Blessed Assurance

by Lyn Cote

  Hiram dropped to his knees in front of Jessie. “Dear God, forgive me. Jessie, forgive me.”

  Jessie half turned away from him, seeing his abject sorrow but unwilling to let it sway her.

  Huff in his painful raspy voice went on, “I’ve sinned against God and man. Esther, Esther, I’m sorry. I always had to have my own way in everything. Forgive me.” He buried his face in his hands.

  Jessie took a step back from him.

  “She said I’d never loved her. Oh, God, it’s true. I loved only myself. Forgive me, Jessie.”

  His words made her sick. She wanted to leave him here in his misery. But the honest grief in his voice forced her to turn back to him. Pity for him reared up inside her. Fighting it, she brought to mind all the times he had forced himself between her mother and her. Then she pictured the day he had marched her to Margaret Wagstaff’s back door and coldly left her there alone.

  Margaret. She saw Margaret’s sweet face. Margaret had taught her to love no matter what, no matter who. Then she recalled Reverend Mitchell’s dying words, “Forgive. You’ll never be free until you forgive.” He had said the words to Caleb, but she had needed to hear them, too.

  She hated her stepfather. I can’t forgive him. I don’t want to.

  She heard Margaret’s soft voice, “Forgive, Jessie, forgive.” As if Will and Margaret stood one on each side of her, she felt bathed in their love for her; her love for them. Will and Margaret loved her and God. God didn’t hate. He forgave.

  Jessie closed her eyes. She heard people moving around them, speaking in quiet, troubled voices, near but apart. She tried to harden her heart against all Will and Margaret had taught her of love. She couldn’t. She opened her eyes.

  Feeling older than her years, she took Hiram’s hands in hers. She tugged him to his feet. This is because of you, Margaret, you, Reverend Mitchell, and you, Mother. “I forgive you.” Her voice was dead.

  “Jessie, I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

  Jessie tried to say something comforting, but she felt numb, unable to respond. She felt alone, totally alone.

  Her stepfather wept into his hands. “What will we do without your mother?”

  Jessie averted her eyes. She mumbled, “We’ll manage somehow.”

  She felt like a wounded animal. She wanted this man, whom she still hated to take his grief away. She wanted to mourn alone. How could God have let this hateful man live and let her beautiful mother die? Waves of anger tried to swell inside her. I forgave him, Margaret. I’ll do what I can. She looked to Lee. Tears dripped from his eyes. But Jessie felt dry, flat, alone.

  Then it came…

  Soothing warmth poured through Jessie. Over the jagged shards of her shattered heart flowed a healing balm. Love, more wonderful than she thought possible, more healing than she could have imagined. Its intensity gripped her.

  Strength…peace…joy…lifted her spirit—summer breezes fluttering through her cold heart. Love, God’s unbelievable love for her became love for this man. It bubbled up within her, overflowing; its force stunned her.

  “I forgive you,” Jessie whispered and purifying tears washed her cheeks.

  Lee saw Jessie’s face softened, her embrace of Hiram lost its wooden quality. Reaching out, Lee laid his hand on her shoulder. The smile she gave him was the most beautiful he’d ever received, reminding him of a Renaissance Madonna, smiling down at the babe Jesus. Fleetingly he recalled the touch of his own mother’s hand, the mother he’d lost when he was near Linc’s age. “Jess,” he whispered, his tears falling, too.

  She stepped closer to Lee, releasing Hiram. The three of them stood like statues. Only their labored breathing and flowing tears betrayed them as human. They silently absorbed the impact of what had just taken place.

  She’d learned of the miracle of grace, but she’d never experienced it so real before. Her tears washed away the last traces of the numbness that had gripped her. Her heart lived again. In the faces of Lee and her stepfather, she saw what she felt reflected back to her.

  Finally Jessie spoke, “We have to take care of the twins. They’ll need us the most, Hiram.”

  Wiping away his tears with his hands, her stepfather embraced her fiercely, then stepped back. “You’re right. They need us. You must come and live with us until you can rebuild.”

  “I’ll come to help you, but I have to stay with Miss Wright, Susan, and Ruby—”

  “I have room for them, too. Bring them with you.”

