Sinking onto his cot, he rolled up his pant leg and wrenched the form from its leather bracing. For a moment, he considered throwing it out the window. But he hated using crutches even more than he hated the wooden leg. Releasing an agonized groan, he pummeled the mattress with the turned length of wood, swinging it with all of his strength again and again and again.
Finally, exhausted, he flopped sideways on the mattress with the peg leg still gripped in his trembling hand. He stared at the empty pant leg dangling over the edge of the bed. Odd how his body still believed a foot was there. A dull, never-ending ache did its best to convince him he had two feet instead of just one. But the drooping fabric exposed the truth—he was a cripple.
Closing his eyes, he whispered a halting prayer. “God, I know I can’t grow another leg, but please . . . please . . . won’t You help me feel complete?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alice-Marie slipped her hand through Libby’s elbow as they neared the women’s dormitory. “Elisabet, may I call you Libby, the way Bennett and Pete do?”
Libby, only half listening, shrugged.
“Very well. Libby from now on.” She drew back on Libby’s arm, bringing her to a halt. “Libby, please don’t be sad. This is an exciting time! Just think”—she leaned close, her blue eyes sparkling— “tomorrow our classes start, we can begin pledging to Kappa Kappa Gamma and make many friends, the college campus is swarming with handsome men, there are no parents with watchful eyes keeping us from having fun . . .” Alice-Marie’s voice rose in enthusiasm with each addition to her list of reasons to celebrate.
Libby heaved a huge sigh.
Alice-Marie shook her head. “. . . and yet you sigh and frown.” She took hold of Libby’s hands. “Tell me—why are you so downhearted?”
With a little huff of impatience, Libby pulled free of Alice-Marie’s light grasp. “Didn’t you see Petey’s face when he left the dining hall? I . . . I hurt him.” She swallowed, regret a bitter taste on her tongue. “He’s been my best friend for . . . well, forever, it seems. He’s the only one who’s always accepted me just the way I am. And I’ve always accepted him.”
“You mean his wooden leg?”
Is that all Alice-Marie saw when she looked at Petey—a peg leg where a foot should be? Libby shook her head. “Petey’s special. He’s not like other boys.”
She’d never forgotten her first conversation with Petey, less than an hour after being deposited at the orphans’ school. She had climbed a tree and refused to come down, proclaiming the people at that dumb school didn’t really want her and she didn’t want them, either! While Aaron Rowley and his hired hand pleaded and cajoled and finally threatened, Petey calmly limped to the storage shed, dragged a ladder across the scraggly grass, and shocked her by hopping up the rungs to join her.
There, perched beside her on a sturdy branch, Petey had asked why she thought no one wanted her. Even after all these years, she remembered her angry response: “My parents died an’ left me, my uncle sent me away, an’ all those people who came to meet the orphans on the train . . . none of ’em wanted me. All they wanted was a boy. So why should these people want me? I’m never gonna be a boy.”
She also remembered Petey’s calm reply: “But your folks didn’t want to leave you, not like mine who told me to get out ’cause they couldn’t afford to feed me no more. As for all those others . . .” He scratched his head, leaving his thick blond strands standing in tufts like little shocks of wheat. “Seems to me that’s their problem, not yours, if they turned away a fine girl who can climb trees faster’n any boy I know.” Sticking out his peg leg, he’d added, “Don’tcha think that if the folks here would take in a one-legged boy an’ give him a good home, they’d be more’n pleased to have a girl like you?”
Remembering the feeling of acceptance that had filled her in those moments, tears stung Libby’s eyes. He’d made her feel wanted, something she’d desperately needed. And tonight she’d made him feel unwanted. Unworthy. Unloved.
But Petey wasn’t the unworthy one, and somehow she had to find a way to tell him. Maybe she could write him a note. She always expressed her thoughts better on paper. Eager to make things right with Petey, she turned toward the dormitory. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Let’s just go in.” But before she took a step, three girls rushed across the lawn and blocked her path. One of them grabbed Alice-Marie’s hand.
