by BJ Hoff
Jess moved to gather her into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest, rocking her against him as he attempted to console her—and himself. At first she was rigid and unyielding, dazed, he suspected, with shock and grief. But finally he felt her go limp against him. Burying her face against his shoulder, she collapsed into a quiet, despairing weeping that rent his heart.
In that moment Jess vowed that, blood relative or not, Colin Winston would not have Amanda. He would do whatever he had to do, fight the man however he must, to keep their little curly-top with them…where she belonged. Unless God Himself tore Amanda from their arms, they would not give her up.
Late that afternoon, Kerry took Amanda upstairs for a rest. She faltered at the landing at the top of the stairway, but both Jess and Nicholas were standing below, watching with concern, so she went on, taking slow but steady steps all the way down the hall.
Beside her, one small hand clutching Kerry’s, Amanda trundled along, chortling happily. Somehow Kerry managed to murmur the appropriate replies to the little girl’s cheerful prattle. But her heart felt like lead, and an anxiety bordering on hysteria hovered just at the edge of her emotions.
Rather than taking Amanda to her own room, Kerry led her to the master bedroom. Amanda seemed only slightly surprised at this departure in routine, scarcely pausing in her chatter as Kerry settled the two of them in the rocking chair by the window.
She kissed the small fingers tugging at her own, her eyes taking in every dear, beloved feature of the little girl on her lap, as if to store the memories away, untouched and secure. Almost unaware of Amanda’s squirming, Kerry saw only the tumbling blond curls and tiny nose, the darker brush strokes of eyelashes, the blue eyes that reflected none of Kerry’s own fear, but only childish mischief and delight in the moment.
She knew she should pray. For a time she tried to summon prayerful words up through the chaos of fear and torment churning inside her. But the desperate plea of her heart remained unspoken, inexpressible.
They had made her listen to what they referred to as “the situation,” speaking in hushed and uncertain tones. Jess explained it gently, carefully, as if he might have been reasoning with a babe. During the entire account, Kerry had bitten her lip with such force that she finally drew blood and had to swallow it down, along with the poisonous reality that again she was losing a child.
She had never seen her other baby, the poor little boy whose life had been snuffed out before he ever witnessed the light of day. She had never held him in her arms, spooned food into his mouth, sung lullabies to him at bedtime or whispered endearments as he slept. She had lost him before she ever knew him, and yet the anguish of his loss had left her grieving for months. Sometimes even now, in the long silent hours of the night, she would lie sleepless, wondering what he might have looked like had he lived.
But Amanda…oh, dear Lord, Amanda…I have rocked her to sleep, carried her up and down the stairs, bathed her, dried her tears, held her next to my heart…how can I bear to lose her, after all I have known of her?
Was there no end to the loss, the pain of parting? Her mother had died not long after giving birth to Kerry. Her only brother, Liam, had wasted away on the crossing to America, and her da had died when she was just eighteen. Later, her babe, her pitiful wee babe, had been virtually torn from her womb. Then Arthur, the poor runaway black boy they had taken in and only begun to love, had died, victim of an inferno—and the racial hatred of the very city to which he had fled in search of freedom.
And now Amanda…
Oh, Lord…how much more? How much more loss?
She thought of Casey-Fitz, who had lost his own mother years before. Casey had found love and security with her and Jess. The lad doted on wee Amanda, had accepted her immediately as his little sister. He had been nearly devastated by Arthur’s death; what would this do to him?
And Jess himself—how could he stand the loss of his little curly-top, the delight of his heart?
She looked down at the child on her lap. Amanda, curled into a ball, nestled her head snugly against Kerry’s breast and gazed up at her with drowsy eyes. Somehow Kerry managed to smile through her tears, gently encircling the small body with her arms, gathering her as close as possible.
As the late afternoon shadows stole over the room, Kerry sat rocking the sleeping child. She held her with a mother’s gentle arms, yet held her tightly, as if to guard against even the slightest threat to this darling one she loved so much.
A great sorrow settled over Kerry, a sense of the sun going down on the last light of her hope. Already she felt the cold gloom of emptiness.
17
The Sound of a World Ending
Gone, gone, forever gone
Are the hopes I cherished,
Changed like the sunny dawn
In sudden showers perished.
GERALD GRIFFIN (1803–1840)
Patrick Walsh paced the distance from his desk to the window several times before finally stopping to lean against the windowsill and stare down at the street. Outside, a curtain of gloom had begun to draw the city in, darkening the sky and the avenue with low-hanging shadows. Pedestrians hurried in and out of the stores and businesses, as if anxious to accomplish their errands and get home before the storm broke.
Abruptly he turned and went back to his desk, unlocking the middle drawer where he kept his gun. For a long time he stood staring down at the pistol, thinking.
He had made a mistake in giving Ruth the address of the hotel. He should have given her nothing. No address, no consideration—and no money. He should have dismissed her from his life the moment he tired of her, just as he had all the others.
She was none too stable, that much was evident. Otherwise she would never have come all the way from Chicago to threaten him.
But surely she wouldn’t do anything so bold or so stupid as to go to his home and confront Alice. Ruth wasn’t that foolish.
