Out Of The Darkness

by Crawford, Dianna; Druten, Rachel;

  He sighed. This would be the first morning in four weeks that he wouldn’t awaken with Daniel on a nearby bedroll. He realized how much he would miss his friend. He’d even miss the daily devotionals Daniel held for the Christians in his company—not for himself, but for the philosophical discussions they initiated between the two of them. And even though Colin didn’t believe a word, he found Daniel’s blessings before their meals oddly soothing.

  But now, after what he had just witnessed, Colin was finding it harder than ever to understand how an intelligent man like Daniel could believe so completely in a God who, on one hand, could be so cruel as to take away your most cherished possession, and on the other, claim to shower you with a love that would sustain you in the loss. A God who could snatch the very food of your soul and then “lay a table before you.”

  Colin wouldn’t have a friend like that. Let alone a God.

  As his mind sorted through the events of the previous day, he thought of Mary and her added burden. His dear sweet Mary. More and more he thought of her as his, while less and less he had a right.

  He liked the way her voice sounded when she spoke his name, husky and hesitant. The way her lips formed around the word, lingered on it.

  Was this to be his lot? To find the one woman who captivated him and have her forever beyond his reach?

  Angry and frustrated, he urged his trotting horse to a gallop.

  If it took his last living breath, he would find that black-hearted devil, Ed McKenzie. Drag him back. Make him take responsibility for Mary and her unborn child.

  ❧

  The days of caring for Emma’s needs had passed swiftly since Emma’s miscarriage. . .too swiftly for Mary to find the right moment to tell Emma about her own baby. Mary sat on the back terrace sipping her second cup of afternoon tea, trying to come up with the right words, when she heard the piano. She hopped up from her chair and ran into the kitchen and down the hall, peeking in Emma’s room as she passed. The bed was empty.

  Sure enough, there the woman was, in the parlor, only a fortnight since she’d lost her baby. . .against doctor’s orders. . . against Daniel’s orders. . .against Mary’s orders, although Mary had very little influence in such matters.

  Emma, in a frilly blue wrapper, paused when Mary entered. With a furtive smile, she lifted a finger to her lips in a sign that this was to be their secret, then resumed playing.

  If Pastor Daniel were here, his wife would be back in bed. But he had gone to the church a half-hour ago, leaving Mary in charge.

  She shook her head at the recalcitrant “child” in her dear friend. Though, what harm, if it lifted Mrs. Emma’s spirits? Mary shrugged and moved to stand behind the woman, placing her hands gently on Emma’s shoulders as she played.

  It was a beautiful, lazy afternoon, clear and sunny. A cool breeze wafted through the parlor window, bringing the promise of autumn while carrying the fragrant perfume of late summer blooms. They mixed pleasantly with the scent of freshly polished furniture.

  “What are you playing, Mrs. Emma?”

  “A Mozart sonata.”

  “Mmm.” Mary loved when Mrs. Emma played in church, but even more when she played at home. This composition was so elegant, so passionate, almost bringing tears to her eyes. And to think this music had existed hundreds of years and Mary had never been privy to it, not even once, before she’d come to be with the Bryants.

  “What Daniel doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Emma said, ending with a flourish. She swung around on the piano stool. “I simply had to get out of that room. The walls were beginning to close in on me.”

  Mary smiled. “It looks to have done you some good. You’re glowing.” Impulsively, she leaned over, embraced Emma, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Oh, dear girl.” Emma hugged her back. “I don’t know what I would have done without you through all this.” She turned back to the piano.

  As she did, Mary noticed Emma’s eyes had misted, and a sweet warmth melted Mary’s heart.

  “Now, you must sing.” And Emma began to play “In The Gloaming.”

  Mary hesitated. Why did that have to be the song Emma chose? The haunting words, the sweet melody that always made her think of Colin. But what didn’t? Ever since he’d left ten days ago she could scarcely think of anything else. She’d never forget the expression in his eyes when he’d told her he would be returning to his patrol and would not give up until he found Ed and brought him back. To her and her child.

  “Please,” Emma begged, beginning the song’s introduction again.