  Gazing at Lee, Jessie saw her own surprise mirrored in Lee’s face. “Even Susan and Ruby? Do you mean that?”

  “Yes, I’ve been a fool. All I sense now is that they need me and I need them. I can’t explain it. I feel…changed. I’m not the same.”

  “I feel it, too.” Jessie drew nearer Lee.

  “I have to go break the news to the twins.” Hiram spoke briskly, his usual take-charge manner returning. “The three of us will get ready for all of you. You, too, Smith, I mean, Dr. Smith.” He shook hands with Lee, kissed Jessie once more, then hurried away.

  Jessie and Lee stood, faced each other, then Lee said, “I can’t believe what I just witnessed.”

  “I can hardly believe it myself. I can’t explain it, but all my anger toward him left me—completely.”

  “This is a day of miracles.”

  Nearby only a few tired volunteers clustered at the back, drinking coffee and talking quietly. On the night breeze, the scorched stench from the burned-over land came to Lee.

  “Jess, what about me? Has your anger toward me left you?”

  “Yes, oh, yes.” She stepped eagerly into his open arms.

  “I can hardly remember the man I was that April morning when I walked up your back steps.”

  Jessie rested her head on his shoulder.

  The powerful joy on her face almost made him weak at the knees. I don’t deserve her, Lord. Lee murmured, “I’ll try to be worthy of you, Jess.”

  “Don’t talk about being worthy of me. Tell me what’s in your heart.”

  “I love you, Jessie. You’ll be my wife?”

  “Yes.” Jessie stroked his cheek. “Yes. God’s given us time and love, gifts too precious to waste.”

  LOST IN HIS LOVE

  January 20, 1893

  Papa’s shouting woke Cecy. She sat up in her bed. In the blackness, she clutched her favorite dolly. Would he come to her room and break things?

  Mama’s high voice climbed higher while Papa kept shouting. The loud voices fought back and forth. They might rush into her room. They might shout at her and break her china dolly’s head. Cecy felt tears wet her cheeks. They might break her.

  The door opened. Soft light glowed into the darkness. It was Nana.

  “Nana!” Cecy cried out. She held up her hands.

  “Hush, hush, sweetheart.” Gently, Nana lifted her. “It’s all right. I’m here. Don’t cry.”

  “I’m scared,” Cecy whimpered. Warm, soft arms closed around her. She heard Nana’s soft words, but she couldn’t stop shaking.

  Nana carried her to the rocking chair, snuggling her close. The old chair began to move back and forth. Creak. Creak. She rested her head on soft Nana. Nana smelled sweet, like the powder Nana patted on Cecy after her baths.

  From below, the voices shouted and cried, but Nana hugged her. Nana wouldn’t let them break dolly or her.

  Then Nana said the good words, the words that always let Cecy breathe easier. She closed her eyes to sleep. Nana whispered in her ear, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul…”

  Chapter 1

  January 1906

  “They’ll be preening like peacocks on a terrace.” In a black bombazine gown, Auntie paced in Cecy Jackson’s bedroom. “Men, they think they’re in charge. But a wise woman always stays in control of herself. And of them.”

  Cecy stood very still while her personal maid lifted the ivory satin gown ov
er her coifed hair and settled it carefully in place. Cecy had difficulty taking in air, her nerves as tight as her stays.

  “Oh, Miss Cecilia,” the chambermaid said breathlessly. “I never seen a dress this pretty.”

  “Pretty?” Auntie snapped. “It’s an original by Paquin of Paris. I doubt any other young lady at tonight’s ball will have as lovely a gown. You may leave. We have no further use for you.”

  Blushing, the maid blinked quickly as if beset by tears. Cecy felt her embarrassment as her own. As the girl left, Cecy murmured, “Thank you.” The maid darted a look at her and fled, closing the door behind her.

  Auntie glared at the door and then turned back, “Tell me, Cecilia, how does a woman stay in control of men?”

  Cecy’s mind raced, calling up her aunt’s careful instruction. “I set the pace.”

