Journey to Love (Angels of Mercy)

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Richard Wyndham was a prince of a fellow—a man any woman would fall for,” she said wistfully. “He had that continental air about him. An irresistible wit. He dressed well, and was attentive and adventurous and—all the things I’d ever wanted in a man.”

  Mama sighed, her expression forlorn. “Your father was a wonderful provider, honey, but he never knew how to have fun.”

  Christine’s jaw dropped. “Wyndham was writing worthless checks and cheating people out of their lives’ savings. Sending children to Denver to fend for themselves! And you call that fun, Mama?”

  At least she looked apologetic now.

  “I—I didn’t know he’d done all that. My grief over losing your father and Wesley and—our home—kept me from seeing his darker side,” she said softly. “All I knew was that Richard wanted to be with me. He made me laugh and—and feel alive again. Christine, you have no idea—you were too young to understand—”

  “Oh, Billy and I understood that we’d be inconvenient to a charming Englishman who dressed and talked—”

  “How do you know that?”

  It was just like old times, baiting her hook to see which fish she’d catch with it. Yet now that Mama was snapping at her lines, the sport was losing its appeal.

  “I spied on you, Mama,” she replied matter-of-factly. “From the stairs. I saw Richard when he came with Leland Massena, pretending to be interested in the ranch. After that, you invited him while we’d be doing our lessons.”

  When Mama’s face clouded over, Christine widened her eyes pointedly. “You’re not the only one who’s used the necessary at opportune times. At least that’s what I told our teacher.”

  She turned away again, haunted by the memories of that fateful day in Leavenworth. “I just wish I’d—held it—at the stage depot. Because believe you me, we would’ve chased down Wyndham’s surrey if Billy hadn’t refused to leave me in the privy by myself. At least he looked after me.”

  Her verbal arrows finally found their mark. Mama crumpled into a sniffling little ball on the bed.

  Christine reminded herself that her mother had always softened her opponents this way—or at least this ploy had worked on Daddy and Billy. She and Billy’s twin had seen right through it. She’d perfected the Miss Pitiful act herself—until Agatha Vanderbilt ignored her fits and taught her better methods for getting what she wanted.

  Like leaving people to dangle in silence. Until they blurted out what she needed to know out of sheer nervousness.

  So Christine stood in the center of the hotel room, contemplating the worn spots in the rose-patterned rug. Waiting Mama out. It might be her only chance to hear these stories, because her mother tended to embellish things when she wanted the approval of listeners who didn’t know her tricks.

  When did you become so cynical? So wise to the ways of the world?

  A sad question. But they both knew the answer, didn’t they?

  Behind her, Mama sighed. “Christine, sweetheart, I can never make up for the heartache I’ve caused you,” she said, “but please believe that I had no idea about the schemes Richard was involved in—until I was too involved myself to get out of them. Or to get away.

  “It was so pleasant at first—such a relief from wondering where my next meal would come from,” she went on. “He situated me in nice houses while he tended to his business. Told me he was sending messages along the stage line to locate you and Billy. As the weeks passed without any word of you, I convinced myself you’d found a home and were being cared for. It was the only way I stayed sane.

  “And when Richard introduced me into some of his . . . business, I was so desperate for a purpose—something to do!—that I overlooked the consequences of our advertisements and devious schemes,” she continued. “By the time I realized I’d probably never see you again, it—it didn’t matter to me that I was cheating people.”

  Mama got off the bed to walk to the window, but Christine didn’t turn around. Best not to interrupt the flow of this story.

  “When your nice photographer mentioned that you’d come to Atchison looking for me—the day before we claimed our portrait—” Mama went on, “It sent Richard into such a rage, I knew he’d been deceiving me—just like all his other victims. But what was I to do?” she asked urgently. “I had no money, no chance to break away . . . no place to go. By then, the gilding had come off the lily—”

  Just like it came off those Bibles, Christine mused.

  “—and I was as much Richard Wyndham’s prisoner as his accomplice,” she said bitterly. “He never let me out of his sight, on the chance I’d reveal his activities to the Pinkertons and other lawmen who were beginning to figure him out. That’s why we kept moving west, of course.

