by Peterson, Tracie; Davis, Mary; Hake, Kelly Eileen; Stengl, Jill; Warren, Susan May
While Samuel played with kittens and Daniel rolled about on the floor, the lovers planned their future.
Epilogue
January 1882, New York City
Curled into the depths of a well-cushioned sofa, Beulah shut her book, smiling. Snow drifted upon the balcony outside her window, mounding on the railings like fine white sugar. Closing her eyes, she sighed in contentment. Thank You, Lord. Married life is better than I ever imagined.
The Van Huysens had opted to stay in one of the older hotels in the city. Its old-fashioned splendor was sufficient to please Beulah without overwhelming her. At times, especially around the holidays, she had suffered pangs of homesickness. But Myles’s adoration, combined with the knowledge that this tour was temporary, soothed her occasional feelings of inadequacy and loneliness.
She slipped a letter from inside the book cover. There on the envelope her new name, “Mrs. Myles Van Huysen,” was written in Mama’s neat script. Beulah ran her finger over the words. She was eager to share family news with Myles that night after the concert. He was currently at the theater, practicing.
“Beulah?” A familiar voice called from outside the hotel door. Virginia did not believe in knocking. Beulah hurried to let in her new grandmother.
Virginia bustled into the room, her arms filled with packages. “I’ve been shopping. Wish you had come with me, but I still managed to spend a good deal. I want you to try this on.” After dropping several boxes upon a table, she shoved the largest in Beulah’s direction.
“What have you done, Gram?” Beulah chuckled. “What will Myles say?”
“I don’t care what that boy might say. It’s my money, and I’ll spend it as I like.” Spying the letter in Beulah’s hand, she said, “So you’ve heard from your mother again? How is everyone back home?”
The crisp inquiry warmed Beulah’s heart. She kissed Virginia’s cheek. “I love you, Gram. Mama says to tell you ‘hello.’ They are all well. Daniel is pulling up to stand beside furniture now. Sheriff Boz and Miss Amelia have set February fourteenth as their wedding day, so we should be home in time for the wedding. Um, let’s see…Eunice found homes for all four of Pushy’s kittens. Mama and Papa are letting her keep the black one, Miss Amelia chose the black and white girl, and Mr. Thwaite picked the gray boy. Believe it or not, Al decided to take the black one with white feet! After all his teasing Myles about liking cats, he now has a pet cat of his own.”
“That’s so nice, dear.” Virginia smiled fondly at the girl. “Only a few days now until we’ll all be on the train headed for Wisconsin.”
“Will you be sorry to leave New York? You must miss your old house. Didn’t it hurt to see strangers take it over?”
Virginia pursed her lips and gazed through the window at blowing snow. “For many years now New York has not seemed like home. Ever since the boys left me, I’ve been a lonely soul. My friends are all gone, and sometimes when I walked around that old house, I missed my dear husband, Edwin, so much…. I could picture John and Gwendolyn chasing up and down the stairs—they were our only children, you know. John was killed in the war, and Gwen died of cholera at age fifteen.”
Shaking her head, she said firmly, “Dwelling in the past is detrimental to one’s mental and spiritual health. Now I have Myles, you, and many friends in Longtree.” Her expression brightened. “My life is in the future now. First in Wisconsin, then in heaven!”
Seeing Beulah dab at a tear, she started back into action. “Now take these boxes and try on the gown. It’s only a short time ’til we must leave for the theater. Don’t want to be late! I had a note from Mr. Poole this morning—he will be at the concert tonight. The man seems to take personal pleasure in Myles’s success, which is not too strange considering his role in the boy’s return to the stage. I hear it’s another sold-out house. Myles’s agent has been begging him to reconsider and stay on permanently.”
Arms loaded with boxes, Beulah turned back to grin. “Poor man! He hasn’t a chance against Cyrus Thwaite’s farm.”
Beulah perched on the edge of her seat, absently fanning herself. Her emerald taffeta evening gown rustled with every movement, but it was impossible to keep entirely still.
“Hard to believe it’s snowing outside, isn’t it?” Virginia leaned over to ask. She smoothed a bit of lace on Beulah’s shoulder and smiled approval.
