Malinda didn’t move, but she didn’t argue. Gently, Herr Ollen-burger lifted Malinda from the grave. Then, with a smooth movement, he scooped her unresisting form into his arms. He carried Malinda as easily as he would carry one of his little girls. To Belinda’s amazement, Malinda threw her arms around the man’s neck and buried her face in the curve of his shoulder. For a brief moment, Belinda considered collapsing just for the opportunity to be scooped up in that same manner.
At the wagon, he set Malinda in the back, and she immediately drew her arm up and curled against the hard side of the wagon, making no protest about being taken away from the grave. Herr Ollenburger assisted his wife into the wagon, then he held his hand to Belinda.
She clasped his wide hand with both of hers. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He nodded, a sad smile on the corners of his lips. “Come now. Let us take you home.”
At Belinda’s home, Herr Ollenburger once more lifted Malinda and carried her, placing her on her bed when Belinda guided him to the bedroom. Belinda smoothed her sister’s sweaty, tangled hair and murmured, “Rest now. I’ll bring you some dinner in an hour or so.”
Malinda rolled to her side, reminding Belinda of the way her mother had shut out her attempts at comfort and assistance. With a sigh, she trailed behind Herr Ollenburger down the hallway to the parlor. Frau Ollenburger had also entered the house, and she came forward to put an arm around Belinda.
“Now, Belinda, you get some rest. Remember, church ladies will bring meals over for the remainder of the week, and Mr. Ollenburger and I are right across the alley. If you need anything, whether day or night, you come to us. Will you, dear?”
Belinda blinked rapidly to control the rush of tears. “I . . . I will. Thank you for . . . everything. I don’t know how I would have survived the last few days without you.”
“It will take some time,” Frau Ollenburger said quietly, stroking Belinda’s back, “but you will heal, Belinda. You will move forward. You and Malinda will be fine.”
Although Belinda wanted to believe the woman’s kind words, she wasn’t so sure. A thought winged through Belinda’s mind—a selfish one: If she were always responsible for Malinda, how would she ever form a family of her own? The desire to be a wife and a mother was strong inside her. Would she forever set aside her own longings to meet the needs of someone else?
Frau Ollenburger took Belinda’s hands. “Life is often hard, and it can seem very unfair. You’ve suffered many losses, yet haven’t you also learned that God is faithful? He sustains us, yes, Belinda?”
Even in the midst of her heartache, Belinda recognized her kind neighbor’s presence as a kiss from heaven.
Frau Ollenburger continued, “Before I leave today I will pray with you that He will give you peaceful rest. Rest is good medicine. Shall we pray now?”
Belinda, eager to experience peaceful rest, bowed her head without a word.
When she had finished praying, Frau Ollenburger gave Belinda a long hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Now, remember. You run across the alley if you need anything. Any time, day or night.”
Belinda forced a smile. “I’ll remember. Thank you.” She walked the older woman to the door, then watched her cross the alley to her own home. When she disappeared into her house, Belinda finally closed her own back door. She turned and faced the silent, empty kitchen, and tears pressed for release.
Determinedly, she blinked the tears away. “I don’t have time for tears. I have work to do,” she told herself. Moving to the hallway, she paused for a moment outside of Malinda’s door. Silence greeted her. She offered a silent prayer of gratitude. If Malinda slept, it would make the next tasks easier.
Entering her mother’s room, she crossed quickly to the bed and worked automatically, humming, forcing her mind to other things. She stripped the quilt and sheets, bundling them into a big wad in her arms. She moved briskly down the hallway and dumped the pile of bed coverings on the floor of the pantry, out of sight.
Back in the bedroom, she faced the bureau. Papa had used the bottom two drawers, Mama the top ones. Sucking in a deep breath of fortification, she tugged open the top drawer. Neatly folded items, long unworn, came into view. Mama had worn the same black dress or her nightgown since Papa’s death.
Belinda fingered the simple collar of one dress, remembering how the deep green hue had brightened Mama’s pale hazel eyes. Her chin quivered. Swallowing, she pushed aside the memories and set to work. A musty smell rose from the clothes in the drawers, and Belinda wrinkled her nose as she removed items to make stacks on the uncovered feather mattress. Dresses in one stack, aprons in another, undergarments in a pile by the door.