  “I—I can’t tell you how amazed I was—how overjoyed!—to see your face last week, Christine,” she went on. Her voice was rising with excitement, and she came to stand right behind her.

  Christine closed her eyes, bracing herself. Parts of the story didn’t add up, but if she raised objections she’d never hear it all before someone interrupted them. Veronique should’ve returned with that tray long ago—

  “But when I heard Richard’s footsteps fleeing out the back way—when you asked such incriminating questions in front of clients who trusted me—where was I to turn?” she pleaded. “Even Mr. Harte—a man I encouraged to come often because I sensed he’d protect me—ran out on me when you showed your face, Christine. It all happened so suddenly, I didn’t know what to do!”

  Christine stood stock-still, wanting to believe her mother—needing to believe she wasn’t making excuses. Most women were cast into roles they couldn’t change or escape, but still . . . hadn’t Mama missed her—or missed Billy, her best boy—enough to try to find them?

  Or was she feeling sorry for herself? Licking the wounds Mama didn’t seem to care she’d inflicted—

  “Christine! For God’s sake, look at me when I’m talking to you. I’m baring my soul to—”

  Two hands grabbed her shoulders, and with an amazing display of strength, Mama spun her around. The face she saw, mere inches in front of her own, looked as haunted and fearful as she felt inside right now. Christine kept her cool reserve until huge tears tumbled over her mother’s lower lashes, to dribble unchecked down her cheeks.

  “I love you, honey!” Mama’s breathless sentiment shook her to the core when those wet green eyes bored into hers. “I never stopped loving you—or Billy! I’ve made some mistakes, and done things I’ve come to regret, but being your mother was never one of them.”

  Something snapped inside Christine—or rather, it melted. She surged forward so hard they both gasped from the sheer force of it, the utter love of it. Together they cried and shook and held on tight, releasing the fear and heartache of three long, desperate years.

  When she could quit crying enough to talk, Christine whispered, “Mama, I’m sorry I’ve been so mean and rude, but—”

  “You had every reason to ask such questions—”

  “—I just couldn’t stand it, not knowing where you were and if you were all right—”

  “Not a day went by that I didn’t wonder the same about you, honey. I was just too weak and spineless to—”

  “I missed you so much, Mama.”

  Her mother hugged her so hard that neither of them could breathe.

  “You’ve always been the strong one, Christine,” Mama whispered. “I hope, as time goes by, you’ll find it in your heart to forgive the many ways I’ve sold you short. I am so, so sorry.”

  Christine nestled her head against Mama’s shoulder as she’d done as a child, except now she didn’t have to reach up to do that. She realized then that it was far more satisfying to hold her mother than to hold her accountable.

  So she did.

  A knock at the door announced Veronique Trudeau, bearing a napkin-draped tray. She smiled at them, her dark eyes shining when she noted their embrace.

  “Carlton Harte is downstairs in the parlor to se
e you, Mrs. Bristol,” she said. “I told him you needed solid food and freshening up before you could receive visitors, so Tucker is keeping him company.”

  She set the tray on the nightstand, smiling evasively. “Take your time. You’ll want to have your wits about you and your story in place before you meet with him.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  As they descended the stairs into the front parlor of the hotel, Christine paused behind Mama. Just as Veronique had said, Tucker was talking with a fellow dressed in a frock coat and trousers. Somehow the detective appeared different from the way she remembered him. Of course, she’d only seen him briefly on the train, and in the darkness surrounding Mama’s séance table, so she could’ve forgotten what he really looked—

  My God, “Mr. Harte” is Sheriff Carson! What’s he doing out here? He and Tucker rose and turned toward the staircase as Mama reached the bottom step. Tucker’s purposeful gaze warned Christine something was amiss—and that she was to keep any outbursts of recognition to herself.

  She realized then why Tucker’s mother had been grinning like the fabled Cheshire cat. She also noticed a WANTED poster on the table.