Beulah nodded in reply. The old lady’s whispers were sometimes louder than she intended. Myles was singing a heart-wrenching aria from Aida, and Beulah wanted to listen.
“Hard to believe this is the last week of Myles’s tour,” Virginia commented a few minutes later while Myles performed Schumann’s A Minor Piano Concerto. Again, Beulah nodded briefly.
After weeks of attending her husband’s concerts, she still had not tired of hearing him sing and play. Each night Myles varied his repertoire. Always he sang opera, usually Verdi or Mozart; often he performed a few ballads and popular songs; most nights he took requests from the audience. Beulah’s favorite part of each performance was discovering which hymn he would choose for his finale.
Tonight he sang “Holy, Holy, Holy.” Beulah closed her eyes to listen without distraction. No matter how cross, irritating, or obstinate Myles might have been during the day, each night she fell in love with him all over again. He was so handsome, charming, and irresistible up on that stage!
“I think I’ll head home now, dear,” Virginia said while Myles took his bow.
Beulah stopped clapping long enough to return the old lady’s kiss. “Thank you so much for this marvelous dress, and the gloves, and the reticule, and everything! Your taste is exquisite. You are too good to me.” Beulah smoothed the ruffles on her bouffant skirt.
“Child, it was my pleasure. I trust Myles will approve. I hope you know how thankful I am to have you for a granddaughter. Myles has excellent taste, too. Good night.” She patted Beulah’s cheek and bustled away. Although Myles often requested her to let him escort her home, Virginia maintained independence, insisting that she was perfectly capable of hailing a cab and returning alone to the hotel.
As soon as the red velvet curtain fell, Beulah gathered her things and hurried backstage. Myles waited for her in his dressing room, smiling in welcome.
“Do you like it?” Beulah twirled in place. “Gram bought it for me. Isn’t she wonderful? Not that I’ll find much use for an evening gown back in Longtree. Gram fixed my hair, too.”
Myles’s eyes glowed. “You are beautiful, my Beulah. More than any man deserves.” His voice was slightly hoarse.
When he closed the door behind her, Beulah wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck and kissed him. “Thank you, thank you for bringing me with you to New York. I wouldn’t have missed this experience for the world,” she murmured against his lips.
“You say that every night,” he chuckled, pressing her slender form close.
“And every night I mean it,” she insisted. Framing his face with her hands, she studied each feature. “Sometimes I miss your beard, but I do love how your face feels right after you shave.”
“You’re standing on my feet.” He rubbed his smooth cheek against hers.
“That way I’m taller.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
He took her by the waist and lifted her off his feet. “How about if I bend over instead? These shoes were expensive, and my toes are irreplaceable.” Smiling, he kissed her pouting lips.
Consoled, Beulah snuggled against him. “Darling, sometimes I don’t want this honeymoon to end; other times I want so much to be back in Longtree, setting up our new home. But it will be hard to return to ordinary life after all this glitter and glamour.”
“This has been a marvelous honeymoon tour, but I think we would soon tire of such a hectic lifestyle. Think of snowball fights, ice-skating on the beaver pond, and toasting chestnuts. We need to hike up the stream and visit our waterfall while it’s frozen.”
“And I am looking forward to experiencing everyday things as your wife,” Beulah
added. “Cooking breakfast for you in our own kitchen, washing your laundry, collecting eggs from our own chickens.”
Myles hugged her close and rocked her back and forth. Secure in his arms, Beulah felt entirely loved.
“Yes, each day offers its own pleasures,” he mused aloud. “Be content with the joys of today, darling. This tour has been successful beyond my wildest dreams. I know God paved the way, and I’m sure we can trust Him to plan the rest of our future as well. We’re making memories right now that we’ll treasure for the rest of our lives. God is very good.”
LETTERS FROM THE ENEMY
by Susan May Warren
Dedication
To Pops and Grandma Niedringhaus.
In my fondest recollections, I can see you sitting on the sofa,
still holding hands after three decades of marriage.
I miss you.
To Curt and MaryAnn Lund.
It’s your memories that make my own so sweet.
