“I’ve realized, in these weeks while I searched for Mama, that I’d be foolish not to get my diploma and spend a few months working with Madame Devereaux. If she’ll still have me.”
She leaned against Tucker, drawing strength from his broad shoulders and the way his gaze never wavered.
“It’s smart, oui, to have that designer’s blessing,” he remarked. “Because—if you still will go to San Francisco with me—you will have the skills to bring those wealthy women flocking to your shop, chérie.”
“Shop? San Francisco?” Mama said in a weak voice. “Why was I never asked about—? What if I need you for—?”
“Christine has always known her own mind, and has developed her talents well,” her headmistress cut in firmly. “We all know she’s perfectly suited to such a career, while being a natural with children. You should be very proud of your daughter, Mrs. Bristol.”
Christine grinned. Mama still looked pathetically peeved, but she didn’t dare argue with Agatha Vanderbilt.
“I would also be remiss—would be throwing away the hours you’ve spent with me at the academy,” Christine stammered, “and the sacrifices Mercy made for me, so I could become more than a hot-headed little runaway. I owe you both more than I can say.”
“I was pleased to help you,” Mercy replied, her dark eyes shining. “I’m so tickled to hear about you and Tucker—and your plans, Christine. Now you’re really going somewhere!”
“And this success is your own doing, dear,” Miss Vanderbilt chimed in. “We provided the opportunities, but you made the most of them. Every one of us is so proud of you.”
Were those tears in her teacher’s eyes? Christine nipped her lip. She’d once considered this woman a battle-ax who had to be older than God and now realized she’d become a dear friend. Like a mother, when she needed one most.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you all for never giving up on me. These last few weeks, things have fallen into place like—like—”
“Divine magic.”
Everyone looked at Veronique Trudeau. She smiled serenely, so different from the Gypsy witchy woman who’d tried to keep Christine from going west with her son.
“The Virgin Mary, Mother of God, bestows her grace on all who aspire to her loving ways, Christine,” she said quietly. “For who would know better about a mother’s love than the mother of Christ Himself?”
It was the blessing she could never have asked for. Christine could only nod, speechless. Had this woman overheard her conversation with that painting? Read her thoughts once again?
It didn’t matter, did it? Veronique Trudeau, who routinely invoked divine magic in her own right, had passed her a symbolic torch—much like those that burned in the two holy hearts Christine had reached out to in the church.
“I can only add my amen to divine magic,” Michael said happily. “May God bless us every one—and let’s eat before it gets cold!”
“Magic!” Lily echoed in an awed whisper. Then she looked up at Christine with sparkling blue eyes. “Magic like me, Kwis-teen!”
Epilogue
July 1870
Resplendent in the beaded ivory gown she’d designed for Mercy’s wedding, Christine grinned at Billy from behind her shimmering veil. They stood in the shade of the house, looking out over the backyard where benches and the dais had been arranged for the ceremony. It was just like when the circuit rider conducted Sunday services at Mercy and Judd’s place, when they first came to Kansas. And that felt exactly right.
“Emma Clark’s giving you that look, little brother,” she teased.
Billy ran a finger inside his tight shirt collar. “Her I can handle. It’s that man Mama’s with I’m not so sure about.”
She watched Reverend Larsen place his Bible on the podium. White ribbons and mock orange adorned it and the bridal arch, which glowed in the afternoon sunlight. Mama was sitting next to the inside aisle, arrayed in a gown of mint green silk that Christine had designed. Mr. Carson—or Carlton, as Mama called him—was sitting too close to be considered proper, looking devilishly dapper in his darkened hair and handlebar mustache.
Christine snickered. The detective was having a much better time today than Billy was. While she dearly loved her brother, it was a treat to watch him sweat for a change.
“At least he has a legitimate career,” she remarked. “And, Pinkerton operative that he is, he’s seen Mama at her worst. Yet he admires her mind.”
