by Cathy Marie Hake, Lynn A. Coleman, Mary Davis, Susan Page Davis
Her heart struggled to beat. He couldn’t mean that. He’d forgiven her. “My sins are too much for you to bear.”
A shadow of grief crossed his features, and he crossed the room to take her hand. “No. It’s not you.”
“Then what?”
“It’s my mother.”
“You found her, then?”
He released her and turned back to the empty fireplace. “Sort of. She’s dead.”
She put a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
He looked down at her hand, then pulled away. “She died in an insane asylum. She was touched in the head.”
“Conner, I’m so sorry.” Facing his back, she touched his shoulder.
He jumped away from her. “They say insanity runs in families. I could go insane, too. I’m trusting the Lord to spare me, but I won’t burden you with that.”
She took three steps forward to stand as close to Conner as she could without touching him, tilted her head back, and looked up at him. “You are not insane.”
“How can you have such confidence?”
She touched her chest. “I know it in here. You have Christ in you. You wrestle daily with trying to make right decisions. You are an honorable man who humbled yourself to forgive the mother who hurt you terribly.”
“But there is still a chance I could go crazy, just like her.”
She put her fingers to his lips. “You won’t. You are the most levelheaded, sane person I’ve ever met. We will trust in God to help us handle whatever circumstances we might be faced with. The only crazy thing I can think of that you might do is not marry the woman you love. You do still love me?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Every minute of every day.” He pulled her close and kissed her.
Chapter 20
June 1 was a beautiful, sunny day. The rhododendrons were in full bloom. The small wedding took place in the backyard of the Carlyle House. Guests included Sarah and William and baby Vivian; Maggie and Scotty; Martin Zahn; Abigail Parker and her son, Harry; Peter and the other children from the orphanage; Finn; and a handful of other guests. Peter’s aunt agreed to take him with the dog, and Finn had volunteered to accompany the five-year-old to the other side of the state. Finn said it was time for him to be moving on. He and Peter would leave the following day for Spokane.
Vivian waited anxiously to be signaled forward. She wore a cream dress with lavender flowers embroidered on it. William held out his elbow for her. “It’s time.”
She looped her hand through the crook in his arm and walked with him down the short aisle to where Conner stood. She could hardly believe this day was finally here and she was a June bride. After they had said their vows and exchanged rings, the minister gave Conner and Vivian a moment for another exchange they had requested. Conner handed her a white rock. “To always remember I’m a sinner and need to be forgiven daily.”
She smiled. He’d found a truly white rock and had been thinking like she had. She pulled out a stone she’d painted white to show that they were cleaned white as snow by Jesus’ blood. She handed the rock to Conner. “To always remember that I have been forgiven.”
The minister pronounced them man and wife, and Conner kissed her.
The reception was held in the backyard, too, and the children had fun running around. After all the guests had left, only Vivian and Conner, Sarah and William remained.
Conner dangled a key in front of her face. She spun to face him and reached for the key. “What’s this for?”
He snatched the key out of her reach and pocketed it. “Close your eyes, and I’ll show you.”
She closed them and covered them with her hand.
He put his hand over hers and guided her around the yard.
She trusted him not to let her fall or get hurt. She was trying to figure out where in the yard she was but finally gave up.
He kept turning her around and making her walk in different directions. He finally stopped her on what felt like a paving stone and turned her to face something. “Open your eyes.”
Before her stood the white house next door to Sarah and William’s blue one.
“I didn’t want you to have to live above the store, so I bought you a house.”
“We’ll be neighbors and can spend our days together raising our children.” Sarah stood next to her.
Conner scooped Vivian up into his arms and carried her across the threshold. “Welcome home.” He set her down inside, kicked the door closed, and kissed her.
Her brand-new life had begun.
THE CASTAWAY’S BRIDE
by Susan Page Davis
Dedication
To my sister Pam, always supportive, never predictable.
You were brave enough to sleep alone in the Hired Man’s Room for years.
You brought us Moon Man and Ambercrombie Benson.
Without you we’d all be a little more melancholy and provincial.
Sisters forever!
Chapter 1
Portland, Maine, 1820
Edward Hunter hurried down the gangplank to the wharf, taking a deep breath as he viewed the city before him. In the five years he’d been gone, the docks of Portland had grown more crowded, and they bustled with business. Since the end of the war with England, commerce was good, and merchants in the brand-new state of Maine prospered. So many changes! Maine was no longer part of Massachusetts. What else would he discover today?
When he gained the street, he glanced south toward where his father’s shipping company had its offices and docks, but he squared his shoulders and turned inland instead. Abigail first, then home.
As he rounded the corner onto Free Street, he felt the tug of his heart stronger than ever and picked up his pace. At last he would be with her again. His pulse quickened as he thought of Abigail. She’d been so young when he’d left. Had she changed?
He chided himself. Of course she had.
For the last five years, that question had plagued him. His fiancée no doubt believed him dead for most of the time he’d been away. Anything could have happened during that period. She would have matured, which was a good thing. When Edward first approached him, her father had considered her too young at seventeen for an engagement. Several months later, after many evenings spent in the Bowman parlor under the watchful eyes of Abigail’s parents, the betrothal had been allowed.