When the drawers were empty, she dumped the undergarments in the burn barrel in the alley, then returned for Mama’s clothes. Although she had intended to take them to Frau Ollen-burger and ask her to give them away, she now discovered a reluctance to part with them. She stacked the aprons on top of the dresses, then hugged the whole pile close, her breath coming in little spurts as she battled tears. Unable to face letting them go, she marched to the hallway and tugged the rope that released a narrow ladder.
Arms full, she precariously made her way to the tiny attic where Mama had spent so much time mourning over Papa’s clothes. The familiar handmade Russian chest sat in the middle of the floor with its top up, just as Mama had left it. How many times had she found Mama up here, her tears dampening Papa’s shirts and jackets?
For a moment Belinda faltered—would she be creating a shrine by saving her mother’s clothing? Then she shook her head. She wouldn’t be climbing that little ladder to visit her parents’ items. She only needed time to heal before giving everything away.
Leaning forward, she arranged Mama’s clothes on top of Papa’s in the big chest and then slowly lowered the lid, sealing everything inside together. Turning, she sat on the lid and peered around the steeply roofed space. The air was dead, heavy with dust. No window illuminated the area, the only light coming from the hole in the floor where the ladder descended, so shadows fell heavily. Despite the stuffy surroundings, Belinda shivered. How had Mama endured it up here, day after day? Certainly the closed, lifeless room had added to her sense of despair.
Unwilling to explore that thought any further, Belinda rose and started for the ladder. But a second box—a much smaller chest with a silver flap on the front—captured her attention. Tucked well back in the shadows where the underside of the roof met the attic floor, it was nearly hidden. Ducking low, Belinda approached it, squinting in the meager light. Where had she seen this chest before? Dust coated its top, yet several scuffs indicated fingers had recently opened the box and examined the contents.
Belinda tried lifting the silver latch, but it held tight. She poked her finger in the black keyhole, wondering where a key might be. She hadn’t seen one in any of Mama’s bureau drawers. A quick search through the clothing chest proved fruitless. Curiosity drove her from the attic to her mother’s room. Feeling like a burglar, she looked in the carved wooden box on the bureau top that held Mama’s watch and hairpins and then in the little drawer of the table beside the bed. Only Mama’s Bible and some loose pages of stationery sat in the drawer.
Belinda scratched her head, wondering where else to look, when she remembered a ring of keys on a hook inside the pantry door. She retrieved the ring, then went back into the attic. On her knees in front of the little chest, she tried each key in turn, but none opened the box. Puzzled, she sat back on her heels and stared at the mysterious little chest.
“What is in there?” she wondered aloud.
“What . . . do you think . . . you’re doing?”
Malinda’s rasping, broken voice came from behind Belinda’s shoulder. Belinda spun around on her knees. Malinda clutched her hands to her chest, her shoulders heaving from the exertion of climbing the attic ladder.
Belinda scrambled to her feet and guided her sister to the Russian trunk. Pressing Malinda onto its lid, she asked, “Are you all right, Malinda? Why
are you up here?”
Malinda continued to gasp for breath, but she glared fiercely at Belinda. “I came . . . to see . . . what you were doing.” She pointed her finger, her eyes narrowing. “Snooping! I caught you . . . snooping!”
Belinda frowned. “I wasn’t snooping. I was trying to figure out what that little chest is. I know I’ve seen it before.”
“It’s mine.” Malinda leaned over her own lap, coughed hard, and then sat straight up again. Her eyes flashed fire. “It’s my box. You leave it alone.”
Belinda put her hand on Malinda’s shoulder. “All right, Mal-inda. I won’t bother it. Now, please, calm down before you make yourself sick.”
For several minutes Belinda rubbed Malinda’s back, praying for the heaving breaths to slow. Finally, with a shudder, Malinda pushed herself to her feet. She grabbed Belinda’s upper arms and leaned close.
“That’s my box, Belinda. Mine. Don’t bother it again.” With a little shove, she released Belinda and descended the ladder without another glance at her sister.
