a queasy stomach, he edged from his seat, turning he ran as fast as his wobbly legs would carry himdown the hall, out the door, across the schoolyard, and along the street until he came to the hill above the river. He slipped and slid through the dying weeds, landing at the stony river's edge, where the shallow water burbled over big and small rocks.

  "I'm never going back! Never, never, never!" he told himself out loud. He wanted to make it a promise, but he couldn't. Lydia would beg him to go back, and he knew he would. But, he consoled himself, he'd leave when he wanted to and he wouldn't go back until he felt like it. And right now he didn't feel like it.

  Irene said good-bye to the last child, then glanced out the window one more time for a sign of Jonathan. She'd hoped that he would come back during recess and give her a chance to discover what had upset him. But he hadn't come back at all. Disappointed and worried, she'd sent Lydia ahead to look for him.

  Gathering her things, Irene left the school and walked the two blocks home, hoping Jonathan would be there with Lydia.

  When she came within sight of the house, she saw smoke coming from the kitchen chimney and Jonathan carrying wood from the woodpile to the back door. Stopping in her tracks, she closed her eyes briefly and heaved a sigh of relief.

  What was she going to do in the weeks ahead to reach this child?

  Ross squinted against the brilliant morning sun as he hefted the wooden cask onto his shoulder, then stepped from the barge to the landing with Ben right behind him. They were almost finished unloading the shipment that came in on the side-cut canal, a waterway that had been the true lifeline of Gilead and now Grand Rapids.

  Nearby, a shaggy brown mule in harness rested one foot, eyes closed, ears twitching while the barge he'd pulled was being emptied of a portion of its cargo.

  At the back door of the saloon, a little boy squatted on his haunches, watching the mule, then the procession of casks, and back to the mule again.

  Ross had seen the boy a number of times hanging around the back by the canal. Until this morning he'd figured the boy's father was probably inside.

  Memories of Harry and himself at that age flooded back; they too, had sat on back steps of saloons waiting for their father to make it rich at just one more game. Of course, he never did, but the boys waited patiently, night after night.

  Inside the cool, dank interior of the storage room, Ross deposited the load from his shoulder to the waiting rack, then returned to the warmth of the sunny fall day. He leaned one shoulder against the door frame near the little boy while Ben took care of the business with the barge captain.

  "Fine-looking animal, wouldn't you say?" Ross asked the boy.

  The boy shrugged. "If you like mules."

  "I like mules," Ross said, staring at the mule with great admiration.

  The boy looked up at Ross. "Why?"

  "When we'd stake a claim, they were our means of transportation for hauling supplies back into the mountains."

  "What's a claim?" he asked, obvious skepticism in his bright eyes.

  "Where I come from, a claim means this is your piece of ground to look for gold." Ross dropped his gaze from the mule to the boy.

  "Gold?"

  Ross nodded. "Yessir."

  After a moment of silence the boy said quietly, "I ain't never seen gold."

  "Well . . . What did you say your name is?" Ross asked. "Jonathan."

  Ross put out his hand. "Mine's Ross." They shook hands.

  "Well, Jonathan, gold isn't anything like you'd expect it to be. It's not shiny like a gold watch or a lady's ring. It looks more like a rock when we find it."

  Jonathan stood up. "A rock?" He was disappointed.

  Ross nodded again.

  "You got one I could see?" The skepticism returned.

  Ross leaned over conspiratorially. "I do. But we'll have to wait until no one else is around." Ross winked at him.

  Jonathan thought about that for a moment, then winked back.

  "Now, I've got a question for you," Ross said. "Aren't boys your age supposed to be in school?"

  Jonathan stuffed his hands into his trousers and hung his head. "Yes sir, but I don't like school." He knew it made Lydia hopping mad, but he ran away from school every chance he got. And he'd found the best times were usually when he asked permission to go to the outhouse. He was sorry to make Lydia so angry, but he just couldn't help it. School was nothing but a waste of good time, and besides, he just didn't like it.

  "Me neither."

  Quick as the release of a slingshot, Jonathan raised his head. "You don't?"

  "Never did." Ross stared off across the canal toward the little island of trees in the middle of the Maumee rapids.

  "My sister Lydia says I have to go so Miss Barrett will like us." His mouth pouted in disgust.

  "Miss Barrett? Is she your teacher?" Ross asked, curious about the life of a little boy who hung around the back doors of saloons.

  "Yeah, but it's worse than that. We've been living with her for weeks!"

  Like Aunt Tilly, Ross thought, but his memories of her were the happiest of his life.

  "Why don't you like her?" Ross asked.

  "She's mean. And ugly," Jonathan said, sensing a sympathetic comrade in Ross. "I have to take a bath every night before I go to bed because she has these white, soft sheets. And I'm supposed to eat everything on my plate." Jonathan didn't think he should mention that he liked everything on his plate.

  "That doesn't sound so mean to me. What does your sister say?"

  "Oh, she wants me to do whatever Miss Barrett says so we can keep living there." Jonathan kicked at a stone. "She's ugly, too," he added again, just in case Ross had missed it the first time.

  Ross immediately pictured a stern, well-endowed, gargantuan womanthe same woman he'd pictured when Aunt Tilly told stories about the swamp witch who lived in the bogs of the Black Swamp and would snatch any little boy who ventured out alone. He never went out alone after an evening of hearing those stories.

  "Ugly, huh?" Ross mused aloud.

  "And tall as a tree," Jonathan went on.

  "How are you going to stay out of school forever?" Ross asked.

  Jonathan shrugged. "Maybe I could run away on one of these barges." He stared at the long boat with the wide deck. A cabin, hunched low at the front end, resembled a tiny house just right for a boy to live in. And it probably didn't have any bath tub, either.

  "But what about your sister?" Ross reminded him.

  "Yeah." He kicked a stone viciously and watched as it bounced along the ground and dropped with a plunk into the canal
.

  Ross was thoughtful for a minute. "What if I have a talk with your teacher?"

  Jonathan stared at Ross with a mixture of surprise and happiness. Then fear grabbed at his stomach, the same as it had when he and Lydia had run away. If Ross talked to Miss Barrett, he would know he'd made up those things about her, some of them anyway.

  "Come on," Ross said, walking along the towpath. "Let's have a talk with old Miss Barrett." Over his shoulder he called to Ben, "I'll be back later. We have some important business to take care of."

  Ben waved him on.

  Jonathan held back, not sure what he'd gotten himself into. Ross had been so nice, so easy to talk to. He swallowed the big lump forming in his throat.

  "Come on, son. There's nothing to worry about." Ross waited.

  Jonathan stared in amazement. Nobody had ever called him "son." Without another thought about the possible repercussions he might suffer from telling half truths, Jonathan hurried to catch up.

  Together they walked toward the Clover Leaf Railroad, crested the ravine, and followed the tracks toward the two-story brick schoolhouse. The two of them stopped to stare at the imposing structure with its elongated windows, twin sets of double doors, and huge belltower presiding over all.

  "Maybe I should do all the talking. What do you say?" Ross asked.

  Jonathan nodded, a great tension building in his chest.

  They crossed the schoolyard, climbed the seven stone steps, and pushed open one of the heavy oak doors. The newness of the braiding still hung in the air, greeting their noses with the smell of freshly polished wooden floors and whitewashed walls.

  Ross smiled at Jonathan in an attempt to bolster his courage, then opened the door Jonathan indicated as his classroom.

  Jonathan stood close to Ross's side as every child turned to stare, some with large round eyes, others who giggled and pointed at them.