  “Exactly. You make them dance to your tune, Cecilia. Not theirs.” As Cecy’s personal maid buttoned the hundred or so buttons that closed the back of her gown, Auntie walked around as if viewing a statue at the Louvre. Then she halted. “Now that girl from New Orleans—what’s her name?”

  “Fleur?”

  “Yes, the Fourchette girl. She’s the only one who’ll give you any competition.”

  Cecy’s stomach clenched tighter.

  “None of the other debutantes vying with you to be the Belle of San Francisco 1906 have a chance.” Auntie’s face rounded with a satisfied smile. “But the competition Fleur provides will make your victory all the sweeter.”

  Cecy swallowed, firming her resolve to outshine the Fourchette girl. “Yes, it will.”

  “You performed creditably at your coming-out party. Tonight however, you must set the tone for your entrance into society. You are my sister’s daughter, a Higginbottom of Boston. You mustn’t let these provincials, these Westerners, shine you down. You must not show any weakness tonight.”

  “I’ll try—”

  “Try?” Auntie halted. “You won’t try. You will do it. I didn’t waste all last year coaching you for social success just to let you falter at the post. A woman is nothing without social success.”

  Auntie lifted Cecy’s chin and looked into her eyes. “You have your mother’s features. It’s unfortunate that you inherited your father’s red hair, but it’s not as bad now that you’re older and it’s become more auburn than carroty.”

  Her aunt glanced at the wall clock. “The hour is nearly here. Remember. You are immeasurably superior to any young woman you will meet tonight. Show no fear. If you do, they will take the lead and leave you behind in their social dust. You must shine. Let no one attract more beaus than you, do you understand? And keep the men dangling and uncertain. Then they and the other debutantes will respect you.”

  “Yes, Auntie.” Cecy’s voice quavered slightly.

  Her aunt studied her and then turned away. “Just remember not to make the same mistake your mother did. Or you could end up just like her. I’ll meet you downstairs when you are ready.” Auntie left her alone with her maid.

  Finally, the maid finished buttoning her dress and then began coaxing the first skin-tight white silk glove up Cecy’s fingers, hand, and arm. “I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time tonight, miss,” the maid murmured. “It’s a party, not a battle.”

  Cecy made no response. She didn’t know exactly what had caused her mother’s problems. But Auntie knew and Cecy had to do what Auntie said to avoid following in her mother’s footsteps.

  Tonight was going into battle. She’d do whatever it took to seize her rightful place in society and put her desolate past behind her forever. Auntie’s right. Show no fear.

  Linc Wagstaff got out of his brand-new Pierce Arrow in disgust. His new Chinese houseman, Kang, stood beside the vehicle, his hands folded. “Auto not good like horse.”

  “At this moment I’m inclined to agree with you.” Linc stalked out of the old carriage house at the rear of his new home.

  “What you do now, mister?” Kang hurried along a step behind Linc.

  The ding-ding of a nearby cable car bell interrupted. Linc instantly picked up his pace. “I’ll take the cable car!” Linc sprinted to the street, hailing the cable car. It lurched to a stop. Linc leaped aboard.

  Invigorated by his run, he looked at his fellow passengers, some workmen and a few women. His evening dress had taken them by surprise. Despite the swaying of the vehicle, he made a half-bow. “Good evening, ladies and gents.”

  At his sally, most grinned at him. Linc flipped up his tails and sat down before he could unceremoniously lose his balance.

  The cable car made its way up the next hill, straining and rocking. Over the grinding noise of the car, one of the workmen called to him, “Horses lame?”

  Linc shook his head. “My automobile wouldn’t start.”

  This announcement was followed by hoots. “Autos! Get a horse!”

  This only made Linc grin more.

  The old woman who sat beside him said, “Automobiles are of the devil. God made horses.”

  Accustomed to this attitude, Linc nodded politely, but without agreement. This new twentieth century was a mere six years old. Change, the possibility of even more progress, was what drove him tonight. The future could be better if only good men would try to make it that way. Gaslights wrapped in wisps of fog passed by as the car went up and down hills. Finally he recognized Nob Hill. “This is where I get off!” Doffing his silk top hat in farewell, he descended from the cable car amid friendly wishes.

