A Heart Made for Love

by Linda Tillis

  Mae could only hear her inner roar—the sound of the culmination of a fear so strong she was almost paralyzed by it. The only sound she made was the soft rustling of her satin dress as she first stood, then collapsed as if her bones had melted. It was a good minute or two before anyone became aware that the young woman lying on the balcony floor had fainted dead away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mae could hear frightened voices. She could feel the coolness of a damp cloth on her face. These things seemed to be coming to her as she lay in the bottom of a deep, dark hole. She was comfortable at the bottom of the hole. Deep in the recesses of her mind she was aware that if she climbed out of the hole she would have to acknowledge something evil, dark, and dangerous. Suddenly her nose and mouth were filled with an acrid smell, and she coughed. Even as her eyes began to flutter, she was screaming, “NO!”

  Mae became aware of two things as her mind cleared. Eleanor was bathing her face with a cool cloth, and someone was watching her from across the balcony. He was tall and dark-haired, and immaculate in black evening clothes. Even in her confused state she understood he was a stranger to her. Mae blinked her eyes, tried to sit up, and as she refocused her eyes on the man, he was gone.

  Eleanor called her name several times before she got through. “Honey, can you hear me? Do you hurt somewhere? Take your time. You’re still white as a sheet.”

  Mae could see Patrick behind his mother. His face was streaked where he’d swiped at tears. It was clear she had frightened the poor boy.

  Mae stretched out a hand to him and said, “Sweetie, don’t cry. I’m all right, I promise.” To Eleanor, “Just help me up and let me sit a moment. I’ll be fine.”

  She was, however, not so sure. As her mind cleared, she remembered the voice. Mae stiffened in Eleanor’s arms and began to look frantically around the balcony.

  “What is it, Mae? What are you looking for?”

  Mae closed her eyes, gave a deep shudder, and whispered, “Eleanor, I must get away from here. Now. Please just get me to a cab. Now!”

  Eleanor was alarmed by the urgency, bordering on hysteria, in Mae’s voice. “It’s all right, dear. Mr. Finch has one waiting for us behind the hotel.”

  At that moment, Mr. Finch appeared, bounding up the stairs two at a time. “Can you stand?” he asked Mae. “Just hold on to me, missy, and we’ll get you home in no time.”

  As they were making their way down the back staircase, Mae’s eyes filled with tears. “I am so sorry I have ruined everyone’s evening!” she cried.

  “Shush such foolishness, child. Your health is more important to all of us than any old party,” Mr. Finch crooned. As they reached the ground floor of the hotel, Mae realized Mr. Finch had chosen the rear exit to avoid making a scene. How kind these people were to her, and how secure she felt in their love. Even so, right this moment she wanted nothing more than her papa, and his rifle, by her side.

  ****

  After much discussion about telegrams and doctors, Eleanor was able to calm Mr. and Mrs. Finch. She assured them it was nothing more than the excitement of such a new event in her life that had caused Mae to become overheated and faint. Only after they had seen for themselves, and Mae had recovered her natural color and was tucked neatly into her bed, were they able to leave her alone with Eleanor.

  “Now, young lady, do you have enough energy left to tell me what happened? I don’t want to upset you again, but I don’t believe for one moment your little fainting spell had anything to do with heat or excitement.” Eleanor sat very still and waited for Mae to open up.

  Mae’s eyes filled with tears. She looked so frightened that Eleanor almost gave in, but she understood it would not be good for Mae to keep whatever this was locked inside her.

  In a low and halting voice, Mae spoke. “It’s been over two years. I believed I had moved past the fear. Then tonight, in just seconds, all my bravery left me.” As she leaned toward Eleanor, imploring her to understand, Mae continued, “One moment all was well, and the next moment he was there, somewhere near me.”

  Eleanor shivered as a chill ran down her spine. “Who was there, sweetie?”