Age would not be a problem now; she must be two and twenty. But how else had she changed? He didn’t like to think she had pined for him, grief stricken all this time, but neither did he like to think she might have forgotten him. She could have fallen in love with another man by now. She could even be married.
That thought slowed his steps as he walked up the path to the Bowman house. He had tried to avoid thinking about such possibilities during his years of isolation and loneliness on a desolate island in the Pacific Ocean. In all those lonely days and nights, his worst fear had not been death. He had faced that and come so close it no longer frightened him. What he dreaded most was learning that Abigail had forsaken his memory and married another man.
Edward stood before the door for a moment in silent prayer. Dear Father in heaven, You alone know what is to come, and You know what is best for me. You saw fit to bring me back from near death in the deep, for what purpose I do not know. But now I trust my future to You, Lord.
He squared his shoulders and lifted the knocker.
Deborah Bowman broke off her humming as the door knocker’s distinct thud resounded through the lower rooms of the house.
“Can you get that, Debbie?” Her mother’s voice reached her from the kitchen, where preparation of the evening meal was underway.
“Yes, Mother!” Deborah laid down the stack of linen napkins she’d been distributing on the long walnut dining table and headed into the front hall. It couldn’t be Jacob Price, her sister’s fiancé. He was due in an hour and a half for dinner, and his business usually kept him until the last minute.
The hymn she had been humming stuck in h
er mind, and she resumed the melody, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear as she crossed the hall. She turned the knob and pulled back the heavy oak door. A tall, slender man stood on the doorstep, taller even than Jacob. Almost as tall as …
She stared at his sun-browned face and swallowed the blithe greeting she’d prepared to deliver.
“Ab—” He stopped and frowned as he studied her.
The air Deborah sucked in felt heavy in her lungs. She must be mistaken. Again she surveyed the man’s handsome but anxious face. A new scar dipped from the corner of his right eye down and back toward his earlobe, and he was thin almost to the point of gauntness. But his dark hair and eyes, his firm chin, even the tilt of his head were the same. It must be him.
“Edward? It can’t be!” Her words were barely audible, but the flickering response in his eyes told her she was not mistaken.
“Not little Deborah!”
Her cheeks burned as she felt blood rushing into her face.
“Yes, it’s me. But … Edward, how …? You can’t….” She gave it up and shook her head.
“It’s me.” A glint stole into his eyes that assured her he was indeed the Edward Hunter she’d known and admired since childhood. The merry demeanor he’d sported as a youth was replaced by something more grave, but there was no doubt in her mind. Somehow Edward had returned from the dead.
“Praise God!” She seized his hands, then dropped them in a rush of embarrassment and stood aside. “Come in. I can hardly believe it’s you. Am I dreaming?”
“If you are, then your mother is baking apple tart in your dreams.”
Delight bubbled up inside her, and she grasped his sleeve. “Oh, Edward, do come into the parlor. I’ll run up and tell Abby you’re here.”
“She’s … she’s here, then.”
“Yes, of course.” Deborah halted, anticipating the shock this revelation would bring her older sister. “I expect she’ll need a moment to absorb the news.” The thought of Jacob Price danced at the edge of Deborah’s mind, and she firmly shoved it into oblivion. Edward was home! He was alive! Nothing else must get in the way of the joy his return brought.
She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow and guided him across the hall into the snug parlor where her mother received guests.
“There, now. You just wait here.”
“Thank you.”
His strained smile sent a pang of apprehension through her. She longed to sit down beside him on the sofa and hear his tale, but that privilege belonged to Abigail. The pain and anxiety in his face transferred to her own heart. Should she tell him? No, that obligation, too, belonged to her sister.
There was one thing she, as the hostess greeting him, should ask.
“Your mother?”
“I haven’t seen her yet.” Edward’s mouth tightened. “I heard about Father on the ship I took up here from Boston.”
Deborah nodded, feeling tears spring into her eyes as she noted his deep sorrow. “I’m sorry, Edward.”
“Thank you.”
She took a deep breath. “Sit and relax for a few minutes. I’ll tell Abby.”
At the parlor door, she paused and looked back. Edward sank into a chair and sat immobile, staring toward the front windows. What was going through his mind? Five years! What had happened to him in that time? And how would his return affect Abigail?
She turned, lifted her skirt, and dashed up the stairs.
“Abby?” She careened to a stop in the doorway to her sister’s room. Abigail was brushing her long, golden hair, arranging it just so.
“You shouldn’t tear around so, Debbie.” Abigail turned her attention back to the mirror.
“Abby, I have something to tell you.” Deborah took two steps into the room. At least her sister was sitting down. “Something’s happened.”
Abigail’s gaze caught hers in the mirror, and her hands stilled, holding a lock of hair out away from her head, with her brush poised to style it.
“Not Father?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. It’s good news. Very good.”
Abigail laid the brush down and swiveled on her stool to face Deborah. “What is it?”
“It’s … Oh dear, I’m not sure how to say this.”