Billy choked. “Yeah, I’m sure she gives him a piece of that, too. But how’m I s’posed to keep track of her now? She’ll say she’s on her way out to see you, and for all I know, she’ll be operatin’ a lottery outta those mailboxes again.”
Christine shrugged. “She doesn’t need our permission, does she? And she certainly won’t ask you for it.”
His exasperated sigh made her smile.
“But she’s never home!” His whispered exclamation made some of the guests turn to look at him. “You’d think, since Mercy and Mike’ve let her live in the Barstow house, she’d be there when I rode over to visit.”
Recalling the dark log houses most homesteaders had built, and the way the wind whistled through their chinking, Christine knew why Mama seldom stayed at that isolated place.
“A queen without a staff or subjects?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. “How long did you think Mama would last like that? Now, hush! The music’s starting, and I don’t want to miss a minute of my ceremony.”
Mrs. Reid sat down at the pump organ with a flourish. As her prelude began, Christine assessed the friends and neighbors gathering in her honor. Emma Clark, once a dyed-in-the-wool tomboy, now sat primly beside her parents. She fingered the folds of her cornflower frock, stealing backward glances at Billy—who was ignoring her. Her cousin, Gabe Getty, looked very scholarly in his new suit and spectacles, despite being a few years younger than her brother.
Nell and Clyde Fergus had come, as had friends from the church in Abilene. Back a few rows, Sedalia and Reuben Gates sat beside Asa—who grinned proudly at her. She waved at the old cook, grateful for his kindness and patience over the years. Lord knows she hadn’t always been nice to him.
On a bench near the front, Temple Gates sat talking quietly to the children. How pretty she looked in that new gown of buttercup watered silk.
Beside her, Lily sat swinging her legs and shaking her head—to feel the bounce of her first ringlets. The soft, springy columns of gold nearly reached her shoulders and transformed her from a baby into a beauty who already knew how to rule. According to the note her father had pinned on her, she’d be two next month, but—as Maman had prophesied last autumn—they suspected she was either older or an extremely bright little girl.
Solace, at sixteen months, toddled around the end of the bench, beating her hands in time to the music. With a mop of dark brown curls, distinctive eyebrows, and that dimple beneath her lips, she looked so much like Judd, Christine could believe he’d come back in childlike form.
Joel was growing restless, and Miss Temple was scolding him.
“He’s gonna bolt,” Billy warned. “Probably while the preacher’s sayin’ your vows.”
“He’s Joel. He’s four. He gets agitated when people expect something of him.”
Christine smiled sadly. She’d miss these children when she and Tucker headed for California tomorrow.
Her groom had been busy these past six months, selling his shop in Atchison and setting up a new one with a view of the San Francisco Bay. Union Pacific had paid him well for his photography work along the railroad, so he’d found her a little shop, too—a quaint place with flower boxes and a porch swing, and an apartment above it for their first home.
And home it would be, because the handsome man walking up to the bridal arch would share it with her.
Michael joined him there, brushing his sandy hair back and looking understandably nervous. Today of all days, Mercy’s water had broken. Maman was inside tending her. An occasional moan came from the be
droom window behind her, but so far, the music and the guests’ chatter camouflaged them.
Then, with a loud fanfare, the organist modulated into a wedding march. Christine’s pulse played its own solo. It was time!
Here came Miss Vanderbilt with her bouquet, an assortment of day lilies, roses, and mock orange blossoms she’d picked this morning. Her headmistress laid them in the crook of her elbow with a wistful smile.
“Don’t tell Mercy,” she murmured, “but you’re an even lovelier bride than she was. I wish you all the happiness this world—and that man—has to offer, young lady.”
Christine nodded, misty-eyed. “How’s it going in there?”
“Moving right along—just as we should be, if you’re to remain the star of this ceremony.” She watched Temple directing Lily and Joel toward them, and then turned with a wry smile. “Of course, since you made such a racket, leaving while Mercy and Michael exchanged vows, maybe it would be poetic justice for this baby to make some ruckus of its own!”