To the Lord Jesus Christ, for loving me first.
Thank You for setting me free.
Chapter 1
June 1918
We’re going to miss the train!” Lilly Clark dashed across the South Dakota prairie, trampling a clump of goldenrod with her dusty boots. The withering grass shimmered under the noonday sun. A humid wind skipped off the Missouri River, and clawed at her straw hat. She clamped a hand over the back of her head and pumped her legs faster toward the crumbling knoll that overlooked the town of Mobridge. Her heart beat out a race against her feet; she could already hear the train thundering through the valley.
Behind her, Marjorie Pratt strained to keep up. “Wait…for…me,” she gasped.
Lilly forced herself up the hill, gulping deep breaths. At the crest, she yanked off her hat and wiped her brow. Squinting in the sunlight, she scanned the horizon and spotted the iron snake threading its way between bluffs and farmhouses toward the Mobridge depot.
“Is…it…here?” Marjorie staggered to the top.
“Almost,” Lilly replied. “We have to hurry.”
Marjorie shed her calico bonnet and patted her brow with it. “Just…let…me rest.” Shielding her eyes, she searched for the train.
“It’s over there,” Lilly said, pointing. Her other hand clutched a lavender envelope, tinged with a thin layer of dust. She scowled and blew on the envelope, assigning the soil to the greedy wind. For a brief second she regretted the extra moments it had taken to saturate the precious letter in perfume and dry it, but the thought of Reggie’s smile as he smelled the fresh lilac erased her doubts. She would just have to run faster.
She cast a look at her friend. Marjorie fanned herself, breathing heavily.
“Give me your letter, and I’ll go on ahead,” Lilly suggested.
Marjorie shook her head. “No…I’ll make it.”
Lilly nodded, then scrambled down the cliff, stepping on roots and boulders to slow her descent. There was an easier way into town, but taking that route would sacrifice valuable minutes and probably her delivery of this week’s letter. She heard Marjorie hiss as she started down the cliff behind her, but Lilly knew her friend would make it. Marjorie came from sturdy English stock. She just didn’t have the exercise of hoeing and weeding the kitchen garden in her favor. Instead, Marjorie devoted all her time to Red Cross work, assembling field kits.
“I’m going to fall!” Marjorie shrieked, sounding more angry than afraid. “It’s your fault we’re late! If we’d left on time, we wouldn’t have had to scramble across the prairie like a couple of jackrabbits!”
Lilly laughed. “You’re hardly a jackrabbit, Marj. Just be careful!” With Lilly’s long brown hair quickly unfurling in the wind and her tanned face, she knew she was much more likely to be compared to a longhaired wild animal than her dainty friend. Thankfully, Reggie didn’t seem to care that she didn’t have Marjorie’s sweetheart face, candy red lips, and blond hair.
Lilly reached flat land and sped toward town, picking up as much speed as her narrow gingham skirt would allow. At least it was wider than the dreadful hobble skirts that had been in fashion before the war. She’d ripped out two before her mother conceded defeat and allowed Lilly to sew her own styles.
The train’s whistle let out an explosive shrill. Lilly glanced back at her friend, now a good fifty feet behind her.
“Lilly, hurry!” Marjorie waved her on.
Squinting into the sun, Lilly spotted the tiny depot, situated on the edge of town like a lighthouse to the outlying northern farms. As the train pulled in and belched black exhaust, Lilly ignored the fire in her lungs and forced her legs to move.
The exhaust settled, and Lilly caught sight of the doors of two livestock boxcars being opened and a ramp being propped up to each entry. Cowboys ascended the ramps, disappeared into the black hole of the boxcars, and emerged dragging angry bulls or frightened horses.
Suddenly, a scab of sagebrush caught the edge of her boot. Lilly screeched, stumbled, and directed her attention back to the jagged prairie.
The train whistle blared, emitting its first departure signal, and fear stabbed at Lilly’s heart. She leaped over a railroad tie, used as a property divider, and, grinning between gasps, glued her eyes to the station’s platform steps.