  Mama hesitated, smoothing the simple dress of cotton sateen Christine had loaned her. Then she smiled with that prettily dazed expression Southern women passed on to their daughters, extending her arm.

  “How good of you to see me, Virgilia,” the detective said. He clasped her hand, scowling at the bruise on her face. “After the tale Tucker has told me, I’m thankful you’re alive. What an ordeal you’ve endured!”

  “Carlton?” Mama allowed him to kiss her hand, but she was clearly confused. “When did you shave off your mustache? Why is your hair a lighter shade of—?”

  Christine clenched her teeth, for Tucker’s raised eyebrows warned her to hold her curiosity in check. How ironic, after all the aliases Mama and Richard had taken, that she didn’t recognize her associate from Denver. Probably because he looked like a man who went by a different name when they’d hopscotched across the country earlier.

  Still holding Mama’s hand in one of his, the phony Mr. Harte reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a fake handlebar mustache.

  Mama gasped, trying to pull free of his grasp, but then the detective produced a leather wallet. When he unfolded it, Christine saw a small certificate with a sketch of a human eye and the words PINKERTON NATIONAL DETECTIVE AGENCY—WE NEVER SLEEP curved around it.

  “We have some explaining to do to each other, and I’ll begin,” he said, still gripping her hand. “In my Denver office, I’m known as Carlton Harte—”

  “You’re a Pinkerton operative?” Mama stiffened, struggling harder when he wouldn’t release her hand. “What kind of a—this is a trap! I’ve considered you my friend, and now—”

  “And I still am, my dear Virgilia,” he cut in earnestly, “because you were right to suspect Richard Wyndham might tip the tables—if you’ll pardon the pun—when things didn’t go his way. And now that he’s—”

  “Then why didn’t you introduce yourself as the Harley Carson named on this—” Mama’s eyes widened further, and she wrenched her hand from his. “This is the most despicable—I trusted you! I believed you when you told me—”

  Sensing trouble, Christine slipped her arm around her mother. No telling what might happen now that this lawman from North Platte had revealed himself, but things would only get trickier if Mama bolted.

  “I apologize for my deception and disguise,” Mr. Carson said. “But to catch Mr. Wyndham at his swindling—and protect you from any repercussions—I’ve had to—”

  “Richard Wyndham, he’s run another piece in the San Francisco Chronicle,” Tucker cut in. He stepped around to Mama’s other side as he unfolded a page of the newspaper. “A national lottery this time, designed to bring in donations from big contributors. And he’s put your name on it.”

  Christine felt Mama’s pulse and temperature rising with her agitation. It was a bigger, showier advertisement than before, to raise funds for a School of Spiritual Enlightenment—and Madame Bristeaux, the renowned medium, was not only named but pictured. The oval portrait—cut from the photograph Tucker had taken in Atchison—had an ornate frame sketched around it.

  “But that’s—you all know I had nothing to do with this! I was left for dead in that alley—”

  “Which suggests Wyndham has used your name on other schemes as well, to divert attention from himself,” Mr. Carson pointed out. “It gives me this opportunity to protect you, and to . . . assure you my intentions are honorable, Virgilia. Please believe my association with you has become so much more than an assignment from Mr. Pinkerton.”

  Now this was getting interesting! Christine giggled, while her mother glared indignantly at the detective, who looked as plain as a sparrow without his fancy mustache.

  “In Mr. Carson’s defense,” Christine chimed in, “he was kind enough to rescue me from a pack of irate widows in North Platte. They thought you’d had the gall to come back after selling them those chintzy personalized Bibles when their husbands died.”

  Mama scowled, now even more confused. “But why would he need to rescue you—”

  “The resemblance is striking, Mrs. Bristol. Your daughter was marched to jail, direct from Mrs. Padgett’s bathtub, to atone for your trickery.”

  Carson’s face softened, perhaps with the recollection of that day. “I’m hoping you’ll be gracious enough to apologize to those ladies in person on your way back home—although that’s entirely up to you,” he added quickly.