  Mae hesitated long seconds before answering. “Him, the only one I could remember from the event, the voice and the scent that used to haunt my dreams. One moment I was daydreaming about you and Papa, and the next I was aware of the scent of lemongrass. Before I could rationalize my fear, I became aware of a voice behind me, and I wanted to run.” Mae closed her eyes and tears ran down her cheeks. “But I was paralyzed with fear. All I could think was that he had found me. That he had been searching for me and had found me. Then everything started to fade. I don’t even remember hitting the floor.” Mae opened her eyes, searching Eleanor’s face.

  Eleanor gave Mae a sympathetic smile holding all the love and concern she could put into it. “You’ll remember well enough in the morning, because you have the makings of a very impressive bruise on your poor forehead.”

  Mae managed something between a laugh and a sob. As she raised a shaking hand to her forehead, she paused with it in midair and turned startled eyes to her friend. “Eleanor, when I opened my eyes, there was a man standing across the balcony. Did you see him? He was tall, dressed in black, and had dark eyes.”

  Eleanor pondered for a moment. “One of the gentlemen who was on the balcony when you fainted was the one who scooped you up. He placed you on the bench, and perhaps it was him you saw. That’s when poor Patrick ran to get me. I’m sorry, dear, but I don’t remember much about the man. I was so concerned about you I didn’t notice anyone else. I do know you are safe here.

  “Mae, you’ve been through a terrible ordeal. Perhaps you have not put it all to rest in your mind. Maybe some repressed memories were triggered. I can’t explain what happened, dear, but I want to assure you, you are safe, and surrounded by people who love you. Now, you need to close those eyes, get you some much needed sleep, and then tomorrow we will see how you feel.” Eleanor kissed Mae lightly on her already discolored forehead and softly closed the door as she left.

  Mae lay thinking about all that had passed. She was not a foolish girl, or given to flights of fancy. She had dealt with the event, but she knew, as well as she knew her own name, “he” had been there tonight.

  Oh, his intent might not have been to find her, but he’d been there. She rose from the bed, moved to her wardrobe, and took the pistol from the shoebox in the bottom. Now she might be able to sleep. She knelt and prayed.

  “Dear Lord, forgive my weakness. Lord, please clear my head of the fear and let me sleep in peace. Amen.”

  ****

  It had been a week since the Labor Day ball. The lump on Mae’s forehead had gone down, but the fading bruise was still visible. It was not a complimentary green, and Mae would be glad when it had run its course. She had convinced the Finches and Eleanor all was well, there was no need to mention this to Papa, and she was completely recovered. Only Maggie was aware she slept with the pistol each night.

  Each morning Maggie applied a cream to the dark circles under Mae’s eyes to prevent those probing questions. She was better. She had reached an agreement with the Lord. She would stop worrying. He would keep her safe. She had learned long ago that in order to maintain balance in her life she must trust in the Lord. And she did. He had delivered her through so many trials. There was no reason to think He would abandon her now.

  So, she would continue to carry the pistol and continue to study. Exams would be coming up in a couple of months.

  Mae stood at her bedroom window and listened to the birds calling to each other. It was hard to believe time was flying so quickly. It would be Thanksgiving before she knew it, leaving only a few short weeks before Christmas and the New Year. She had to get ahead in her studies because this was a very busy season for Eleanor. Mae wanted to be able to help with the many orders coming in. There was also a wedding to put together. My goodness, just thinking about all that had to be done was mind-boggling. Well, one thing at
a time. Mama had always said the only way to get through was to finish one thing at a time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Elizabeth Wellington was enjoying the view from the back parlor. The slope down to the small lake was dotted with wildflowers—black-eyed susans near the house and beautiful cream-colored turtleheads near the lake’s edge.

  When she was younger and still able to work the flowers, she had chosen the perennials that would continue to reseed themselves. She smiled to herself. That had been one of her better choices in life, not that she regretted any of the decisions she had been forced to make. The only things she regretted in her life were the losses, first of her beautiful daughter and then, much later, of her wonderful husband. Of course, she’d had no control over either of those life-changing events. As a woman in the 1800s and now into the early 1900s, there were many things she could not control.