“Just say it.”
Deborah gazed into her sister’s eyes, blue and dreamy like their mother’s. For such a long time, those eyes had been red-rimmed from weeping. But recently Abigail had overcome her grief and taken an interest in life once more. Her family had encouraged her to leave off grieving for the man she’d loved. He was dead and gone, and it was all right for her to go on with her life. That’s what they’d all told her.
But what would happen now? Deborah didn’t want to be the one to shatter her sister’s peaceful world again. She ought to have told Mother first and let her break the news to Abigail.
“Debbie.” Abigail rose and stepped toward her, clearly annoyed. “Would you just tell me, please? You’re driving me wild.”
“All right. It’s … it’s Edward.”
“Edward?” Abigail’s face went white, and she swayed. Deborah rushed to her side and eased her gently toward the side of her four-poster bed. Abigail sat slowly on the edge, staring off into space, then suddenly jerked around to stare at Deborah. “What about him? Tell me.”
“He’s … Oh, Abby, he’s alive.”
Edward stood and paced the parlor to the fireplace of granite blocks. Turn. To the wide bay window that fronted the street. Outside was the Bowmans’ garden and, beyond it, people passing by, bustling toward home and dinner, no doubt. So ordinary. So common. But to his eyes, painfully odd.
Five years! Dear God, everything is so strange here. How can I come back and pick up my life again?
He jerked away from the scene and paced to the fireplace once more.
He’d left the ship determined that the first woman he set eyes on in five years would be the woman he loved. Of course, he’d seen a few ladies from a distance as he walked from the dock to the Bowman house, but none whom he recognized. The city had grown in his absence, and new houses and businesses crowded the peninsula between the Fore River and Casco Bay.
His thoughts had skimmed over the surface of what he’d seen: a multitude of sailing vessels floating in the harbor, scores of people crowding the streets, freight wagons and carts, hawkers preparing to close business for the evening, and housewives hurrying home to start supper. He’d been thinking only of Abigail.
But the woman who opened the door to him had not been Abigail but her little sister, Deborah. Debbie had grown strangely mature and womanly. She was not the child—with the gawky limbs, bushy dark hair, and big, brown eyes so unlike Abigail’s—that Edward recalled. Deborah favored Dr. Bowman’s side of the family, no question about that.
She was no longer the awkward tomboy. She had moved with grace as she ushered him to the parlor. Her hair had tempered to a smooth, rich chestnut, neatly confined in an upswept coiffure. Her green gown edged with creamy lace was the attire of a lady, not a rambunctious adolescent.
He turned and walked toward the window once more. Abigail. She was the one he longed to see. His thoughts should be focused on her. It was only the strangeness of seeing Deborah grown up that had pulled his mind in a different direction. He tried, as he had so many times in the past five years, to conjure up the image of Abigail’s face: her creamy skin, her golden hair, her blue eyes. He sighed and stopped before the window seat.
He would have sent a letter before him at the first opportunity, but as it turned out, he traveled back to civilization by the fastest means he could find. The ship that rescued him conveyed him directly to Boston, and there he’d found a schooner heading north and east the next day for Portland. No letter could have winged its way to his beloved any faster than he had arrived himself.
Would the shock of his appearance endanger her health? Deborah recovered quickly and welcomed him with joy. Still, Abigail had always been less robust than Debbie. Was he inconsid
erate to come here first? Perhaps he should have gone to his mother first and sent advance notice to Abigail, then come round to see her in the evening.
He glanced out the window and saw that the shadows were lengthening. He’d lost his pocket watch four years ago in the roiling storm that shipwrecked him, but he could tell by the angle of the sun that late afternoon had reached the coast of Maine. His gaze roved over the lush trees shielding the house from the street. The full foliage welcomed him like the face of an old friend. How he’d longed for the shade of the maples in his parents’ yard during the searing summers of the island, where the seasons were turned about and the hottest time of year was in January and February.
He’d kept meticulous count of the days, as nearly as he could reckon, and consoled himself in the hottest times by recalling the ice and snow of Maine winters. He’d tried to picture what Abigail was doing as he sweltered in exile. Ice-skating with Debbie? Riding to church in her father’s sleigh? He would imagine her wearing a fur hat and muff, romping through falling snow.
He walked once more to the fireplace, where he leaned one arm against the mantel.
How would she receive him? What would she say? It seemed like he had been waiting for hours. What could possibly be keeping her? She ought to be tearing down the stairs and into his arms. Shouldn’t she? Edward offered another silent plea for serenity, knowing that the next few minutes would determine the course of his life.
“How can I face him, Mother?” Abigail sat on the bed, twisting the ends of her sash between her hands.
Deborah stood by, panting a little after her dash down the back stairs and up again with her mother.
“My dear, think of all he’s been through. You must see him. You cannot send him away without hearing his story. Furthermore, you must explain your current state to him.”
“Oh, Mother, must I?”
“Yes, I’m afraid you must. Break the news to him gently. He will understand, I’m sure, that you’ve grieved him properly and moved slowly in pinning your affections elsewhere.