Love's First Bloom

by Delia Parr

  Phanaby dropped her hold on Ruth’s elbow and furrowed her brow. “Amends? For what?”

  She started to raise her hand to point to what Lily had destroyed when the woman walked past her and into the sitting room, her footsteps crunching on the debris on the planked floor.

  The room itself was rather small, with only a small rosewood settee on the far wall flanked by tin sconces on the whitewashed wall, and a pair of mismatched, straight-back chairs that usually sat side by side in front of the fireplace with a very small mantel that held an old tin oil lamp. The only touch of luxury in the entire room was the heirloom crystal vase that used to rest on a tall wooden stand in front of the single window in the room.

  Rays of sunshine that poured through the window’s sheer curtain glistened on the shards of crystal on the floor, shining light on the damage Lily had done—damage which had inspired a tantrum when Ruth ran into the room and pulled Lily away before she could touch the fragments and hurt herself.

  As the woman walked past the chair Lily had tugged over in order to reach the vase, Ruth watched with heart-thumping dread. Phanaby pressed her fingers to her lips and knelt down to pick up the pieces of the broken vase, and Ruth rushed to her side and knelt down alongside her.

  She placed both hands on top of Phanaby’s and did not let go to wipe away the tears that covered her cheeks. “I-I’m so very sorry, but please don’t be mad at Lily. It’s entirely my fault. I should have watched her more closely, but … but she’s so quick and so determined. I know there’s no way I could ever let you know how very badly I feel, but if there’s any way at all that I can make amends …”

  She paused to gulp down another wave of tears, and Phanaby pulled a hand free to swipe at the single tear of her own that trickled free and lay on top of her cheekbone. “The vase was a wedding gift to my great-grandmother, who gave it to my grandmother, who gave it to my mother, who in turn gave it to me before she died, hopeful I would marry one day,” she whispered and tugged her hands free to pick up a large shard of crystal.

  Ruth choked on the lump in her throat that she tried, in vain, to swallow.

  Phanaby set the shard back down on the floor with the others, studied them for several long heartbeats, and turned to Ruth. As the rest of her tears finally fell free, she wiped Ruth’s cheeks with the palm of her hands and cupped her face. “I’m not crying because Lily broke the vase,” she murmured, her gaze as steady as her hands.

  “But you just said—”

  “I’m crying because I’m a foolish, foolish woman.”

  “But I don’t understand. You’re not foolish. That vase is very special to you—”

  “Special? No,” Phanaby countered and glanced down at the floor. “When I see that vase lying shattered on the floor, I’m grateful to Lily because now I’ll never have to look at it again, day after day, and be reminded that I don’t have a daughter of my own who would put this vase in her home after she married. Over the years that Mr. Garner and I have been married, we’ve both come to accept that God’s many blessings to us don’t include having children.”

  She paused to take a deep breath. “Every time I caught even a glimpse of that vase when I walked past the sitting room, I lost a bit of my faith in His will, but I just … I just never had the courage to put the vase away, even after Lily tried several times to get her hands on it and I knew she could get hurt. Thanks to Lily, I don’t ever have to look at the vase again, do I?” she said, smiling.

  Ruth shook her head, unable to find her voice as she tried to comprehend the depth of faith and wisdom within this woman’s heart. She also tried not to question God’s will, but simply could not understand why He had given a prostitute like Rosalie Peale a child, yet withheld the blessing of a child from this woman of faith.

  Phanaby took hold of Ruth’s hands and leaned into her strength to get back to her feet before tugging Ruth up, too. “Are you certain Lily didn’t cut herself? Did you check her carefully?”

  Pain shot through Ruth’s wrist, and she winced. “No, she’s perfectly fine, but I’m afraid I didn’t fare so well,” she admitted as she tucked her injured wrist into the palm of her hand.

  “You’re cut? How badly?”

  “Not cut. Bitten, I’m afraid.”

  Phanaby’s eyes widened. “Bitten? Lily bit you?”

  Ruth nodded. “Hard enough to draw a little blood. She was angry because I wouldn’t let her play with the vase after she dropped it.”

  Chuckling, Phanaby turned Ruth toward the doorway. “Come along and let me take a look. Since she broke the flesh, you’ll need to put something on that. I’ve got some ointment in the kitchen,” she said, and shook her head. “That sweet little cherub has a bit of a temper, but don’t worry. She’ll only bite you once more and that’ll be the end of it.”

  Ruth rolled her eyes. “Would you care to tell me why?”

  Phanaby chuckled again. “Because the next time she bites you, you’re going to bite her right back.”

  Six

  New York City

  Lured by the news that a verdict was imminent in the Livingstone trial, Jake managed to get to the courthouse just as the doors burst open.

  Several men who were leading the hordes of reporters stampeding behind them shouted out the jury’s decision in a single voice that cannoned through the thick hush of expectation: “Not guilty! Not guilty!”

  Within seconds, wave after wave of full-bellied jeers and colorful expletives exploded from the crowd like the finale of cannon fire on the Fourth of July. The outcry reduced the few cheers from the minister’s supporters to whispers.