Even if she had the brass to make an attempt, she could never accomplish it. She had no way of knowing where he lived.
Unless she had made it her business to find out…
His eyes returned to the gun. After another moment, he grabbed the pistol and its shoulder holster and banged the drawer shut. Yanking his suit coat from the closet, he stormed out of his office.
“I’m leaving early,” he barked at Stockton. “Tell Huston to get the boat and take me across.”
In her upstairs bedroom, Alice Walsh gave a finishing pat to her hair, then smoothed the collar of her shirtwaist. She smiled in anticipation of her errand to Manhattan, already imagining Evan Whittaker’s astonishment.
He would be stunned, his wife proud and pleased. Alice found enormous satisfaction in the knowledge that something good was coming the way of these two exceptional people. No one in New York labored more faithfully for their God than Evan Whittaker and his wife. They had made any number of sacrifices to help the less fortunate of the city. Even Mrs. Whittaker, though in chronic poor health, never flagged in her devotion to her husband or in her ministry to the city’s abandoned children.
The hard-working immigrant couple seemed to thrive on pouring themselves out for others, at times to the detriment of their own health and livelihood. Perhaps soon, though, thanks to this unexpected publishing contract, their own financial burdens would be eased.
Not that they ever appeared burdened. Even with Mrs. Whittaker’s health as fragile as it was, they seemed to enjoy life—and each other—to the fullest. In fact, Alice realized uncomfortably, there were times when she came close to envying them.
Her smile fled as a pang of regret stole over her. If Patrick had ever, even once, looked at her the way Evan Whittaker looked at his wife, she thought she might have lived on it forever.
But Patrick was not, had never been, a demonstrative man. He couldn’t tolerate open displays of affection. Even in their most intimate moments, he was never what women in the popular novels would call romantic.
The truth was, Patri
ck often seemed cold and insensitive, even uncaring. Although Alice had never stopped wishing he might be more affectionate, for years she had managed to console herself with the reminder that her husband was a highly successful—and therefore extremely busy—man. He was occupied with more important matters than catering to her sentimental fancies. He might not be given to the time-consuming little acts of thoughtfulness that other men indulged in, but he was a good husband and father, all the same.
For the most part it had never been all that difficult to excuse his inattention. She simply reasoned that Patrick wasn’t actually negligent—merely preoccupied.
At some juncture, however, that had changed. Over the past few months it had become increasingly difficult to defend him.
For a long time she had been aware of his lack of interest in her and the children. But recently she had begun to recognize his detachment for what is was: a lack of caring. The admission that Patrick was not as loving and devoted as she had believed him to be was difficult for Alice. Yet she could no longer deny that his only real affections seemed to lie in the areas of his own self-interest—primarily money and success, as well as an especially troubling need to dominate others. And the awareness had shaken her so badly that she could not bring herself to think about it further for weeks.
The turning point had come on Christmas Eve past. As was their yearly practice, the entire family, including Alice’s parents, had come together after the late worship service to exchange their gifts. That night, as the children ripped into their presents, it occurred to Alice that Patrick was seeing the contents of each package for the first time. He had not shown the slightest inclination to offer suggestions, had taken no part in the selection or the wrapping of a single item.
Not that this was anything new. He routinely left all such matters to Alice. But for some reason the full extent of his indifference finally registered that night; suddenly her tolerance of Patrick’s apathy seemed every bit as unacceptable as his neglect. And when her mother inadvertently let it slip that she, not Patrick, had selected his personal gifts for Alice, the disappointment, coupled with her own self-indictment, struck a wounding blow from which she had never quite recovered.
Since then there had been other occasions when Alice became aware of some character trait or flaw in Patrick as if for the first time. And yet she knew it was not the first time—merely the first time she had allowed herself to confront the truth.
And the truth was, her husband was an intrinsically selfish man, emotionally removed from her and his own children, even careless of his family’s needs and feelings. From the beginning of their marriage she had made him something larger, something better, than his real self. She had never quite seen Patrick as the man he was—but only as the man she wanted him to be.
After the initial pain of that admission, his indifference had begun to take on a kind of cruelty in Alice’s mind. She did not as yet know what to do with these discoveries about her husband. She knew only that for the first time in her marriage she was beginning to face reality. And for the sake of her children, she determined that she must not allow the bitter truth to destroy her.
But today was not the day for grim reality. It was a day for celebration—at least she hoped that’s what it would be for the Whittakers. And being the messenger of such good tidings gave her a genuine pleasure that helped ease the sting of her personal pain.
She forced a smile at her reflection in the mirror, scanning her appearance one last time before collecting her gloves and handbag.
Just as she reached the bedroom door, Nancy, the housemaid, knocked and announced, “Beg pardon, Mrs. Walsh, but there’s a caller.”
Alice opened the door. Nancy—shorter than Alice and considerably plumper—stood outside. The girl’s round face was flushed and fixed in an expression of disapproval.
Ordinarily Alice would have been pleased by the prospect of unexpected company. Callers were rare, except for peddlers and the occasional business acquaintance of Patrick’s.