Belinda, her heart pounding, shot one more look toward the chest before leaving the attic. What did Malinda own that required such secrecy?
18
THOMAS TURNED THE KEY in the lock of the heavy wooden door, securing his new home. He had moved into the cottage in Back Bay the first week of September. Tucked between a six-story apartment building called a “French flat” and twin townhomes, the simple mortar-and-brick cottage looked like a mushroom amidst oak trees, but Thomas didn’t mind. He’d been raised in a small, cozy home, so the four-room residence suited him.
He headed down the sidewalk with a long-legged stride, breathing in the moist air. The essence of salt water on the breeze left a tang on the back of his tongue that had become familiar during his years of living in Boston, yet it also left him lonely for the smell of the Kansas prairie.
He thrust his jaw at a determined angle and refused to allow the brief thought of Kansas to take root. There were numerous reasons to remain in Boston: the presidential election was still two months away; he’d committed to renting the cottage until the first of the new year; and he had a job that provided for him better than anything waiting in Gaeddert or Hillsboro.
“And Daphne Severt resides in Boston,” he added aloud.
Temptation to count the days until the election—his self-imposed waiting period before officially requesting Daphne’s hand in marriage from her father—hit him hard, but he resisted. He didn’t want anything to cloud this otherwise sunny day.
Rounding the corner, he lifted his hand to hail an approaching cab. The driver brought his horse to a halt at the curb, and Thomas climbed aboard. During the ride to the newspaper office, Thomas’s mind ran over all of the blessings of the past weeks— the new job with its enviable upper-office position and increased salary, the camaraderie of his co-campaigners, a beautiful woman who loved him, and a cozy home to bring that woman to when the time was right.
Yes, everything was coming together very nicely for him in Boston. Apparently little Gussie’s four-leaf clover had done its duty. He’d have to send her a letter and express his appreciation. Imagining how Gussie would gloat at receiving the first letter mailed from his new address, a grin tugged at his cheeks. Then he chuckled as he envisioned his humble cottage with its hodgepodge of furnishings.
Nadine had graciously allowed him to take the bedroom suite from the room he’d occupied during his school years as well as anything he wanted from the cluttered basement. He had been shocked at the things stashed in the basement—apparently Nadine had never thrown away a stick of furniture in all her years of living in the big townhouse—but he’d expressed only appreciation.
Thanks to her generosity, his parlor held a settee and two chairs with mismatched, marble-topped end tables. A table and four chairs filled the corner that served as a dining room. The second bedroom contained a sleeping couch, rocking chair, and desk. Eventually that room would serve as a bedroom for his children—at that thought he tugged his collar, suddenly overly warm—but for now he used it as a makeshift office for after-hours work.
The cab rolled to a stop outside the newspaper office. Thomas paid his fare plus a tip and hopped out. He strode into the building, considering the wisdom of purchasing his own means of transport. No carriage house existed behind the cottage, but the sizable lawn provided a space to park a vehicle. Daphne had coyly suggested he look at motorized automobiles, and the idea was tempting. Wouldn’t it be fun to drive a horseless carriage? Pa, Summer, and the little girls would enjoy a ride, he was sure, and he could imagine Belinda Schmidt’s eyes bugging out if he pulled into town behind the wheel of an automobile.
Briefly, he wondered how Belinda was doing. He hadn’t heard from her since her mother’s death, and he realized with a stab of guilt, he hadn’t written to her, either. He stood still, his eyes aimed straight ahead, unseeing, as he chastised himself for being so neglectful of his friend’s needs.
“You comin’ in?”
The voice pulled Thomas from his reverie. He looked to find the elevator operator holding the door open for his entry. With a nod, Thomas stepped into the elevator and automatically requested, “Floor three, please.”
But the young man shook his head. “No, sir. Mr. Severt requests a meeting with you. I’m to take you to the top floor.”