  Reluctantly, Mary began to sing. “In the gloaming, Oh, my darling, When the lights are dim and low. And the quiet shadows falling softly come and softly go. When the winds are sobbing faintly, with a gentle unknown woe; Will you think of me and love me, as you did once long ago.”

  When the song came to its end, Emma lowered her hands into her lap and sat, silent. Finally she spoke. “Oh, my dear, sweet Mary. I cannot express how beautiful that was. It made me want to weep.”

  But the poignant moment was interrupted by the clapping of the front door knocker.

  They heard the murmur of voices in the hall, and a moment later Kweela presented Emma with two embossed cards on a small silver tray.

  “Oh, it’s Sylvia Harcourt, Henry’s wife,” Emma exclaimed, picking up the cards. “I told you about her, Mary.”

  “The ‘audience’ at your musicales.”

  Emma nodded. “And Grace Ellen Fitzsimmon,” she read from the other card. “This must be Sylvia’s friend from England. Do invite them in, Kweela, and please ask Nandi to prepare some refreshments.”

  Barely had Kweela disappeared than two elegantly dressed women swept into the parlor.

  “Don’t get up, my dear,” the shorter of the two commanded, rushing forward.

  She reminded Mary of a purple pouty-pigeon in her puce silk day gown, its pleated bodice squeezed in at the waist by a wide matching belt. It must have been the height of fashion because it couldn’t have been more unattractive in color or design. But oh, the matching hat. Lacquered feathers and stiff ribbons bounced gloriously atop the wide purple brim.

  “It is such a delight to see you, Sylvia.” Emma rose, grasping her hands as the woman bestowed a kiss on both cheeks.

  “I hope we haven’t come too soon after your tragedy, Emma dear.”

  Mary thought the woman none too worried at the possibility or she wouldn’t have included a stranger in the visit.

  “Of course not. I’m so happy to see you. If you’ll forgive my appearance.” Emma smiled ruefully down at the silk dressing gown that Mary thought made her look lovely, and suitably frail.

  “I so wanted you to meet my dear, dear friend, Grace Ellen Fitzsimmon, from London, you remember. She and her father are staying with the Norwoods.”

  Tall and elegant, Grace Ellen Fitzsimmon stood a little behind, leaning languidly on a pink parasol that matched the rest of her exquisite attire. Mary doubted she’d ever seen a lovelier creature. Clearly, these ladies’ outfits were not produced in a New York factory.

  The soft, silk fabric of the woman’s dress was sprinkled with roses and embellished with a delicate lace. She wore a bonnet trimmed with stiff pink ribbons and silk roses, and long white kid gloves stretched to her elbows.

  Any man would be proud to have such a beauty on his arm.

  Mary looked down at her own simple pale yellow dress, which up until this moment she’d thought quite fine. Inwardly she sighed, and then was heartened by the thought that even Emma did not possess such fine clothes—yet still had twice the bearing.

  The young woman extended her hand. “I’m so happy to finally meet the famous Mrs. Bryant, about whom I’ve heard such glowing reports.” Her pale blue eyes widened with compassion. “Allow me to express my condolences over your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Emma replied quietly. “We don’t always know the Lord’s plan for us. But he does have one. Daniel and I are confident of that. And now,” she turn
ed, “may I introduce my house guest, Mary McKenzie.” Emma bestowed an encouraging smile. “Mary has indeed been a blessing during this time.”

  Mary dipped her head. “I am very pleased to meet you,” she enunciated in the proper way that Emma had taught her.

  “And now, you must all sit down. Our cook is preparing refreshments, which should be ready any minute.”

  How gracious and at ease Mrs. Emma seemed; not intimidated at all by these wealthy ladies, although she’d once confessed to Mary that she was rather shy.

  “It’s simply been a whirlwind of social activities and invitations since Grace Ellen arrived, hasn’t it?” Mrs. Harcourt cast a smile at her friend as she settled onto the couch. “And why not,” she gushed, “with such a beautiful, charming—to say nothing of well-connected—young lady?”

  Miss Fitzsimmon smiled demurely.