  Jake scanned the faces of the crowd of reporters, searching for his brother. The rush of urgency and excitement was palpable as reporters broke free, one by one, and charged off with their notes to get to their respective offices to write the articles for tomorrow’s headlines, proclaiming two very important words: not guilty.

  Now that the minister had been acquitted, Jake highly doubted Clifford would want him to find the daughter, which meant he had wasted the past few weeks reading everything the newspapers had printed since Rosalie Peale had been found murdered. He couldn’t help but wonder: Would there be another chance to redeem himself?

  Standing off from the angry crowd, where he was cloaked in night shadows, Jake had the anonymity he needed while he waited for his brother to appear. Clifford had an amazing, instinctive sense of timing that served him well. At any newsworthy event, Clifford was inevitably the last one to arrive so he could be the first to leave with facts in hand. Jake was more than a bit disappointed that his brother was still nowhere in sight.

  As the crowd grew louder and turned unruly, Jake was glad he was far enough away to remain uninvolved. In point of truth, he really did not know or care if the jury’s decision was a miscarriage of justice, which was obviously the opinion of the majority of the hundred or so men who surrounded him, or a fair and judicious judgment rendered by twelve good citizens who would probably be wise to leave the courtroom tonight by the back door.

  He was, however, thoroughly convinced that it was the power of the printed page that had shaped the opinions of the men and woman gathered here. It was also the power of the printed word that had inspired them to be here, waiting long into the night for the jury’s verdict. But with tonight’s shocking verdict, it would also take that same power to make them care about whatever had happened to the minister’s daughter.

  He would have to harness all of his talents and intelligence to find out, assuming Clifford wanted him to continue.

  “Jake!”

  The sound of his name, followed by a hard nudge in the middle of his back, forced him to turn around.

  “What are you doing standing here?” his brother demanded. His face was ablaze with the challenge of making the Galaxy the first newspaper to hit the streets in the morning with headlines announcing tonight’s verdict. “Follow me,” he instructed and charged off.

  Jake caught up with him with two long strid
es. “How did you get behind me? I’ve been here since the courthouse doors flew open.”

  “I paid one of the bailiffs to let me out the door the judges always use. Lucky for you, I just happened to see you from the alley,” he replied as he increased his pace to a jog. “Keep up with me. I’ve got two of my men at the office waiting to set whatever I write into print.”

  “The crowd is definitely displeased by the verdict,” Jake said.

  His brother grinned. “A verdict rendered by the jury exactly two hours and forty-seven minutes after Judge Matthews told them to dismiss every single word of testimony from Mrs. Browers and the rest of the women who live at her brothel because they were ‘unreliable witnesses whose testimony was flawed by their immoral characters.’ ”

  Jake waited until they passed diners leaving a late-night restaurant before posing a question. “Do you still want me to find Ruth Livingstone?”

  Clifford snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. With the acquittal, it’s even more imperative. You heard that crowd back there at the courthouse. They’re incensed that the jurors wouldn’t convict that man. If you can prove he killed his daughter, then I can almost choose the headlines for his next trial … one that will most assuredly not end with an acquittal.”

  “But what if she’s alive?” Jake argued when they passed the bookstore directly across from the office.

  Stopping abruptly, Clifford turned to face him. “Then find out if she’s hiding evidence that would have convicted her father of killing Rosalie Peale.”

  Jake shook his head. “That won’t matter now. The man’s already been found not guilty of killing Rosalie Peale, and the law is perfectly clear. He can’t be tried again for killing her, no matter what kind of evidence emerges, and I don’t think people will care to read anything about the trial now that it’s over. Besides, what if she isn’t in hiding for any other reason than she doesn’t want her father’s scandal to taint her?”

  “People care about what newspapers tell them to care about, what I tell them to care about,” his brother snapped. “The Galaxy isn’t the only newspaper sending out reporters to find Ruth Livingstone, and none of them will be calling back reporters who are still trying to investigate Rosalie Peale’s mysterious past, either. Readers have the right to know where Ruth Livingstone is, whether that’s in some unmarked grave or not. And if she’s alive, they’ll demand to know if she was hiding evidence that would have convicted him. I don’t have time to argue with you. If you’re not up to the task, which you nearly begged me for, then say so and I’ll send someone else.”

  Jake shook his head. “No, I’ll do it.”

  “Then stop wasting any more of my time, as well as your own, and get it done. And don’t forget to send me reports if you have to leave the city. With some cleverly written articles, I can keep public interest in this case brewing for months and finally make the Galaxy the top-selling penny newspaper in the city—provided you don’t let reporters for the Sun or any of the other newspapers find her first. Please tell me I didn’t make a mistake offering you a chance to redeem yourself professionally. Tell me you do have at least one solid lead about where she could be after spending the last two weeks looking for her,” he said.

  “I do have one that I got this afternoon that looks promising,” Jake replied defensively. Capt. James Grant was an important man to know and call a friend. The accomplished seaman commanded respect from his crew, as well as all who knew him. He was just as comfortable socializing with the city elites and dining in the finest restaurants as he was in the seedier areas along the wharves. He knew this city and the people who lived there better than anyone Jake knew. Even more important, Capt. Grant was the one man he could still trust.