As they’d rehearsed, Miss Vanderbilt positioned the children for their walk down the aisle. Like a fairy princess in her dress of pale pink tulle, Lily led the procession, strewing rose petals from her basket on the grassy path. When she reached the white archway, she curtsied flirtatiously to Tucker and Michael and then turned to watch Joel.
Miss Vanderbilt handed the boy a white satin pillow with the rings carefully laced in place. She whispered something in his ear.
He’d balked at having his hair cut. He’d squirmed and fussed when they dressed him in a little blue suit, buttoned his collar, and made him wear shoes. And now, with all the guests watching him, and Lily anxiously crooking her finger, Joel stood stock-still, gripping the pillow.
He looked like a cornered rabbit. Too frightened to move.
And then he was off like a shot! He tossed the pillow and out toward the barn he ran, with Snowy and Spot barking raucously behind him.
Billy was ready to call them back, but Christine squeezed his arm.
“No harm done,” she whispered. “Leave them be.”
Rusty eyebrows shot up above startling blue eyes. “You weren’t that nice about it when we practiced with ’im,” Billy whispered. “How many times did you tell him to make us all proud? And promise extra ice cream if he behaved on your big day?”
Christine gazed at her brother—dear, protective, dependable Billy. And realized she would miss him most of all.
“Maybe no one’s going to behave as perfectly as we’d like,” she replied quietly. “Maybe we should forgive them as best we can and go on.”
Her brother sighed as if he wanted to say something. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Then he tucked her hand around his arm again.
The guests were still chuckling as Miss Vanderbilt brushed off the pillow. Then the headmistress straightened her shoulders to walk up the aisle so gracefully she could’ve balanced half a dozen schoolbooks on her head.
Christine watched fondly as this white-haired angel in lavender taffeta passed through the archway and took Lily’s hand. When she turned with a proud smile, the chords of the organ brought the guests to their feet. Suddenly they were all gazing at her.
Dear Lord, don’t let me trip over my hem.
For one glorious moment, with all the dignity instilled during hours of practice at the Academy for Young Ladies, Christine stood at the end of the aisle while her guests paid her tribute with their admiring eyes. Some of these people had watched her run away, to defy Judd and Mercy and Michael, behaving like the ungrateful little girl she’d been when she came here.
And where would she be if she hadn’t landed here? What might’ve happened had Mercy thrown up her hands and thrown her out? Or if Michael Malloy hadn’t brought her back after she ran away?
She didn’t want to think about that. Better to let these people celebrate the woman she’d become—because that’s what she intended to do. What a difference it made, to consider herself a part of this patchwork family. To count her time here as a blessing rather than a cruel twist of fate.
She caught Mama’s eye—saw tears sparkling in the afternoon sun—and then tugged on her brother’s elbow.
She walked slowly, keeping the music’s majestic beat as she approached the man who made her so happy. Closer to the ground, a blur caught her eye—and here came Solace! She was laughing with the sheer joy of propelling herself away from those who would’ve grabbed her. She bounced down the aisle with steps that made her curls and pinafore flutter, her bright eyes fixed on her best buddy.
Billy swooped, caught her up against his shoulder, and kissed her cheek with a resounding smack. Solace crowed again and kissed him back, as she’d done since she was an infant in her crib.
“Emma’s getting jealous,” Christine teased.
“Let her,” Billy said. “Can I help it if I drive all the girls wild?”
They chuckled, resuming their promenade. At the bridal arch, an apologetic Temple took Solace again, and Billy handed Christine off to Tucker, just as they’d rehearsed—
But then her brother grabbed her back and quickly kissed her. “I love you, Sis. Be happy,” he murmured before taking his seat beside Mama.
Christine’s jaw dropped. They hadn’t practiced that!
And then she felt a warm hand wrapping around hers, and she basked in the tender urgency of eyes that sparkled like aquamarines.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here . . .”
For a few moments, all else blurred except the love shining on Tucker’s face. His black hair fluttered in the breeze, and in his dark frock coat and striped cravat, he’d never looked more dashing. Yet Christine loved him even better in the earthy flannel shirts that strained across his shoulders when he adjusted his cameras. And she dared to dream of frolicking in the mist with him, wearing no clothes at all.