  “She’s related to a niece by marriage of the Third Earl of Devon, you know,” Mrs. Harcourt added. “And my dear, she has a singing voice that could charm the wings off angels.”

  “How lovely! Mary, too, has a wonderful voice,” Emma inserted, trying to draw Mary into the conversation.

  “Oh, were you the one singing when we arrived?” Grace Ellen asked pleasantly.

  Mary nodded.

  “Very nice.” Mrs. Harcourt dismissed that topic with a brief smile and got to what Mary surmised was the real reason for their visit. “When do you suppose you will be up to resuming our little musicales?” She glanced at her friend. “Now that Colin’s back.”

  Magistrate Reed was back? Mary’s heart leaped at the unexpected news.

  “We’ve quite literally been waiting for his return with bated breath. In my humble opinion,” Mrs. Harcourt giggled, “Colin is the most eligible bachelor in Johannesburg. I take that back. In Transvaal—perhaps the whole of South Africa.”

  All but Mary joined in the laughter.

  “—even the entire British Empire.”

  They all laughed again.

  Mrs. Harcourt leaned forward. “In fact,” she said, her tone conspiratorial, ”I think Colin has his eye on Grace Ellen. Now wouldn’t that be a match!”

  nine

  Mary stood quietly in the archway of the parlor as Emma and the two ladies lingered in the entry over their good-byes.

  “We’ll look forward to our Thursday musicale, then,” Mrs. Harcourt said. “I hope Daniel won’t put up too much of a fuss.” At the bottom step, she turned. “And, of course, your charming house guest simply must join us. With her lovely contralto, she and Grace Ellen could perform a duet. Grace Ellen is a trained soprano.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Emma said from where she stood on the front stoop. “We’ll see you then on Thursday at seven.”

  Mary stood speechless behind her as Emma waved at her departing guests.

  Sing with the English lady? One who is a trained soprano?

  The rich ladies waved back and smiled as they were assisted into their carriage by a smartly dressed black driver.

  “How could you, Mrs. Emma?” Mary cried before Emma could even shut the door. “How could you agree to have me sing in front of those ladies? Every word that comes out of their mouths is so perfectly spoken, and Miss Fitzsimmon’s accent is so. . .so refined. Why I—”

  Emma drew her back into the parlor. “Come and sit down, Mary. I think we need to talk.”

  Mary sighed in despair as she seated herself on the settee next to her patron. She was sure that Mrs. Emma had come to her senses and realized the folly of it, too. Mary just wasn’t yet educated enough for “polite society.” And possibly never would be.

  Emma took both Mary’s hands in hers. “My dear child, you must stop thinking of yourself as less worthy merely because you didn’t have certain advantages when you were young. If our Heavenly Father sees all his earthly children as worthy of entering his grandest of heavens, that’s sufficient for the Bryants. And as for your singing, you must trust me, dear. I would not expect you to do this if I didn’t think you were ready. I have the utmost confidence in your ability.” She gave Mary an encouraging smile. “In all ways, you have proven to have such a quick mind. And a lovely, sensitive soul.”

  “But Mrs. Emma—”

  “No buts about it.”

  “Believe me, Mrs. Emma, I’m really not all that worthy of your confidence. And I’m certainly not worthy of this grandest of heavens you talk about.”

  “Why nonsense, dear. You think I don’t know the heart of a Christian when I see one?” She gave Mary a droll smile. “And by now I should be an expert!” Patting Mary’s hand, she said, “You’ve been my true companion and friend these past weeks, praying with me in my dark hours. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I am deeply in your debt.”

  Mary hung her head. “I wish you wouldn’t keep saying such nice things about me. I’m not that deserving. Besides, I’m not at all sure that God hears my prayers. And I wouldn’t blame Him if He didn’t.” Mary wrung her hands. “I may be your true friend, Mrs. Emma, but I haven’t been an honest one.”

  Emma tilted her head, and a frown line formed between her brows. “What is it, dear?”

  “I’m. . .I’m—” She struggled to get out the words, and then they came all in a rush. “I’m with child.”

  Emma flinched.