But to receive a caller now would mean missing the ferry.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone today,” she said uncertainly, peering past Nancy’s shoulder into the hall.
“And didn’t I tell her that you would be going out any moment now?” The youthful maid emphasized her annoyance by crossing her arms firmly over her starched apron front. “But the woman insisted on seeing you anyway.”
Alice frowned. “Then it’s someone I know?”
Nancy shrugged and arched her eyebrows. “I’d not think it likely.” Nancy gave a sniff of disdain. “Didn’t she decline to give her name? And her not even having a card!” The maid’s casual behavior and exaggerated Irish brogue irritated Patrick in the worst way, but Alice found the girl mildly amusing.
“Well, I think you’d best ask her to come back tomorrow,” Alice said, impatient to be on her way. “I’ll be happy to receive her then.”
Grumbling, the maid turned and stepped out into the hall. Alice followed her but stopped just outside the door, where the vast winding stairway, which ascended three entire floors, broke off at a landing.
Alice crossed to the banister. There was a clear view to the entrance hall below, and a young woman was standing at the foot of the staircase, looking up. Obviously she had taken it upon herself to enter without being invited.
“Why, what cheek!” Nancy exclaimed. “I’ll be getting rid of her this moment, just see if I don’t!”
Something in the forlorn expression of the young woman below held Alice captive. She stood staring down at her, and as she met the dark gaze lifted in her direction, she felt a sudden presentiment of dread.
She put a hand to Nancy’s arm. “No,” she said, her voice none too steady, “show her upstairs, to the sitting room.”
Ruth Marriott had never envisioned Patrick’s wife looking even remotely like the woman who stood across the room, studying her with a guarded but not unfriendly expression.
She wasn’t sure how she had imagined Alice Walsh, once she learned of her existence. But it was certainly nothing like this short, plump woman in the plainly tailored rose-hued suit. She would have expected a much taller woman, elegantly dressed, with a lofty demeanor and suspicious eyes.
She would never have conceived the pleasant, surprisingly sweet face, the air of vulnerability, the uncertain smile. This woman, who stood regarding Ruth with far more kindness than she deserved, appeared warm and unassuming—and much younger than Ruth knew she must be.
For a moment Ruth stood frozen under the directness of the other’s searching eyes.
“We haven’t met before, have we?” Alice Walsh asked, her gaze growing more intent. “I’m afraid I didn’t even get your name.”
“I…it’s Ruth. Ruth Marriott.”
Ruth watched for some hint of response to her name, but of course there was none. “We…no, we haven’t met,” she continued. “I came—”
Her throat suddenly felt burned and swollen. She stood, mute, unable to go on.
Something flickered in Alice Walsh’s clear blue gaze, and guilt assailed Ruth as she realized the enormity of what she was about to inflict upon this woman.
“Mrs. Walsh…I didn’t want to come here…”
Alice Walsh remained perfectly still, her expression cautious and perhaps slightly less charitable.
Ruth felt faintly nauseous. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I’m very tired. If I could sit down for a moment…”
A fleeting look of apprehension crossed the other woman’s features. But she was very much the lady, responding at once to Ruth’s appeal.
She gestured to a plum-colored upholstered chair. “Would you like some water?”
The thought of putting anything into her stomach, even water, made Ruth almost buckle with revulsion. She shook her head, stumbled to the chair, and collapsed.
For a few moments Ruth could do nothing more than sit staring at her hands, tightly knotted in her lap. Even when the nausea began to subside, she remai
ned silent, miserable in the growing awareness of what she had done to herself…and to the woman across the room.
Finally Alice Walsh broke the silence. “You are obviously distressed about something, Miss Marriott. May I ask why you’ve come?”
Slowly Ruth dragged her eyes away from her hands to meet Alice Walsh’s troubled frown. “I came…to you…because I didn’t know what to do, where else to go. Patrick…your husband…warned me not to come, but I didn’t feel I had a choice.”
Alice Walsh’s gaze never wavered, though Ruth could tell that she was badly shaken. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. How is it that you happen to know my husband?”
Ruth was suddenly overcome with the conviction that the woman standing in the middle of the room was a fine and decent person, no doubt altogether ignorant of her husband’s betrayal. Alice Walsh had probably never hurt anyone in her life or given anyone reason to hurt her.
This was a woman, Ruth sensed, who lived a good life in a safe, secure world where people did not betray or wound one another. And now, through no fault of her own, a total stranger was about to bring that world crashing down around her. Alice Walsh’s life would never be the same again.
Ruth opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came. Dragging in a long, tremulous breath, she finally forced the words up from her throat. “Mrs. Walsh…I’m sorry. But I have to tell you that I’m carrying your husband’s child.”
18
The Worst Deceit of All
A man lives alone with his mistakes.
A woman shares them.
IRISH PROVERB
The rain began, not gradually or gently, as hinted by the storm’s slow building throughout the afternoon, but all at once, a sudden downpour bursting from the sky. A crash of thunder shook the house, rattling the windows. Lightning streaked, illuminating the sitting room for an instant with a sweeping flash of silver.