If she’d been one step closer, Lilly would have been crushed under the hooves of a mustang, dancing in a frenzied escape from his handler. He blew by her like a tornado, his whiplike tail lashing her face and neck. Lilly screamed, stumbled, and plowed headfirst into the dirt, swallowing a mouthful of prairie in her vanished grin.
She sprawled there dazed, hurt, and dirty.
“Are you all right, Fraulein?”
The words barely registered in her fog of confusion. Then a strong arm hooked her waist, pulling her to her feet. Lilly absently held on as she steadied herself. She ached everywhere, but nowhere more than in her pride.
“Fraulein, are you hurt?”
She looked up and gaped at a Nordic giant in a cream-colored ten-gallon cowboy hat. Dirt smudged his tanned face and dark sapphire eyes radiated concern under a furrowed brow.
“Sorry. That stallion is a rascal.”
Lilly ran her trembling hand over her mouth, trying to gather in her scattered wits while she took in the man’s apologetic smile. Her disobedient heart continued to gallop a rhythm of terror.
The cowboy squinted at her, as if assessing her ability to stand on her own, and Lilly realized she still clutched his muscled arm. She yanked her hand away, a blush streaming up her cheeks. When he bent over, she noticed how his curly blond hair scuffed the back of his red cotton shirt collar.
“This yours?” He held the lavender envelope, now dirty and crumpled, between two grimy fingers.
“Oh!” Lilly cried in dismay. She reached for it, but the cowboy untied his handkerchief from his neck and used it to clean the envelope before handing it over.
Tears pricked Lilly’s eyes. Her letter to Reggie, ruined. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Sorry,” the cowboy muttered.
The train whistle screamed again. Lilly jumped, remembering her mission. She turned toward the depot but pain bunched at her ankle and shot up her leg. She cried out and began to crumple.
The cowboy gripped her elbow, steadying her. “You are hurt.”
“Well, I would think so, after being almost run over by your horse,” Lilly snapped, unable to hide her irritation.
“Can I help you inside?”
Lilly shook her head. “I can make it. Just go get that beast before it kills somebody.” She yanked her elbow from his grasp and turned on her heel, biting her lip against the pain.
“I really am sorry,” he offered again.
Ignoring the last apology, Lilly hobbled to the platform stairs and gripped the railing. She paused, then glanced over her shoulder at him.
The cowboy had taken off his hat and was crunching it in his hands. He gazed at her with eyes steeped in remorse. Her anger melted slightly. “Just go get tha
t horse, sir. I’ll be fine.”
He nodded and shoved his hat on his head. Lilly blew out a frustrated breath and climbed the stairs, wincing. Reaching the top, she swept up wisps of her tangled hair and tucked them under her straw hat. She felt flushed and grimy, but at that moment she didn’t care who saw her. Her letter had to make the mail train.
Lilly limped across the platform and entered the depot. The screen door squealed on its hinges. Two men looked up and stared at her.
She ignored the first, a grizzled Native American perched on a lonely bench by the window, and approached the second, a tall, pinched man who eyed her sternly.
“Hello, Mr. Carlson,” Lilly said, noting her shaky voice and smiling. He took in her appearance and flared an eyebrow.
“Do you have some mail to send to France?”
Lilly held out the lavender envelope. He grabbed it and dropped it in a bulging canvas bag.
“Just in time.” He bent to tie the bag.
“Wait, please.” Lilly peered out the window, searching for Marjorie, just now hauling herself up the platform steps.
Mr. Carlson scowled. “Hurry up.”
Lilly gave the station manager a pleading smile. “Please, it’s for true love’s sake.”
Mr. Carlson sighed and shook his head. “This war has generated more true love…”
He waited, however, until Marjorie trudged through the door and handed him her own bulging envelope, before closing the bag and dragging it out to the hissing train.
Marjorie and Lilly watched in silence as the porters loaded the mailbag, hoping the letters would, indeed, find their recipients. Lilly realized it was a fragile link, this postal system across the Atlantic. She only hoped it was strong enough to sustain the covenant of love between her and Reggie Larsen.
Mr. Carlson returned, his brow dripping with perspiration. He leaned upon the tall stool behind his counter, glowering at the two girls. “So, what are ya waiting for?”