  “There! Now you know.” Fighting back tears, Mary rose. “How can I stay here and be a living reminder of what happened to you? I am so sorry. Truly I am.” She took a deep breath. “It won’t take me long to pack.”

  “Pack? Whatever for?” Emma rose to her feet. “Is there something you left out? Something more you haven’t told me?”

  “More? Isn’t that enough?” Mary looked incredulous. “Especially given your fragile state.”

  “My fragile state. Posh! Does that mean I must henceforth banish all mothers-to-be?” Emma took Mary’s hand again. “Don’t you see, my dear, every new life is a gift from God. And as painful as my loss has been, this child you are carrying is God’s gift. To all of us.” She threw her arms around Mary. “You’ve given us something special to look forward to.”

  Mary didn’t know what to say. She hardly knew what to feel. All she knew was that this saintly woman had made her see the baby, growing inside her, as a blessing instead of a burden.

  Mary suddenly realized that for the first time in her life, she would have something precious she could call her own. A baby. Her baby.

  “It’s my guess,” Emma said, “that if he hasn’t already, Colin will soon find your Edward. Everything will turn out as it should in the end. You’ll see.”

  Mary gave her a wan, uncertain smile.

  “We have our Heavenly Father’s word on it.”

  “You really believe that.”

  Emma looked her straight in the eye with an unflinching gaze. “You can count on it.”

  Still, Mary wondered.

  How could Mrs. Emma, of all people, be so sure?

  ❧

  The grandfather clock in the hall struck the hour and a quarter. Their guests would be arriving in fifteen minutes.

  Mary’s stomach fluttered. In the hall mirror she stared at the reflection of a young woman she hardly recognized. Her thick auburn hair was parted in the middle, waved deep on either side of her brow and swept up in a tumble of curls at her crown, the way Mrs. Emma had fashioned it. Into it she had pinned a silk rose that matched Mary’s silvery, pink gown.

  Mary tucked a recalcitrant curl back into the clustered curls.

  What if the pins came loose and the whole thing fell down in the middle of the musicale? Oh, how had she let herself be talked into this?

  Nervously she tugged at the frilled-lace, high-boned collar that had scratched a red spot on her neck. At least Mrs. Emma hadn’t made her wear one of those tight corsets that gave ladies the vapors.

  Thank you, Lord, for small blessings.

  Daniel, his own collar white as chalk and starched as stiff, came down the hall and paused. His gentl
e smile reflected back at her in the mirror. “You look beautiful, Mary.”

  “Oh, Pastor Daniel, how can I believe you? You’d tell me that if I looked like a scullery maid.”

  “Scullery maid? Grand lady is much more like it.” His smile broadened, and he recited, “ ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.’ ”

  Mary frowned.

  “William Shakespeare. An English poet and playwright. Emma will teach you about him in due time, my dear.” He gave her arm a pat.

  Mary swung around as Emma swept out of the bedroom, elegant and blooming in an ivory silk gown that complimented the luster of her hair. Pale smudges beneath her large dark eyes seemed to be the only vestiges left of her delicate condition.

  “Oh, Mrs. Emma. Tell me the truth. Please. Do I really look presentable?”

  With knitted brow, Emma tilted her head first to one side, then the other, scrutinizing Mary with mock consideration. “In my opinion,” she said, her voice very serious, “any addition to your loveliness would be redundant and excessive ostentation.”

  “Whatever that means,” Mary giggled.

  “But you get my point.” Emma gave her a hug.

  “Thank you for letting me wear this.” Mary touched the cameo at her throat.

  “No one will recognize it as mine, so you don’t have to tell.” She smiled fondly at her husband. “I always wear the one Daniel gave me on our wedding day.”

  Oh, to have a marriage like theirs. So full of trust and shared purpose and, most of all, a genuine unselfish love for one another.

  “Thank you both. I’ll try to remember everything you taught me, Mrs. Emma, and not embarrass you.”

  “Just relax.” Daniel smiled encouragement and moved down the hall. “Be the lovely lady you are, my dear child, and you’ll have nothing to fear.”