  “I would’ve helped Miss Christine anyway—would’ve reunited mother and daughter—even if I hadn’t been fascinated by your . . . powers of persuasion, Virgilia. It was your vibrant mind—your sense of adventure!—that first caught my attention, you see.”

  He’s asking her to make amends with Harrie Butt! Not just to prove his prowess as a detective, but to rub his mother’s nose in—

  Christine blinked. The look in Harley Carson’s eyes was not one of professional detachment or sentiment for his own mother. He was in awe of Mama. Thought she had a vibrant mind, and a sense of—

  He can’t possibly have romantic notions about—this is my mother he’s gawking at! Like a lovesick puppy.

  Mama’s sudden ramrod posture brought Christine out of her thoughts.

  “Of all the nerve! To—to lure me downstairs by pretending—as you’ve been doing all along!—that you care for me, Carlton!”

  Her voice was high and girlish; on the verge of breaking into a wail—a pattern Christine recognized from when Mama used to manipulate Daddy, or divert his correctional conversations. Her face paled and her breathing became shallow, as though she’d succumb to the vapors any moment now.

  “No, my dear, I came to tell you that, with the help of the local police, I cornered Mr. Wyndham—at the postal box listed in this advertisement. We’ve brought this hoax to a halt!” Mr. Carson replied with a decisive nod. “I’ve revealed my true identity to you, hoping that we may become . . . better acquainted, now that you’re no longer under his influence.”

  “Hope all you want to, Mr. Harte—or whoever you are,” Mama said, her rage building. “But now that I see you for the snake you really are—”

  “I think of myself as a chameleon,” Mr. Carson interjected, “changing my appearance to bring criminals to justice.”

  “—not to mention a presumptuous little skunk, for thinking I wanted Richard to be caught. For crimes you can’t prove he committed!”

  Again the detective’s smile was patient. “We’ve sent telegrams to banks he’s written bogus checks on, and other businesses he’s cheated—not that I believe you knew of his financial activities, my dear. So I am meanwhile clearing your name and the reputation he might’ve ruined by association—”

  Mama’s gaze wandered, for she’d never been able to look men in the eye while they were finding fault with her.

  “And what is this?” she demanded, snatching up the WANTED po
ster. “If it’s your way of cowing me into submission—making me believe the police or the Pinkertons have issued this—”

  The detective’s expression sharpened subtly; he exchanged glances with Tucker in a way Christine couldn’t dismiss.

  “No, Virgilia,” he said more pointedly, “this portrait was instrumental in bringing Wyndham to justice. Because other Pinkerton operatives and the local police finally knew who they were looking for—and who might need their protection. Someday, when all this commotion’s behind you, you might wish to thank Tucker Trudeau for . . . providing it.”

  What was Mr. Carson saying between the lines? And why had Tucker’s jaw tightened enough to make his beard ripple?

  He’d sent Christine that WANTED poster nearly three years ago to alert her to Mama’s activities with Richard Wyndham. Yet now, she felt a shift in the conversation. The playful Cajun she’d come to love looked as nervous as when he’d proposed to her beside the Bay.

  Mama, meanwhile, was glaring at both of them as though she despised the male gender in general. “Are you telling me Mr. Trudeau took that portrait of Richard and me to the authorities? If the Pinkertons have been circulating it, they’ve done a damn poor job, because this is the first I’ve seen of it.”

  Tucker’s Adam’s apple bobbed, he swallowed so hard. Then he glanced up, toward the stairway.

  Christine turned to see his mother approaching with an expression that suggested some sort of cue—from her angels, perhaps. How different she looked in a gown of gold damask that set off her olive complexion. Civilized to the point of being sophisticated.

  “When Christine first came to Atchison hunting for you,” Tucker explained, “Maman and I, we wanted her to find you. To be with her mother—and be a family again!”

  “It was my idea,”Veronique continued. “My main reason for finding you, Virgilia, was so you Bristols would go back home—so my son would forget his instant affection for a young girl who’d be more trouble than she was worth. We asked the newspaper editor to print several of these posters so Atchison storekeepers wouldn’t do business with the man who’d already scammed the banks.