Uh oh. Was his everything-is-going-well-in-Boston idea about to be destroyed? Even though he’d served as Mr. Severt’s personal editor for several weeks, he rarely had face-to-face visits with the man. Severt handed Thomas his written drafts, barked his expectations, then left him to work. If Thomas performed to his boss’s satisfaction, he heard nothing; if he failed, he heard plenty. Given his boss’s penchant for withholding positive comments, Thomas had no expectation for a pleasant encounter.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing the fourth floor, and Thomas made his way down the hallway to Mr. Severt’s office. The door stood slightly ajar. He raised his fist to knock, but before his knuckles connected with the wood, a voice ordered, “Come in, Ollenburger. Prompt, as always.”
The gruffly worded approval eased a bit of the tension in Thomas’s shoulders. He entered the room, crossed directly to the desk, and offered his hand. Severt, a pen clenched in his stained fingers, remained hunched over a sheet of paper and didn’t even look up. Papers scattered across the desktop told of feverish writing. Without a word, Thomas sank into the chair opposite the desk.
After a few moments, Severt set the pen aside, stretched his arms over his head, and acknowledged Thomas’s presence with a tired smile. “Had to get my thoughts down before they escaped.”
Thomas understood. If someone interrupted him while he was editing, it took several minutes to bring his focus fully back to the task.
Severt yawned and leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head. “Ollenburger, I am about to open a can of worms the likes of which Boston has never before seen.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows.
Severt released a deep chuckle. “That’s what newspaper editorial writers do—stir things up. Make people look at a situation differently than they have before. Change things. And I intend to stir until I’ve changed the minds of every resident of Boston, of Massachusetts, of the entire United States of America!”
How did one respond to such boldness? Uncertain, Thomas replied with a hesitant, “Th-that’s a worthy aspiration, sir.”
Another blast of laughter chased away Thomas’s words. The man grinned then slapped his palms to his desktop. “But the U.S. of A. doesn’t need to be apprised of my intentions just yet. Sometimes ideas need to come in like a fox approaching a henhouse—without the chickens’ knowledge.”
More confused than ever, Thomas simply nodded.
“But once the fox is in . . . feathers fly! The balance of the coop is upset. And, best of all, the fox always wins. Well, Ollenburger, I am the fox, and I—shall—win!”
Thomas cleared his throat, swallowed, and braved a
question. “What, exactly, are you winning?”
The man stared as if Thomas had lost his sense. “Why, the election, of course! The presidency will be given to my candidate.” A cunning look crossed Severt’s face. “And then the changes will come. Things will revert to the way they should have remained. . . .” His voice trailed off, his gaze drifting to the window.
Thomas waited for him to complete the thought, but after several seconds he said, “What is my role in this . . . invasion of the henhouse?”
Severt jerked around, looking startled, and then he burst out laughing. “Your role in the invasion . . .” The man rocked in his chair, still chuckling, while seconds ticked by, and Thomas wondered if his boss had imbibed spirits before coming to work that morning. “Your role is crucial, Thomas. You will be editing my work for errors, of course, but more importantly, for understanding of the message. You’re a farm boy, Ollenburger, raised in a simplistic, rural setting. You have a different way of examining things than those raised in the city. The message I have penned must be understood and absorbed by both educated and common men.”
Despite his efforts to remain poised, Thomas’s brow pinched into a frown. Was Severt trying to insult him?
“Yes, subtlety this first week.” Severt’s tone turned pensive as he stroked his mustache. “A hint of what’s to come without being blatant. Allow the truth to be revealed in small bites, easily digested. . . .”
“Sir?”
Suddenly Severt scowled and pointed at Thomas. “This country was turned upside-down by Lincoln, but upside-down can be turned right side up again. And I intend to do whatever I can to turn it to right. Do you understand?”
In all honesty, Thomas didn’t understand. But rather than appear foolish, Thomas nodded. “I’ll do my part, too.”
“Good!” The man’s expression cleared. He tamped several handwritten pages together and thrust them across the desk at Thomas. “There are three editorials there, intended for the next three Saturday editions, marked clearly by sequence. Read them in order, mark your reactions, and then return them to me at the end of the day. Take the entire day.” His thick brows came down, an almost ominous tone creeping into his voice. “It is of the utmost importance that the meaning be grasped by the readers. Three editorials . . . any more would be excessive. These three must suit the intended purpose.”
Where the Heart Leads Page 15