  “I’m leaving again at first light before tomorrow’s newspapers are even off the press. I won’t be back to the city for a bit because I have a few things to take down to Baltimore first. Perhaps you should come along,” Capt. Grant suggested.

  Jake stared at the older man sitting across from him at a table in the back of a dimly lit tavern where the owner, a friend of his companion’s, had already locked up the front door and gone upstairs to bed. The wrinkles that creased Grant’s weathered face were deeper now than they were nearly fifteen years ago when they had first met, and the few hairs he had on his head back then were long gone. But he had never lost the generous heart he hid beneath the stiff exterior that his reputation, as well as his livelihood, demanded.

  “Sir, you know I can’t leave,” he replied. “You know how important it is to me to be back at work with my brother,” he added, reluctant to disappoint the man who had helped him after the debacle of his very public mistake two years ago.

  Grant slurped the last of his soup and set down the bowl. “I know how important you think it is to prove you’re as talented and dedicated as your brother, but I was hoping that after spending two weeks back in the city, you’d have realized you don’t need to prove yourself to him or anyone else. You’re a far better man than he is, Jake. Always were. Always will be, unless he gets himself a conscience like the one I know you’ve got.”

  Despite the compliment and the fact that the captain addressed him familiarly by his preferred name, Jake cringed at the criticism that was aimed at both himself and his brother. Capt. Grant had often stepped in, settling arguments between the two brothers after they first moved to the city, but Jake and Clifford were not children anymore. “That isn’t fair. You don’t really know Clifford. He’s the most amazingly talented newspaperman in the city.”

  “I see him often enough, and I still know him well enough. I read his newspaper.” Grant tore the crust off the end of a loaf of bread and wiped up the last bit of soup in his bowl. “I don’t suppose Clifford will turn his attention to another scandal now that the trial’s over and Livingstone has been acquitted.”

  Jake waited until the man shoved the soggy crust into his mouth before answering, hoping to have his say without being interrupted. “Reverend Livingstone’s acquittal only means the reading public will demand more news about him, or more specifically, his daughter. She’s still missing. Until she’s found, there are too many questions that still need answers, and I’ve promised Clifford that I’d get them. And don’t think I’ll be out there looking for her alone. The man who finds her first will make a name for himself. I intend to be that man. I need to be that man if I have any hope of reclaiming my place with Clifford at the Galaxy.”

  Jake’s words hung in the air, creating a wall that divided them. As anxious as he was to repay this man for all his help over the past two years, he was just as intent on reclaiming his professional career as Ashton Tripp.

  When the man finished eating the entire loaf of bread, he washed it down with a pint of hard cider. After setting down the pewter mug, he locked his gaze with Jake’s. “I was afraid you would confirm what a number of people said down at the courthouse and thereabouts after the verdict was announced.”

  Jake furrowed his brow. “You were there?” he asked, although his question was rhetorical. The old sea captain had an uncanny knack for appearing in the most unlikely of places along the eastern seaboard where he regularly came to port. Why the man was at all interested in the trial, however, remained a mystery.

  “I was there,” he murmured, then let out a long sigh. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this, but I made a promise I’m bound to keep, which is why I was there for the verdict tonight. Given the sustained interest in the good minister and his daughter, I don’t believe I have any choice but to agree that you should return to your newspaper work and do exactly as Clifford asked you to do—find Ruth Livingstone before any other reporter does.”

  “You do?” Jake replied, nearly choking on his own surprise. He had no idea how Grant’s promise to someone had anything to do with Rev. Livingstone’s trial or his daughter, Ruth, for that matter. But he was more confused by the man’s abrupt change of mind about Jake’s future plans.

  His confusion mounted when the man pushed
himself away from the table, stood up, and motioned for Jake to do the same. “Pack up your things and be back here in half an hour. Don’t forget your tools. And don’t argue. There isn’t much time,” his companion urged. He then lowered his voice to a whisper, even though there was not a soul around who could hear them. “If you’re serious about wanting to find Ruth Livingstone, I believe I can get you close enough to find out what you need to know,” he said, holding up his hand to keep Jake silent. “All I’m prepared to say right now is that our interests, at least for the next few weeks, seem to overlap. Several days before Reverend Livingstone was arrested, I delivered a small wooden chest for him to Mrs. Elias Garner in Toms River, New Jersey. If you go there, you should learn all you need to know.”

  Jake shook his head, as if he could shake off his confusion. “You want me to go? As a reporter?”

  “Not as the reporter, Ashton Tripp. Not entirely,” he said quickly. “Jake, I need you to go there because you’re the only reporter I know with the strength of character and sense of righteousness that will help me to keep my promise to an old friend. On one condition,” he added sternly.

  Jake nodded. “Name it.”

  “You have to promise me that you won’t give your brother access to what you learn about that young woman or her father, including anything contained within that wooden chest—anything at all—until you speak to me first.”

  “Agreed,” Jake whispered without a moment’s hesitation and then hurriedly followed Capt. James Grant out of the tavern.