  But she was about to take care of the one thing that was hers alone to determine, which produced another smile. She was so happy to have found a way to settle the question of what to do with her fortune. She liked the idea of her money going toward bettering the lives of young women; maybe a few could go on to be strong and wise, and raise daughters in the same way. With that thought, there was a light tap on the parlor door. Her bustling housemaid opened the door and ushered in Lady Wellington’s guest.

  “Please don’t get up, ma’am,” Myron Finch said with a smile. “I can seat myself.”

  Lady Wellington waved to a chair near her. “Thank you so much for coming all the way out here to see me. I realize I am cutting into a large part of your work day. I am truly grateful. The doctor has advised my heart is going to give out soon. Since there are a few important things I need to take care of before then, I try not to overdo too often.”

  “So, dear lady, how can I be of service?” he inquired.

  As Elizabeth Wellington ended her explanation, she could see by the look on his face she had caught Mr. Finch completely off guard.

  “Well, sir?” She smiled. “Are there any extenuating circumstances to prevent you from handling this piece of business for me?”

  “Ma’am, as I am not a legal guardian of the young lady, then there would be no legal complications, but ma’am, have you given this action appropriate consideration? Do you not have any other relatives? We are talking about a great sum of money here.” Mr. Finch needed to be sure there was never a question as to the integrity of such a decision.

  Lady Wellington looked him right in the eye and said, “Sir, it is a fact. I am an old woman, and sometimes, as I sit here in my parlor and waken from a small nap, I may be a little confused as to what the time of day is. However, when it comes to millions of dollars’ worth of property and cash assets, I can assure you no decisions are made without great consideration. I do, in fact, have a very distant vagabond cousin, a Langford Hardwick, who shows up here at least once a year to make sure I am still alive and he has not missed word of my passing. I personally believe he is a scoundrel and womanizer, but it is not my place to judge. So I will leave him two million dollars on my death. As I said before, I want the balance of my estate, including lands, minus the personal gifts to my servants, to go to Mae Hinton, to be used to promote her wish to create a home for young women.” This little speech was delivered with all the sharpness one would expect from an aristocrat who had, in fact, been making all her own business decisions for the last twenty years.

  Mr. Finch swallowed to cover the grin that might give him away. He was filled with admiration for this dear old lady. He had known her for many years and had so much confidence in her wisdom that he would have been glad to let her handle his own finances.

  “My dear Lady Wellington, I shall take care of this for you. I will personally draw up the necessary papers this afternoon and have them back out to you tomorrow for your signature. An assistant from my office will accompany me to witness the signing, and then you can rest in the knowledge things will be handled as you wish. No, dear lady, don’t rise. I can see myself out. You just indulge yourself in one of those little naps you spoke of, and I’ll take care of everything.”

  ****

  The signing was finished. Mr. Finch and his assistant had left Lady Wellington tired but relieved she had taken care of such an important piece of business. Mr. Finch’s mind was deeply engaged on the drive back to town. Did young Mae have any idea how her life was going to be affected by this? Just what was this dream of opening a residence for young women? He was glad Mae’s father would be available to help the young woman make sense of all this. The man had good business experience and would be able to guide young Mae, even through such an endeavor as a home for wayward girls. Whoever heard of such a thing?

  It was apparent today: Lady Wellington was not long for this world. She had been pale and shaky as she signed the many papers that would distribute her vast fortune to her satisfaction.

  She had been very generous to her servants but had also expressed the hope they would be kept on by Mae as she proceeded with her endeavor. She had, in fact, left two million to her wastrel relative. Mr. Finch had met him once, several years ago, when Lady Wellington had set up a quarterly allowance for one Langford Hardwick.