“Alice-Marie! Did I see you eating with Bennett Martin?”
Alice-Marie lifted her chin, a haughty smile curving her lips. “Why yes. He’s a good friend of my roommate. Have you met Libby?”
“Elisabet,” Libby said quickly. Her nickname, bestowed by Maelle and adopted by everyone at the orphans’ school, was too intimate for everyone’s use.
Alice-Marie gave her a funny look. “Oh yes, excuse me. Elisabet Conley. She and Bennett have been friends since they were children.”
To Libby’s relief, Alice-Marie left out the part about Libby being raised in an orphanage.
The trio of girls tittered, ignoring Libby. The one holding Alice-Marie’s hand nearly bounced in place. “We met him at lunch. Isn’t he charming? I adore his red hair and freckles. And do you know what he did? He sang to Caroline! Right there in the dining hall!”
“What?” Alice-Marie slapped her hand over her heart. “He did no such thing!”
Libby surmised the middle girl with frizzy brown hair and plain features must be Caroline by the way her face flooded with color. She nodded so hard the bun on the back of her head flopped. “He did. Oh yes, he did. Sang to me, and then . . .” She held out her hand and gazed dreamily at it. “He kissed me.”
The other girls practically swooned, but Alice-Marie stomped her foot. She whirled on Libby. “Is Bennett a masher? Because if he’s one to toy with a woman’s affections, you should have warned me.”
Libby gave Alice-Marie a firm look. “I am not Bennett’s keeper. Whatever he does, he does on his own. If he wants to kiss Caroline at lunchtime”—she ignored Alice-Marie’s gasp—“and then flirt with you at suppertime, that’s his doing. Don’t hold me responsible.”
Libby stormed through the doors of the dormitory, shaking her head. Girls! She had no patience with their histrionics. Caroline, or Alice-Marie, or even Queen Mary of England was welcome to Bennett! Libby had more important things to do than giggling over some boy, such as writing Petey a note that would set things right again.
She charged to her desk and sat down hard enough to bounce the chair. She yanked out a pencil, slapped the notepad onto the desk, and started to riffle through for a clean sheet. But she glimpsed the story she’d begun that afternoon. The characters—Arthur and Arabella—called out to have their story completed.
Tapping her lips with the pencil, she waged a battle with herself. Finish the story so she could get it sent off to the magazine editor first thing in the morning, or set the story aside and write to Petey? Her gaze fell on the lines of print; they enticed her into reading. Within a few seconds, she was absorbed in another world. Her pencil flew across the page, the story flowing almost without conscious thought.
At some point during the next hour, she was dimly aware of Alice-Marie entering the room and dressing for bed, but she steered clear of Libby. Lost in her make-believe world of a wealthy gentleman wooing a lowly chambermaid, Libby continued to write until she drew the story to a close.
“Oh, my darling Arthur, you’ve given up all for me.” Tears rained down Arabella’s creamy cheeks as she lifted her lover’s hand and bestowed kisses on his knuckles. His skin was smooth as silk beneath her lips.
“Nothing I’ve left is as dear to me as you, precious Arabella,” he vowed.
“But won’t you one day regret living in this tenement rather than in your fine mansion, toiling every day as a common laborer instead of receiving the inheritance of your ancestors?” she asked him. Fear filled Arabella’s heart. She gasped between salty tears, “Won’t you, one day, resent me for all you’ve had to leave behind?
”
Arthur drew her to his breast. His heart beat reassuringly beneath her ear. He promised rapturously, “Never, Arabella. The gilded trappings of my past are but dust when compared to my love for you. I shall cherish you—only you—until my dying day.”
Secure in his statement of devotion, Arabella melted into his embrace. She lifted her face to his as she whispered breathlessly, “And I you, my dearest.”
Their lips met in an expression of joy and promise that would last through all the morrows.
THE END.
With a little giggle, Libby dropped her pencil and massaged her aching fingers. Finished! Tomorrow, first thing, she’d purchase an envelope at the college postal window and send her story to the editor of Modern Woman’s World.