  He walked down misty, winter-darkened California Street toward his destination, the Ward mansion. After all the presentation parties held in the weeks following New Year’s Eve, Mrs. Zebulon Ward always hosted the first formal ball.

  Ahead, golden electric light radiated from inside the imposing, three-story stone Ward residence. Gleaming black carriages and motorcars lined up near the entrance. Arriving on foot would not add to Linc’s consequence in the eyes of society. In the shadows of the high wrought-iron fence, he waited until the liveried footmen were busy helping two ladies from an opulent carriage. Quietly, he slipped from the shadows and followed the pair to the open double front doors.

  He waited for the ladies to enter. When they had been relieved of their dark velvet cloaks, Linc stepped inside the huge foyer. The excited buzz of voices and bursts of laughter filled his ears. A footman relieved him of his cape and hat. He handed his invitation to another footman who carried it to the butler. The butler bowed, then read Linc’s full name aloud to his hostess who headed the receiving line. “Mr. Lincoln Granger Smith Wagstaff.”

  Linc bowed over Mrs. Ward’s pudgy gloved hand.

  “Lincoln, I just received a letter from your dear Aunt Eugenia yesterday. I was happy to write back and say I would be seeing you tonight.” Wearing a dog collar of glittering diamonds, Mrs. Ward went on to make the debutante next to her aware of Linc’s distinguished Boston Back Bay connections. She finished with, “Smiths have been bankers in Boston as long as there have been banks in Boston!” Linc worked his way through the line which consisted of Mrs. Ward’s protégé, a shy motherless girl whom kind Mrs. Ward was bringing out this season, and Mr. Ward. Linc smiled to himself—certain that the words “banker” and “Boston” had escaped no one. Wouldn’t it be amusing if someone approached him about a loan? After all, his stepfather’s family’s reputation and distinctions had very little to do with his own life. And he’d never before traded on anyone else’s credit. Doing so made him feel like a quack selling snake oil. But his purpose did include hobnobbing with the wealthy, the people he needed for success. His research into who owned what and how much in California had led him directly to the people in this ballroom—especially one redhead.

  Accepting a glass of ruby red punch from a waiter, he strolled through the gathering of San Francisco’s top two hundred families. Though he wore the latest in evening attire, the glittering rubies, sapphires, and emeralds and shimmering brocade dresses made him feel like a country rube. He drifted to a place near the
receiving line where he could observe the assembly while watching for his redhead to arrive.

  In front of him, a knot of young gentlemen collected. Linc idly listened to their conversations.

  One gallant with brown hair and freckles intoned in mock seriousness. “The 1906 San Francisco marriage mart begins tonight.”

  “You marry, Archie? Who would have you?” The fair-haired man grinned at Archie.

  “Sneer if you dare, Bower,” Archie replied in a theatrical tone.

  A rakish-looking man with straight black hair stepped closer. “Finally looking for a wife, Bower?”

  “None of your affair, Hunt.” Bower’s words came out stiffly.

  The obvious friction between the two men—Bower so fair and Hunt so dark—piqued Linc’s interest. He read the tension in the stiffness of their posture as well as the way they positioned themselves as though they were in a ring about to box.

  Hunt asked in a snide tone, “Anyone you fancy in particular, Bower?”

  Archie interrupted, “We all want to get another look at her. No mystery about that. They’ve kept the redhead under wraps for a year since her old man died—”

  Redhead? So they wanted to see her, too? Would that interfere with Linc’s plans for her?

  “Died and left her a fortune. That should interest you, Hunt,” Bower said acidly. “Some need a wealthy bride more than others.”

  Stung, Hunt took a hasty step forward. “What I do is none of your business.”

  “You trifled with my sister for nearly a year. I won’t forget that.”

  Linc stirred uneasily. What kind of game was Hunt at? Any man misleading an eligible girl made himself suspect.

  “I did nothing that I ought not. I didn’t propose.” Hunt paused to dust an invisible speck from his sleeve. “We just didn’t suit.”

  The scornful edge to Hunt’s words brought a faint flush to Bower’s face.