  Hardwick had been educated in England, an education paid for by the kind lady. As far as Mr. Finch was aware, he had never taken any steps toward bettering his own place in life. He merely relied on his relative to take care of him. The man was in for a rude awakening at some point in the near future. In fact, Mr. Finch had meant to ask Lady Wellington today if Hardwick was in town. He was sure he had seen him at the ball, but with all the excitement then, he may have been mistaken.

  ****

  The man in Myron Finch’s thoughts was sitting in the back corner of one of his favorite establishments. The serving women were almost clean, the whiskey was plentiful, and there was a steady stream of new customers who did not know him and therefore might be willing to play cards with him. The Crossroads Inn sat a few blocks away from the railway, several blocks west of downtown Tallahassee. While he preferred a higher quality of surroundings, he was a little short on cash. He would sit here and watch for a good pigeon to pluck. As he waited, he pondered his dilemma.

  He was not mistaken. The young woman who had fainted at the ball last week was definitely known to him. He’d made her acquaintance under circumstances he would not care to divulge to anyone.

  The men he had been in the company of during that acquaintance had long since headed west, which was fine with him.

  He had only taken up with them because they all had the same destination, Tallahassee. He’d been on one of his annual treks to check in on the old bird and had procured himself a seat on a boat traveling the Suwannee River. He and the others had disembarked somewhere south of a little town called Trenton. They had skirted the town, since a couple of the “gentlemen” had made a prior acquaintance with the local constable. They were all a little under the weather from the past two nights of heavy drinking, and so conversation had been nonexistent. They had been trudging along through the woods when they heard a female singing. It was a voice like a songbird.

  As they got closer, they could see a young girl beating rugs over a rail fence. Before he could react, one of the men had snatched a shirt from his valise and thrown it over the girl’s head. The others gathered around and were trying to take her to the ground. She fought like a young lioness, catching one of them in the eye and then another in the groin.

  He had said, “Perhaps this is not such a good idea after all,” when one of them slammed a fist into her face and ended the discussion.

  Once she was out cold, they took the shirt off and he looked upon a truly beautiful face, and the rest was not bad either.

  She was tall, with well-formed breasts and full hips tapering into long shapely legs. He was not a man who usually had to knock a woman out to get her favors, and the sight of her bloodied face was not arousing to him; however, the sight of her sprawled there on the ground with her legs open�
� Well, he wasn’t a man to look a gift horse in the mouth, either. Since the others were doing the holding, he was the lucky “first,” in more ways than one. He was surprised to see the blood and realize she had been untouched. Ah, well, the state of her virginity would not have lasted much longer, not with those looks. An hour or so later, they had left the area.

  That day had not crossed his mind until the night of the ball. My, how she had grown. Not much taller. Maybe “matured” would be the better choice of words. She had still been able to give off an air of innocence. She had never seen his face and so did not recognize him as she lay there on the bench, but prudence demanded he make himself scarce.

  He had already had his visit with the old bird and had given her the carved jewel box he had picked up at Nordstrom’s, the one with the secret nook…carved by the angry backwoods boy. The old bird had loved it.

  Ordinarily, he would have been on his way after the visit, but with the ball only a couple of nights away, and so many affluent pigeons all gathered in one spot, it was tempting.

  So he had stayed—and found the little she-cat.

  Sometimes he had an uncanny sense of when to stay and when to go. Right now his inner voice was saying, “Run, man, run,” but he wasn’t so sure. It might be interesting to hang around a while. His next quarterly installment from the old bird would be deposited next week, so he would be flush for a while. Just this once, he thought, he might ignore the voice.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Myron Finch recognized bad news when confronted with it. He could see it all over the face of Lady Wellington’s business manager, Arthur Bennett. Mr. Bennett was somewhere near fifty years of age and had been with Lord Wellington for about ten years before the good gentleman passed away. He had been the right-hand man to Lady Wellington for the past twenty years. As Finch watched Bennett enter and seat himself, he took a moment to consider how Bennett would feel about the new arrangements for Wellington Manor. Once Bennett was seated, with hat in hand, it was clear he was distressed.