Impulsively, she lifted the neat stack of pages and planted a kiss right in the middle of the top page. Then, embarrassed, she peeked over her shoulder to be certain Alice-Marie hadn’t witnessed her ridiculous act. To her surprise, the room was dark—save the little lamp burning on the corner of her desk. Alice-Marie slept soundly in her narrow bed across the room. What time was it?
She squinted at the little clock on Alice-Marie’s bureau and jumped from the desk. Eleven thirty-five? She’d completely lost track of time! She scrambled into her nightgown, clicked off the lamp, and dove into her bed. Classes started in the morning—she must be fully rested and alert tomorrow.
Scrunching her eyes closed, she willed sleep to claim her quickly. Then her eyes flew open. Petey! She needed to write him a note of apology. She started to throw back the covers, but she looked at the stars winking outside the window. No, she didn’t dare stay up any longer for fear she’d oversleep and miss her very first class.
Petey’s note would have to wait.
Libby’s first days as a college student passed in a blur, and time and time again something came along to delay her note to Petey. At the close of each day, she raced to the mail cubbies, eager for a reply from Modern Woman’s World. But she found letters from Shay’s Ford instead. She appreciated the short missives sent by Maelle, Mrs. Rowley, and some of the children at the orphans’ school, but impatience plagued her when she didn’t receive a response concerning her story. What could possibly take so long?
She longed to pour out her frustration to Petey, but their different courses of study and subsequently varying schedules kept their paths from crossing during the day. Not until suppertime, when classes were over, did they have an opportunity to meet. But even then, to her disappointment, she usually did not get to spend time with Petey.
He sat with the other men enrolled in biblical studies, and she felt the need to keep her distance when Petey was with his fellow Bible scholars. Although she’d gone to church services every Sunday with the other orphans, her mind often wandered into fantasy worlds. She hadn’t retained the lesson from even one sermon, so what could she contribute to their conversation? She and Bennett often ate together, but visiting with Bennett wasn’t the same as visiting with Petey. Bennett, although funny and never short of something to say, took nothing seriously.
When she expressed concern about her fading friendship with Petey, he waved away her worries as if they were unfounded. Because he treated her heartache over that loss so casually, she didn’t even consider discussing the magazine submission. How he would laugh if she confessed she’d submitted a romance story to a magazine! But Petey wouldn’t laugh—Libby just knew he would encourage her to not lose hope.
Her journalism teacher advised the class to establish a habit of writing every day; then they would be prepared to meet deadlines when they were writing for pay rather than merely for learning. In response to the teacher’s instruction, and to help take her mind off of missing Petey, she started a second story. It seemed wise to have a second one ready to go in case the magazine editor wanted to purchase more than one story from her.
Between attending classes, completing her assignments, writing an article for one of the school’s newspapers on the merits of dormitory living—an assignment that stretched her to the very bounds of her abilities—and working on the second story, September slipped away, lost beneath a frenetic schedule that should have robbed her of time to think about Petey. Yet he crept into her thoughts at odd moments, stealing her concentration.
Did he think of her and miss her, as well?
On October first, three weeks to the day after she’d mailed her story, “Unlikely Lovers,” to the editor of Modern Woman’s World, she opened her mail cubby to find a long, narrow envelope with her name and address typed on the front. Even before she looked at the return address, her hands began to shake. This was it! The response she’d been anticipating!
Hugging the envelope to her chest, she raced up the stairs and closed herself in the room. After a moment’s pause, she turned the lock on the door. She and Alice-Marie never locked their door, but Alice-Marie wouldn’t knock before entering, and Libby didn’t want her roommate surprising her. Especially if the envelope contained a rejection. She feared she might break her self-imposed edict about crying if the editor declined her story.
Please, please let them have said yes!