“Miss Bristol has asked Michael Malloy to share today’s Scripture—”
“And it is indeed an honor,” Michael replied as he stepped up to the podium. His glance flickered to the house, where his wife was giving birth. But when he gazed at her with those steadfast hazel eyes, Christine felt the blessing he was about to bestow upon her.
“After all,” he continued with a grin, “when I was reading this passage at our wedding in October, Christine was running off, determined to catch the man she thought had forgotten her. What a joy, that she’s marrying Tucker Trudeau today—and that she was actually listening enough to request this same Scripture from First Corinthians!”
When the laughter drifted away, he glanced at the page before him. Then, in a voice magnificent with commitment, he looked out over the crowd.
“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal,” he began.
A lot like me. I hope I’ve changed, Christine mused. Michael’s eyes were closed with the sheer beauty of the verses, and she had to swallow hard to keep from crying.
“Love is patient and kind. Love is not jealous, or boastful—it is not arrogant or rude.” He looked at both of them, as though he were teaching the most important lesson of their life to come. “Love does not insist on its own way. It is not irritable or resentful. It does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right. Love bears all things, believes all things . . . hopes all things and endures all things. Love never ends.”
Behind her, Mama let out a dramatic whimper and blew loudly into her handkerchief. But then it was a different cry—a loud, lusty bawling from the house—they heard.
Christine giggled. Mama had just been upstaged by a baby. Mercy’s baby!
“Praise be!” Temple Gates exclaimed, while Michael’s face lit up brighter than the Fourth of July.
“If you folks’ll excuse me,” he said, “I hear the voice of an angel. A man should never ignore that!”
Everyone chattered excitedly as they watched him race toward the house. Christine hugged Tucker’s arm—and then noticed that Reverend Larsen seemed at a loss for restoring
order. Poor man. Had he ever performed a service for this family that hadn’t been disrupted?
She gave him her brightest smile. “I think we should exchange our vows, and enjoy Asa’s splendid cake while we wait to see that baby. That’s the real highlight of this day! Oui, Tucker?”
“Ah, oui, Christine! You are absolutely right.”
For nearly half an hour, the guests milled about the table where Asa’s three-tiered marvel of a wedding cake held court. They complimented the old cook and sipped lemonade punch while Christine savored her last day with Lily, Joel, and Solace. In an attempt to dodge Emma Clark’s advances, her brother and Gabe had carried their cake to the corrals.
Tucker had set up his camera for a wedding photo, so Christine stood patiently inside the bridal arch as he prepared some glass negatives. When he had the shot framed to his satisfaction, he took his place beside her and asked Harley Carson to squeeze the shutter bulb.
Lily watched with wide eyes. “Oh, Kwis-teen, you look like a pwincess—an angel pwincess!” she exclaimed. She was holding Solace by the hand, doing an admirable job in her big sister role. Looking like a princess herself in those ringlets. Christine couldn’t resist.
“Tucker, may we take a photograph of just us girls?” she asked. “How often will we three be together, all dressed up—”
“There’s the baby!” Temple called out.
Michael stood in the doorway, his coat and cravat removed, cradling a bundle in one elbow. He wore the most lovestruck smile Christine had ever seen.
“On second thought,” she murmured, “there’s the picture to commemorate this wonderful day! Look at him! He’s just beaming.”
“Here she is,” Michael announced as he approached the waiting crowd. “Just like Tucker’s mother predicted, it’s a girl. We’ve named her Grace. Grace Christine Malloy.”
Christine sucked in her breath. She grabbed Tucker’s hand and squeezed between people to see the baby—a baby they’d named for her.
“Would you look at that sweet little face!” she cooed.
True, Grace’s cheeks were still red and puckery, and she looked ready to bawl. But who wouldn’t love that tiny turned-up nose and those wisps of light brown hair?
Journey to Love (Angels of Mercy) Page 29