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she placed the envelope face-down in her lap. Very carefully, she slid her finger beneath the flap, loosening the glue. Then, with fingers that turned clumsy, she removed the letter. Slowly, holding her breath, she unfolded it. A slim piece of paper fell from the fold and glided across the floor, where it came to a halt next to the baseboard. Libby started to reach for it, but there didn’t appear to be anything written on it. Puzzled, she turned back to the letter in her hand.
The salutation—Dear Miss Conley—seemed to pulse on the page. She crushed the letter to her bodice and sat bolt upright, gathering her courage while her pounding heartbeat ticked off seconds one by one. A full minute passed, anticipation building until finally, unable to abide the tension any longer, she jammed the letter to arm’s length and forced herself to read the opening lines.
Her eyes widened. Her pulse raced. She leapt off the bed, tossed the letter in the air, and squealed with joy. They wanted it! They wanted her story! They wanted her! She danced in circles, laughing out loud and then covering her mouth to hold back the sound in case someone knocked on the door and asked what she thought she was doing in there. Scooping up the letter, she paced the room and read it in its entirety, her lips forming the words without sound.
Her story would be printed in the December edition—only two months away! They had enclosed a check as compensation at the rate of one-fifth cent per word. Libby jolted. A check? She peeked in the envelope—where was it? Then she remembered the discarded slip of paper on the floor. With a little cry, she grabbed it up, turned it over, and read the amount. Five dollars! Why, that would keep her in spending money for a month! Another gleeful laugh poured from her lips. But then the laughter abruptly stopped, her spine straightening with a sudden thought.
“Oh, but . . .” For a moment, she chewed her lower lip, silently berating herself. She hadn’t bothered to count the words before submitting the story. She would have to trust their count this time, but she’d be certain to do a count before sending in her second story. “Lesson learned,” she told herself and slid the check into her desk drawer, where Alice-Marie wouldn’t see it. Then she read the final paragraph in the letter:
In what manner should the story be credited? Do you prefer “By Elisabet Conley”?
Libby clapped a hand to her cheek and sank down on the cot. A part of her wanted to use her given name—to have others know it was her story. But what would be best? A war took place in her mind, two conflicting opinions sparring like contenders in a tennis match.
Use your name—don’t you want the recognition?
But do you want to be recognized for story writing or news articles?
But recognition is recognition! And think how wonderful it would be to have people stop you and tell you they read your work and enjoyed it. That can’t happen if you use a made-up n
ame.
But if you use your name for fictional works, will it carry credibility when you begin reporting real-life happenings?
After a few minutes of reflection, she decided the purpose in writing the stories was to prove she could meet deadlines, not to see her name in bold print on a magazine page. “I won’t use Elisabet Conley,” she whispered, tapping her pointer finger on her chin. “Instead I’ll use . . .” Imaginary names—literary in tone—paraded through her mind: Lavinia Courtland, Cordelia Tremaine, Rosalie Hart . . . She hurried to her desk and wrote them on a piece of paper. Then, tracing little curlicues beneath each, she contemplated which one she liked best.
Suddenly, other names—not imaginary, but real—reared from the past: Leonard and Bette Conley. Papa and Mama. Libby gasped. Should she? With her neatest script, Libby combined her parents’ first names. Bette Leonard. While not as flowery as those from her imagination, she liked the way the name looked on paper. And using her parents’ names would be a way of immortalizing them.
With a giggle that sounded frighteningly girlish, Libby tore a clean sheet of paper from the pad and dug in the drawer for an ink pen. Looking at the letter of acceptance from the magazine, she copied the name from the signature and began a reply.
Dear Mr. Price,
It is with appreciation I write to thank you for purchasing my story. Please use the pseudonym Bette Leonard as the author’s name for “Unlikely Lovers” and for any other stories you may purchase from me in the future.
CHAPTER NINE
Pete set aside the latest letter from Aaron and Isabelle Rowley. Every other day since his arrival at the University of Southern Missouri, he’d received a short note from Aaron or a long letter from Isabelle. He had bound all of the envelopes with a piece of string and displayed them on his bureau top, where he could see them or place his hand over them when he started feeling lonely for his surrogate parents.
Kim Sawyer Page 7